Chapter 4

Even before they had driven out of the estate, Lachlan and Dominique encountered a problem: he immediately took the keys to drive but she stopped him.

"You can't speak French. If there's a checkpoint then they will know at once!"

He considered that. "What do you suggest? I hide in the back or the boot? That's going to look even worse if they take a look. I might as well wear a sign round my neck saying 'Downed Pilot'..."

"Then I drive."

"It looks suspicious. Women never drive men," Lachlan observed and Dominique had to agree it was true. They had to make sure there was no possible reason for them to look out of the ordinary which did not attract undue comment.

She ran back into the house and fetched a bottle of Armagnac and shook the liquor all over his coat, offering it to him to take a healthy swig. He did so, grimacing at the burn so early in the morning but still helping himself to another. "You are drunk, mumbling, incoherent....I am taking you home after dragging you out of an all night drinking session....or even better, some woman's bed...yes, that's it....then I can distract them by shouting at you and you can be angry and truculent..."

Lachlan groaned but gave a smile anyway. "You might be right. Hide in plain sight. The person who appears to be suspicious would never willingly draw attention to themselves." He shrugged. "Okey dokey...I'm the bad husband and you're the long suffering wife...it'll have to do..."

The plan such as they had was simply to head east towards Lake Leman, and Switzerland bypassing the larger towns, using the back villages and hopefully avoiding the blocks that might have been set up on the route. The main danger was in the early stages when they would still be in the areas which were most under scrutiny. Once they passed from there, it would probably be less difficult to slip by unnoticed - and then she intended to take more direct routes where traffic would be heavier.

It was a cold crisp morning with the sun low in the sky as they negotiated the back lanes. Dominique was grateful for the long rides she had taken on her bicycle and the hours she had perused maps of the area in her planning for an eventual escape route for Peter. It had given her a very good sense of direction in this alien land.

"You know the way?" Lachlan observed as he watched her hunched purposefully over the wheel, eyes fixed in concentration as she scanned the road ahead and the countryside about for possibly danger.

"Just keep your eyes peeled...." she muttered and Lachlan slumped back, smiling, idly staring out of the window, aware that she was not in a mood for small talk. The road they were on was winding across a valley with a thick tree cover at the side blocking the view below. But a break in the foliage and Lachlan, whose eyes were sharp and who was accustomed to recognizing danger at a mere glance from the corner of his vision, saw something. His hand shot out and rested on hers.

"Pull over!" Dominique immediately stopped and they both ran from the car to take a look through the trees to where the road wound down below them. Lying side by side, they crawled to the edge. "What is it? I can't see anything!" Dominique whispered.

He pointed, drawing her close and directing her gaze. "See where the road disappears around the bend way down there?" She followed his line and she picked out the place he was indicating. "The cars are slowing down. Stopping for a moment. I think there's a village up ahead. I reckon there's a road block. It's hidden but something is stopping those cars...."

"We can't take a chance!" Dominique gasped, struggling to her feet and running to the car to sit with her feet dangling from the passenger seat staring at the map as she searched for an alternate route.

"Any luck?" Lachlan settled down, crouching at her feet, rubbing gently along her legs. She shook her head. "Let me..." He took the map and quickly assessed their position. She was right. This was the only route available unless they backtracked and went closer to Clermont Ferrand, losing valuable time and also bringing them into even more chance of discovery. Was their desperate dash for the mountains already over before it had begun?

"It's impossible! They have every road covered! The documents I have will not pass close scrutiny. I'm scared!"

He looked over the valley. "Then let's avoid showing them....you drive on and I'll meet you down there. I can scramble down the slope and run for those trees. I should be able to get round the block and meet you in the village. The local church. I'll join you there."

He stood up; Dominique dragged him back. "But...but...if you don't make it! You can't speak French! You have no valid documents!"

He shrugged and gave her a devil-may-care grin. "Then I'm buggered, love. Better not get caught, hey? See you there...say a few Hail Marys for me while you're at it, sweetheart..." He reached over and kissed her softly, then drew her in and gave into a deeper more meaningful kiss. She was unsure whether this was goodbye. Tears stung her eyes as he backed away, using his thumb gently to wipe them away as he held her face in his hands. "That'll last me quite a while. Nothing like a good smacker to keep a bloke's spirits up..."

And with that, he took a few steps back, still grinning, before turning and plunging into the trees. Dominique stood a while staring after him before forcing herself back to her senses, running round into the car and then starting the engine, forcing her beating heart to calm as she made her way winding down the hill to the village of Arlanc. Long slow breaths calmed her as she approached the bend and then, just as the airman had almost uncannily recognised from a mere gap in the trees, the road block was posted and it was calling all traffic to a halt, giving cars a close search and checking identity cards thoroughly. The gendarmes were carrying out the task but with them was a severe- looking fair haired man wearing a trench coat and leather gloves. She knew instinctively he was SS, one of the invited guests allowed to monitor the activities in this so called independent region.

Swallowing hard, she slowed down and tried to stop her knees from shaking. Her guts felt like liquid and she was sure guilt was writ large all over the face. The car ahead was waved on and she nudged forward, winding down the window to speak.

"Good day, gentlemen..."she began but they merely grunted as they peered inside the car and then opened the boot, looking thoroughly at the contents before one came back to stand at her window while the other backed away, watching. She saw the third man, the plain clothes chap bend over and mutter something to him; he grinned crudely.

"You have a lot of gasoline in those cans..." the young gendarme said as he reached out for her documents.

"I am going to Lyons to collect my aunt. She is sick and has no one to look after her...."

"I didn't ask you where you were going," he replied impassively turning over her documents as if he expected them to contain something distasteful to him.

"I was explaining why I am carrying so much gasoline," she insisted firmly.

He raised one eye. "Who owns this car?"

"My employer. I asked for leave. He couldn't spare me so he told me to bring my aunt home. He is a kind man. He offered me his car for two days..."

The man smiled coldly. "Very kind. One wonders what is the usual charge for such kindness, eh, M'selle?"

"Madam....Madam Guilbert," Dominique replied. She received another mocking regard.

"But, of course, Madam..." He handed back the documents and stepped away as if to let her pass but the third man stepped forward.

"Who taught you to drive?" His spoke with a thick German accent.

"I was born on a farm. We learnt to drive as children..."

He shrugged and looked her over carefully. "Pass...."

With slow and deliberate care, Dominique started up the engine and moved off down the road, watching the men in the mirror as she did so. They had soon given their attention to the next vehicle but she was still wary. Even if they were merely enjoying their sense of power over a vulnerable woman, she could not afford to let her guard down.

Entering the small town, she drove to the main square and found a place to park the car in a side street before slipping into the old church of St Pierre. It smelt of dank and cold overlain with the strong heady scent of incense. She dipped her fingers in the holy water font and made a quick sign of the cross before genuflecting and kneeling at the back on the hard wooden footrest. Head bowed, she prayed silently for her pilot before the unblinking gaze of the statue of St. Peter above the main altar. It seemed of acute significance that her lover's patron saint should be guiding her path at that moment - but to what end? Would any god or saint have sympathy on a fallen woman such as she?

He kept low as he emerged from the trees despite the thick undergrowth that clung to the valley sides. Slithering down, gaining a few scratches and bruises in the process, he picked himself up at the bottom and had a good scan of the area until he felt sure it was safe. Then he ran, half crouched, across the open field into the woodland ahead and from there he skirted the road to the village, making his detour wide and becoming more anxious as he approached habitation. But it was afternoon and not many people were about; eventually he found himself back at the roadside on the way out of town.

The sound of a car engine made him instinctively drop to behind the wall between him and the road. He sat there holding his breath, not sure exactly why he was hiding other than his own sense of guilt. That sort of behaviour would attract attention; it would be better to stroll along as bold as you please and then no one would even notice a stranger.

For a moment he wondered about giving himself up to one of the gendarmes and calling off this whole crazy escape stunt. What was he doing risking Dominique's cover and the safety of her boyfriend? Was that really fair of him to ask that much? And then there were other people implicated now, like the old bloke who had let them take the car. If they were stopped, he would be for the chop as well, whatever excuses he made. Had he simply demanded too much of these people? Maybe it would be fairer just to walk up to the road block, give them his name, rank and number and let them cuff him and send him to a camp. There was something to be said for that. Most likely he would make it through the war that way. Nobler than deserting but a way of dropping out. It wouldn't be a picnic, that would be for sure, but was his current life anyway? Not much food, hours of tedium, cold, lonely, no chance of a normal existence....at least there would be no booze to rot his liver and he wouldn't be risking his neck every time he went on duty.

They might just shoot you, Lachlan, he said to himself. But he knew it wasn't that likely. Chances were he would be sent across the border to a camp. Get the pick of the jobs after the war. Better for everyone.

Yet he knew he would never be able to simply give up. It wasn't part of his nature really. Taking the easy way out, even if it made sense, was not an option he ever went for. There was always the nagging sense that his life was guided by a lucky star or at least that everything that did happen to him had a purpose: he had to learn something about life by grabbing the moments as they came to him. And he was also too stubborn to let them have him without a fight.

Lil had made a choice between him and her husband. It had been a good choice, a moral and proper choice. Dominique had made a choice between him and her lover - it too had been a good choice, a noble and generous one. But one woman had let him go and another had tried to save him. That was the thing about life - there was never just one way or a single path. You have to follow the path you are on to the end. That's the only way to live it, making your decisions as the unexpected vagaries of life hit upon you. 'I am the controller of my own destiny,' he mused, "Even now, when I feel buffeted and owned by this damn war, I am still able to be a man and make my decision for my future. It will be my choice. I can still be the man I aspire to be even if it does mean a different road or destiny than the one I dreamed - even a different woman- it can still be the noble choice - the best one for me.'

It was an important and reassuring moment of self-discovery for him. There were many ways to live his life but they all had to be either based on now or the future. The past had gone and he should not be clinging to its fragrant and wistful traces - and that applied to love as well as life. Why waste a chance that something better was waiting for him ahead just because he didn't have the courage to see this darkness through?

Pulling up his collar he leapt over the low wall and sauntered back in the direction of the village, following the spire of the medieval church that was so typical of these small French towns. Running up the steps, he entered the silent building, the spirituality of centuries imbued in the ancient stone, the smell of wax and incense and decay making this tiny church in a nondescript hamlet seem to be the repository of the truth of life - that the affairs of man were temporary. Even these terrible times would pass soon enough and memory would eventually fade. But this old church would still stand as a testimony to the eternal. It gave him a sense of resignation. We are just tiny specs in the eye of God. Our lives have little meaning in the march of human time. Our fate is not the end of anything. Stronger than ever was his conviction then that he had to keep on going until the end. For perhaps he had not yet met the ultimate surprise, the one that was the real purpose of everything for him?

He saw Dominique kneeling at the back, staring up at the high altar and he slipped into the pew beside her. He heard her sigh of relief and the whispered: "All right?"

He nodded and knelt down, a swift prayer to God to guide them both, then he took her hand, tugging gently out into the aisle and back into the winter sunlight. She bought two ham and cheese filled croissants and they ate in the car drinking a bottle of cold milk a few miles out of town. She asked him how it had been; he told her that it had been no problem although he had contemplated handing himself over for both their sakes. Dominique did not look surprised. "I thought as much. I had this feeling you would do something like that. I just prayed you would see sense."

Lachlan smiled over at her and took her hand, rolling it between his own. "You must have a line straight through to the big fella up there then. Because he wouldn't let me. Give myself up, I mean. Talked me out of it, he did..."

The light of laughter made her face transform as she responded to his gentle nonsense. "You are such a sweet man..."

"...And you are the most beautiful of women...and the bravest..." His lips came down and rested softly on hers, more a touch than a kiss until she pulled him closer and took it further, parting his lips and fluttering her tongue with his. For a long moment they stayed like that until he pulled away abruptly. "We shouldn't..."

She stopped him with a finger to his lips. "...We should. Circumstances have bypassed the normal social niceties. I needed to kiss you. You needed to be kissed...and now, we need to get back on the road. It is still a long way to go before nightfall..."

A long drive ensued, hours of country roads and always the danger of boredom lulling them into security. They stopped to stretch their legs and get a bite to eat in a town whose name they never knew, eating a simple menu compris washed down with a carafe of local wine and then left trying to be just another young couple inconspicuous and unremarked.

They had parked their car just up the street from the café and as they approached, they saw a gendarme looking in the windows. They both froze, unsure what to do. It was Dominique who found her voice first. She pushed him forcefully forward so hard that he staggered, surprised and began to shout a barrage of French at him. He remembered the ploy they had talked of early that morning; he could still smell the liquor on his clothes from where she had spilt it.

He stumbled against a shop window and mumbled incoherently, shuffling along as she used her purse to slap him around the shoulders and arms, still shouting insults. At that the policeman stopped and watched, amused by the show.

"He giving you any trouble, madame?"

Dominique scoffed at the very thought. "I'll give him trouble, the worthless drunken sot. That's all he's fit for, propping up the bar and drinking himself stupid!" She opened the back door and kicked him inside, then opened the driver's door. "Did you want something, officer?" She asked politely.

The young man stepped back. "No, madam...you take him home. Good evening...safe home..." he replied and went on his way, still shaking his head in mirth.

She started the car and drove off, still berating her drunken husband who was muttering darkly under his breath. As soon as they were out of sight, they both began to laugh and the feeling of elation that took them both over was akin to happiness. Like two hysterical children they laughed until tears rolled down their cheeks and they felt better than they had done in a very long time. Quieter now, Lachlan sat up in the back and rested his hands over Dominique's shoulders as she drove; they talked quietly as the miles passed.

"We need to stop for the night."

"Is it safe?"

"Safe?" Dominique laughed. "Is any of this safe?" He laughed with her and played with her hair. "I think we can risk a night at some small auberge. They will be glad for the money and will probably not ask too many questions...."

It was decided. They followed a sign to a tiny guesthouse run by a dour couple in the outskirts of a small town on the edge of a forest. The owners asked for ID; Dominique handed hers and the fake papers she had had prepared for Peter with hers on top. They gave them only a cursory glance, took down the names and handed them back. Both of them sighed in relief.

"We are on our way to Lyons. There will probably be more jobs there..," Dominique began.

"Not my business. Keep the noise down...Room eight....bathroom's at the end of the corridor..." The old man pushed a key across the counter and turned away. They were grateful for his rude lack of grace. Curiosity and friendliness were the enemies to them at the moment.

It was a drab, shabby room, smelling of stale air and damp but neither of them was too worried about such things. It was a big bed and they had a night together warm and safe. Lachlan thought to himself that this was a moment to savour, a light in the dark. Tomorrow was tomorrow and would come anyway.

He went to use the bathroom, taking a quick body wash, wanting to be clean for her, knowing that she would let him love her and already almost rigid with desire. Every sense seemed heightened in him as they made their desperate way and it now appeared that was just as true for his emotions. Smell, vision, hearing, touch and desire were all somehow connected in this state of alert they were both in.

He couldn't shave - he had no razor - but he did the best he could to clean himself up. Even now, he had his standards when he was with a woman.

Back in the room, Dominique was busy, making herself at home; she had clearly dusted around, aired the bed and opened the windows to let in the fresh cold night air. Walking over to him, she placed her hand on his cheek and kissed him. "You smell nice..." she murmured before leaving herself to complete her ablutions.

In the tiny bathroom, she ran a small bath of lukewarm water and washed herself thoroughly. He was a tactile and sensuous man. He liked to taste and smell. She wanted to make sure that she was as fragrant as was possible even if all she had was a bar of hard soap, warm water and peeling enamel tub.

When she returned she found Lachlan standing by the open window having a cigarette, staring out over the street scene below. She walked over to him and slipped her arms around his waist, resting her head against his broad back. "Let's go to bed. We have an early start...."

He tossed his cigarette through the open window and pulled down the sash, turning to her and lifting her up in his strong arms. Dominique had already loosened her clothes and she wrapped her legs around him as he carried her to the bed. They undressed each other quickly and fell to the bed, the silvery moon casting an ethereal light on them both as they came together, naked on the counterpane. He lay beneath her as she climbed on top, he tossed her over, burying his face in her hair as he loved her. They explored each other's naked bodies, mouth, hands, genitals, loving each other as only people can love who do not know if they will ever love again.

Lying in the dark, exhausted and at rest, wrapped in each other and the sheets, both almost afraid to close their eyes knowing that the next day could be the most pivotal of their lives, "I once read something that I always remembered," Dominique whispered. "It was never as true to me as today. I believe it was said by Lorenzo de' Medici.... 'Whoever wants to be happy, let him be so: about tomorrow there's no knowing'...."

He held her closer than ever in the dark and kissed her brow, resting his lips there even after the kiss had broken. A dark room - reach out and touch the surprise. About tomorrow there's no knowing...

They paid the bill the next morning after a simple breakfast of strong coffee and bread and jam on crusty French bread. As Dominique settled up, the proprietor grunted over, indicating Lachlan who was sitting by the window drinking coffee and staring out through the dingy lace curtains. "Your husband. Doesn't talk much."

Dominique picked up her change. "I didn't take you for a much of a talker myself. He's like most men these days. Keeps himself to himself." The man shrugged in a way that could have meant any number of things. But she was relieved that they were leaving straight away; she did not want anyone to notice anything out of the ordinary. The airman's total lack of conversation was beginning to catch their attention.

She walked away in the direction of the table but on impulse turned back to the desk. The proprietor had stepped into his office at the back and was making a phone call. She slipped round the wooden counter to put herself into eavesdropping range.

He was hard to hear as his voice was guttural and his sentences abrupt and terse. Fortunately the person on the other end of the line was obviously struggling too and made him repeat himself.

"A young couple staying here over night. Seem a bit odd. He never speaks in public but I've heard them mumbling to each other and they were talking in their room. I think he can't speak French. I could be wrong. Perhaps he's shy but he doesn't look it. I just thought you might be interested. Maybe he's a spy. Who knows? The woman is very confident. I don't trust her.  If there's a reward, I want to claim it. My civic duty, no?"

Collaborators. They were to be found in every town throughout France. For every hero, there was someone prepared to hand someone over if the price was right. But wasn't that true of everyone everywhere? 'There's a war on' has many meanings. We all do what we must to survive.

Backing away, she caught the pilot's eye and nodded for the door. He joined her instantly and they hurried to the car parked for extra safety several roads away from the guesthouse, jumping in and driving off without any discussion. The streets were busy with people going about their business, children off to school, adults on their way to work, women shopping and old people strolling about or walking their dogs. It was an ideal time to make their get away.

Dominique recounted the phone call to him as she drove and Lachlan grunted in annoyance. "You think he knew about the car?"

She hunched her shoulders. "I have no idea. We never mentioned it and it was not parked nearby. I think it unlikely he got a description but I don't know for sure..."

Lachlan pondered it. "You said something about going to Lyons. That might throw them off anyway. But we must assume we got away in time and just keep on going. There's nothing else to do."

They both agreed but the incident had cast a sombre note on the morning. Their watchfulness increased. They were not safe at any time until they were over the border. Or rather, until he was over the border. Dominique had to remain behind and retrace the drive alone. He shuddered at the potential danger in that.

The plan was to head for Lake Léman, Lake Geneva, and make the crossing into neutral Switzerland. There Lachlan could hand himself over to the police who would notify the British authorities and have him picked up. The lake border was always easier to cross than the land border or the journey through the mountains which were nigh impassable at this time of year. They reached the outskirts of the area in the late afternoon but decided to lie low for the rest of the day, hiding the car down a woodland path waiting for nightfall.

Dominique went out and bought some bread and cheese and a bottle of milk. Together they sat in the back of the car and ate, leaning against each other, not saying much. It was cold and frosty and looked as if snow might be on its way. Both of them were chilled to the bone but they did not dare keep the engine running for fear of attracting attention.

Lachlan pulled her against him, wrapping her up in the coarse wool overcoat and rubbing her hands in his. She snuggled in close, her legs across his; he slipped off her shoes and massaged her cold feet. "You should get some sleep. I'll keep a look out. You have a long drive tonight..." They had decided that she must leave as soon as he made his bid for freedom. He thought she should have already left, that he could hide alone until the dark came, but she wouldn't hear of it. It was too cold for him to simply sit in the woods all day. He might freeze to death. At least the car offered some protection against the inclement weather.

As the hours ticked down until they had to part, both Lachlan and Dominique wondered if they were clinging to each other for more than just warmth. He was unsure what his real emotions were, so confused were they with his situation and the desperate need he felt for human touch. Had he fallen in love with this woman or was it just because she was there with him at such a heightened moment in his life? He knew when he left her he would never see her again and yet he knew at the same time that nothing would stop him from making his break for freedom. Surely if it was real love he would stay by her side and make sure no harm came to her, or insist on taking her away to safety with him. But how would that make her safe? Her behaviour already could be deemed to have put at risk many other lives. It was not possible for him to stay or for her to go with him. If he loved her truly he would get as far away from her as he could before he dragged her down with him.

While he ran these thoughts through his head, Dominique herself had many matters on her mind. She wondered at the true impact this handsome young man had made on her. Peter had been her first love affair; she has been completely bowled over by her emotion for him until her interest in him had become an obsession. Now she had met another man and she tried to grasp how this affected her erstwhile passion. Intimacy between her and the pilot had been very different from Peter's urgent and apologetic lovemaking. Her pilot was confident and sure, obviously aware of a woman's needs and very sensual in his approach. He seemed to be instinctive and made her feel that nothing between a man and a woman was wrong or sordid. Would she feel a sense of disappointment when she lay with Peter again? Would he pale into insignificance when set aside this robust and full blooded man she had taken as a lover?

Trying to drive the doubts from her mind, Dominique faced the immediate reality head on. He had to leave. She had to return and face the music. Peter and she might never find each other. Only fate would know what lay in store for them all. She could not regret anything. She would not regret anything. This had to be. It was no use crying over lost dreams now. Time enough for that in the future - if they had one.

Nightfall came and the temperature dropped even further. Flurries of snow were falling, melting on the ground but it would soon be cold enough for a real blizzard. As hostile as the conditions were, it was an advantage to his crossing; few people would willingly be about that night and even border guards would be only making cursory sweeps of the area from time to time.

Together they made their way to the lakeside to a spot where they had observed some boats moored. They waited until they were sure that there was no chance of being overheard and then Lachlan rose as if to make a dash, his knife ready to cut the rope and begin his long row to freedom. Dominique reached up and pulled him back.

"Wait! I want to say something to you before you go." He sat down by her and gathered her up in his arms, caressing her face and bending to kiss her. "No...one moment! I just wanted to say...I will remember you. Whatever happens. I will remember you....What is your name?"

He smiled, his head cocked to the side, listening to her. "You said it was better not to know...."

"I was wrong. It is too late to try and pretend that without a name you can remain anonymous, faceless. I care for you. I have loved your body. In another time or place, perhaps I could have loved you as you deserve to be loved...."

He was silent for a moment before replying. "Lachlan. Lachlan Curry."

Dominique sighed. "Scottish! You have Scottish name!"

"Ay, that I do," he muttered into her ear as he nuzzled against her cold cheek. "My Dad was from Dumfriesshire."

"I should have guessed. You have the look of a big handsome Scottish boy!" She kissed him then and rested her forehead against his, her eyes closed in a last prayer. "Be safe. And think of me from time to time..."

"Tell me your name. I won't reveal it. Even if they take me and torture me, I would never let them know..." he whispered. "But I want to remember the real woman in my arms. Not the identity that belongs to this damned war.

It was a grave risk but she knew inside that he was speaking the truth. This man would willingly die to save her if he was called upon to do so.

Taking her lips to his ear, her warm breath soft as a summer breeze, she said her name for only him to hear. "Charlotte. Charlotte Gray."

"Charlotte,' he murmured, running the name on his tongue as if savouring its every cadence; his Australian accent drew out the syllables in a distinctive way. She would never hear it spoken like that again. "My surprise in a dark room. The best surprise a man ever had." One more swift kiss, tearing himself away as if it was the only way he could ever leave her side, Lachlan stood up and pulled her to her feet. "Go....get in that car and don't turn back. Whatever happens, whatever you hear, you have to run from this place. That's what I want you to do. Run back. Be safe. Find Peter. Go home one day and live your life. And never forget the man who held you in the night. For I will never forget you, Charlotte Gray, not as long as I live. I once knew a girl who told me I was better than stamps. Fair dinkum, you're better than anything I've ever known..."

She was about to reply but he placed his finger on her lips, smiled once and then disappeared, running crouched through the trees back down to the water's edge. For a moment she stood on, almost unable to move, unwilling to believe that he was gone forever. And then common sense took over and she turned to hurry in the opposite direction back to where they had hidden the car.

Lachlan cut the rope and pushed the boat out, shivering as he stepped into the water and waded out, his thick clothing sodden and clinging to his legs, the temperature bitingly cold. Jumping onto the rowing boat, he eased out the oars and set them in their locks, trying to make no sound. It was so quiet that the least splash would carry quite a distance on the night air.

Willing his frozen bones to respond, he began to settle into a comfortable motion, pulling out strongly into the dark lake beyond. But he had been seen or heard for voices were raised and a light was shone over the water. He dropped his head and rowed harder, pulling until the sweat clouded his vision and ran down his back despite his sodden, freezing lower half. Suddenly he heard the staccato burst of rifle fire as the shore was raked with shots. Maybe they were just precautionary, maybe they had stumbled on Charlotte. Lachlan closed his eyes and prayed for them both.

In what seemed like a dreamlike sluggish slow motion as he rowed and rowed endlessly on, he finally saw the lights of the shore become a far off memory and the silence of the night restored. No one had followed him. Was that good or bad? Did that mean that he had not been the target of the rifle fire after all and that it was Charlotte who had caught the attention of the guards? Was she even now lying bleeding on the cold ground or being seized by rough hands, a traitor to her so-called country?

As strong as was his instinct to return and protect her, he knew he could do no such thing. If she was dead or taken, then his arrival would only make things worse. If she had escaped then nothing was to be gained from handing himself over. No, he had to continue. Tears formed in his eyes, tears of hopelessness. He took a glance behind his shoulder at the far off shore of Switzerland and focused on that, brushing his eyes. He was alone in another dark room and had to reach out and take the next surprise, look forward and not back. That was the only way to honour Charlotte and all she had done for him.

Nearing the car, Charlotte heard the distant voices in the shoreline. One of the boatmen had noticed the launch of the rowing boat and run to inform the guards. She could hear the strident shouts and then the rapid burst of gunfire. Had they found him? What chance did he have if they caught him in their torch light and pumped the water full of bullets? Stopping, she fought the urge to go back but had to accept that she could not do anything but make things worse. Perhaps he had evaded the volley and was even now on his way to safety. If he had not, he was probably dead. Either way he was free. Throwing herself behind the wheel and starting up the engine, Charlotte coasted out onto the lane and away, lights still doused until she was far enough away not to draw attention. Casting from her mind, the images of him lying sprawled out dead in the bottom of a boat, or floating face down in the ice cold water, she forced herself to drive through the veil of her tears. She would never know if he had survived or not. But her conscience was clear and she would return to live for both of them.

In the darkness, remembering a time just a few short hours before when they had lain so close together, Charlotte whispered his name. "Lachlan Curry. I will remember you."