The Moonlight Mistress (16 page)

“Goddamn it, you terrified the bloody living hell out of me, you little bastard,” he said, his tone tender. Hailey stared at him, wide-eyed. Ashby reached out and the Gurkha blocked his hand. Ashby glanced at him; the Gurkha lowered his hand but put his arm firmly around Hailey’s shoulders, not quite touching the bandage poking out of her ripped sleeve. Ashby completed his gesture and touched Hailey’s face, brushing her cheek with his thumb. “You need to have that wound seen to.”

Hailey spoke, for the first time. “Jemadar Thapa knew Captain Wilks, in India.”

“Perhaps he can tell us more about it later. Bob, this is Sister Daglish. The lieutenant’s her brother.”

“Don’t need nursing, sir.”

“Thapa does, doesn’t he, Sister?” He pointed at the Gurkha’s bandage. “Bob, it’s all right. There’s nothing you need to worry about with Sister Daglish. In fact, she’s going to set you up in a private room for now.”

Lucilla stepped forward. “I am.”

She managed a greeting in Hindustani; her phrases were limited, but efficient, and Jemadar Thapa grinned at her. In a thick accent, he said, “You take care of the boy,” and patted Hailey’s arm. “Wilky-sahib taught me to play at jackstraws.”

“Sir—” Hailey said.

“It’s all right,” Ashby said. He ruffled his hand through her hair. “I know, Bob. And it’s no one’s business.”

“Sir!”

“I’ve got to get back before someone notices I’m gone,” he said, squeezing Hailey’s shoulder before rising to his feet. “Sister, you’ll be all right?”

“Perfectly,” she assured him.

“I’ll return when I can. I owe you more than thanks.” He patted Hailey’s arm once more, exchanged salutes with Thapa and departed.

Lucilla stared at her two new charges. A jemadar was a lieutenant, and he spoke English. At least one of her problems was temporarily solved. If she set him to translating as soon as his wound had been cared for, she’d be able to spirit Hailey away. Assuming Hailey was really his—her—name.

Luckily, she was able to catch a couple of orderlies to help support her new patients into the ward. Jemadar Thapa immediately took charge of the wounded Gurkha riflemen, insisting on limping to each bed for a word or two before being settled into his own. Lucilla took advantage of the distraction to lead Hailey into Dr. Fitzclarence’s office and bolt the door. “Have a seat,” she said, seizing some supplies from a cabinet. “I’ll help you with your tunic and shirt.”

Cautiously, Hailey sat on the edge of a wooden chair that stood across from Dr. Fitzclarence’s desk. Lucilla saw a boy perhaps as old as his late teens, slightly built, with large hands and feet he might grow into later. Too-long hair flopped into his angular face, which, along with his cap, obscured his eyes. He had a strong jawline and a snub nose and a wide mouth. Then she touched the boy, who winced back, and she somehow knew more than intellectually that Hailey was not
male. Her face seemed to change before Lucilla’s eyes, and she was a gamine young woman with a boyish form.

Abruptly, Lucilla felt less maternal and more as if she was caring for a comrade. “I’m Lucilla Daglish. You’re Hailey?” she asked.

Hailey nodded. She lifted her hands to her jacket buttons, winced and let them fall. “Don’t cut my sleeve on the bias,” she whispered. “I can mend it.”

“I’ll see if I can manage.” Lucilla undid the buttons and carefully peeled the jacket off her arms, first the uninjured arm and then the bandaged one. She laid the jacket aside. “Where is your coat?”

“Gave it to a bloke on the truck,” Hailey said. Her voice was low, hoarse. Lucilla wasn’t sure if she naturally sounded like that, or if the effect was cultivated. Lucilla had known a few women at university who’d affected men’s clothing and mannerisms, some of them lesbians and some not, but they’d all been wealthy women, and not really hiding themselves, at least not from other women. Hailey’s accent placed her as lower class, from somewhere south of London. Lucilla wondered if her family knew of her masquerade, and what they thought of it.

“Give me your cap,” she said, and when Hailey obeyed, studied the running-wolf badge. Her memory flashed up an image of Ashby, a grinning wolf with lolling tongue. She couldn’t ponder that properly now. She had work to do. “Once I’ve seen to your wound, we’ll get you tidied up,” she said. “No one will come around trying to bathe you if you’re already clean.”

“Thank you, Sister,” Hailey said, her voice a mere breath, her eyes fixed on Lucilla’s hands as she unbuttoned her shirt.
Lucilla very deliberately did not react to the breast bindings she found beneath, nor try to unfasten them. She could get at Hailey’s wound well enough like this. She spread her supplies over the scarred surface of the wooden desk, ready to hand.

To distract the girl, she asked, “Do you know Lieutenant Daglish?”

She looked up; Lucilla swiftly untied the bandage over her wound and explained, “I don’t get much news.”

“He was all right, last I saw,” Hailey said.

“Thank you.”

“Was pretty rough out there, though.”

Lucilla was sorry she’d asked. She said, “When you return to your regiment, would you carry some letters to him, for me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You needn’t call me
ma’am,
” she said more sharply than she’d intended. “Do you have a brother, Hailey?”

“Just a sister.”

“And how long have you been—” She covered her moment of hesitation with an injection of morphia. Hailey winced as the needle entered, then relaxed almost immediately. “When did you join the army?”

“Five years ago.”

“Why—” She was suddenly embarrassed to have asked. “Never mind.”

“For the money,” Hailey said. “Army pays better than being a seamstress.” She grinned a little drunkenly.

“It’s an interesting change of career,” Lucilla noted, cleaning the wound more ruthlessly now that her patient didn’t notice the pain of it. She wiped the whole thing with Lysol, then doused a handful of gauze in tincture of iodine, ready to slap on once the stitches were in.

“First I wanted to be a tailor. Pays better than being a seamstress. So I learned all about men’s clothes. But nobody would hire a woman to make a man’s clothes, not unless they didn’t have the money to pay for a man. I did some uniforms, though, for young lads just starting out. So I got the idea to make a uniform for myself, and a suit, and all that. I figured out all the best ways to hide that I was a woman, and then I went right up and enlisted. Never looked back.”

“Worked out well for you, has it?”

Hailey’s head was twisted around as she tried to watch the needle going into her skin. Suddenly, she closed her eyes. Her head drooped. “It’s moving. Like a boat.”

“Deep breaths,” Lucilla advised. “How’s the army been?”

“Not bad, ’cept for the war coming along, bollixing it all up.” She paused. “Still, I’m learning all kinds of things. All kinds.”

Lucilla tied off her thread and slapped on the dressing with one hand, scooping up a rolled bandage with the other. “Will you stay in the army once the war ends?”

“Have to, don’t I? I’ve got my family to care for. You’re lucky to have a brother like him, ma’am. He’s a good one, Daglish is. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

“He’s the best brother in the world.”

After Hailey was safe and cared for, Lucilla walked down the muddy path back to her quarters in one of the slapdash rear huts. She was dizzy from lack of sleep and reliving, in a near trance, the moments when Ashby had shifted from one form to the other. If only she could tell Pascal. For a few wild moments, she considered ways of sending him a letter—through the French command, perhaps, or to his relatives in Le Havre—before laughing at herself. He would not be
pleased to hear from her, she was sure. He no doubt had quite a few pretty
mademoiselles
trying to catch his eye. No, that was unfair; there was work to be done, and she felt sure the French army had not overlooked his usefulness. It made her feel a bit better to think of him occupied with engineering problems. She could even consider him with nostalgia.

He would love knowing that werewolves truly existed. She could encode that information in a letter, perhaps; it would not be like sending a letter simply because she wanted to do so. He would wish to discuss her discovery with her, and they could—no. She really had nothing to do with all this. She was neither an officer in the army nor a person with any scientific standing that an army would recognize. She should let Ashby know about Kauz, and leave it to him to speak to Pascal, if it could be managed. She would betray no one’s confidences that way. If she hadn’t been so tired and overwhelmed, she would have done it already.

Perhaps Hailey could carry a message to her captain. Lucilla could give her a letter for Crispin, as well, and some tea or his favorite nut-milk choc. It made Lucilla weary to think of turning and going back to ask. Hailey would be asleep by now, she hoped. She could speak to her tomorrow. Oh, she would give anything right now for a cup of tea, heavily dosed with Irish whiskey.

When she pushed open the door to her hut and saw the light on, Pascal standing there beside her bed, at first she thought she was dreaming. In one stride, he held her by the arms. A moment later, his mouth swept down upon hers. His mustache tickled her nose. That felt real. He drew back, looked down at her as if to confirm his welcome, then kissed her again before lifting her off the dirt floor and holding her tightly against him.

Lucilla stroked her hands up and down his back. Was he thinner than he’d been? She’d never before seen him in his uniform. The pale blue didn’t really suit him, nor did the loose cut of his jacket. Of course, her own uniform added at least ten years to her, and included a silly hat and cape besides, so she supposed she couldn’t criticize.

“Lucilla,” he said. He kissed her cheek and set her on her feet. “I thought I would have to search you out.”

“How did you—”

He shrugged. “I am a spy. Not in the field,” he added hastily. “I persuaded them that would be unwise. I have been working with data that others provide.”

“But, here—”

“I missed you,” he said with devastating simplicity. He cupped her cheek in his palm. “I had hoped you might miss me, as well.”

Exhaustion and shock shattered over Lucilla’s head like a shell exploding. Before she could burst into tears, she buried her face against Pascal’s chest. She wrapped her arms around his waist and held on. “Yes,” she said, muffled against his uniform.

His hands, so large and ludicrously familiar and comforting, rubbed her back as she had just rubbed his, then gradually pressed harder, crushing some of the ache out of her muscles. “You’re wearied.”

Lucilla could only nod.

“I must leave sometime tomorrow. I was not…I am supposed to be in Paris before I return to headquarters. Are you well?”

“I had some patients at the last minute—Pascal!” Stunned that she’d temporarily forgotten about what she’d just seen, Lucilla pulled away and grabbed fistfuls of Pascal’s uniform jacket. She couldn’t think what to say.

“You’re not well?” he asked, sounding worried.

“No, no, that’s not it. Hell! You just missed him!”

“Missed whom?” He scowled. “You have another lover?”

Lucilla laughed. “This is a hospital operated by women, did you discover that, as well? No, of course I have no lover. This is—not two hours ago, I met a werewolf.”

“She was here?”

Lucilla was gratified he had no doubt of her truthfulness. “She? Oh, Kauz’s werewolf. No! This was another. A British officer, of all things. Pascal,
I saw him change form.
”

His eyes widened. “Why did he do this? Why did you not tell me immediately?”

“You were kissing me,” she pointed out. “I was glad to see you. I forgot.”

Pascal leaned down and kissed her again. “And I you. So your werewolf, he’s gone?”

“Back to his unit, I’m afraid. He came because of his batman—oh, it’s a long story,” she said. She didn’t think Pascal would betray Hailey’s secret, but she didn’t have the right to share that secret, so it was better to avoid the subject. Of course, she’d just betrayed Captain Ashby’s secret, but that didn’t feel the same; she hadn’t given his name or identifying information, after all. And she was sure Captain Ashby could take care of himself. Pascal had suspected about werewolves and had been searching for proof. Keeping that proof from him would be a greater betrayal by far.

Pascal said, “You need not tell it to me now. Please, tell him I would like to speak with him. I will give you a way he can send a message to me.”

She said, “I’ll do it as soon as I can.” Weariness settled on
her head, pressing her down. “I haven’t slept in…I don’t know. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

“Very well,” Pascal said. “I have news for you, though, which should not wait. I, also, have met a werewolf, or someone who claims to be so. I have not seen her change form. She is a spy, a Belgian who is working against the Germans, and I fear she is a bit mad. That is the other reason I came to see you. I wanted to speak to you about this.”

“She,” Lucilla said. “Is she Kauz’s werewolf?”

He hesitated. “I think she might be. She is not very forthcoming. I was not as charming as I might have been.”

Lucilla couldn’t stop herself from smiling. She cupped his cheek in her hand. He turned his face and kissed her palm, softly from his lips and prickly from his mustache, then slipped his arms around her. She said, “May we talk about it more tomorrow?” She pressed closer to him. “I’ve missed talking with you.”

“I think of you every day. Sometimes, I imagine what you would say. My imagination is not satisfactory, however.” His hands slid lower, cupping her rear and squeezing lightly.

“We have to bolt the door,” she said. “I can’t be caught with a man in here.” For the first time, she blessed the exigencies that had led to her sleeping far from the wards. She might not be getting any chemistry done, but at least she could have this benefit.

“Allow me,” he said.

Lucilla followed him with her eyes as he threw the bolt and secured the loop of string she’d added for additional privacy. “I suppose we’ll have to share the bed,” she said. “Only this time it’s mine.”