hold. “I assure you, your virtue is safely intact.”
“More’s the pity.”
Righting herself, she gripped the wall for support and forced her heart to slow its racing as the warmth of him ebbed from her skin. She held her arms out for support as they descended the narrow stairs into a cavern of pitch black.
“Stop right there. Don’t want you missing the last step and busting your head all over my stock.” Barrett fumbled in front of her. Click. Light flooded the room. He grasped her hand. “Careful now.”
Kat blinked as if the sun had popped up. She waited as dizzying spots slowly formed into tall racks of dusty bottles of reds, whites, rosés, and champagne. Holding Barrett’s hand to keep herself steady, she stretched her leg down to reach the awkward distance to the floor. His warmth seeped through her glove. She immediately dropped his hand.
“There must be a century’s worth of wine down here.” Kat fingered a merlot from 1869. What her mother wouldn’t give to flaunt such a prestigious collection. “Bet it tastes better than that swill you serve upstairs.”
“The swill is for the swine. These wee beauties will go to celebrate our Allied victory.” Walking to the far back, he shouldered a tall rack and pushed. Corded muscles in his forearms strained until the rack swung away to expose a low door. “Bet you can’t guess what’s through here.”
“Torture chamber?”
White teeth flashed in his tan face. “Some might call it that. Care to find out?”
The alarm from earlier wound through her stomach like a knotted rope. “I’ve come this far.”
“Thata lass.”
After an intricate pattern of raps on the door from Barrett, it creaked open to reveal a bulbous nose and an attached face that looked as though it had been pulverized by a meat grinder.
“Se assurer.”
“Stand sure.” An appropriate password for whatever Barrett was hiding down here. Kat clasped her hands and tried not to imagine a masked man with shackles waiting for her on the other side. Her fingers brushed the bottom of her handbag, reassured by the bulky weight of the knotted life preserver resting inside. It might not save her life, but bloody well if she wasn’t fighting to the end.
Shifting the bag on his shoulder, Barrett stepped through and held the door for her. “Careful now. These doors were built for wee ones.”
“Not strapping men such as yourself?” Kat ducked, but the doorway still knocked her red felt hat sideways. She spat out the navy ribbons that swung into her mouth.
“Told you to watch your head.” He stepped aside and gestured to the large room behind him. “Welcome to the French Resistance.”
The space was a long rectangle with padded walls. Overhead lamps dangled from the vaulted ceiling, and worn rugs lay scattered over the dirt-packed floor. Tables and chairs sat neatly stacked in a corner surrounded by maps of France and Germany. A makeshift firing range had been erected along the back wall, where crudely painted targets and a variety of firearms hung. Standing in groups of twos and threes there were at least twenty men and three women with fists raised in combat stance.
She could hear a pin drop as they all stopped and stared at her.
“Ce que vous cherchez à?” Barrett’s bark filled the cavern. His Scottish burr scuffed his French. “Come and get your fill.” He tossed the burlap sack onto a wobbly table. Potatoes, oysters, half loaves of bread, and other items wrapped in wax paper spilled out. The base ingredients of the opulent offerings set before the German customers last night. The gathered men and women fell on the feast like starving wolves.
“Leftovers from the bar,” Barrett offered as way of explanation. “The Blue Stag is given extra rations to keep our jackbooted clientele well fed and drunk. I’ve managed to stretch supplies a little further by picking up certain items from the lesser-known markets.”
“The black market, you mean.”
“Don’t turn your nose up. It’s the only way to get the good stuff if you’re not a Nazi, and my fighters depend on it. The rations they’re given as citizens are pathetic. They can barely keep their families fed on it. This is sometimes the only meal they get a day. Brave devils.”
The breakfast of toast, eggs, and cream Kat had consumed mere hours ago threatened to sour in her full stomach as the veil of disillusion tore from her privileged gaze. Her own dilemmas paled in contrast to these visceral sufferings.
“Who told you to stop practicing?” Barrett barked