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  Sara studied the photograph. Unlike the living, breathing reality of Louis and Pascal, the photograph failed to evoke heart-pounding emotion. She remembered dressing for the photo, the charade of a wedding ceremony that had never actually taken place, because neither Armand nor Sara had been prepared to make a promise before God that would not be carried out. They had settled on the legal paperwork, signed by the priest and left it at that. “And you weren’t a good pupil?”

  He grimaced. “Not when it came to calculus.”

  Bayard leaned forward on the couch, his thigh brushing hers, drawing her back to the present. He directed the conversation back to the events following Sara’s shooting.

  Pascal closed the album and placed it on the desk. “Reichmann and his SS officers went back to Berlin. De Vallois was killed, but his Maquis continued to operate. Grandpère was incarcerated for a short time, but they released him. With Stein and Reichmann gone, there were no charges to answer and the prisons were already full. Besides, the Germans needed him to run the farms.” His expression was wry. “Food! They could not function without his cheese.”

  An image of the truck loaded with cheeses and fresh milk, the false bottom containing its most precious cargo, headed for the Swiss border was suddenly vivid in her mind. With resources stretched thin, and starvation common, Armand had cleverly gauged the value of his products. Even the Germans had to eat. When they had seen his truck, the last thing they had wanted to think about was the possibility that Armand’s food delivery was a cover for the activities of the Maquis.

  Her fingers closed around her cup. “When did Armand die?”

  Pascal’s gaze grew intent, and for a moment she wondered if he had guessed. Although, that wasn’t possible.

  He pushed to his feet. “Come with me.”

  A short walk later, through fields that skirted the village, they arrived at the church and a small cemetery. Pascal gestured at a headstone and the faded date, 1973.

  Relief made her feel light-headed and a little weepy. Not only had Armand survived the war, he had lived to the ripe old age of eighty-three.

  Pascal laid a hand on the stone, his affection clear. “He used to say that his vin jaune preserved him. I’m not so sure he was wrong.”

  “What about the American agent, Cavanaugh? Did he leave?”

  “The Americaine? Non. He stayed with De Vallois’s men. He ran the Maquis after de Vallois’s death.”

  Her hand tightened on Marc’s. “But he didn’t survive the war.”

  Pascal’s face tightened with regret. “Non,” he said softly. “Marc Cavanaugh was killed in action.”

  “When?”

  “Sixth of June, 1944.”

  The date of the Normandy Invasion.

  Her chest felt as though it was being squeezed by a vise. “Why did he stay? Why didn’t he leave? He was with the SOE—”

  “He could not,” Pascal said simply. “He was in love with the Anglaise. When she was shot by Reichmann, he chose to stay and fight.”

  Bayard’s arms came around her.

  He was safe…here, now…and suddenly she knew him with absolute clarity. He had loved her. He had never given up on her and he had never left her, not even when she had died.

  Bayard’s voice broke the silence. “Why didn’t Armand bury Sara in the de Thierry family plot?”

  Pascal shook his head. “That could never happen. They were married, but it was only a paper marriage to fool the Germans. It was not…appropriate.”

  He walked farther on and gestured at a small private plot, set a little apart. “You see? He knew they were in love.”

  Two simple, lichen-encrusted headstones sprouted side by side, one with an American eagle carved into the stone, the other with a fleur-de-lis, the national symbol of France. The inscriptions were simple—names, dates and a brief phrase on both:

  Jusqu’à ce que nous réunissions encore.

  Until we meet again.

  Praise for the novels of

  FIONA BRAND

  “A ripping good yarn. It’s fast-paced, sometimes

  funny and always entertaining – and

  JT Wyatt’s a keeper!”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Double Vision

  “Body Work is the kind of book that sucks you into

  the pages and won’t let you go until the end. It’s

  edgy and different, with a strong hero and

  heroine who don’t fit the usual mould.”

  —Bestselling author Linda Howard

  “Brand tells a disturbing, engrossing tale of murder

  and madness, adding her own unique touches of

  eroticism and humour. An excellent read.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Body Work

  “WOW! This book was fraught with tension,

  murder and romance… Fiona Brand grabs hold of

  the reader and demands their attention. Fantastic

  read from beginning to end!”

  —www.CataRomance.com on Body Work

  “Brand’s extraordinary gifts as a storyteller are

  very evident here. This story is a rare and potent

  mixture of adventure, mystery and passion that

  shouldn’t be missed.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews on

  Touching Midnight

  IMPRINT: Mills & Boon

  ISBN: 9781742920108

  TITLE: BLIND INSTINCT

  First Australian Publication 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Fiona Brand

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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