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  “Good man.” Sir Gregory nodded. “Now, best be off, Lady Gregory has plans for luncheon, but let me give you a lift back. Better save that leg for the home front.”

  At the gate to their home, Howell said, “Go on in, son, and put the kettle on. There’s something I need to ask Sir Gregory.”

  “What’s the matter, man?” Sir Gregory asked, as Gryffyth walked off.

  Sir Gregory reminded Howell so much of his old commanding officer, he almost flubbed out, but yanked up his courage. “I’ve a favor to ask, sir. A big one. I heard you’d kept some camellias in your greenhouse.”

  “I did. Some of them, at any rate. Might not be what Lord Woolaton wants, but I couldn’t bear to part with them all.”

  “Well, sir.” Holy smoke, he was scared to ask, but for Helen, he’d do it. Damn. “It’s like this, sir. I’m planning on proposing marriage to Helen Burrows this evening, and I thought a nice camellia might…”

  He didn’t get to finish. “Bolster up your suit, eh?” Sir Gregory said, with a grin. “By all means. Come on up now and I’ll cut you some. Hop in, better bring your bicycle or you’ll have a long walk back.”

  Howell all but flew into the house to tell Gryffyth he had to pop up to Wharton Lacey with Sir Gregory. Grabbed his bicycle, tossed it in the vast boot, and nipped in the passenger seat. Seemed a bit odd to be riding while Sir Gregory drove, but he drove himself these days, his chauffeur having joined up back in September ’39.

  Sir Gregory was as good as his word, insisting on cutting four beautiful branches. “Would give you more, but we’re expecting guests and Lady Gregory will spiflicate me if we don’t have enough for the dinner table.”

  “These are beautiful, sir.” Beautiful wasn’t the word, they were exquisite. He just hoped he got them home without mishap.

  “Good luck then, man. I proposed to Lady Gregory on her uncle’s yacht during Cowes Week. Different times then, weren’t they?”

  “They were indeed, sir,” Howell agreed. Never having been to Cowes in his life. “And thank you again.”

  “Can’t think of a better use for them. Tell her to slit the ends of the stalks, and they like a little aspirin or a couple of pennies dropped in the flower water.”

  Howell had them in hand as the hothouse door opened and a young man walked in. Then backed out fast. Howell just caught a glimpse but there was something vaguely familiar about him. “Got a new gardener, I see.” He wondered who it was. Most of the able-bodied young men left in the village worked up at the munitions plant.

  “Yes, we have. Lucky break it was. Our cook put us on to him. A heart murmur kept him out of the army and he wanted to work out of doors so we got him. Makes a difference having him. Old Jacob can’t cope with it all on his own. We used to have hands come up from the Home Farm to help, but they’re really needed there.”

  Howell thanked Sir Gregory again, tucked the bouquet in his bicycle basket, covering them with his cape to keep them safe, and set off home.

  As he headed down toward the village, he wondered why the barely glimpsed young man seemed so familiar.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Through the staff-room window, Mary saw Gryffyth waiting for her at the school gate.

  So did everyone else.

  “Young Pendragon is out there again, I see,” Mrs. Winslow, the head mistress, said, with a little smile.

  “Oh, yes.” Casual and unexcited was the best bet. If she could manage it with racing heart and fluttering in her stomach—and lower. It was Mary’s turn to wash up the teacups so that gave her a reason to get busy and leave the room with a loaded tray.

  As she came back ten minutes later, a conspicuous silence descended on the room. Either angels were busy carrying everyone’s last words to heaven, or they’d been chewing over her and Gryffyth. Maybe both. Mary crossed the room, arranged the cups and saucers, ready for the morning, and filled the kettle. “We’re getting a bit low on tea,” she said, hoping to break the silence.

  “I’ll mention it at the staff meeting tomorrow,” Mrs. Winslow said. “If we all bring in a couple of spoonfuls, we’ll be set for a while.”

  “We could see what Mr. Whorleigh has,” suggested Mrs. Brown, who taught the infants.

  “Certainly not, Mrs. Brown. What an idea!” Mrs. Winslow left the entire room in no uncertainty where she stood on that subject. “We are not encouraging his underground commerce.”

  “Beats me, how he gets away with it,” Miss Groves, the other evacuee teacher, said. “You’d think they’d put a stop to it.”

  “If they wanted to, they would,” Mrs. Winslow said.

  “Maybe they’re trying to catch him red-handed,” Mary said, not wanting to think either of the two village policemen were capable of condoning, or at the very least ignoring, such a scofflaw. “I think everything’s ready for the morning.” When it was someone else’s turn to make tea. “I’ll be off.”

  “You run along, Miss LaPrioux,” Mrs. Winslow said with a knowing smile.

  “Better not keep him waiting,” June Groves said, with a grin.

  Mary nipped off before anyone else could add to her embarrassment. On the other hand, what on earth was embarrassing about having a gorgeous man like Gryffyth Pendragon waiting for her? Knowing half the village was watching and the other half would hear about it before the kettles boiled for tea, was a bit off-putting. But only a wee, tiny bit. Nothing could really put her off Gryffyth.

  It took all she had not to run across the playground and into his arms. But she didn’t. After taking her bicycle from the rack, wheeling it sedately across the expanse of tarmac and calling a warning to two boys balancing precariously on the wall, she walked up to Gryffyth. “Good afternoon, Mr. Pendragon,” she said, stopping just far enough away not to be able to touch him. She wanted to, so darn much it hurt.

  “Good afternoon, Miss LaPrioux. Had a good day?”

  “Not bad at all,” she replied, as he took her bicycle and, balancing his stick on the handlebars, wheeled it for her as he walked beside her. “I had playground duty, broke up one fight, applied witch hazel to a bumped forehead, and took care of a couple of grazed knees.” Dear God, he was beautiful, handsome, and bedworthy.

  “No major crises then?”

  Only her not being able to concentrate all day. Times tables and subjects and predicates had not been engrossing enough to keep her mind off his kisses and the touch of his hand under her blouse. “We had one. Two boys in the top form were found guilty of soaking the blackboard chalk in water so it wouldn’t write.”

  He threw back his head, his eyes took on a dark sparkle and sexy laughter echoed from deep in his rather magnificent chest. “Still play that old trick, do they? I remember Jim Barrett and I got the ruler across our hands from Mr. Carver—he was head back in our day.”

  “You shouldn’t have done it.”

  “Maybe not, but he acted as if we were headed for Borstal and a life of crime. Old misery-guts, he was.” He paused. “Hope you didn’t have to wallop those two.”

  “Wasn’t my responsibility. Mrs. Winslow took care if it with guilt. Went on at length about sailors dying to bring ships across the Atlantic. She had them half in tears.”

  “Rotten old teachers,” he said, with a grin that crinkled the edges of his eyes. “Don’t change much, do you?”

  “You came down here to tell me that?”

  “No. I came down to remind you of your promise to go to the pictures with me.”

  “I didn’t need reminding.”

  “Gone with the Wind is playing in Leatherhead. Thought you might like it.”

  “I’d love to. I really would, but I’ll need to take my bicycle home and leave a note for Gloria.”

  “We can do that, then nip down into the village and get the bus.”

  He wasn’t going to let her refuse. Not that she had the slightest intention of doing so. She was halfway tempted to make him wait while she changed out of work clothes but she had precious few clothes anyway, might as
well keep on what she had. The skirt was warm and who knew if the cinema would be heated properly.

  Once home, she scribbled a note to Gloria, who’d give her a thorough quizzing when she returned, but who cared? Being with Gryffyth was what really mattered.

  It certainly mattered to the crowd at the bus stop. Mary felt they were counting the hairs on her head and the buttons on her coat and would be checking her fingernails if she hadn’t put her gloves on. Gryffyth received even closer scrutiny, if possible.

  He carried it off with aplomb. “Evening,” he said to the crowd as they pretended not to stare.

  “Evening, Mr. Pendragon,” Constable Parlett responded as the others made similar murmurs.

  “Off for the evening, are you?” Mrs. Parlett asked.

  “Going to see Gone with the Wind,” Mary replied, determined to match Gryffyth for casual and unconcerned if it finished her off.

  “Oh, it’s wonderful!” she replied. “We saw it in Dorking last week. That Rhett Butler. I had dreams about him.”

  Mary felt a pang of sympathy for Constable Parlett, whose sandy hair and pink nose rather lacked the allure of Clark Gable.

  “Nice to see you back home, Mr. Pendragon,” Constable Parlett said, obviously trying to turn the conversation from his wife’s heartthrob.

  “It’s good to be back. Very good,” he said, with a glance at Mary.

  She couldn’t help grinning back. The entire village would be talking about them anyway, so why worry about it?

  “That were a nasty business up in Norway,” a man Gloria had seen around the village said.

  “It’s all nasty,” Gryffyth replied. “Some of us are lucky and come back alive. I’ve too many friends who didn’t.”

  There were murmurs of agreement but the bus pulled up before anyone came up with a reply to that.

  The bus was packed. There was a sticky moment, when Constable Parlett, still very much the policeman, even in mufti, asked the entire bus, “Surely there’s someone can give up a seat to a lad who fought for us at Trondheim?”

  To Gryffyth’s outright embarrassment, three or four people stood up. One was a schoolgirl.

  “I’m not sitting down while Mary stands,” he muttered to Parlett.

  “It’s no bother,” Mary said, hesitating to add she had two good legs, even if her feet did ache after a day spent standing.

  “Course not,” Parlett added, with confidence.

  They ended up sitting side by side while two young men, workers from the munitions plant, Mary guessed, stood.

  “Back on leave?” one of them asked Gryffyth.

  “Back for good,” he replied. “Lost a bit of my leg. I’m not much use to the army now. I’ll have to find something to do here.”

  “You could come up to the plant with us. Pay’s not bad and there’s more girls there than in your wildest dreams.”

  Gryffyth shook his head. “I’ve the only girl I’ll ever need right here, but might think about it. I met Andrew Barron the other evening.”

  “You know the boss?”

  “Just met him. I’ve only been back a week.”

  Mary couldn’t miss the change in their manner. Just like that, Gryffyth had slipped from a good lad to pal of the boss.

  “He’s good,” the second one said, “and we’ve a decent plant manager now. The old one was a proper bastard. Sorry, miss,” he added to Mary, with a shake of his head. “But he were a hard one to get on with. Proper spiteful to the girls, he was.”

  “He left?” Mary asked, surprised she hadn’t heard mention of him.

  “They took him away. Some sort of breakdown. I don’t wish no harm to anyone—except old Adolf and his lot—but that customer hasn’t been missed.”

  The bus stopped. The two lads moved along, to let people behind get off.

  Gryffyth took the opportunity to cover her hand with his.

  The smile he gave her set her on a reckless path. “You meant what you said?”

  “About joining the Home Guard?” he asked, with a chuckle. “Yeah! Dad roped me in this morning.”

  “No, not about the Home Guard. About your choice of female companionship.”

  “Why do you think I’m here and you’re beside me?”

  “Perhaps you don’t like going to the flicks alone?”

  “Yes, that’s it! I’m scared some stranger will come up to me and offer me sweets.”

  “If he does, I’ll punch him one, after I confiscate the sweets of course.”

  He squeezed even closer. “You’d resort to violence to protect me, Miss LaPrioux?”

  “Any time you want,” she replied, resting her head on his shoulder and smiling up at him. For a second or two, as their eyes met, there was no one else in the world but the two of them.

  Until she remembered they were on a bus packed with interested locals.

  She sat up straight but squeezed his hand. “Alright, Clark Gable,” she whispered, as she pressed her knee against his.

  The night air chilled as they left the cinema, hand in hand.

  Clark Gable had a presence and oodles of sex appeal, Mary would grant that much, but really, he wasn’t a patch on Gryffyth. Dear Lord, he was wonderful. Sex on legs wasn’t far off the mark. Alright, sex on one leg!

  “You’re smiling,” Gryffyth said.

  The man didn’t miss much. And she was not about to voice her last thought. “Just thinking about Clark Gable.”

  “Really?” Was it her imagination or was there a note of pique in his voice?

  “Yes, really. I was thinking how the sorts of men people get sloppy over on the screen aren’t a patch on the ones you meet in real life.”

  “I was afraid you were going to ask me to whisk you up in my arms and carry you up a wide, sweeping staircase.”

  They were halfway down the High Street, almost at the crossroads. “Wouldn’t do that,” Mary said, giving his hand a squeeze and stepping a little closer to him. “I don’t think there’s one like that in the whole of Brytewood.”

  “I bet there’s one up at Wharton Lacey.”

  “The big house?” She chuckled. “I don’t need carrying anywhere, Gryffyth.”

  “I think that’s why I love you,” he replied.

  She stopped dead and looked at him. Had she dreamed that? Had to have!

  “You heard right the first time,” he said with a sexy little smile. “I love you, Mary.”

  “Gryffyth.” It took an effort to get anything out, her throat was so tight and her blood was throbbing in her ears. “You’ve only known me three days.”

  “Why does that matter? I fell in love when you crossed the village hall to ask me to dance.” He put a finger under her chin and tilted her face up. “I love you, Mary, truly I do. I love you and I want to marry you.”

  “A bit sudden, isn’t this? We barely know each other.”

  “What else do you want to know? I’m twenty-six years old, minus a chunk of my right leg, currently unemployed and living on an army pension. Cripes.” He broke off, shaking his head. “Makes me sound like a miserable prospect, doesn’t it?”

  Her heart clenched for him. She stood on tiptoes and kissed his chin. “Gryffyth. I think you are a wonderful prospect.”

  He eyes gleamed in the dark. “You’re accepting?”

  Oh, dear. “Not exactly. I really don’t know you well enough, but I like everything I’ve seen so far.” Now was not the moment to mention her rather lurid, if thoroughly delightful, nighttime fantasies. “But it’s so sudden—for all I know you go out to the pub and get drunk and gamble and drown kittens.”

  “I’ve been to the Pig and Whistle once since I’ve been back but soon decided drinking more than one beer, before walking home on a tin leg, was a lousy idea. The only gambling I’ve ever done was playing rummy for penny points and buying a ticket in the Grand National Sweepstakes and I’ve never drowned a kitten. Good enough for you?”

  Lord, yes. He was the answer to her dreams, but still she hesitated. “I think I l
ove you too, Gryffyth.”

  He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, so her face rubbed against the heavy woolen cloth of his army greatcoat. “But you’re still not sure about signing up for life?”

  “I wish I were.” It was the utter truth.

  “I wish you were too, but how about this: you’ll marry me unless you discover I’ve a hideous secret life that repulses you.”

  She had to laugh. “Gryffyth, be serious.”

  He held her shoulders in both hands, turning her to face him. “I am, Mary, totally serious. I want you as my wife, in my bed, and for the rest of my life.”

  Her chest went tight, as her heart raced. In his bed! Dear heaven, that was a prospect. “Give me a couple of weeks.” Why delay? She wanted him, but darn it, she had to think this over.

  “Two weeks, it’s a bargain,” he replied. “I’m tempted to say, ‘Let’s go to the station, get a train up to Town and see if we can find an empty table at the Savoy,’ but I think that will have to wait until you say yes.”

  “Sounds like a good plan. Hungry?”

  “Hungry for you, my love.” He pulled her close, oblivious to the stragglers from the cinema who headed toward the bus stop, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her, lifting her off her feet as he pressed his mouth on hers. With a little gasp, she parted her lips and welcomed him, their tongues brushed and caressed as he held her against him and kissed deeper. He was incredible, wonderful, and he wanted her. That was obvious as he held her inside his coat. Dammit, she wanted him too, but for now a wild, insane kiss would have to do. Her pulse raced as her thoughts shimmered into a glorious fog of sensation, and she softened into his embrace and kissed on.

  She whimpered with disappointment as he broke the kiss and set her back on her feet. “I love you,” he repeated.

  “I love you, too.” How could she doubt it? He was her dear heart, her hopes and her other self, but caution, uncertainty, and the unease of the times—and knowledge of her nature—held her back. How, as much as she wanted to, could she marry this nice man when he was unsuspecting of her Other nature?