Sarah and Hugh danced together well, as if they really had been married for years. “What we do for the war effort,” Sarah complained softly into Hugh’s ear.
“Even if all of this is pretend,” Hugh replied, spinning her around and then holding her in close, “that doesn’t mean my feelings for you aren’t real.”
They danced until they were the last couple on the stone floor. When it was finally time to go, Hugh snagged one of the bottles that had been brought up from Beaulieu’s cellars.
“Nettle wine,” Sarah exclaimed, stumbling in her high heels on the flagstone path, “oooh la la.” She lifted the bottle and took a sip.
“Easy there,” Hugh warned, taking the bottle back. “Don’t twist an ankle now. We’ve come too far.”
She giggled and clutched his arm. “Heaven forbid.”
At their storybook cottage, they both stumbled in the door, laughing. “I must take these heels off, darling Hubert—my feet are killing me.” She limped to the sofa and began to undo first one tiny buckle, then the other, slipping her feet out and wiggling her toes with a noisy sigh of relief.
Hugh shrugged off his jacket and sat next to her. “That was fun.”
“Yes, it really was.”
“We’re going to Paris.”
“Yes, we really are.”
Suddenly, they were both serious. Then Sarah sighed again. She turned. Winding her arms around Hugh’s neck, she kissed him on the mouth, gently at first, then more passionately. They both wanted to stop thinking, to escape from the endless limbo before actually landing on French soil.
Hugh wrestled off his tie. When he tried to unbutton his shirt, Sarah tore at it, buttons popping and rolling everywhere. Together they fell backward, entwined on the narrow sofa, desperate to free themselves from the tension of the last few months.
Afterward, they lay back, panting and sweating.
“Well, that was quite the send-off,” Hugh managed, trying to catch his breath.
Sarah was still breathless, too. “I hope you don’t think I used you.”
Hugh kissed the top of her head. “Anytime. I’m your husband, after all.”
“I need to take my mind off of everything. I’m not scared exactly, but…”
Hugh began to kiss her neck, working his way down. “Why, madame,” he murmured between nips, “I’m happy to distract you all night, if that’s what you desire.”
—
Maggie peered through the mirrored window at Max Thornton, sitting at the scarred wooden table, his hands cuffed in front of him, his nose covered in white gauze and surgical tape. When Durgin took in the state of Max’s face, he whistled. “You weren’t kidding about your skill set, Miss Hope.”
Maggie shrugged, the image of the kidney before her again. She refused to dwell on it and refocused on Max. She was filled with a primitive and passionate hatred for him. He’d tried to strangle and rape her—just as he’d tried to strangle and rape Daphne Plunket. And who knew how many other women he’d preyed upon and victimized? He deserves his bloody nose—and so much more. But did he send the kidney? Is he responsible for murder?
“So, I’ll wait here,” Maggie said, expecting the usual, “while you question him, right?”
Durgin astonished her. “Actually, Miss Hope, if you’re up to it, you’re leading the interrogation today.” He handed her the case file.
“I?” She was gobsmacked. “I’m definitely up to it—though I don’t know how objective I’ll be….” But she took the file.
“Nonsense. You will be a consummate professional and rattle him hard enough to shake a confession out of him. Understand?” He walked to her and loosened her scarf, so the bruises on her neck were exposed. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”
Maggie raised one hand and rubbed absently at the purple marks. She was torn between her feelings—on the one hand, wanting to run and hide, and on the other, wanting to intimidate Max the way he’d attempted to terrify her. She decided cool professionalism was in everyone’s best interest, including her own.
Maggie and Durgin entered together. Max looked up from the table. “You!” he rasped when he recognized Maggie. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, revealing a missing front tooth.
“And imagine my surprise at finding you here, Mr. Thornton,” Maggie replied coolly as she took a seat. “But when we saw Miss Daphne Plunket’s injuries and she identified you as her attacker—after a drink at the Punch and Judy pub, of all places—I knew we had to ask you a few questions.” She opened the file. “For the record, I am Miss Margaret Hope, with MI-Five. My colleague is Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin, of Scotland Yard.”
“You’re the lead on this, right?” Max looked to Durgin. “You’re the man, I can talk to you. You can tell her to leave, right?”
“Oh no, Mr. Thornton,” Durgin answered placidly. “Perish the thought! I assure you Miss Hope is running this investigation.”
Max tried to fold his hands, but couldn’t. They twitched in his lap. “I want my solicitor!”
“I’m sure you do,” responded Durgin impassively.
Maggie went through the file. “Daphne Plunket was choked and nearly raped—and has identified you as her attacker. What happened that night?”
“We went out to a pub, then things got—a bit out of hand.” Max looked to Durgin, muttering, “You know how it goes. Women.”
“Miss Plunket was nearly strangled, Mr. Thornton,” Maggie reminded him. “That’s not ‘out of hand,’ that’s assault and attempted murder.”
“I want my solicitor,” he repeated.
“And then she was nearly murdered, with her left carotid artery severed. Why did you try to kill her, Mr. Thornton?”
His mouth gaped open in shock. “But I didn’t! She ran away and I went back to Number Ten. Mr. Greene was there. He’s my witness.”
“And what about the dates of—” Maggie knew them by heart. “March twentieth, twenty-seventh, and twenty-ninth?”
“Nothing to do with me.” He shrugged, looking unconcerned, but his hands would not keep still.
“What do you know about Brynn Parry?”
“Who? Look, I want my solicitor.”
“Brynn Parry, ATS officer. From Wales.”
“I have no idea who you’re talking about. And I’m sure I have alibis for all of those as well. I’ll say it one last time, I want my solicitor.”
Maggie knew they were at an impasse. “Guards!” she called, not without a certain satisfaction. Two burly men in uniform appeared. “Please take Mr. Thornton back to his cell—to await his lawyer.”
Max gave Maggie a vicious look as he left. She met his cold eyes, unflinching.
When the sound of footsteps had quieted, Durgin asked, “Getting hungry? I can run out and get us some fish and chips? Or, at least, what’s passing for fish these days?”
“No!” Maggie cried, appalled. Even through her interview with Max, she hadn’t forgotten the package and its bloody contents.
“Sorry.” Durgin frowned. “Do you want to go home? I can have one of my men—”
“No,” Maggie answered, her tone not inviting opposition. “I’m staying.”
“Very well, then—but you really should eat something. We have a lot of work in front of us.”
“Coffee,” she decided. It had been a long day. She couldn’t bear the thought of food, but surely she could manage coffee. “I don’t care how bad it is, as long as it’s hot and caffeinated.”
“Coffee, check,” Durgin said, rising and reaching for her coat, helping her into it. “Ah, the glamour—the long hours, the bad pay, the dead ends…But it’ll all be worth it when we catch the Beast.”