The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(81)

“Especially not with her lips around that horn,” his friend replied. “Oh, the things I can picture her doing….”

A third behind them added: “Why is it, outside of a few sepia females, there are aren’t women musicians capable of ‘sending’ anyone—at least sending them farther than the nearest exit?”

The first sniffed. “Only God can make a tree, and only men can play jazz, what ho?”

But before Sarah could say anything, she and Hugh were swept up into the crowd of their fellow agents-in-training, Lindy-hopping to one of their favorites, “Eight to the Bar.” When it was over, everyone in the high-ceilinged room was struggling for breath. They laughed and clapped, kissing cheeks.

“Miss Lynd!” Sarah called, waving to a blonde in a corner. “Bonne soir!”



“Madame,” Miss Lynd answered as they walked over, hand in hand. “Monsieur.” She gave a rare smile as she ladled out punch. “I hope you’re having fun,” she said in French, pressing glasses into their hands. “Cheers!”

“Miss Lynd—” Hugh put down his glass and offered his hand. “Would you like to dance?”

But as the band segued into the slow and dreamy “I’ll Be Seeing You,” and the lights dimmed, Miss Lynd gave a cryptic smile. “Actually, Monsieur Taillier,” she suggested, “why don’t you dance with your wife?”

Hugh offered Sarah his arm, and she took it. He led her to the middle of the dance floor. Onstage, a woman with glowing ebony skin in a fuchsia satin dress and rhinestone earrings that shone and sparkled under the stage lights took a deep breath and began to sing in a resonant alto.

Sarah and Hugh danced together well, as if they really had been married for years. “What we do for the war effort,” Sarah complained softly into Hugh’s ear.

“Even if all of this is pretend,” Hugh replied, spinning her around and then holding her in close, “that doesn’t mean my feelings for you aren’t real.”

They danced until they were the last couple on the stone floor. When it was finally time to go, Hugh snagged one of the bottles that had been brought up from Beaulieu’s cellars.

“Nettle wine,” Sarah exclaimed, stumbling in her high heels on the flagstone path, “oooh la la.” She lifted the bottle and took a sip.

“Easy there,” Hugh warned, taking the bottle back. “Don’t twist an ankle now. We’ve come too far.”

She giggled and clutched his arm. “Heaven forbid.”

At their storybook cottage, they both stumbled in the door, laughing. “I must take these heels off, darling Hubert—my feet are killing me.” She limped to the sofa and began to undo first one tiny buckle, then the other, slipping her feet out and wiggling her toes with a noisy sigh of relief.



Hugh shrugged off his jacket and sat next to her. “That was fun.”

“Yes, it really was.”

“We’re going to Paris.”

“Yes, we really are.”

Suddenly, they were both serious. Then Sarah sighed again. She turned. Winding her arms around Hugh’s neck, she kissed him on the mouth, gently at first, then more passionately. They both wanted to stop thinking, to escape from the endless limbo before actually landing on French soil.

Hugh wrestled off his tie. When he tried to unbutton his shirt, Sarah tore at it, buttons popping and rolling everywhere. Together they fell backward, entwined on the narrow sofa, desperate to free themselves from the tension of the last few months.

Afterward, they lay back, panting and sweating.

“Well, that was quite the send-off,” Hugh managed, trying to catch his breath.

Sarah was still breathless, too. “I hope you don’t think I used you.”

Hugh kissed the top of her head. “Anytime. I’m your husband, after all.”

“I need to take my mind off of everything. I’m not scared exactly, but…”

Hugh began to kiss her neck, working his way down. “Why, madame,” he murmured between nips, “I’m happy to distract you all night, if that’s what you desire.”

—

Maggie peered through the mirrored window at Max Thornton, sitting at the scarred wooden table, his hands cuffed in front of him, his nose covered in white gauze and surgical tape. When Durgin took in the state of Max’s face, he whistled. “You weren’t kidding about your skill set, Miss Hope.”



Maggie shrugged, the image of the kidney before her again. She refused to dwell on it and refocused on Max. She was filled with a primitive and passionate hatred for him. He’d tried to strangle and rape her—just as he’d tried to strangle and rape Daphne Plunket. And who knew how many other women he’d preyed upon and victimized? He deserves his bloody nose—and so much more. But did he send the kidney? Is he responsible for murder?

“So, I’ll wait here,” Maggie said, expecting the usual, “while you question him, right?”

Durgin astonished her. “Actually, Miss Hope, if you’re up to it, you’re leading the interrogation today.” He handed her the case file.

“I?” She was gobsmacked. “I’m definitely up to it—though I don’t know how objective I’ll be….” But she took the file.