Page 155 of One More Betrayal

Not enough to ensure we both come through on the other side in one piece.

Johann eventually stops kissing me and rests his brow on mine.

“I love you too,” I whisper.

His arms tighten their hold on me, and his words switch to an onslaught of murmured German.

“What are you saying?” I ask, even though I don’t need him to translate.

“Sorry, I was just telling you how much I love you. Where have you been? Jacques and I have been frantic with worry. We didn’t know where you were. No one visited Jacques to let him know what happened to you.” He cups the back of my head, his tender touch causing me to forget everything else.

“I was injured. I needed to recover for a few days before I could pedal home. Did any of your men or Major Müller notice my absence?”

His brow creases, and he pulls away. “Injured? Where?” His gaze searches my body, his hands on my arms.

“Johann, it’s important, did anyone else notice my absence?”

“Not that I know of. Müller hasn’t been here. Where are you hurt?”

“My calf.” I lift the hem of my dress, revealing my bandaged leg. Blood has seeped through the once-white cloth.

The amount of blood isn’t enough to cause concern, yet the frown deepens on Johann’s brow. “How did you get injured?”

“It doesn’t matter.” I hardly want to admit someone from his side of the war shot me—no more than I want to explain what I was doing shortly prior to being hit. “And the wound isn’t all that bad.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He sweeps me up in his arms, not giving me a chance to respond, and carries me into the house.

“This isn’t necessary,” I protest weakly, lacking the energy to struggle out of his arms. It’s a wonder I don’t fall asleep in them. I’ve had plenty of rest over the past four days, but it just doesn’t seem to be enough now that I’m pregnant.

He lowers me onto my bed and carefully unwraps the bandage. He curses in German once it’s removed, and I pretend not to understand him.

“You see. It’s not all that bad.” I twist to inspect it. The wound is still raw, and a small amount of blood is leaking from the scab.

“What happened?”

I shake my head. “I cannot tell you. Please accept that.”

“I have some first-aid supplies in my room. I’ll clean the wound and replace the bandage. Then you need to promise me you will rest for a few days so it can heal.”

My lips curl playfully to one side. “Is that your engineering expertise speaking? Or the medical background I don’t know about?”

“And if it doesn’t get better,” he says, ignoring my comment, “I’ll fetch the village doctor.”

He leaves and returns with the first-aid supplies and a small bowl of water. He’s no longer wearing his uniform. He has changed into Yvon’s clothes. I appreciate the thoughtfulness of the gesture.

“I should wash up first.” I could use a long soak in the bathtub, with a luxurious bar of soap, after the long bicycle ride home. But this is wartime, and that means the only luxury I get to enjoy is a scrub at the sink with plain water.

“I’ll help you once I tend to your wound.”

“How is Jacques’s cough?” I ask.

“About the same.”

At least it didn’t get worse while I was away. But I was hoping it had improved during that time, even if only slightly.

After Johann cleans the wound, he fetches another bowl of water and a cloth.

He helps me out of my clothes and tenderly washes my skin. My pale flesh is a patchwork of bruises and scratches. He doesn’t ask me again what happened, but the fire in his eyes tells me he wants to know. He already suspects the worst.

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