Page 139 of One More Betrayal

He removes a strip of clean fabric from his knapsack. “It’s not sterilised, but it will have to do. It’s better than you bleeding out.” He wraps the fabric around my leg and fastens it with a knot. I barely feel anything, the rush of exhilaration from the successful operation numbing the pain.

“A bullet hit her,” is the first thing Laurent tells his wife after Philip and I enter the safe house. His voice is quiet so as not to alert the neighbours to our late-night activities nor awaken his sleeping daughter.

He nods at me and continues into the house without another word. The other two men have already gone their separate ways.

Philip helps me to the room where I briefly slept earlier. The rush of exhilaration from a short time ago has faded to nothing, leaving in its wake the burning pain I experienced when the bullet grazed my leg. My limp is no less pronounced, the impact of a dozen or so bruises scattered over my body.

“Let me tend to your wound first, and then you can sleep,” Bridgette says softly to me. She turns to Philip. “Off with you.”

Philip leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

I nod to Bridgette and undo my trousers. I carefully peel them off, cautious not to dislodge the makeshift bandage, and turn so Bridgette can inspect it.

“Lie on your stomach.”

I do as I am told. She unwraps the cloth and lifts the lantern above my calf. The murmur of Philip’s and Laurent’s voices come from outside the bedroom, but I can’t hear what they are saying.

“It’s not too bad,” Bridgette informs me. “I’ll clean it and wrap it, but you will need to stay here for a few days so your leg is healed enough for you to cycle home. That is assuming the wound doesn’t become infected.”

Bridgette doesn’t know where I live—none of the men do. They only know I reside in a village far enough away, and it took me several hours to pedal here.

Bloody hell and damn. I need to get home before Johann finishes his current operation. I don’t want him to worry, which I know he will do if I am not there when he returns. And what if Müller drops by unannounced and inquires as to my whereabouts? He will grow suspicious if Jacques cannot tell him where I went or when I am due to return.

Bridgette returns a few minutes later with the first-aid supplies. We don’t talk much beyond a few whispered words. Usually after an operation like this, I experience a second wind that lasts for hours. This time, I can barely keep my eyes open.

I want to ask her questions about being pregnant, but I’m not ready yet to tell anyone the news. I still need to digest it myself and decide what to do when it comes to the baby. Decide what to do about my role in ending the war. About what to tell Baker Street. About whether I should tell Johann.

Bridgette gently cleans the wound, dabbing at it with a wet cloth. At the stinging pain, I squeeze my eyes shut and grip the sheet tightly in my fists. It’s not the first time I’ve been hurt since arriving in France, but it is the first time I’ve been shot.

“The wound is relatively shallow,” she tells me, “but the path is jagged and cannot be stitched cleanly. The bleeding has stopped. It won’t stay that way if you don’t give it a chance to heal.” She finishes cleaning it and wraps it up with a new cloth. “I’m going to fetch some more blankets so you can sleep.”

Part of me—a large part of me—wants to ignore Bridgette’s advice and leave, but that would be foolish given the distance I need to cover. What would it hurt to wait a day or two? A few months ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice about pedalling the long distance with a gunshot wound, but that was before I was with child.

Her arms are full when she returns. She covers me and leaves again. It only takes a few minutes for exhaustion to overtake me, and the memory of the exploding tunnel lulls me to sleep.

My lower leg is aching when I wake several hours later, the pain only just bearable. The house is quiet, other than a female voice softly singing a lullaby in the room next to mine.

I sit up, and a wave of nausea hits me. I sink back onto the bed. Being shot clearly hasn’t done anything to ease the morning sickness.

The bedroom door opens, and Bridgette enters, her baby in her arms. “You’re awake!”

I ease myself upright again. My body is tired, but not as drained as I was earlier. “What time is it?”

“Ten o’clock in the morning. You’ve been asleep for over twenty-eight hours.”

Shock widens my eyes, and my gaze flies to the curtain-covered window. “I have?”

She nods. “I was worried your wound was infected, but you didn’t spike a fever. Can I check the wound?”

“Yes.”

She lays a blanket from the bed on the floor and lowers her daughter onto it. The baby’s little face peers up at the ceiling. Bridgette then has me roll onto my side so she can inspect my leg. The baby doesn’t fuss about not being in her mother’s arms. She just coos and gurgles.

“How old is she?” I ask, smiling at the little one.

Bridgette unwraps the bandage. “Five months.”

“She’s beautiful.” I have a sudden desire to brush my finger along the baby’s soft cheek. The light fluff on her head is blond and her eyes are blue.

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