Grounded Hearts Page 2

  Her heart sank, but she couldn’t let him go off into the night in that condition. It wouldn’t be right. She’d need to patch him up and send him on his way. Or turn him in if Finn showed up. She didn’t want any trouble.

  “Why don’t ya come in and collapse a spell?” Nan wrapped her arm around his waist and pulled him inside. Beneath his wet clothing, she felt tight, lean muscles, and his heart beating faster than the woodpecker’s jabbing on the apple trees behind her cabin.

  And a gun.

  The weapon pressed against her side through his sopping garments. She hated guns. She’d spent her childhood in the shadow of the Troubles. And then there was Teddy’s obsession with pistols. She’d had enough weapons to last a lifetime.

  Men and their guns.

  “Sit here, so,” she said, letting him down on the chair by the table inside the door. “Drink some water.” She poured him a glass from the pitcher on the table. With her hands on her hips, she surveyed his face. Ah, but he had altogether gorgeous blue eyes. And the disheveled state of him aroused her pity and mercy.

  “Thanks.” He gulped the water, and she refilled his glass.

  “What’s your name?” She offered him a clean towel from the pile of fresh laundry on the table. His hand touched hers, sending a rush of heat over her skin.

  No, she told herself. Don’t be drawn to this fella. No good would come of it. “You have a name?” she asked again, her tone gentle.

  “Dutch.” He wiped the towel over his face. “Dutch Whitney.”

  “As in Amsterdam? That’s an interesting name. How’d you come to get a name like Dutch?”

  A pained expression flashed over his face as he shifted in the chair. “I liked Dutch chocolate when I was a kid.”

  She smiled. This warrior had once been a boy in knee pants. “And where might that be? Now tell me the truth, ’cause I know you’re not of Eire.”

  He clunked the glass onto the table and gazed at her a few seconds before he admitted, “Toronto.”

  “Ah. You’re an RAF flyer, then?”

  “No,” he said, struggling to sit straight. He grabbed his left arm and winced. “No. I’m here visiting a cousin.”

  “Sure ya are.” And she was Ginger Rogers. “And how’d you get the wound?”

  “What wound?”

  “The one that’s bleeding all over my clean floor.”

  He glanced down at the dots of blood. “Sorry. Fell in the bog.”

  “After you jumped from the plane that’s burning over on Collins’s farm?”

  His thick brows came together, and his mouth tightened. When their gazes met, he pulled in a deep breath. “Something like that.”

  “All right, look,” she said, cutting a piece of soda bread for him, releasing the scent into the air. “I don’t want any trouble with the LDF, but I’ll help you. I’m a nurse. I know how to patch ya up. And I’ve clean clothes for ya.”

  She paused to push down a sudden burst of pain that nipped at her from the bottom of her soul. Why she’d kept her dead husband’s clothes, she didn’t know. Perhaps it was the Holy Ghost’s leading for this very moment in time.

  “They’ll be too small, but at least they won’t be your uniform. Then you’d best be on your way tonight.”

  Chewing on the bread, he nodded. “Thank you.”

  “But first . . .” She held out her palm. “The gun.”

  Hesitation rode his features. “I don’t—”

  “Ya do. Give it, please. Or I’ll not help ya.” She wiggled her fingers. “No one walks around my home with a weapon.” Not anymore.

  They stared at each other. His hand crept toward the gun, his eyes growing tight. Wasn’t he the stubborn one! But he was no match for her.

  “I’m serious,” she said in a low, deadly tone. “Or get down the lane, but you won’t go far the way you’re bleeding.”

  “Fine.” He pulled the pistol from an inside jacket pocket and placed the cold revolver in her hand. “But I want it back.”

  “When you’re on your way. Now, do you think you can stand?” She placed the weapon on the edge of the table.

  “Of course I can,” he said, lifting from the chair. “I’m not that hurt.”

  “And I suppose bog water smells like roses,” she muttered. He slumped against her, and she led him into the bathroom.

  “Sit here,” she said, easing him into a chair beside the sink. “Let’s get off your jacket and your shirt.” She swallowed the knot in her throat. “Your pants, too.”

  She helped him peel off each layer until he sat in his undershirt and boxers. She didn’t dare go the final layer or look too long at the man sitting in her bathroom for fear of descending into thoughts of a sinful nature.

  Assembling her supplies from the medicine cabinet on the counter, she assured herself that having him sit there in his . . . underwear wasn’t much different from being at the beach, but she placed a towel over his lap, anyway.

  After giving him two aspirin, she sat him close to the pedestal sink, propped his arm over the rim, and flushed the wound with water, followed by a hydrogen peroxide solution. Then she sprinkled sulfanilamide over the wound.

  The bleeding had slowed, but the three-inch gash on his left arm moved when she pinched the skin together. She pulled down on one side to see how deep the laceration went.

  He moaned.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “It’s okay.” His flesh parted into a red slash.

  Her stomach twisted. Wound care wasn’t her favorite kind of nursing job.

  “How did this happen? And no tales of bogs and fairies.”

  “Piece of shrapnel nicked me.”

  “I see. It’s quite deep in places. You’ll need stitches.” She selected a sterilized needle and threaded it with a suture.

  “This is going to hurt.” She gazed into his eyes. Was he scared? He looked scared. “I’ll take good care of you; don’t worry. Can you be brave while I stitch you up?”

  Staring at the sharp tip, he nodded. “Will I get ice cream later?”

  “Ah. A sense of humor. No, but how about a nice cup of tea? Now, keep still.”

  The needle went into his cleaned flesh. His thighs tightened.

  “You okay?”

  “Peachy.”

  “So, are you a bomber boy? Or a fighter boy?” She sewed far away from the cut as the wound was deep, stitching his skin together.

  “Flyboy,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Flyboy? What is a flyboy?”

  “It’s what we Canadians and the Americans call a pilot.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  She made the final knot, cut the suture, and placed the scissors on the counter. “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  He frowned at the line of stitches. “I feel like a Christmas turkey.”

  She wrapped his arm in clean bandages. “You’ve lost blood, so you’re probably a wee bit weak, but I’m sure you’ll be fine if your arm doesn’t get infected. Mind you keep it clean. Let’s get you into the bath.”

  His gaze swept upward and down, lingering on her lips before it settled on her eyes. “You want me to strip?”

  “You’ve stripped enough. Stay in your underwear. Come on. Up ya get. Slowly.”

  “I don’t think I have any other speed.”

  It’d been a long time since she’d felt the hardness of a young male body, saw the bulging of powerful thigh muscles, or smelled the scent of a man in her house.

  Dutch settled into the warm water, his underwear clinging to him. She tried not to look. Too much.

  “Once you’re out of the bath, I’ll wrap your swelling knee.”

  “Thank you. What’s your name?”

  “Nan. Nan O’Neil.”

  His eyes went to her hand resting on the side of the tub. “Where’s your husband?”

  “My . . .” She twisted the plain wedding band, a symbol of her ill-fated marriage; yet, to take off the ring had seemed disloyal. “Gone to meet his mak
er,” she said, for she didn’t believe he’d be in heaven. “Go on, relax. You’re safe for now. Close your eyes.”

  “Thank you.” His dog tags glistened in the light from the oil lamps. He lay with his eyes closed, his head resting against the tub. He drifted into slumber. Or passed out, more likely.

  Sitting on the edge of the tub, she dipped a washcloth into the bathwater. There was little chance that he’d be going anywhere tonight. Lying there in her tub, he seemed as weak as used tea leaves.

  She ran the cloth over his muscular chest, down along his stomach, then back up to his neck.

  He looked a great deal better all clean. Nan couldn’t remember when she’d seen such a nice-looking fellow. Lovely thick, dark hair, with a curl dangling over his forehead. He had light skin with a touch of bronze where the sun had kissed his features. She moved the washcloth over his cheekbones, down his straight nose, and gently over his full lips. She teased the cloth over the scar that jagged across his square chin.

  Ah sure now, he was a patient and she shouldn’t have been thinking of him in any other terms, but she was only human. And wasn’t he all man?

  Bam, bam, bam sounded at the front door. Nan slid off the edge of the tub. Her heart pounded, the noise pulsing in her ears.

  Dutch’s body jerked. His eyes opened wide as water sloshed over the sides of the tub.

  “Who’s that?” He grabbed her hand with a strong grip.

  “Dunno. I’m a midwife, not a soothsayer. It could be a husband coming to fetch me for his wife.”

  His gaze bore into hers. “Or it could be the Garda.”

  She tried to look away but couldn’t. Couldn’t lie, either. “Yes.”

  He pulled her toward him, entwining his fingers with hers. “Don’t give me up. I can’t be interned. I must get back to England. Back to my unit. Fly more missions. Please?”

  Nan swallowed hard. “I shouldn’t help you. If I’m caught hiding you, there’ll be repercussions. I could go to jail, lose my practice. The women in town rely on me.”

  Loud knocking struck again. She looked at the door.

  His grip tightened, drawing her attention back. “Just for tonight. I’ll hightail it out of here tomorrow. Ireland’s freedom is at stake, too. The Germans will run you down like dogs. Look what they did to Poland. You want that to happen here?”

  His words ignited the Irish patriot in her soul. He was on the right side of this horrible war. The danger was real.

  Nan thought about her best friend, Tuda, and about Tuda’s twin boys. They’d volunteered for the RAF and were out there somewhere. What if they needed help?

  Dutch pulled her even closer. The heat of his body sank into hers. The set of his jaw, the intensity of his eyes weakened her resolve.

  God forgive her. Saints protect her. “All right. Only for tonight.”

  “Thank you.” He pressed her hand to his mouth. Sparks tingled up her arm to her cheeks. She stepped back, away from his grip. A sizzle from his kiss lingered on her skin.

  Bam, bam, bam—the sound cut through the air with more impatience, more demand. She looked at her dress, covered in mud and blood.

  She had to get out of the soiled garment, but she couldn’t strip in front of him. Her pulse pounded. She hesitated. Had she left the curtains open in the cabin? If she had, she couldn’t change out there, either.

  “Look away from me, now. I need to change. And don’t make a sound,” she said, stripping off the dress. She grabbed a green bathrobe from a hook by the sink before she turned to face him. His gaze darted over her flimsy slip and down her bare legs.

  “Dutch, for the love of Mary, are you listening? And I told ya not to look at me.”

  He blinked. With a sharp nod, he focused on the floor.

  With her finger to her lips, she said, “Not a word.”

  She slipped on the robe, tied the belt, and headed toward the front door. Hopefully it was only a husband, fetching her for the wife’s labor.

  She pressed her palms against the red door, took a breath, and pushed out the words as calmly as possible. “The hour’s late. Who’s there?”

  “Officer Finn.”

  Lord, please help me. She held the latch, the metal cold against her palm. Her lips twitched at the thought of last week’s encounter with this moron, Shamus Finn—cornering her at the back of the church hall, putting his fat hand on her waist, demanding that she reconsider his offer of marriage.

  She would have stomped his foot and slapped him if the priest hadn’t strolled in. If Finn ever tried to touch her again, she’d take that gun of his and do something very unladylike.

  But right now, she knew if she didn’t show herself, he’d figure something was wrong. She cracked the door open a couple of inches. “Ah, it’s yourself, Shamus. How are you this fine night?”

  “Grand, grand. And it’s Officer Finn when I’m wearing the uniform of the LDF.” He puffed up his chest. The brown jacket fit tightly around his thick torso.

  “Of course, Officer Finn. Why are you here at this time of night? Ya ma, is she all right then? Is she having the female trouble again? I was getting into my bath, but if she needs me, I’ll only be a second.”

  His round cheeks reddened. “Not a’tall, Nan. Ma’s grand. Sorry to disturb ya peace. Did you hear the plane go down earlier tonight?”

  “I did, I did.” She blessed herself. “What a terrible noise. Are they RAF? Did you find them?”

  “Aye. RAF. We’re looking for the crew. Have ya seen anyone, Nan?”

  A beat passed between them. “No, indeed. Have you found any of the boys?”

  “Belligerents. Combatants. That’s what they are.” His focus slid down her body to her bare legs, and he licked his lips, leaving a wet gleam. “If found alive, they’ll be on their way to internment camp.”

  “I’ll say a prayer for the airmen.” Especially for the one in her bathtub.

  “But you’ll give me a holler if any come this way?”

  “Of course I will.”

  His sharp brown eyes nailed her. “’Cause ya know it’s an offense against the Free State of Eire to harbor a soldier.”

  “I’m knowing that, yes. I was at your meeting last week.” Nan inched the door shut. Her knees trembled inside her robe, but she summoned up a smile that wobbled at the corners. “Good night then, Officer Finn.”

  “One more thing, Nan.” His hand pressed the door back two inches. “I notice there’s blood on the threshold.”

  Nan’s stomach did a flip. “Disgusting, isn’t it? Mr. Dee did that.”

  “Mr. Dee?” Shamus’s eyes narrowed as his hand went to the rifle at his side. “Who might that be?”

  “Ah sure, my tabby cat. He nabbed a mouse and chewed it on my doorstep. The blood was the cat’s doing. Well, good night—”

  The tip of his muddy boot stopped the door from shutting. “So what about the bloody fingerprints here?”

  Nan squeezed together the neck of the robe. The cat rubbed against her legs, purring.

  “Ah, that’s a bit of my own doing. I couldn’t stand the sight of the wee creature, all bloody there on my stoop. So I picked up the thing and then flung it over the hedge. Got my hands bloody and must have brushed them there while I was going inside. I’ll clean it in the morning. Shamus, ah, Officer Finn, if you don’t mind, my bath is getting cold.”

  “Okay, okay. I see.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the cat jumping onto the table. He knocked Dutch’s gun from the edge. The weapon fell to the floor and landed beside Nan’s bare feet.

  Her heart stopped. Maybe Finn hadn’t noticed. Her gaze went to his.

  Rubbing his double chin, he looked from the gun into Nan’s eyes. “Well now, Nan. Is that the gun the cat used to shoot the mouse?”

  CHAPTER 2

  The quaking of Nan’s feet rose to meet the sensation of dread in her belly. Her breath hitched and her legs turned heavy and dense as she stared at Finn, who filled the threshold with his girth.

/>   She had two choices: come clean and betray the young man in her bathtub or continue the lies. The options raged in her brain. To do either would be a sin.

  “Well, Nan?” Finn wiped a finger under his nose. With his chin he nodded to the gun, the metal barrel cold against her big toe. “What have you got to say now?”

  Okay, here goes, she thought. She was about to say a lot, and it would be all lies. Everything she said would constitute a sin. And she’d use the only weapon she had at her disposal to defuse him.

  Herself.

  Pulling her shoulders back, she arched forward like a figurehead on the bow of a clipper ship. “Ah, Officer Finn. Sure, ya caught me,” she said, words warm and smooth. “I admit I was afraid when I heard the airplane crash. I didn’t want to tell you I had a gun, that I was worried.”

  She dropped to one knee, letting her robe open, revealing the bare skin of her thigh where the slip and robe parted. The gun, the steel barrel glinting in the light, felt cold against her palm. Heavy. Shivers raced up her spine.

  Glancing up, she asked, “I suppose you wonder how I came to have this weapon?”

  “Ah . . .” Finn’s mouth hung open. His gaze was fixed on her leg.

  Although she figured the gun wasn’t on his mind anymore, she said, “I delivered a British soldier’s child. He hadn’t any money and offered this instead. A good exchange. After all, the Irish government can’t always be here to protect me during this Emergency.”

  Slowly rising with the weight of the weapon pressing into her hand, she felt the damp air circle up her legs. Finn focused on the lacy top of her slip peeking out of her robe.

  “Don’t you agree?” Her smile deepened.

  All he could do was bob his head up and down. She made sure the cat wasn’t about before she placed the weapon back on the table.

  And then, as though she were delivering the deathblow, she lightly touched the row of brass buttons on Finn’s jacket and lingered on the one above his belted waistband, adding pressure, digging the button into his fleshy stomach.

  Then she went in for the kill. “You needn’t come around anymore. I can take care of myself.”

  With his slackened jaw and his mouth formed in the shape of a full moon, he wheezed in a sharp breath, and his narrowed eyes began to loosen.