Marie Wyatt, an Allied courier, was assigned to meet a double agent in Hatfield, England. Before she could do so, she was whisked away from a tragic scene by Frost, a stranger with a German accent. While in a secluded room, Marie removes her disguise as a middle-aged British housewife.
Frost returned to the table and gathered the documents Marie had hidden in her bag. He tossed them onto the fireplace grate and lit a match.
“You can’t—”
“Destroy the evidence? I’m sure the Twenty has this same info in triplicate.”
“Are you with the Twenty?”
Ignoring her question, he moved quickly around the room, gathering their discarded clothes and shoving them into the bag.
Marie stared at the fireplace, mesmerized, as the flame caught and the documents turned to ash. In an unconscious gesture, she twirled the stinger loosely in her hand. Its metal cylinder felt clammy against her palm, and the protruding trigger pressed into her skin.
A new siren grew in crescendo, and she folded her arms across her stomach as nausea hit again. Carrying the closed bag, Frost placed his arm around her shoulders.
“Come with me,” he said. He almost, but not quite, made it a question.
“Where to?”
“The train station.”
“What about the SD? Won’t they be there?”
“Probably. But they’re looking for a middle-aged housewife. Not a pretty girl and her most attentive boyfriend.”
Marie returned Frost’s steady gaze, searching his face for the smallest sign of deceit or danger. Controlled tension showed in the way he held his jaw, and a slight cloud of worry shadowed his expression. But his clear blue eyes compelled her to believe him. Besides, if he wanted to hurt her, to kill her, she’d already be dead.
With the invulnerability of youth, she had crossed an ocean in search of adventure. Despite her role in the war, she never expected to face death. But it waited for her now, outside this room, and her only defense was a pea-shooter pistol.
And perhaps this stranger—this German—who sought her trust.
The depths of those eyes ignited an unexpected flicker within her heart. Turning from him, she tucked the stinger into the waistband of her skirt.
As if freed from his own spell, Frost emptied the basin of water into the fireplace, dousing the flames. The sputtering ashes, the final destruction of the documents she had failed to deliver, hypnotized her. He shrugged into a deep brown leather jacket and held out the black purse. As she reached for it, her fingers brushed his, and she knew. Death could not take her. Not with Frost by her side.
Continue reading When Memory Whispers
Christian Fiction Friday is a weekly blog hop where authors post snippets from their current works in progress. It is hosted by Alana Terry and Hallee Bridgeman. Click here for a full list of rules and suggestions.
