The Stolen Years

The first all-American offensive began mid-September. In the first day of fighting, from behind a barrage of guns, they caught the Germans by complete surprise, capturing over thirteen thousand prisoners and four hundred guns.

Gavin was posted as liaison. His months in Germany had allowed him to pick up some of the language and, in addition to his knowledge of French, he quickly became an essential part of Donovan’s team. Translating and resolving misunderstandings, he was fascinated by how different the two cultures were and the essential diplomacy involved. He did not feel it necessary, however, to inform his American counterparts that, although the French acknowledged their moral superbe, they pettily attributed their success to German weakness rather than American efficiency.

When they learned of the Wilson peace proposals, which demanded unconditional surrender, the atmosphere became one of anticipation. Gavin loved the American spirit and was instantly at home with their frank, easygoing style, their courage and matter-of-fact manner. Each time an opportunity arose for him to return to his own sector, an excuse came up and he left it for the next time, certain there would always be another opportunity.

October brought the news they had longed to hear for so many years; the Germans had called for an armistice and desired a peace settlement. On November 11, the guns were finally silenced.

By the time Gavin’s troop reached Rheims, he and the other men were simply living in the present, and joined the frenzied reveling of the battered city, exulting in a riotous explosion of overjoyed relief. Girls flung themselves around the Americans’ necks, champagne corks flew and golden froth gushed over the pavements, bathing them in the sparkling wine. Rheims had opened her cellars and her heart, and the air was alive with joy and excitement. Bottles were shoved into their hands as the liberators drove, victorious, through the streets of the tattered city.

Soon it became impossible to drive and Gavin found himself on the sidewalk, a bottle in one hand and a pretty brunette clinging to him, her mouth avidly seeking his. He had no problem obliging. But when he raised his head and searched the milling crowd, he realized the others had been swept into the throng. The girl was dragging his hand relentlessly, thrilled he spoke French. He took a last look at the swarm then shrugged, realizing it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. He’d meet up with Donovan and the others later, when the excitement died down. Right now the feel of the girl’s body and her pliable lips were tantamount to delirium.

Throwing an arm protectively over her shoulders, he followed her into a side street, where she stopped just long enough to kiss him and press her body closer before pulling him into the shattered remains of a rooming house. His mind went blank as her body melded to his, tasting champagne and the intoxication of victory, the need to plunder all that mattered now.

As he took another swig from the bottle and followed her up the creaking stairway to the second floor, he could already picture her moving below him, barely seeing the shabby room with the paint peeling off the splintered walls as he began pulling off his jacket. Vague thoughts of Greta and Flora gave him a moment’s guilt that dwindled rapidly as the girl shooed a large tabby cat from the bed and twirled invitingly, her eyes twinkling mischievously under a mop of chestnut curls.

She unbuttoned her blouse, the material sliding off her slowly, until at last it fell to the floor. Greta and Flora were forgotten as he watched her nipples harden. He reached for her, hungry for the touch of her skin, the feel of something soft and female, the softness of her body a panacea to the death and destruction of the past months. Her hand reached for him and he pulled her toward the bed as she undressed him eagerly, her fingers running provocatively down his chest, forgetting everything but the overwhelming desire to claim the victor’s prize, to plunge deep within her and obliterate reality.

It was dark when he awoke, but the sound of celebrating continued in the streets below. He glanced at the naked girl breathing softly at his side and realized he didn’t know her name. Nor did he want to. He got up quickly and dressed, anxious to get away, to find the others and get on with his plan to send a cablegram home to his parents. It would have to wait until tomorrow, he realized, pulling on his shirt and glancing through the shattered window at the street below, where a young couple stood kissing in the glow of a remaining street lamp.

He turned and looked at the girl, still fast asleep, wondering if he should leave her money. She might be insulted. On the other hand, perhaps it was expected. In the end, he found an empty jam jar and stuffed some bills and a note inside, that read Thanks for a wonderful night. Please buy something to remember it by. Running down the rickety stairs, he avoided the weary gray-haired concierge who mumbled crossly as she swept the remnants of the previous night from the dingy hall.

As soon as he stepped into the street, he realized the city was still celebrating, drunk with relief. He stared at the crowds and wondered how he was going to find the others. He made his way down the Rue Gambetta, through the bombed buildings and debris, and headed for the Boulingrin, a restaurant he had heard Colonel Donovan say had the best French fries in town.

Arriving at the bistro, he peered through a throng of Allied uniforms and girls in their Sunday best, hanging at their heros’ necks. Determinedly, he made his way slowly but persistently to the counter, where he managed to squeeze into an empty spot. He was immediately handed a glass of champagne. He smiled his thanks to the bartender and turned, hoping to begin a conversation with the two British officers standing next to him.

But before he could speak, someone grabbed his arm. Once she had his attention, a pretty redhead with a provocative smile and ruby lips reached up and kissed him full on the mouth.

“Oy, you’re with me,” an outraged cockney voice exclaimed.

“Non!” the young woman exclaimed with a provocative pout. “Moi, I like Américains.” As she gazed up at Gavin and slipped her arms around his neck, the man’s face reddened angrily.

“Oh ye do, do ye? Let’s see how ye like this.” Gavin tried to disengage himself from the girl’s grasp, but the more he tried the more tightly she clung. As the full force of the man’s fist crashed into the right side of his face, Gavin reeled back, flying against the counter with the girl squealing on top of him. He picked himself up painfully, his right eye closing fast. Through the other he saw four marines rising, balling their fists, while two British Tommy’s prepared to back their mate. Then all hell broke loose.

One marine swung at the officer beside him, and after that it was mayhem. Chairs flew, bottles crashed, girls screamed and waiters yelled. The last thing he saw before being knocked out cold was the barman, swearing rapidly and smashing an empty champagne bottle over the head of a drunk marine.

9

Isle of Skye, Scotland, 1918

It seemed strange to be married in November, Flora reflected, looking out across the sea from her perch on the window seat where she sat curled up among the old chintz cushions. Tomorrow she and Angus would be married. It was the right thing. The only thing she could do for him, now that Gavin and Uncle Hamish were gone, for he’d never manage on his own, and Gavin would have expected it of her.

Still, it seemed unreal. But then, everything seemed unreal, even Gavin’s death. She was still not able to register that he would never again walk into a room, his eyes glinting in that unique way, inviting her on some impossible adventure. She turned and stared at the door as though he might suddenly materialize. She didn’t feel his death—she never had. Of course, hoping he might be alive was wishful thinking. She knew that. But still…Even the memorial service and the engraving on the family tombstone, next to Uncle Hamish’s name, hadn’t made it sink in.

And tomorrow she was to become Angus’s wife. She tried to suppress her sadness. Being his companion, helping him with the estate and doing her duty by him were one thing. But the other…She clasped her arms tight, pulling her heather-colored cardigan tight as a shudder went through her. How was she going to react when he…She closed her eyes and tried desperately not to think about tomorrow night or the grief of being anyone but Gavin’s.

She sighed and turned again toward the churning gray waters that smashed against the rocks below. The lump in her throat, which surfaced so often of late, returned. The last thing she wanted was to hurt Angus’s feelings. On returning from France, after learning of Uncle Hamish’s sudden death, she had agreed to be married as soon as possible, and she was determined not to spoil it for him.

It was dark and misty outside. In the distance, a small fishing vessel bobbed on the horizon, heading into port. Flora listened to the rush of the wind and the gulls squawking overhead. She heard Millie barking in the distance as she gazed across the leaden November waters, feeling as if part of her had remained in the Somme with Gavin, leaving her distant, as though in another world.

It was hard to show enthusiasm for the lovely trousseau that Tante Constance had lovingly chosen, all the while lamenting that it could not be bought in Paris. She hated standing for hours while dressmakers pinned her wedding dress and fussed. Angus had presented her with a beautiful ring that had belonged to his great-grandmother and which Tante had suggested for their engagement. When he had slipped it onto her finger, she had shuddered, forcing back the tears in an attempt to show a happy front. She was determined not to think of what might have been, but that was proving impossible. Each folded sheet, each delicately embroidered pillowcase where the wrong initials entwined were an agonizing reminder of the nights she would never spend in Gavin’s arms.

She watched the boat disappear from view with a sigh. Tante would have a list of last-minute things to go over before the formal dinner tonight. Oncle Eustace, Tante Hortense, Cousin Eugène, René and little Geneviève, who was to be a bridesmaid, had arrived earlier in the day and were resting in their apartments on the second floor.

The wedding was to be a small affair, for which she was thankful. She couldn’t have handled a huge ceremony, the pomp of a cathedral. The tiny chapel erected at Strathaird four centuries ago was beautiful, and would make the event bearable, even though the place was permeated with memories of Gavin. She smiled and a tear rolled down her cheek as she remembered eating apples with him under the altar, his foot nudging hers as he tried to make her giggle during Mass.

She wiped her face and wandered reluctantly down the wide oak staircase, wondering if she was right to be marrying one man while mourning another. Should she call the whole thing off while there was still time, she wondered, stopping on the landing and gazing up at a portrait of Struan MacLeod, Gavin’s great-grandfather. Those same twinkling eyes met hers and she swayed in sudden panic, as though he were there before her.

“Are you all right?”

“Oh! Goodness!”

Eugène, tall and slim, stood solicitously next to her in his black priest’s robes. “You gave me a fright,” she exclaimed, trying to smile.

“Je m’excuse, Flora. You seemed so…sad. Is there anything I can do?”

She thought, then smiled. “Will you take my confession?”

“I’m afraid I can’t. I’m not fully ordained yet. But if you wish, we can talk and I will give my vow of secrecy.”

“I would like that. Perhaps we could go for a walk after tea, or up to the old drawing room.”

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