Scott's hand trailed lazily down her back, leaving a tingling wake across her skin. She shifted and murmured, enjoying the heady languor that always followed their lovemaking while steadfastly ignoring the tiny, nagging guilt she felt for having sneaked past their hosts an hour ago to come up here and climb into bed with Scott. A quick glance at the bedside clock told her it was nearly lunchtime and that Lady Margaret could very well be looking for them. She blushed as she realized it wouldn't take long to discover where they were, or what they'd been doing for the last hour.
She stirred and sat up, struggling to untangle herself from Scott's arms and the mess they'd made of the sheets. Scott groaned in protest, barely opening one eye, then raised himself on an elbow to watch as she left the bed, enjoying the new, lusher curves her recent pregnancy had given her. She sought and found a silky robe in her overnight bag, throwing it around herself and cinching the belt before looking back to the bed to meet her husband's admiring glance.
"What?" she asked, smiling at the possessive way his eyes traveled over her body.
"Nothing," he answered, with a look of studious innocence. "You're just beautiful and I'm...lucky." Before she had time to react, he reached out and curled an arm around her waist, hauling her back onto the bed beside him.
Laughing breathlessly, Betty struggled against him, more for her principles than for actual protest, before submitting to being kissed and cuddled for several more minutes.
"Enough!" she finally exclaimed. "It's almost time for lunch. Aren't you hungry?"
A slow, wolfish grin spread across Scott's face. "Starved," he agreed, his voice rough and dark.
Betty stifled the curl of anticipation that his voice sent coursing through her body and laughed instead. "That's not what I meant. We should put some clothes on..." Scott groaned again, "and go downstairs, before Margaret sends Camden up here to break down the door."
"Oh, I don't think anyone could actually break through that door," Scott denied emphatically. "Besides," he continued, clamping his arms around her and dragging her back against him as his expression grew serious. "We have to talk first." His hand cupped her chin and he regarded her gravely for a moment.
"About what?" Betty questioned cautiously, unnerved by the sudden gravity of his expression.
"About my meeting with General Hopkins," the words came slowly, deliberately. "There's something that has to be taken care of over on the continent."
She nodded her head decisively. "When do we leave?"
He gave her a wry half-grin. "We aren't going anywhere. This time it's just me."
"But that's impossible. General Hopkins knows we work together, he would never just send one of us..."
"Betty," he interrupted, "there's nothing for you to do this time. Sending you with me is a needless risk and we don't have room to negotiate for what we want. Besides, this isn't the kind of business you should be involved in." His voice trailed off into obscurity.
"What kind of business is it?" Betty asked in puzzlement.
Scott drew a ragged breath. "Gustav sent a message for me, Betty, with some information about the Jackal."
"A.k.a. Rollie Pruitt," Betty sighed, thinking of the man that had almost been their undoing more times than she cared to count. "What did Gustav have to say?"
"He intercepted some information a few days ago that pinpoints the exact location of Pruitt's hideout in France. Gustav is trying to muster enough manpower to go after Pruitt, but it's taking some time because the French Resistance is so fragmented. He knows how much capturing Pruitt means to me and he figures it's only fair that I be the one to either capture or kill Pruitt," Scott explained.
"So the general engineered this little weekend party to break the news to you and now you have to go to France..." Betty broke off, fully realizing how perilous the operation could prove. "Scott, General Hopkins never has discovered who his leak is. Pruitt knew so much about Section N last year in Switzerland and he probably knows even more now. How do we know this isn't all some elaborate trap set by Pruitt himself?"
He conceded her point with a nod. He'd prepared for this objection, knowing she was perceptive enough to see the potential problems surrounding the mission. "In this line of work there's always the chance of a set-up. But Gustav trusts his informant, and I trust him. How can I not after what he did for us last year?"
"I know you trust Gustav. I do, too. I know he'd never intentionally steer you wrong, but that doesn't mean he's infallible," Betty remonstrated before sighing with frustration. "I'm scared, Scott. I feel like Pruitt's been after us for so long it's made me paranoid."
"You're not paranoid, Betty, he really is after us," he teased her, before his voice lowered and his eyes again grew serious and dark. "You know I'd never let anything happen to you or Scotty, and to make sure nothing does happen, I have to get Pruitt. He came too close last time, I can't let it happen again," he vowed.
"I know, Scott. And I know how you feel. I'd just feel better if I could be there with you." She sighed heavily, frustrated by a feeling of helplessness.
"Scotty needs you more right now than I do. Believe me when I say there's truly nothing you can do to help me on this one. I'm just going to France for a few days and then I'll come home and we'll pick up right where we leave off."
"Promise?" Betty asked, tears welling in her eyes though she still managed to smile.
"Promise," he agreed, the calm finality in his voice reassuring her.
She met his eyes, dreading the answer to her next question. "When do you leave?"
His devil-may-care grin flashed like a shaft of sunlight on a cloudy day.
"Oh, would you look at the time?"
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Over the next few days, Betty preferred not to think about her response to his use of that all-too familiar phrase. It wasn't one of her calmest moments, and her mother certainly wouldn't have been proud of at least one of the words she'd let slip during her resulting tirade. Scott had been shocked too, the utter disbelief on his face so comical that Betty herself had burst out laughing, her anger dissolving in an instant as she threw her arms around him to hug him fiercely.
Though her anger had disappeared, she was still worried and frustrated. For months now she'd been looking forward to going back to Europe and taking an active role in ending the war, and she'd hoped this weekend would culminate with exactly that sort of assignment. Now it seemed she was again relegated to waiting while Scott went off and risked his life alone.
Not entirely alone, she amended. At least he was with Gustav, a man who had admirably gained their trust a year ago by helping them out of a potentially deadly situation. She had complete faith in their abilities, but as Scott so often said, there were no guarantees in this business and they could very well be walking into a trap. It was this suspicion that had made Scott and General Hopkins doubly-cautious, doing all of their strategizing behind securely locked doors, no one else privy to the plans which were later radioed to Gustav. Betty herself knew only the smallest of details. Scott was in France and would return after five days' time, if the mission was successful.
She pushed any thoughts of the mission not succeeding as far away as possible, knowing that the force of Scott's determination would carry it through. The thought made her smile. His unstoppable determination was one of the things she loved most about him, but it hadn't always been so. When she'd first met him, she'd thought his motives were transparent and for the most part she'd been right. She'd felt Scott's personality working on her with all the subtlety of a battering ram, and she'd resented that for a long time. She'd been sure that she could withstand his charm, and his silver tongue. There was something else in him, something softer and more sincere, that had, over time, eroded all of her defenses, until one day she found that she'd lost her heart...and possibly her mind as well, she acknowledged with a wry smile.
Whatever that truer part of Scott's personality was, she knew now that she needed it, relied on it, that it somehow made her whole, a person that was more than the sum of her parts. The thought that she might have to live without that someday caused a shiver to race through her system and she cuddled Scotty closer as she paced the bedroom restlessly, trying unsuccessfully to settle him for the night. She chastised herself then with the thought that it was probably her own restlessness that kept the baby wakeful. Her heart swelled as she looked down at her son and a gasp of laughter escaped her at the sight he made. There was no mistaking the identity of Scotty's father. He had Scott's ears, his hair, nose and chin- Betty sometimes wondered if Scotty had inherited anything of hers.
When she'd laughingly mentioned that to Scott, however, he'd insisted that Scotty had her eyes, that there was something in his smile that was unmistakably Betty. Her own eyes had filled with tears as he spoke, unaccountably awed at this blending not only of their features, but of their more intrinsic qualities as well. Scott hadn't needed to question her tears. He understood her too well for that, so he had simply wrapped both her and the baby in his arms and held them, knowing no words were necessary.
He's such a wonderful father, Betty thought warmly, resolving in the next instant to tell him exactly that the minute he walked in the door tonight. Although he rarely spoke of the insecurity, she knew it existed, knew that he feared being a father like his own had been above all else. She could see how impossible that was, even if he couldn't. He'd shown Scotty more honest affection in a short eight months than he'd ever received from his own father over the course of a lifetime. He'd already overcome the hurdles his own father had never been able to surmount, and if she had to talk all night, she'd make him see it.
Scotty yawned enormously and his eyelids drifted downward. Betty realized gratefully that he was nearly asleep. Moving carefully so as not to disturb him, she laid him in his crib, then left the door just slightly ajar as she left the room.
Scott would be here any minute, and she wanted dinner to be ready the moment he stepped in the door. She checked the meal, wrinkling her nose at the ever-familiar odor of Spam, which seemed to be the only form of meat available on a daily basis in wartime London. Resolutely, she banished from her mind any longings for steak, pork chops, and chicken, knowing that a loss of those foods was a small deprivation compared to what others were suffering right now. Still, she knew Scott would be exhausted and hungry after his ordeal in France, and she wished she had something else to give him. Even The Buttery's meatloaf surprise would be an improvement at this point.
A peremptory knock at the door startled her as she lit the candles on the table and she was so overjoyed at the thought of Scott coming home that she didn't stop to consider how odd it was that he should knock instead of unlocking the door himself. She flew across the room to fling open the door, ready to throw herself into his arms and cast off the wearying anxiety that had been her constant companion over the last five days. She had foregone the precautionary measure of the peephole in her excitement, so when the face that greeted her on the other side of the door wasn't Scott's, she felt as if her feet had suddenly been knocked out from under her. The sense of unreality grew as she studied the dour expression on General Hopkins' face and her head moved slowly back and forth in denial. She stood on her toes in an attempt to see over his shoulder, in the vain hope that Scott was for some reason standing behind the other man.
"Mrs. Sherwood..." The general faltered, jolted out of his customary stoicism by the utterly lost expression in Betty's eyes. "May I come in for a moment? I have some...news." His voice was hesitant, nothing like his usual form of address and Betty swallowed hard as she tried to gain control of her own voice.
"Where is he?" she demanded, the words low but remarkably steady. "Where is he?" she repeated, louder this time as desperation grew and the general only looked at her with wordless compassion.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Scott lay on the narrow cot, an arm flung across his eyes to block the bright light that burned in his room twenty-four hours a day. He allowed his thoughts the luxury of wandering back to Betty. She'd be waiting for him right now, dinner on the table, Scotty tucked safely into bed. He could see himself coming into the apartment, taking Betty into his arms and kissing her until she broke away, laughing and insisting that he should eat. He could see her sitting across the table from him, candlelight flickering in her eyes, her hand clasped in his. He could see himself pulling her onto his lap, pressing her body close to his while his mouth teased her until her pulse raced. Later...
Scott groaned and turned on his side. Later didn't bear thinking about and at this point. It was an almost painful consideration. Restlessly, he sat up, looking around the uninviting chamber and wondering for the thousandth time how he could possibly escape, and how he could have been so gullible as to believe anything Gustav had said to him. He had believed him, though, they all had, and now there was no going back.
He'd parachuted into France five days ago under cover of darkness. At first, everything had been routine. After landing, he'd gathered his gear as quickly and quietly as possible. He was traveling light, so it hadn't taken long. Gustav was supposed to meet him somewhere halfway between Scott's current location and that of the rebel camp. After consulting his compass, he found the path that was the most direct route and as quietly as possible, he began his trek through the woods. Scott recalled being nervous, feeling a vague sense of unease that at the time he'd attributed to simple nerves. He snorted with disgust. Now he knew he'd been nervous because he could smell a rat, one that was every bit as big as Pruitt.
He hiked through the woods for a mile, the trees crouching around him, eerily holding back the moonlight, when Scott heard the sound. He'd grown accustomed to the small rustlings of the night creatures in the undergrowth, but this sound was different. It was the snapping of a twig as it was stepped on by a much larger animal, a man, if Scott was any kind of judge. Unsure where the sound had come from, or if the man he heard lurking in the darkness was Gustav or an enemy, he chose to wheel around and hopefully locate the anonymous tracker. He peered into the blackness, carefully drawing his gun as he prepared to turn around and retrace his steps. That was when the blow had come from behind, with startling violence, a flash of searing white light behind his eyes...and the sick knowledge of the basest betrayal he'd ever experienced.
Scott had had plenty of time to piece together those memories during the last five days, and to build up a blazing hatred and repugnance for a man for which he'd previously held only respect and admiration. Heck, he'd even liked the guy. He was stung to find how wrong he'd been. Usually his judgment of people was much more on track. He couldn't deny the facts. Gustav was the one person in the world, besides the general, who knew Scott would be at that particular place at that certain time. The fact that everyone else had been taken in by Gustav was small comfort. His own instincts were acutely honed to sense deception and he didn't expect anyone else to have the same acumen, particularly Betty.
Betty. He sighed and rubbed his forehead. By now she knew he wasn't coming home. General Hopkins would have come to the door and she would have opened it, a smile on her face, expecting to see him. She would be confused at first, then numb with shock as the general gave her the usual story. Scott hadn't shown up at the designated pick-up point, he hadn't checked in with his emergency contact to make other arrangements for a different pick-up. He was missing and had to be presumed captured or dead.
Dead. What would that word do to her? She'd protest, shake her head in denial, beg the general to send a rescue party because she'd know he wasn't dead. The general would attempt to soothe her in his own bumbling manner, telling her he couldn't risk any more men on a mission that would most likely be useless. She should be proud that her husband gave his life in the name of freedom and democracy, that he'd died a hero's death, but she still wouldn't give up. She'd insist and the general would remain implacable. The thought brought tears to his eyes. She was the only person he knew who would never give up on him, even if he had already done so.
Our Mutual Spy
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