He lifted his arms wide. ‘Why? You just said that travelling with me is making you feel like a traitor. That is easy to solve. We go our separate ways.’
Elsa was on a precipice. ‘Is that what you want?’ she asked.
He looked at her, as if searching for something and not finding it. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied quietly.
He must have seen the pain his words inflicted as he turned and began to walk.
Unwilling to press him further, she fell silent, took Klara’s hand and walked beside him. He took Klara’s other hand and the little girl walked silently between them, her warm, small hands linking them, though they might as well have been a hundred miles apart.
Again, things had changed between them and Elsa had not seen it coming. Only the night before she had felt true passion in his arms. Now it was a distant memory that was so friable she feared it might disappear for ever.
Chapter Sixteen
Sam nestled the back of his head into the crook of his elbow. The distant bombing raid had kept him awake for much of the night, filling his mind with images, some he had tried to forget, others he could easily imagine. Somewhere along their journey the sounds of war had changed, now more prominently coming from the Western Front, which felt ever nearer. It gave him hope that the Allies’ offensive was making ground.
Elsa had talked about feeling conflicted and, to his surprise, he now felt the same way. Joy that a successful bombing raid was taking place only a few miles away and sadness that innocent children would inevitably suffer from the devastation caused by the indiscriminate bombs. Frustration he could not take part, yet also guilt that deep down he was glad he could not. He turned his head to watch Elsa sleep. Her company was even more conflicting. He had been reminded of the pleasure that was to be found from being in the company of a woman, including all the highs and lows, yet only as a direct result of a bloody, callous war.
His gaze wandered over Elsa’s delicate features. Her pale skin still somehow managed to hold an innocent rose blush in her cheeks. Long, fair lashes curved away from her closed lids. If they were to suddenly open, he knew they would have the power to instantly ignite an obsessional interest within him. He had never felt like this with Moira, who he rarely thought about these days. He hated fighting with Elsa. He eased himself up on his elbow for a closer look, drawn to her flawless beauty. He had not dared to really acknowledge it before. How could a face be so fascinating to study and impossible to ignore? How could the delicately tapered lashes and that perfectly shaped nose make him forget those deaths in a nearby town? His gaze lifted to her hair, the same shade of amber as the wildflower honey backhome. A smile curved his lips. It was impossible to remain angry with Elsa. He suspected much of his anger came from the fear that she did not care for him as much as he cared for her. For his part, how the argument had unfolded was now hard to pin down. It was fading like sea mist in the hot morning sun. It was just the three of them now. The mad world outside must never come between them again.
He lazily reached towards her and, mindful not to wake her, lifted one of her curls in the crook of his little finger. Light, smooth and delicate, he marvelled at its fine structure. She did not stir at all, not even to swat him away in her dreams. He noticed for the first time that Klara had moved away from Elsa in the night. Usually, they slept snuggled together and it was not like the little girl to sleep on her own. He frowned. Elsa had not noticed her absence, which in itself would have woken her. She was a light sleeper and could hear a spider creep across the floorboards if she was so inclined. He sat up. Something wasn’t right.
He grazed her cheek with the back of his fingers and felt the heat radiating from her body. This was why Klara had rolled away in her sleep. Elsa had been too warm to cling to in Klara’s subconscious. Elsa quietly moaned in irritation. Her lacklustre moan did not reassure him, nor the slight sheen of sweat on her neck and forehead. He had seen sickness spread through the prison camp like water flooding from a broken dam. Illness had no mercy on bodies already weakened by work and hunger. Yet when it mattered most, he had missed the signs. Angry with himself, he reached for the water bottle.
‘Elsa?’ he whispered, hating to wake her when he knew she needed to rest. ‘Are you ill?’
She remained still.
‘Elsa?’ He gently shook her. ‘Elsa!’
Her eyelids fluttered. Slowly, as if the movement was a struggle in itself, she opened her eyes and looked at him.
‘You feel hot. Are you ill?’
‘I just . . . need to sleep.’
Her words were whispered on a single breath. Sam shook his head. ‘Water first. And something to eat.’ He frantically twisted at the cap of the water bottle.
She shook her head.
‘You must.’ He threw the cap aside, lifted her tenderly and brought the bottle to her lips. She sipped obediently at first but eventually drank deeply. Precious water spilled from the corners of her mouth as he tried to quench her thirst. She pushed his hand away and turned her head from him.
‘Now eat some breakfast,’ he said, offering her the last of their bread. He noticed the tremor in his fingers as he held the solid, black bread towards her lips.
She lay down without looking at him and turned away from him. ‘No more. You eat it,’ she mumbled. ‘I have no hunger.’
Sam stared at her back. Leaden dread crawled into his chest and settled around his heart. He was no doctor. What should he do? He lay down beside her, his fists clenching and unclenching as his mind worked, ideas forming with no clarity or path to make them happen. She had taken some water, he reassured himself. Perhaps plenty of rest and water would suffice until she was well enough to eat again.
‘Don’t leave me, Sam,’ she murmured.
His stomach churned at the thought. ‘Why would you say a thing like that, Elsa?’
‘Because of yesterday.’
‘Yesterday is in the past. I said a lot of things I didn’t mean.’
‘But it was the truth at the time. That time might come again.’
He stared at the cobwebbed roof timbers of the old disused barn. She was feeling vulnerable, scared and fevered and, like a knight in shining armour, he felt compelled to promise her the world. He rested the back of his curled fingers against her heated spine to reassure her he was near.
