Page 15 of Secrets in a Sandstorm

He’s not in a rush to pull his hand away, and his leg rests against mine. I swallow, trying not to imagine the reasons why. “Why did you join up?”

“All my mates were, and it seemed like the right thing to do.” He takes a drink and passes the bottle back to me.

I want to take the edge off, but I don’t want to drink enough to lower my guard. I take a second swig and figure that’ll do me.

“Do you still believe that?” I stare into the darkness, knowing that the war hasn’t made me a better man. All I have done is prove that I can bury my feelings beneath violence.

“Yes. Someone needs to stop the Nazis.” His hand touches my leg, and I pass him the bottle, thinking that’s what he wants. If he wants to drink the rest, I won’t stop him. “You don’t believe that?”

“I do, but now I can add murder to my list of sins.” I want to spill the truth so I can stop carrying it around. Sitting in the dark, alone with Teddy, the weight becomes unbearable.

“Plenty of men cheat on their wives. That’s not the reason she died.”

“You’re too young to be this wise.”

Teddy laughs, and it ends in sharp inhalation as he tries to hide the pain.

“Tell me if you want the morphine shot.” Because I’m selfish, I want him to stay awake with me.

“I’m good.” His hand settles on my thigh, and this time, it doesn’t move. It’s not the vodka he wants. I swallow, remembering all the times he’s looked at me without hiding his thoughts…

I’m wrong.

I’m making it up and imagining things that aren’t there.

His fingers move in the smallest of caresses, like he’s testing how I’ll respond. I should move away or remove his hand. Instead, I sit there in disbelief.

Teddy rests his head on my shoulder, making himself comfortable, and I don’t have enough callouses on my heart to make him move. “Did you love your wife?”

“I wanted to. I thought I was doing the right thing.” I should have left her alone; then she’d have found someone who truly loved her, and she’d still be alive. “I met her through her cousin.”

“You loved her cousin?”

“Yes.” He’d encouraged the relationship because it provided cover for our own.

“Did the cousin love you?”

“Very much.” After the funeral, I couldn’t look at him without seeing her eyes accusing me of her death. I buried her and lost him that day.

“What’s that like?”

“To be loved?” I smile even though the memories hurt. He tried; I didn’t. I couldn’t. I wasn’t ready to set aside the guilt. “There’s nothing better. You’ll see.”

“I’m not sure that I will.” His hand inches up my thigh, and I’m powerless to remove it the way I should. Did he see me looking at him?

I place my hand over his because I don’t know what elseto do. His slow, cautious touch is undoing me, awakening a heat I buried three years ago. My prick is swelling, aching with need. “It’s a scratch,” I grit out. “You’re not going to die.”

“Why did you marry your wife and not the cousin?”

I close my eyes, and my breathing is loud in my ears as I debate how much truth I tell. Why does the secret matter now when his hand wants to explore more than my inner thigh? “I couldn’t. I couldn’t marry James.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

1942

CYRIL

Ihaven’t spoken his name aloud in years.

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