he desired her more than he had ever desired anyone, even the woman to whom he was engaged. He didn't understand why that was true, but it was, and a part of him wanted to tell her that he loved her, but he knew that that was mad too. How could he love a girl he barely knew? And yet, he knew, as they sat huddled in the moonlight, that he did, and as she felt his arms around her Serena knew it too. He kissed her again then, long and hard and with passion and hunger. And without saying anything further, he stood up and pulled her up beside him, kissed her again, and then walked her slowly to her back door. He left her there, with a last kiss, and he said nothing further. There was nothing that he dared to say. And Serena stood there watching him for a long moment before she disappeared into the servants' quarters that she shared with Marcella and softly closed the door.
7
For the next few days Major B. J. Fullerton was as a man tormented, as he drifted through his duties without thinking or seeing, and Serena moved as though in a dream. She did not understand what had happened between her and the major, and she was not at all sure that she wanted it to happen again. For years now she hated wars, soldiers, uniforms, any army, and yet suddenly there she had been in the arms of the major, wanting no one else but him. And what did he want with her? She knew the answer to that question, or she thought so, and it made her bristle with anger each time she remembered the photograph by his bed of the New York debutante. He wanted to sleep with his Italian maid was what he wanted, a casual wartime story, and yet even as she bridled she remembered his touch and kisses beneath the willow tree and knew that she wanted more of him. It would have been difficult to say which of them looked the most unhappy as each struggled through their duties, observed by all, yet understood by only two. The major's orderly, Charlie Crockman, had exchanged a speaking glance with Marcella two days later, and yet the two had said nothing. The major barked at everyone, accomplished nothing, lost two folders filled with moderately important orders and then found them again as he fumed. Serena waxed the same patch of floor for almost four hours and then walked off leaving all her cloths and brushes abandoned in a central doorway, she stared right through Marcella, and went to bed without eating dinner.
They had not spoken to each other once since the night beneath the willow tree. By the next morning Serena had known that it was hopeless, and the major had been consumed with both guilt and fear. He was certain that Serena was innocent in every way, and surely a virgin, and the girl had suffered enough without adding a wartime affair with a soldier to her pains. In addition he had his fiancée to think of. But the problem was that it wasn't with Pattie that his thoughts were filled each morning and each evening and for a dozen hours in between. Every moment seemed to be filled with visions of Serena, and it wasn't until Sunday morning, as he looked down at her working in Marcella's vegetable patch in the garden that he decided he couldn't bear it any longer and he had to speak to her, at least to try to explain things before he went totally insane.
He hurried downstairs in khaki slacks and a light blue sweater, his hands in his pockets, and she stood up, surprised to see him, and pushed the hair out of her eyes.
“Yes, Major?” For an instant he thought there was accusation in her tone, but a moment later she was smiling, and he was beaming, and he knew that he was so damn glad to see her that he didn't care if she threw all her gardening tools at him. He had to talk to her. It had been agony, attempting to avoid her for the past four days.
“I wanted to talk to you, Serena.” And then, almost shyly, “Are you busy?”
“A little.” She looked very grown-up suddenly as she put the tools aside and stood up, her green eyes meeting his gray. “But not very. Do you want to sit down over there?”