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"Looking at the moon?" Tom Soames did his best to ignore Michel, his pick-up for that night, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed. The small room was stuffy after their earlier heated encounter, and he stayed in the chair near his workbench, fiddling with electrical components and contentedly gazing out of the window. "No, the moon isn't up yet, its still daylight outside," he replied, "I'm just thinking. I have things to do. Plans to make." "Are you thinking of that girl you had here the other night?" Tom felt a flash of anger but didn't show it. "Don't be childish. There are other things in life apart from sex." Michel was wearing just a plain maroon-coloured bath robe. Perching on the edge of the bed he drew his slender legs under him and the sash of the robe loosened to reveal the bare flesh of his thigh. "I was walking a dog. I saw you and I know who it was. It was that girl from the big house. The foreigner. Weak and puny." He spoke in a hushed child-like voice, but he was not a child. He was anything but innocent. Exasperated, Tom's eyes went to the ceiling. "For goodness sake, can't you think about anything else but buggery?" Michel pulled the flannel robe more tightly around his thin body, his green eyes sleepy and reticent as he took in his date. He himself was twenty-two and attractive in an off-beat sort of way. His features weren't perfect because his nose was strong and, according to his own warped belief, too big. His teeth weren't perfect either, but right at that moment nothing could convince him that he didn't have a beautiful smile that was disturbingly alluring even when it didn't try to be. "Are we finished for tonight?" he asked. "Yeah, I think we are." Tom was doing his best not to look at him, keeping his eyes on the landscape outside his window where, when darkness descended, parallel strings of white light would denote the military camp in Foxley Wood. In the dusk of evening they would seem to give off illumination not unlike that of a fairground. Michel uncurled and bent forward to pick at an unpainted toenail, his eyes fixed on what he's doing while his nakedness beneath the robe remained blatantly on offer. Tom could be frustrating, he remembered, able to deflect unwanted attention with a very real excuse of an urgent assignment. But he shouldn't be in any kind of rush that night. Not after all the trouble he'd gone to chat him up and bring him to the cottage. The atmosphere in that small room had been electric a short while previously, but now there was only one kind of electricity in the air. Tom's fascination with wireless was almost annoying. "Amateur radio is forbidden," he said in a warning voice, "the police would go loopy if they saw all the stuff you have here." Tom conjured up a glib smile. "I'm not an amateur, radio is my job. The police may not like it, but I'll have a good excuse ready for them if they get nosy." "Great," Michel said. When Tom glanced over his shoulder he caught his eyes, held them for just a little too long and then executed a languorous stretch, extending his legs and flexing his feet. He arched his back, displaying parts of his naked body, opening it towards him. He looked back at him from under thick, dark lashes...a killer look, his eyes full of allure and invitation. He shifted position, a series of fluid adjustments that made it impossible not to think of other adjustments his body might make. Without the clothes. Tom caught the deliberate flash of youthful flesh, the pale recesses of high inner thighs, but he was so preoccupied he did not react as most men would. Michel was a foxy youth who had avoided conscription by contriving to have no fixed abode, but who had lately been a fixture behind the bar at the Fenman's Rest. It was unnatural to be in the same room and keep his distance. Earlier he had been near enough for him to breathe in the fragrance of his youthfulness, near enough for him to feel the warmth of his naked body crushing against his own, and close enough to know the fierce heat of intimate flesh clutching his rampant manhood as it pierced the depths of him. He made a sound in the back of his throat, and it took all his willpower not to launch himself at the bed again. One final flying dive to placate a belated rise of unrequited lust. Feeling peeved Michel nodded, pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. All closed off now. After a moment he climbed from the bed and sauntered across to a small dresser. An atmosphere that was intentionally erotic embraced him as he moved. It was pervasive, purposely intended to seduce a man's senses. He unscrewed the top of a green gin bottle and poured out two drinks. "One for the road," he said. When Tom didn't respond Michel stared at him like a cobra and his voice slowed and became theatrically sleazy. "That girl, the one you had here the other night. She looked like she'd got a nice set. Bet you couldn't wait to get into that one. What was she like? Show you a good time did her? As good as me? Go like a bunny, did she?" The truth was that evening Tom had given no thought at all to Willy Froehlich; he had been constantly aware and moodily obsessed with the manner of Michel's proximity to adolescence. The tart may have been twenty-two, but he acted like a sixth-former. At times he enjoyed that and it encouraged him to give a lad the results of a painful tumescence, but he'd finished with this one now, he'd got something else on his mind. "Would that be a problem? You know the score. You weren't born yesterday." "Not hardly," Michel said, "If it makes you feel any better, I've done a lot." He raised his glass in a salute. "God save the King," he proposed. "Absolutely," Tom agreed without moving in his seat. "And death to all his enemies." "You'd better get going," he added a moment later. "I'll see you in The Fenman's Rest on Saturday, and maybe afterwards we'll have an all- nighter." Michel set his empty glass on the cluttered bench and looped his arms around Tom's neck, moulding himself as close as possible to his body. "You've got your motorbike outside. Fancy giving me a lift to the bus- stop?" Startled, Tom stiffened for a moment, then he observed him with a blank expression, noting Michel's habit of pursing his lips into a girlish pout whenever he wanted to be particularly persuasive. "Ummm," he said, shrugging him off. "It's only a mile and it's not dark yet. You can walk." "You're thoughtless and selfish. You're cruel to me." The faggot was right, thought Tom. He was probably the most selfish and insensitive person one could ever meet, and the idea pleased him. Being insensitive always had the magic to make people worry more about him than themselves. He raised a telling eyebrow. "Man is made to be a warrior, sweetheart, just as women...and those men not truly manlike are made to please the warrior." He smiled, finding it amusing to twist a quote of Nietzsche so cleverly. Nevertheless, being clever didn't make him invulnerable. His nostrils quivered as they detected a scent, the faintest hint of a perfume that Michel favoured that was both passionate and feminine. It made him respond in another way, he couldn't deny that, and in a split second he experienced a physical affliction that demanded satisfaction. The front of his slacks began to swell wantonly and he had the familiar desire to grind his hips against the shrewd, lewd bitch near him who had flaunted himself so shamelessly all evening. Engrossed in his own longings, Michel heard him say almost harshly, "You win, my horny lover, on this occasion at least. Get back on the bed. If you make it good for me a second time I'll give you a ride home." On his return to Lilac Cottage Tom threw out the gin bottle and put on the kettle to make cocoa. Outside the countryside was silent but for the occasional shriek of a night bird. When he was not employed in radio monitoring on the coast he spent a lot of time in his little cottage, tinkering with wireless apparatus and making plans. At heart he was still a student, and like all young students he brimmed with impatient ideology and had endlessly discussed with a few trusted people about the need for change in order to make the world a better place. Adolph Hitler's brand of fascism had attracted him. The uneducated masses, he realised, would have to be guided into believing new ideas, which to him meant there may be a need to be made to obey. He had returned to England just prior to the war intending to join Mosley's British Union of Fascists, but the war had prevented that. Oswald Mosley had been imprisoned and the British fascists had been suppressed. But there was more than one way to strike a blow for the side he favoured. He knew that in Foxley Wood just a couple of miles from his home an entire armoured brigade was assembling prior to being moved abroad. In his role of an RAF officer he had manufactured a pretext to visit the place once, and had calculated that under the trees there were up to a hundred Cruiser and Infantry tanks with their crews billeted in huts nearby. Everything was in such close proximity that a single heavy bombing strike by the Luftwaffe would cause utter devastation. If they could find it they could blow it off the map. Tom groaned inwardly. Getting to his feet, he opened the window and took a deep breath. There was a problem of course. Wasn't there bound to be? Goering, now Deputy Fuhrer as well as overlord of the German airforce, considered his aircraft too vulnerable to risk in daylight attacks and he would only allow them to make their bombing sorties at night when British interceptors found it hard to find them. And the problem was that all targets were completely blacked out during a night raid. He stared over at the lights now shining in Foxley Wood. Visibility was always a problem for flyers and British air defence was so sharp these days that a raid in daylight was out of the question. But he knew by way of some of his service colleagues that some Germans squadrons were benefiting from a system called Y-Geraet which could guide aircraft onto a target despite darkness or dense cloud. When he had been in Heidelberg studying radio technology he had heard of the German 'Knickebein' programme which used Lorenz radio beams to do that kind of thing. The system was an application of technology that placed a desired target at the apex of two radio cross-beams generated from the continent and guided aircraft onto it. Known as X-Geraet it had worked in raids on Coventry city centre and the Rolls Royce aero-engine factory in Derby, and although Foxley Wood was a much smaller target than a city the newer Y-Geraet would work there too if the precise coordinates were provided. And Tom Soames had done a lot of work riding around on his motorcycle and he had already calculated those coordinates. He slapped his hands together graphically. With his help the Luftwaffe could plaster Foxley Wood right on the button. It was foolhardy to make radio transmissions to the continent, but he only needed to relay a couple of messages with the authority of the recognised codename of Harmony, and he was willing to take that chance. In other respects he was scrupulously careful. He never marked his Ordnance Survey Map, not even with a pin prick. If by some mischance the authorities became suspicious of him and searched his property he didn't wish to have evidence around, and wily intelligence officers always held maps to the light in a search for pin holes. He pulled a chair in front of the radio set on the table and sat down, switched the apparatus on and waited for it to warm up. He was going to have to use a plus one code, which was schoolboy stuff really: A=B, B=C, etc, but he had no access to anything better, and it would do the job, while the codename, Harmony, would make people sit up and take notice. He put on a pair of ear-phones and his eyes went to the tuning dials as he switched to transmit. Then he began tapping characters on the Morse-key *** Willy had no idea just what the young man who lived in the cottage on the other side of the hill was planning, nor could he have prevented him doing as he wished even if he'd wanted to. A dark, frightening anger filled his expression when he thought of Tom Soames these days, banishing the intimacy they had so often shared in the past. There had been no element of love or caring in what had happened between them in Tom's abysmal cottage and self-disgust had left a sour taste in his mouth. Bitterly he contemplated what he had done and what he should have done. He should have controlled himself. He should have refused him. How could he have allowed the man to use him and make him feel so cheap? 'I only want you for your codename.' he had said, as if he wasn't worth knowing, as if he were no more important than a rug on the floor. As if he was contemptible. His estimation of Tom Soames had become deflated to zero and all he hoped was that he would never bother him again. That evening he was sitting on the bed in Deborah's room while his American friend packed a suitcase. Deborah was off on a journey in the morning and she was gearing up to meet her friends in Liverpool. "How long will you be away?" "One, maybe two nights, depends if the boat comes in on time." "It will be lonely here without you. Mortimer is very sweet but he leaves early each morning and sometimes doesn't return until well into the evening." "Jimmy and Toby will probably come down at the weekend, they usually do. And Jeremy will pop in too. I'm sure he will. He promised to give Mortimer a private briefing on Foreign Office stuff." "Pooh," said Willy forcibly. He felt less than impressed. Toby was sweet, but Jimmy had the potential to be a misery. And Jeremy de Vere had barely looked at him since their walk on the hill the previous week, while his manner on occasions was like that of a family doctor; affable, impersonal and just a little out of reach. Deborah checked her lipstick in the glass of a small silver compact that Mortimer had given her for her birthday and when finally content her expression relaxed. Suddenly she pushed towards Willy a basket full of half-used cosmetics. "I'm sorting out things to make room for some new stuff coming over from America, and you get to keep all the best items in my old arsenal." Willy raised his eyebrows at the array of items presented to him. There were things there he had never had the wherewithal to own in the past. "You are giving away such a lot. Are you sure you wish to give it all to me? The lipsticks alone will cost a lot of money." The American clucked humorously. "Grab it while you can little sister. Some of the girls in town have to make do with beetroot juice glossed over with Vaseline." She breathed with a sigh. "It ain't like I don't like being in this country, but the war puts a strain on things. One can get used to two ounces of cheese and a weekly egg, but everything else is in short supply too. There's nothing in the shops. No lace, no ribbons, no coffee or sugar, no clothes, no hats... especially no hats. Everything is rationed, rationed, rationed. Gee! When I remember what I left behind in the States I go green." "But you do not suffer. You have everything that would make a real woman envy you." Debbie gave her usual devil-may-care laugh. "Self preservation, that's what it is. I've always chosen my men well. Before I hooked up with Mortimer I was the toast of the coast and I did plenty of travelling too. Did New York and 'Frisco. Did Rio and the Caribbean. Did Italy..." "Italy, oh how lovely. There are so many famous works of art in Italy. It is the home of Michelangelo and Botticelli and so many other classical masters." Deborah eyed his dreamy expression. "Yeah, plenty of statues and stacks of painted ceilings, but personally I prefer dove-white when it comes to interior decoration." She lay back on the bed, put her hands under her auburn locks and became a little dreamy herself. "Italy was okay despite all those Blackshirts and that Mussolini guy, but the South of France is more my style. The Hotel de Paris in Monte Carlo. The casino, the Ville de Cannes, the boats, the yachts. Let me tell you, champagne is overrated, honey. Dom Perignon is rich man's soda pop. Not that I don't drink it when I'm offered, but if I have a choice I'll take a shot of Jack Daniels any day." The following morning Jeremy de Vere was there to drive everyone in the big black touring car to the railway station in Nuttsford. Mortimer was due to catch his usual train to London, while Debbie would take the first stage on her overland journey to Liverpool. When she boarded her train Deborah looked radiant. She was wearing a Watteau-style suit in blue velvet with a long, waist-cinched jacket and a flurry of lace at the cuffs and neck. On her head was a matching blue velvet hat, very fetching, pulled slightly over one eye. She said it was pre-war but she'd never had an occasion to wear it because Mortimer had never taken her to Buckingham Palace. Willy went along essentially to see Debbie off, and on the way back he and Jeremy passed a party of soldiers laden with steel helmets and rifles, moving along the edge of the road engaged in some form of military exercise. Everywhere people went there seemed to be reminders of the hazardous times they lived in. "I do hope Deborah's friends reach Liverpool safely," murmured Willy, "And I have been thinking maybe Sir Mortimer will take me to London with him one day. There are many good art galleries there and I would like to look around." Jeremy nodded. "Yes, there are plenty of galleries. It would injure public morale if the government closed them down. But I think you'll find all the best items will have been crated up and taken away to safe hidey- holes." "Hidey-holes?" "It's a precaution against them being lost to the bombing. And of course it's a precaution against the Germans. Hitler's henchmen have a habit of carrying off all the best stuff everywhere they go and no one can guarantee they won't come here one day." "Jimmy Hyde believes this island to too strong for Hitler now." Jeremy pursed his mouth thoughtfully. "Jimmy as his own opinions and he can say what he likes. No one can say what may happen in the future. Hitler's Directive No. 16... the order for the invasion of the British Isles, was never rescinded, it was only postponed. If he gets everything he desires in Russia before the winter sets in, he may well consolidate his gains and come back to finish us off next year." "Is there any chance of peace? Hitler is so fully occupied now, he doesn't need the trouble he as with England." Jeremy grimaced slightly. "That man is aglow with success right now and won't be in a mood to be nice. HM Government certainly take him seriously and precautions were taken some time ago. The nation's treasure... the family jewels as it were, was stowed away in Canada last year. Six hundred and twenty-seven million pounds' worth of gold and 1,250 million pounds' worth of negotiable securities were sent to Montr?al and Ottawa, and a warship offloaded 9,000 gold ingots in Nova Scotia." Tall poplars and horse-chestnut trees towered over them as they motored along, deciduous and evergreen, full of cursives and flourishes, their autumn smell mingling with the petrol fumes. There were no main routes around Brascombe, only minor roads and lanes that snaked between fields and broken woodland, and having gone beyond the soldiers the roads remained completely empty until they met with rural routine. Suddenly there was a cow herder in the road ahead, motioning them to stop and give way for a milking herd on their way to the byre. As the first of a stately procession of fawn-coloured jerseys nosed their way out of a gate on the herdsman's left, Jeremy swung into the side of the road and stopped. "It's glorious day for this time of year, mild and sunny. It's much too nice to go straight back. Sir Mortimer's favourite piece of primeval jungle is just across this field. Do you fancy a stroll?" Willy glanced up at the sky. "It's not sunny at all. It's very cloudy and it may rain." "You'll look very pretty in the rain," Jeremy said taking him by the arm and helping him from the car. Willy remained dubious, but once they had climbed over a boundary fence by way of a wooden style he was surprised to find he was enjoying Jeremy's company; it was obvious he told himself, that he was rather an arrogant man, very sure of himself, probably selfish to, even though he had to admit he had charm. All the same he was proving himself a delightful companion now, talking about everything under the sun and doing so in a friendly manner which held no arrogance at all. They trekked up along the edge of a field that displayed the metal skeletons of agricultural equipment standing idle in fields of stubble corn. The sky was overcast but the day was not windy and Willy could feel warmth on his face. Nothing disturbed the day except the noisy rattle from a murder of crows. On reaching the woodland on the top of the hill they found a break in some sycamores still dressed with the yellow foliage of autumn. There the sunshine flickered off and on through a thinning canopy of leaves and Jeremy led the way into a tiny open space that seemed like a fairy dell, hidden from the road but open to the sky. "It is a very eerie here," remarked Willy. "Yes, it is eerie," the man agreed. "One can understand Sir Mortimer's fascination with it. Prehistoric people living simple lives would have found the stillness here awesome. They would have had animal cults and totems in those days. They would have imagined imps and demons living here, and would have terrified their children with stories of such things to prevent them wandering into the vast maze of the forest and becoming lost." He smiled down at Willy. "Does it frighten you?" Willy gave a little smile back. "It would frighten me if I were alone and in the dark. But it's not dark, and you are with me." Jeremy studied him with narrow eyes while his hands carefully sculpted Willy's hips. The little Dutch girl wore a dark blue serge dress with a piped pique collar and cuffs and her blond hair was tied back with a blue ribbon. It was a combination he considered gave her an odd sense of allure. Most women he admired looked better out of clothes than in them, but here was an individual who he was sure could play the part either way. Willy jolted as a hand closed over his wrist. "I'm sorry. Did I startle you?" asked Jeremy. "Yes, you did a little," Willy replied, looking up in surprise. He felt slightly intimidated by the height and breadth of the man, and he refused to reflect on the fact that he looked even more attractive and compelling than he had the previously. In the countryside he looked all shoulders and muscle and endless legs in his slacks and a sweater. He tensed, nerves suddenly coming alive as Jeremy pressed against his back and slipped his arms around him. The sudden stirring in his body startled him and cut through the previous promise he had made to himself ruthlessly. It had been a long time since he had felt such a strong sexual attraction to anyone, and he had thought he was long past the stage of being tempted by blind desire. But Jeremy was standing behind him, peering over his shoulder and holding him, and Willy could feel his heart thudding and the smell and bigness of his muscled body capturing all his senses. Jeremy had strong shoulders and muscular arms and he liked to feel the touch his arms. He felt solid and reliable, and he was sure his physique matched his character. He could depend on him, always. Suddenly Willy felt small and helpless being submerged in his embrace; it made his legs feel weak. What a sexy game they were playing, he thought. It was lovely! Jeremy caught hold of his hand. "You showed a flair for dancing the night we dined at Brascombe. Would milady care to dance with me now?" Willy's eyes rolled in mock horror and he laughed. "That's stupid. We are in the countryside, and anyway there is no music." With a grin Jeremy took hold of both his hands, "You and I can make our own music," he said, whirling him round and taking just enough of Willy's weight with his left arm to make him feel that his feet merely skimming the ground as he followed the steps. His left arm was crooked so that they could dance cheek to cheek, and now and then his lips brushed his face, while his legs and hips moved as if he were making love. A gallery of curious squirrels in the trees watched them as they skipped and swirled. Jeremy rose on his toes, and then sweeping Willy into the compass of a two-step he first began to hum and then quietly mouth the lyrics to the tune they had danced to when they had first met: "That certain night... the night we met... it was such a romantic affair. There were angels dining at the Ritz... and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square." Jeremy's voice was all silk and Willy felt as if he were melting. He felt as if he were about to collapse. Jeremy was looking at his mouth and he thought he was certain to kiss him eventually, and he wanted him to. He drew a deep breath, his pulse speeding up just thinking about it. Yes, he had seen the look on his face, and although his heart begged him to stay just where he was, he tore himself away and took a prudent step backwards. Jeremy merely smiled. "Don't move. It won't be of the least use, you know. I shall only come after you. If I offered you my heart would you reel back from that too?" "No." Willy's voice was a whisper. There was no mistaking the look upon his face now. He took another step back and felt a piece of fallen timber against his heels. Jeremy de Vere was as entranced as Willy. She, this Dutch girl, was irresistible, he thought. He felt his gaze sliding slowly from her eyes to her mouth, to absorb in greedy silence its shape and its beauty. He couldn't stop himself anymore than he could stop breathing. He stepped closer, and a smell of jasmine registered as he inhaled. Then he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her hard. Dimly above his roaring pulse he heard the girl groan as her fingers clenched in his hair. She moaned, moving her hips against him while her arms tightened around his neck. While kissing him in return Willy became aware of the strength of the man's arms and his lean body, and of the strange weakness brought on by the pressure of his hips against his own. He was no callous youth attempting seduction by force; he was a lusty mature man making known his needs. "I couldn't resist that," Jeremy said, finally drawing away. Willy stared back, wide-eyed, his lips slightly parted, while his arms tightened around his neck "I didn't tell you to stop," he answered in a sultry voice. He understood sensuality and its lure. He had long ago become used to the way men admired him, but although some had used his body, very few had captured his heart. Jeremy had succeeded in doing that in amazing short order. Jeremy's mouth already knew the texture, Willy's texture, but the memory of it wasn't enough. He wanted to know it again. To trace its tender outline, to stroke its soft warmth, to probe the sweet resistance it offered and capture its innermost sweetness. They kissed again, and this time Jeremy plunged swiftly into undefended territory with his tongue. His thighs were hard against his as Willy clung to him, his body welcoming as he stroked his breasts over the soft fabric of his dress, teasing his nipples into hard peaks with the pads of his thumbs. It went on and on, until the dream was gradually replaced by a very real passion. Suddenly Willy didn't want a fantasy; he wanted a real man, flesh and blood, driven by pure lust and desire. Hard muscle and smooth skin, warm breath and firm touch. He wanted Jeremy. With his mouth still melded to his own, he fumbled with the man's coat and scarf, until he agreed to remove them. At once he yanked Willy against his body, taking his breath away as he eliminated all space between them. His eyes were dusky with desire and he smiled crookedly when he reached out to caress his cheek with his fingertips. A sudden aching need twisted inside Willy and he caught himself stopping the words he longed to say. He wanted to tell him how much he wanted him, but he didn't wish him to lie in reply. Jeremy was kissing his throat and biting his neck while his hands fathomed the contours of his girlish bosom. With his forehead against his muscled chest, Willy inhaled the clean scent of his skin radiating through the crisp, starched fabric of his shirt. When he had been told of Eduard's death he had never believed he could find another man worthy of replacing him in his heart. But perhaps he was wrong. Here was a man who could be worthy. If only he could accept what Willy Froehlich really was, life would be worth living again. With a flick of his fingers and a wicked smile; he unhooked the man's trousers and unzipped them with tantalising leisure, casually brushing against the hard length hidden behind the fine fabric. But then he felt his hand clamp around his wrist and pull him away. Jeremy had made a plan of his own and he made a harsh sound in his throat as he searched to unfasten the dress at the nape of the girl's neck. "It hasn't got buttons or a zip." Willy's voice was breathless. "It goes over my head." "Never mind about the dress. I want you," Jeremy murmured against his swollen lips. "I want you like men have always wanted a woman. Here, now, at once." Willy's eyes came to rest on the man's arousal protruding out from his trousers, smooth and hard, a shaft of silky steel, and he knew the sensation of his own body beginning to strain against the constriction of his clothes. "Jeremy, you mustn't say that. There are things that you don't know about me." He was relieved to hear no tremor in his voice, even though his heart boomed hard enough to rattle his bones. The man smiled softly as he reached out to cup his breasts and savour the malleability of them beneath the dress. He didn't fumble. His hands were steady. Willy imagined they always were. "Credit me with some intelligence, Willy. I know that you're in the same mould as Deborah Findlay and the fact that you're something similar doesn't disturb me one little bit." Astounded, Willy gasped. "Am I so obvious?" "I've known what you are right from the start, but poaching is an ungentlemanly business and I had to be sure Sir Mortimer wasn't popping you. Fortunately he's so infatuated with Deborah I don't think he has an inkling about the kind of person you are, even though he's been around men in frocks for years." "You know about Sir Mortimer and Deborah?" "Of course. Everyone knows of Sir Mortimer's curious little habit of choice. Thankfully no one knows about mine yet." Willy's gaze embraced his erection with a molten look of longing and hunger. He reached out and touched him, hot flesh beneath his fingertips, the foreskin pushed back to expose the rounded tip, dark and rosy. He rimmed a fingertip around it and felt his whole body jerk. There was no restriction now, no impediment to the result they both yearned for. Reaching under his skirt Willy skimmed off his underwear and thrust himself down over the broad trunk of a fallen tree, skirt up and bottom in the air, lewdly presenting himself like a cat ready to be taken by its tom. He feels Jeremy's fingers between his shoulder blades, the hands caressing and pushing him farther forward. Jeremy was excited. For him there was something special about viewing a beautiful young man in seamed stockings and suspenders bending over like that. It proved extremely erotic for him. It was wonderful to see a delicate young bottom with such well formed testicles hanging under it, and even if Sir Mortimer had chosen to neglect such a thing, he himself couldn't possibly pass it by. The tension in his groin demanded something else. His movements were unhurried. He wrapped his fingers around his impatient erection and guided it to Willy's ready entrance, and Willy winced as the essence of desire spiked him deep, impaling him on a lance of fevered longing as it possessed him fully. He moaned softly...a woman's moan, a supplicating moan. In an action that was irritating carnal torture, Jeremy had slipped into him, expelling a tightly held sigh as he began to move. With his hands gripping his hips Jeremy held him still, controlling his ability to move. There was nothing he could do but submit. Willy arching against him and writhed as he felt his grip on reality loosen. He moved with him, absorbing every thrust, feeling his world spiral upwards and outwards until his body tensed. "Oh!" Willy gasped at the girth, winced at the depth it penetrated when it got going, and had to grit his teeth to prevent himself crying out for him to stop tormenting him as he moved against him. His body seemed to have no means of moving itself, it had become completely obedient to his touch, whilst deep inside him the tension continued to grow so that he felt as though at any second it would spill from him and flood out. Jeremy was working so hard his face had turned a shade of an overripe plum, but suddenly he froze, body taut, his eyes squeezed tightly shut with a soft plea of need. Willy urged him on, carrying him higher until his control shattered and they both found release in a rare and precious moment of exquisite splendour. He felt a fierce clench of muscle inside and a mighty lurch as the liquid of love spilled forth. "Oh, that's good!" Jeremy grunted. "That's so good!" *** Alfred Naujocks went to his Berlin office as he normally did on any day. He had hardly given a thought to Willy Froehlich since the time he had extracted him from the clutches of the Gestapo, because as far as he knew the sweet-arsed little queen was such a soft-hearted, soft-headed pacifist he could be left alone to do what he could amid the jungle of English politics. He certainly didn't worry about extracting him from England if he failed or happened to get into difficulties. The tart was there to do or die. There was a brief, typed note on his desk when he arrived in his office. It said: 'Report to the Admiral immediately.' He had been told that Admiral Canaris, Director of the Abwehr, the German Intelligence Service, was in Spain offering General Franco Gibraltar in return for some token support of the Axis, but he had obviously been misinformed. He walked down the corridor to the Admiral's secretariat, straightening his tunic as he went. He sensed an odd look in the secretary's eyes as he announced him on the intercom. The secretary hung up. "Go right in, Herr Oberst." Naujocks strode through into the big office suit, pulled up in the centre of the floor, clicked his heels and saluted. Like many German men subjected to strict discipline since childhood, he had acquired the habit of bolstering his ego with outward arrogance and stiffness. He believed that any man worthy of the name should be made of steel, and he had behaved accordingly during the war in Poland and France. He had once been a disciple of Colonel-General von Seeckt, who in the days of the Weimar Republic had masterfully orchestrated the rearmament of the German Army in spite of the restrictions imposed on it by the Great Powers. He was dedicated to his country and the Fuehrer and placed obedience to duty above politics. The Admiral was gazing out of the windows and he didn't turn when Naujocks entered. "You placed an agent in England without my authorisation, colonel." Naujocks pursed his mouth. As an officer of the SS he resented the possibility of being reprimanded by someone in the Kriegsmarine, no matter how senior he was. "With respect, Admiral, it was simply easier for me to arrange matters through the office of my own chief, Reichsfuhrer Himmler." When the old man did turn, he sat down at the other side of an antique desk and left his visitor standing. "You damned SS think you're a law unto yourselves, taking short cuts and ignoring procedure. It is the Abwehr, the department you chose to ignore that as received a communication from your agent, Harmony." Naujocks stiffened, but he refused to be intimidated and even smiled slightly. "Harmony! Oh yes. I put Harmony into England as a disruptive mole to stir up trouble in British politics. I don't know why you are being bothered with him." "I'm being bothered because your agent as contacted us with coordinates for an important airstrike. What's it all about? If it involves the Luftwaffe I need to be sure of what I'm doing. Is Harmony a trustworthy operative?" And now Naujocks began to feel slightly discomforted. Even if Canaris was just an old sailor he was an important man and not beyond making trouble for him. "His brief did not include any form of espionage, but if he came upon something vital he would certainly act on it. He is completely trustworthy." The right side of the Admiral's face twitched slightly and a shadow passed through his eyes, a shadow and a glimmer, like the rutilant scales of something just below the surface in murky water. "Harmony was given no wireless transmitter. Explain to me his mission and why you didn't give him one." Naujocks cocked his head on one side as a dog would have done. "Using a radio would make him vulnerable to British DF operators. He would need to move around if he used a transmitter, and the work I gave him required him to remain in one place. It is Germany's misfortune when making war to have to contend with enemies on two fronts, both east and west. In Harmony I saw a possibility of corrupting some politicians and subduing the west with minimal effort. For that he needed to secure himself in one location. But that's not to say he wouldn't gain access to a transmitter if he believed it important enough. He's very resourceful." For a long moment the Admiral considered what he'd heard. Then one corner of his mouth lifted up. "It's a ridiculous idea. Hitler needs no cockeyed assistance from anyone to achieve his aims. When Russia finally capitulates the British will stand alone once more, and they will either make peace or suffer invasion. They can never raise an army big enough to defeat us in a land war, and if they compel us to occupy their country it will go bad for them." He shook his head with a touch of sadness. "The Fuehrer calculated they would cave in after the fall of France. He never really wished to make war with them, he thinks of them as Aryan. Most of them anyway. But he's become impatient with their obstinacy and has decided that if Britain is to be occupied Reinhard Heydrich will be installed as the first Reichprotecktor there. And as you know he is a man with no scruples and no sense of humanity." He gave Naujocks a hard stare. "A directive has already been signed, and if circumstances warrant it he will have the authority to deport the entire male population between the ages of 17 and 45 to the continent as forced labour." "We could have made better use of your agent in the Abwehr. All our resources are being used elsewhere and we have no active agents in England at the moment other than him. Our intelligence there is months out of date and is getting stale, so we have to take Harmony seriously." He closed his eyes and said nothing more for a moment, then he lifted his telephone. "Get me Reichsmarschall Goering. He's in Hamburg today." He sat with the phone to his ear, and it was two or three minutes before he spoke again. Eventually there was a click and a gruff response, and choosing his words carefully the Admiral told Goering of the information he had received... of a large British tank formation mustering near the coast of Essex. He had been given the coordinates for a night bombing run that had every chance of success if the Lorenz directional radio device could be used. When he had finished he waited, and even from where he stood Naujocks could hear the Reichsmarschall's roar. It was a roar of delight, and as his voice boomed on, Canaris visibly relaxed. Finally the Admiral put the phone down, slowly and carefully to give himself time to sort out his words. When he looked at Naujocks he smiled thinly and said, "God must be on your side today. Goering is delighted at the prospect of destroying a large concentration of British armour. Glory for his beloved Luftwaffe, you see. Said it would be small beer compared with what's happening in Russia, but he looked forward to giving the British a good slap and wished we had more agents like Harmony. "He's going to inform the Fuehrer immediately, and he as given permission for a Messerschmitt Bf-110 from Erprobungsgruppe 210 to go over from Calais-Marck and try for some photographs of the place. If they prove satisfactory it will be bombed into oblivion." The Director of the German Abwehr was no fool, and his eyes indicated that. The natural selection of Nazi political warfare, which forced even intelligent men to watch their backs as well as their fronts, was evident. He shook his head slowly. "All the same you were a fool to become involved with placing agents, Naujocks. You were irresponsible, and personally I want to have as little to do with this business as possible. If things work out you'll get an Oak Leaf to put on your Knights Cross, but if it turns out to be any kind of fool's errand Goering will be embarrassed, and you will get your knuckles rapped from on high." "Are you a good Nazi, Naujocks?" he asked, his face pale and lacking in expression. Only his eyes were alive and the energy in them was unsettling. Naujocks shifted uneasily. "I do my duty, Admiral." "I hope so," Canaris said. "I hope you do." The old man was only a tepid National Socialist and for him Nazism was only acceptable as Germany's best defence against the communists. But his personal style and honour as a gentleman rebelled against the brutal gangster-like methods the Nazis employed, and eventually he wasn't always to be so careful for himself has he was that day. Sickened by constant SS and Gestapo excesses and convinced that the Reich Government were all criminals he would plot against Hitler and be found out. His last days would be spent in Flossenburg concentration camp where his execution by slow strangulation would be filmed for the Fuehrer's private gloating. *** Everything was back to normal in the morning; Willy went down to breakfast to find Mortimer and Jeremy hidden behind their newspapers, and although he wished them good morning, their detached manner gave him the impression that for them at least life was real, life was in earnest. All the following day Willy existed in a Wonderland and even with Mortimer around he couldn't stop his gaze from drifting onto Jeremy. No one since Eduard Dietz had given him such affection and such joy. Sometimes he couldn't resist looking over at him and smiling a crooked, impish smile when he remembered their love-making in the wood. Jeremy was a wonderful lover, powerful, strong and dynamic. Sometimes when reaching for things his beautiful, long-fingered hand would brush the gentle upward swell of Willy's bosom, causing a bone-melting rush of sensation. He made Willy Froehlich feel more beautiful than he'd felt for ages. Following lunch Jeremy revealed that he needed to make some phone calls to his Department at the Foreign Office in London, and Mortimer generously invited him to make free use of his study while he remained with Willy in the drawing room. Willy felt buoyant after the glorious events of the morning, and felt confident enough to tackle Sir Mortimer about the progress he was making with the peace movement. With that he was treading emotional water. Everything was going well, but he was dizzy with dread at knowing how much there was still to accomplish. The elderly man's response was unfortunately less than good. "I've been thinking over what you said, Willy," he murmured, while standing at the window and gazing out, "You know, what you said about pursuing a peace arrangement with Hitler. To tell you the truth I'm not at all comfortable with the idea." For moment Willy was stumped by such an abrupt change of mind, but he thought it best not to stampede the man into an angry explanation. "Why is that?" he asked softly. Mortimer fidgeted for a moment. "Being with the Foreign Office, Jeremy gets to know a great many useful things. He tells me there are stories coming out from the Russian Embassy and several other places; disturbing reports about the Nazi treatment of people in the areas they've overrun in Eastern Europe." His eyes glared solidly to emphasis his concern. "We're not talking about just slips in the Geneva Code or the Hague Convention here, but planned, systematic barbarism against civilian populations. Apparently there have already been large scale massacres in the region of Minsk, and such things are bound to be happening in other places too. Hitler as told his Generals of SS that his master plan for the East necessitates the elimination of 30 million Slavs." After a moment his expression softened. "Of course such stories are unsubstantiated at the moment, but if just some of them are true I tend to think we shouldn't treat with anyone responsible for those kind of atrocities." Willy wasn't comfortable with what had been said but it didn't change his underlying determination. His eyes flared and his mouth became set, like a schoolgirl who had been given low marks for something. "Such stories may well be true," he replied, "It must sound insane. War is insane, and genocide is insane, but neither are new. Just forty years ago the Turks all but wiped out the Armenian nation inside their borders and nobody cared a pinch; more recently Stalin decimated his homeland of Georgia by starvation, and the old Russians invented the word 'pogrom' to describe their periodic slaughtering of Jews. The German's are imaginative and industrious people who are no more wicked than anyone else, but Herr Hitler is a ruthless man who is charismatic enough to lead them into shame. However, if what he is doing is wrong, this country cannot influence anything he does while it is at war with him. There must be peace before he will even listen to another point of view." He leaned forward earnestly to press what he'd said. "You do see that, don't you? You must understand that what you are doing now is the only sensible thing to do." Mortimer remained where he was, not moving except for clenching and unclenching his fists. "But...how can anyone possibly make peace as things are? Churchill's War Cabinet has such a firm grip on everything." Willy rose to his feet and moved across to stand at his side, a better place for pressing his argument. "You must change things. Consult your friends. You must all join together and find the courage to declare your beliefs. If the ordinary people know there is an alternative to what has been dictated to them they will flock to your cause, and together you can depose Churchill. I am aware of how the British play democracy, and with firm support you could force a Vote of Censure on the warmonger and be rid of him. It's that easy." "Easy?" Mortimer uttered a cynical chuckle. "Willy, you don't know just how difficult such 'easy' things can be in politics. Appeasement and peace-at-any-price are hard things to sell these days and I'm not sure of what I could tell my people that may be new. One must offer them some hope and incentive before they will agree to act." Willy lowered his voice in conspiratorial fashion. "I must take you into my confidence, Sir Mortimer. I was allowed to leave Holland and come to England only if I agreed to give a message to someone like you. You can tell everyone that Hitler has no hatred for the British and will be generous if they agree to a peace conference. I have that from the highest authority. He will only demand the return of the German colonies mandated to Britain in 1919." He was quite for a moment, and then he continued. "However, Hitler will not negotiate with the present English government. Winston Churchill and his gang of cronies will have to go. This country will need you and your friends when that happens, Sir Mortimer. After so much death it will value those who put compassion before guns." Mortimer turned away from the window and went and sat down, and for a moment he remained silent with his fingers merely drumming on the armrests of his chair. Then he looked up. "I will go on. I will continue to try for an end to the war." He looked up and smiled. "I do appreciate you being here, Willy. Without your encouragement I'd quickly give it all up as a hopeless waste of time." Willy stopped talking, believing he had said enough for the time being. He turned and was about to leave when the door opened and Mrs Whippet entered to address Sir Mortimer. "Sergeant Dobson wishes to have a word with you, sir." said the stern- faced housekeeper. She squinted at Willy for a few moments; suspicion about him had never left her and was always dominant in her narrow eyes. There was a heavy trudge of boots and a big, bulky policeman, the proud owner of a hefty ginger moustache strode in. He was buttoned up to the chin in navy-blue with his trouser cuffs fastened back with bicycle clips. Oddly his hair was brown on the top of his head, but became reddish at the sides. He had heavy cheeks and jowls, and his eyes were deep set over a broad fat nose. "What is it, Dobson?" Mortimer demanded churlishly. The policeman wasn't in the least deflected by an attitude of impatience. "Just a quick word, Sir Mortimer, if you please. I was chatting with Mrs Whippet on the back step a moment ago, and she mentioned you'd got a foreign guest staying here." His eyes flicked sideways towards Willy. "Is this the young lady in question?" "Yes, Willy is a relation to a friend of mine. I can vouch for her." Mortimer responded. "I don't doubt that sir. But we've been told to make a check on strangers who've recently moved into the area ? a directive straight from government - so could I possibly have a look at the young lady's identity papers?" Willy made light of the request. "Yes, of course you can. They're in my coat in the hall. I'll go and get them." When he went out into the hall his cheeks were flushed, his eyes staring. He wasn't feeling light and easy at all. He had an irrational feeling that he was going to be arrested. He felt like a fish with the mesh of a net closing about him. Should he run out of the door? Should he try to find a big city and get lost in the crowd? That was silly, he decided. In wartime people would eventually be found wherever they tried to hide. When he returned to the study the policeman was saying: "...we get this kind of thing all the time. Folk see German spies dangling on parachutes in their dreams these days, and I've even had a Welshman reported to me because he spoke in a different accent to the local one." Willy gave him the papers he'd requested and he pulled out a notebook and pencil. "Right. Name: Wilhelmina Naarden. Country of Origin: Holland. Place of Birth: Venlo, in the Province of Limburg. Can't say I've heard of Venlo, but I was never much good at geology." "You mean geography," Willy blurted out. "What?" The policeman glowered reproachfully at him, and he recoiled, wishing he hadn't said anything. "What you said about place names. That's geography. Geology is the study of rocks," he murmured timidly. The eyes studied him a while longer. "Quite so. I stand corrected. You're quite good with words, aren't you?" Returning to his notebook he wrote down Willy's immigration number and a few other details, but in careful silence now, and then handed the documents back to him. "I have to pass this information to the Central Register to be crosschecked, but I don't suppose you'll hear anything more about it. Thank you, Miss Naarden. Good day, Sir Mortimer." When he had gone Willy trembled openly. "Policeman make me nervous even when I've done nothing wrong. How long will it take to have my identity checked?" Mortimer smiled. "Goodness, Willy, you're dealing with bureaucracy now. Hundreds of enquiries like that are being made all the time. It can take days, sometimes weeks to get a reply, but as the sergeant said, you'll probably near no more about it." The incident had put Willy Froehlich into something of a panic, because although he knew his identity documents were good enough to fool casual scrutiny he didn't know how they would stand up to a closer inspection. Maybe they had once belonged to a real person, or maybe they were false. No one had told him. But if they were exposed as bogus the British were certain to view him an enemy plotting against them and he'd be counted as a spy. And spies were hanged. He didn't wish to go on the run, and he didn't want to leave before he had Sir Mortimer committed to a peace plan, but he needed to think about his own life too, and he had involved himself in a conspiracy from which there seemed no way out. Then he had a thought. There was a way to avoid a spy's fate on the gallows; there was a way to ensure safety. He could confess everything to Jeremy and ask for his help. Jeremy was both wise and well connected, and he would give guidance with gentle affection, just as he had done in the wildwood. On his way to return things to his coat in the hall he unexpectedly came upon Jeremy on his way to the front door. He was wearing a gabardine coat, black homburg and gloves, and he was carrying a briefcase. Willy felt suddenly confused. "You said you were staying for the weekend. Are you leaving now?" Jeremy offered a guilty smile. "Oh, er, yes I suppose I am." Willy listened in stunned silence. He felt disorientated, as if the floor he was standing on had suddenly vanished. He looked at the bag in Jeremy's hand and his legs shook as he realised the implication. "You where going to leave without even telling me." "I thought it best not to make a fuss. Something's come up in town, and I have to get back tonight." Willy could not conceal his shock. He felt raw and frantic. Such cold businesslike words from the only man he had met that could compare favourably with Eduard Dietz, and at the very moment when he needed to be cosseted and reassured. No! He can't be going, he thought. The denial jangled in his head, but it was no use, there was no softening in the man's gaze. His whole body felt as if it was being drenched in hot tar and feathers. Jeremy went to the door and then turned back. "I've just spoken on the phone with London, you see. I've been offered an appointment on the Foreign Secretary's personal staff." "Is that a promotion for you?" "Yes. Quite a big step up too, and I have to take it now or I'll never be given another chance. Sadly it means my time won't be my own as much as it once was, and it's important to get back at once, y'know, to get my hands on the ropes and acquire the feel of things." "Will you come here again?" For a fleeting moment, he caught an expression of pain on the man's face, then it disappeared, to be replaced by his usual detached fa?ade. "Oh, I expect so," he said in a subdued voice, "But I can't promise when. Mr Eden travels abroad a good deal, and I'll be expected to go with him. Every upside as a downside too, I'm afraid." He clearly felt a little uncomfortable under Willy's frozen gaze, but he kissed him on the cheek, then tried to smile and failed. "Look, I'll call you and let you know about us." "Fine," Willy answered, watching him return to the door. A sickly feeling invaded him as surely as a form of shock, a physical reaction to an emotional trauma. Jeremy didn't turn back this time, he only paused a moment before saying a blunt and businesslike "Goodnight." which almost sounded like "Goodbye". Which Willy couldn't help but think it was. "Schwein! Falsch mannchen! Kalt-herzig Uberlaufen!" he raged softly. "Beg your pardon, Miss Naarden! Was you saying something in Dutch?" a voice nearby asked. He whirled round to see Mrs Whippet standing in a secluded corner. Her expression was not hostile, just neutral. The forceful woman was seemingly composed of wire and bone and had no difficulty indicating her suspicions with the merest ripple of an eyebrow when it suited her. "Ja... yes, that's right. I'm allowed to talk in that way when I'm speaking to myself," he replied angrily, and stormed off to find solitude. With Jeremy gone he knew only misery and felt like breaking into pieces. If only he hadn't succumbed so completely to the man. If only he had settled for a simple kiss in the wildwood and not gone the whole way with him maybe things wouldn't have felt so bad. But he had been putty in his hands and the man had known it. Oh yes he had known it alright, and now little Willy Froehlich was just another feather in his diplomat's cap. He'd made such a mess of everything that he felt like getting drunk. When he was sure Mrs Whippet wasn't following him he went into the dining room and poured himself a large glass of port wine from the decanter that always stood on the sideboard. It was the strongest stuff he'd ever tasted up to that time, and without pausing to savour any of it he poured the entire measure down his throat in a single motion. He licked his lips. The result of such a large draught produced an instant impulse to giggle girlishly, but five minutes later he felt terribly ill and had to choke it all back out down the toilet bowl. *** By morning he was coming to terms with Jeremy's duplicity and feeling incredulous that he had fallen so hard for his charm. He had been so sure of him, but in the end the wretched man had proved himself to be fickle and no different to so many others he had known in the past. 'Get a grip', he told himself, as the English sometimes did. The phrase had convulsed him with mirth when he had first heard it, and he only had to say, gruffly, 'Get a grip, Willy,' into the mirror to make his solemn face relax into a smile. Now it was a reminder for him to say alert, buck up and fit in. Toast and well brewed Ceylon tea at breakfast did nothing to cheer him. He was suddenly feeling homesick, hankering after German food, roast goose, which he'd not tasted for years, simple meals of smoked meats and pale tea in fragile small cups. A new dawn heralded a new day, but his melancholy was hardly eased by the arrival of Jimmy Hyde, dressed in khaki and wearing one of the swashbuckling black berets that were unique to Tank Men. "You haven't brought Toby with you today," Willy observed. "He's been caught for Duty back at Foxley Wood, but he'll be coming down tomorrow. You look pretty washed out and wretched. Is something troubling you?" Willy gave a little hump of his shoulders. "Oh, This and That." His voice was dispassionate, remote. "Deborah as gone to Liverpool and Jeremy as returned to London." "I see. So you're at a bit of a loose end. Can't have you moping about you know, what you need is an outing." The concern in his voice warmed Willy's heart. "An outing?" "Yes, we'll go out for the day, just you and I. War is not all patriotic duty." For a moment Willy hesitated. Jimmy Hyde was a moody man subject to morbid predictions of his own death and not the kind of person for a broken heart to cling to. But the house was quiet when he was alone, leaving him as prey to his thoughts, and there was a core of bitterness in his heart in respect of Jeremy and he was loath to probe. A meaningful day out would do a lot to soothe him, and there was Jimmy standing there as smart as paint in his captains' uniform. "You are not suffering a bad mood today?" "Not in the least, I feel as sparky as a pup and I'm not going to let the ambition of some rotten Nazi housepainter spoil things for me." "I can't think why you should want to spend a day out with me." Jimmy's eyes narrowed. "Coming from any other girl, I wouldn't believe a word of that, but from you..." his voice became friendly and warm. "Look, I haven't had a day out myself for a long time, and I need a break. Wrap your head in a scarf because you're going to feel some wind in your hair." Willy seized the chance to go with him. As long as he was in good spirits the man was pleasant enough company, and he needed a distraction. Jimmy had a small open-top motor car with only two seats, and not only did it make a noise like an aeroplane but he drove it along the narrow, hedge-lined country lanes of Essex as if he intended to make it take to the air. Having been warned of what was intended Willy wore the minimum of makeup, just a dusting of ivory eyeshadow to highlight his eyes and a little mascara, and he carefully tied his hair back so it would not be raked by the slipstream. For someone with the shadow of death hanging over him Jimmy Hyde was strangely adept at planning all kinds of treats that day. Suddenly there was fun to be had in viewing the ruins of an ancient abbey and feeding the ducks in a village pond. And merely eating a sandwich in a country pub was a delicious experience. In the evening he took Willy to see a film at a cinema in Nuttsford. It featured a man with a broad smile and big teeth called George Formby, who played a ukulele, sang jolly songs and made everyone laugh. Willy laughed along with everyone else, even when he didn't quite understand all the jokes. Jimmy Hyde found the little laughs infectious, whispers of a giggle that bubbled up from inside her and took on a life of their own, and her charm quickly dispelled his customary dourness. The little Dutch girl was so natural and unspoiled by her beauty, he thought. In his experience beautiful women stayed aloof and wore their looks like a badge of rank, expecting compliments like an officer looks for a salute, but there was no such vanity with Willy. He quickly concluded that the girl didn't have a hard edge on her; she was all woman with a vulnerability that reflected in her liquid blue eyes. And those shining eyes! He could have gazed into those eyes forever. On their return to Brascombe later they were singing on the top of their voices as they drove along at top speed, and when Jimmy drew up at the side of the house he hovered, wishing very much to say something meaningful at the end of their day, but unable to think of what. He wanted to use words that had never been used before, but he knew that they would have to be words not yet invented. "Jimmy..." Willy had barely whispered his name, but he must have heard because it certainly registered. His body tensed as if there was something in that one little word that needed an anti-tank gun to repel. Anyway, Willy had a soft pink mouth that seemed to invite kisses more than conversation, and so that's what he did. He kissed him. Previously they had always been stiff with each other, meticulous and careful during any incidental physical contact... but this time Willy sagged against him, his body trembling, and Jimmy kissed him as tenderly as he'd ever kissed anyone. Willy's lips were cool, as moist as the air, and they tasted of peaches. The girl drew back fractionally, made a little sound. "Oh" and what began as a chaste doting-uncle kiss became something else. It became a lengthy and though kiss, but not at all invasive. No tongues, no groping, no fumbling with clothes. To Captain Hyde the young Dutch girl was an innocent fair maiden, and he himself, it seemed, was determined to be the quintessential English gentleman. It was slightly different for Willy. He was aware of the issue of male pheromones as the man leaned against him. It was frighteningly seductive, and the taut lean body clothed in khaki was even more seductive. When they drew apart he was utterly lost in the smell and the feel of him and the sensations he called forth so powerfully, but against his will he felt an emotional tug on his heart