witnesses.
“How do you do, Mr. Pendragon? Chilly afternoon, isn’t it?”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
Come to that, she wasn’t the least bit cold.
“Heading home?” he asked.
Was she? Yes, eventually. “I’ve got to stop by Whorleigh’s. Gloria’s teaching a first-aid class tonight and I promised to make supper.”
“Mind if I walk with you?”
A sensible Water Nymph would tell him no. Even a sensible human would. If she had her head screwed on right, she’d politely wish him good afternoon, mount her bicycle and ride off.
Obviously she had several loose screws in her head. She was smiling back. “By all means. It’s a bit of a detour though.”
“You can always give me a ride on the back of your bicycle.”
Not after all her lectures to herself about decorum and sensible behavior.
They set off down the lane, side by side. Not talking, much to Mary’s relief, since every word would be registered and reported and go twice around the village long before Children’s Hour started.
And then, as suddenly as a shift in the air or a gust of wind blowing dead leaves across the path, Mary realized she didn’t care a fig what anyone said.
She might in the morning, but for now all she cared about was the man walking beside her. “Have they roped you into joining anything in the village yet?” she asked.
“To do my bit for the war effort?” he asked, a hint of irony in his voice.
“I think you’ve already done that, and more. I was thinking more on the lines of ‘Do your bit for Brytewood.’” He gave her an odd look. Had she offended him? But dammit, he had done his bit: losing a leg. How touchy was he about it? She’d have to fumble and feel her way there. “I got roped into Mrs. Burrows’s knitting circle.”
“Knitting what?”
“Comforts for the troops: gloves, balaclava helmets, socks.” And the occasional baby blanket or jacket that no one mentioned because wool was scarce and there was even talk it would soon be rationed, along with clothing.
“Knit me a comfort, would you?”
“What sort of comfort would you have in mind?” Didn’t sound as if he was asking for a pair of gloves.
He grinned. Wicked, sexy, and definitely enticing.
She grinned back. “Like a nice pair of socks, would you?” Damn! The minute she said it, she wanted to bite the words back. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I still wear socks. I just don’t have to change my right one very often.”
Interesting. “Of course you have to be careful the colors match.”
“Never thought of that! Do they?” He paused and hitched up his trouser legs.
“For heaven’s sake!” Lord alone knew what the mums, twenty yards behind, would make of that and really, she didn’t care to find out. “Put your trousers down!” As the words left her lips, her face burned as her mind registered what exactly she’d said.
“You really mean that, Miss LaPrioux?” he enquired. That he kept his voice so steady was monstrously unfair.
“Nice socks,” was the best she could manage.
This was not going any way it should. No doubt he thought because she’d asked him to dance, something no nice, respectable mainland girl would do—or any nice, respectable Guernsey girl for that matter—that she was his for the taking. She wasn’t. Not this afternoon, anyway.
“Happy now?” he asked as they walked on, his trousers now covering his socks.
“I’m always happy when school’s over for the day and I can catch my breath.”
“Hard job?”
“Not really. Not compared with many people’s. But it’s hard on the children at times. They get terribly homesick. Don’t ever let anyone tell you children don’t worry. They darn well do: about the war, what’s happening to their families, their homes. The villagers have been welcoming, on the whole, but you can’t avoid friction at times. Too many people in close quarters and just about everyone worried constantly.
He went quiet a minute as they turned the corner by the church and headed for the village. Why had she jabbered on about school trivia when he had so much more to cope with?
He slowed his pace but didn’t ask her to. Being all manly, she supposed, but she slowed to keep level with him as they crossed the green and headed for the row of shops and the post office.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Mind if I sit a bit? You nip into the shops and I’ll get off my pins for a while. I’ll wait and walk you home,” he added. “Just as I promised.”
Had it been a promise? Not that she remembered, but wasn’t about to argue. In his company she felt happy, when she wasn’t berating herself over tactless gaffes. “I’ll go on. There shouldn’t be too long a queue this time of day.” Mainly because there wouldn’t be much left to queue for. “Can I get you anything?”
Gryffyth thought a minute. “Any chance of a bottle of Tizer?”
“Haven’t seen any for over a year. I can offer a cup of tea later. If you like.”
“I would like,” he replied, watching as she mounted her bicycle and rode the few yards down to Whorleigh’s.
He stared at the ducks on the pond and creased his forehead in thought. What was he doing and what did he want? He knew what he wanted but he was dealing with a nice woman here, a schoolteacher, not a girl hanging around the barrack gates. Trouble was, he couldn’t quite make up his mind about Mary LaPrioux. Attractive, yes. Lovely, really, and…damn, might as well think it. He had been ever since he first set eyes on her. She was sexy. Sexy with a strange, unselfconscious grace. She wasn’t shy. Heck, she seemed quite happy to go after what she wanted. She even seemed to fancy him, but the way she’d walked out on him on Saturday night still rankled. He didn’t own her, of course—not that he’d mind a bit if he did. But she disappeared just when he wanted to see more of her.
He’d wondered if she’d thought better of it, but now she was sending the opposite signals. She hadn’t minded walking through the village with him, even though she must know that news was halfway to Dorking by now.
He pulled his coat around him and he hoped she wouldn’t be long. He rather fancied a cup of tea with Mary LaPrioux and he wouldn’t complain about a little extra to keep the cold out.
The shop was empty. Unbelievable. Probably meant there was nothing left and everyone else in the village already knew it.
“Afternoon, Miss LaPrioux,” Mr. Whorleigh said, with his customary unctuous smile. Even if she didn’t know about his under-the-counter activities, she wouldn’t trust him two inches. Her reason and instincts might falter on some things but not in this.
“Afternoon, Mr. Whorleigh. I need something for supper tonight. Any chance of a couple of pork chops?” Slim chance, she knew, but it never hurt to ask.
He shook his head. “No pork except sausages. I had some nice stewing steak but it’s all gone, I’m afraid. Sure you wouldn’t like a couple of nice sausages?”
She smiled at his choice of adjective. How often, these days, she hankered for the fat juicy sausages her Uncle Walt used to make and sell in Town. “No thanks.” But what else was there? The glass-fronted cabinet was bare except for the despised sausages and a couple of…“What about those marrow bones?” she asked, pointing at two fat ones pushed to the corner.
“Making soup, are you?”
Why not? They had