A/N: And here is Chapter 3! The wheel is beginning to spin faster for M/M ;) As usual, thank you to kehlana for reading through this and the dicsussions and feedback, I'm hugely grateful :)

Chapter Three

May 1915

Farmer Bérard's cottage was nestled among a few chestnut trees and covered here and there in sprays of ivy. It was comfortable, and modest enough, with three bedrooms – sparsely furnished, most of the furniture having been either stolen or taken away with the family. A large stone fireplace stood in the middle of the kitchen. Wind whistled and wailed in the eaves of the building.

One other young woman was billeted in the cottage – Miss Eleanor Carterwood, also a nurse at the dressing station. From London. She got on quite well with Mary, although sometimes found her 'toff-like ways' rather aggravating.

Matthew took Mary out to town several more times over the course of that week… And the more time he spent in her company the more he craved it, and craved… her. She matched him and challenged him and dazzled him, and… He could not get enough of her, and he wanted to make her smile always and laugh with him as she did quite often now...

They attended dinners with the other officers at a large tent camp near the cottage. One such evening saw Matthew and Mary seated across the table from one another, surrounded by six other officers. Mary and Eleanor politely engaged in conversation with the officers at their respective sides. There was bread and cheese and wine, and there was an air of everyone trying to hold on to the brief respite away from the horrors they were subjected to. No matter who she was speaking to, however, Mary's eyes turned repeatedly, unknowingly to Matthew's piercing blue ones across the table… And she breathed more quickly and felt a hot swoop in her tummy when she saw him gazing back at her.

After dinner, Major Evans brought out a gramophone.

"Care for a dance, chaps?" he boomed, and was answered by appreciative cheers. The needle spun, and music wafted out of it.

The mellow strains of 'If You Were the Only Girl in the World' floated through the air.

Lieutenant Waterbury asked Eleanor to dance, and she accepted with a giggle.

Matthew looked at Mary. She drew his eyes every time they were close together, in the same space… And he was drawn to her, as though there was a magnet deep within him that pulled him to her against his will.

Her dress this time was a deep crimson, the edges embroidered with silver beads… Nothing extravagant, but it showed off the parts of her he had not yet seen; her uncovered shoulders, the arch of her neck, the top of her chest jewelled here and there with freckles…

Matthew sidled close to her. She sensed his presence before she saw him, before his sleeve flicked her skin… and she felt a little shiver of excitement at the feel of his heat and the now pleasantly familiar smell of him… of Matthew.

"What about it?" he murmured.

"Why not," Mary said with a smile, and accepted his proffered arm, and they sailed to the centre of the room. A few of the officers wolf whistled.

Matthew's hand trembled. One hand gently touched Mary's upper back, and the other held her gloved hand in his… The contact of flesh on flesh and satin on skin was thrilling and intoxicating and delicious. Mary was in his arms, and her deep brown eyes were looking up into his, her lips curved in a half smile… And their bodies swung together in heated friction, as the music swelled and the chorus came in. A couple of the officers sang along.

"If you were the only girl in the world, and I was the only boy… Nothing else would matter in the world today, we could go on loving the same old way…"

They moved in synchrony, in harmony. Matthew's arms and legs and body seemed paralysed and yet liberated, seeming to possess their own volition. He tried to look into her eyes, but more than once, despite his best efforts, his gaze dropped to her lips, and… lower. He looked back up each time quickly, a guilty blush colouring his cheeks.

"A garden of Eden made just for two, with nothing to mar our joy…"

Over and over they twirled about, gracefully, effortlessly. The golden light danced upon Mary's hair, illuminating its texture and softness and its chestnut shades… He could smell her perfume, a scent he had come to recognise and adore; subtle and warm and arousing… And oh God, he was holding her in his arms and they were swaying and shifting in time, oblivious to the presence of everyone else; their two bodies moving fluidly and instinctively together.

"I would say such wonderful things to you… There would be such wonderful things to do… If you were the only girl in the world, and I were the only boy."

Matthew caught himself staring at her lips, and finally he acknowledged it, articulated it to himself… He wanted to kiss her. Oh God, he wanted to kiss her and… more, but she was married. She was another man's wife, but she was Mary, and she was intelligent and passionate and strong and spirited and beautiful, so beautiful… He'd been fighting what his heart was telling him, what he felt for her, because it was forbidden, it was wrong. And yet how could he possibly stop being near her, stop… wanting her, when the very thought of not seeing her every day caused his heart to sink and his gut to ache? And a part of him wished – hoped – she felt the same way about him, and… he despised himself for it.

At last the closing bars of the song fluttered and faded into silence, instantly broken by cheers and applause.

They grinned shyly at one another, their faces flushed from the exertion and… other things. The music had waned, the song was over, and still Mary did not want to stop… touching him. Her hand that had rested delicately upon his shoulder during the dance slid torturously downwards… trailing down his chest and leaving a path of fire in its wake.

"Mary… thank you," Matthew murmured. She curtsied in response, and recovered her voice enough to bid him goodnight.

"I think I'd better turn in for the night," she said, striving for her tone to sound casual, even nonchalant, but against her will it had a very faint tremor…"I'm rather tired. Good night, Matthew…"

He nodded.

"Good night."

Time seemed to stop, and the air seemed to still. Her gloved hand was cradled in Matthew's, grasped in a gentle handshake. All she could think of and register was the blueness of Matthew's eyes and the sound of his voice and… the way he was looking at her, his eyes telling her something his lips could not yet say. His gaze… penetrated her. She could not look away from him, could not let his hand go… and she did not want to.

Matthew bent his head, his thumb tenderly caressing her knuckles… and very gently raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.

The sensation was a shock of searing heat. Mary could feel him through the porous satin, and the warmth of his lips seeped through the glove, travelling to her extremities, to the very tips of her fingers, her toes. His mouth lingered there, and neither wanted to relinquish the connection. A jolt of desire shot through Mary's body, from their point of contact to every other part of her, and it was somehow new, and intimate, and … erotic.

And all at once something overwhelmed her, rising from deep within her core and flooding every fibre of her being; primal and instinctual and natural. She saw it, felt it, recognised it for what it was.

Lust.

She wanted to kiss him. She caught sight of the razor burn, still a dark red against his pale skin, and felt again that powerful urge to press her lips against his flesh, to soothe him, to bury herself within… Matthew. It was shocking and absurd and so new, and so unlike anything she'd experienced before that suddenly it all… caught up with her, and she withdrew her hand from his… And the spell was broken. But not before catching a glimmer of dejection flash across Matthew's features.

She turned and left for the farmhouse, still feeling the softness of his mouth upon her hand and the heat of his gaze on her back, in the chill of the night air.

The next day was the second from last one of their rest week. Another day, and they'd be back at the front.

At about four o' clock in the evening, Mary set to packing away the few nurse's outfits she'd need at the dressing station, and leaving behind those she wouldn't – she'd only brought the three dresses because Mama had insisted. The greater part of her attention was focused on repacking her spare medical bag – making sure the tubes of antiseptic were plentiful, that there were enough bandages and rolls of gauze, that the carbolic soaps would last… They were going back the day after tomorrow; they all knew it was going to be a hard week. She wanted to be prepared.

There was a soft knocking at the open door.

She turned and saw Matthew, and her heart skipped a beat. Matthew was in the doorway of her bedroom.

"Hello! What are you doing here?"

Matthew blushed and dipped his head shyly.

"Nothing much, only… I've finished with my own preparations to go back tomorrow, and I wondered if – you needed any help? With packing, and so on?" He knew it was improper – terribly improper – for him to be here like this, and he half expected her to be shocked, even angry, but… she didn't seem to be about to refuse him. He knew she was quite capable of doing it herself, but… They were going back tomorrow, and his hands grew cold with dread every time he thought of it… and he wanted to be with Mary. To try and forget, if only for a little while. He desperately wanted to… spend a little more time with her before he was back in the bloody trenches, and because he preferred her company to anyone else's. Because she had become his one bright spot in the midst of this darkness. He wanted to cling to every moment he could have with her because —

"That's very kind of you!" Mary said, her heart melting at his kindness, his sweetness. "If you'll pack these away, just here – that's right…" She took a long, calming breath while he entered, and composed herself… or tried to.

Together they replenished and repacked her medical bag, filled to the prim with as many scissors, needles and thread, and iodine and morphine as it could hold, to alleviate the pain of the poor, unfortunate souls who would damn well be in need of it. Matthew handed the things to her one at a time, and she packed them away neatly… And more than once their fingertips touched and their bodies tingled with excitement… and they were past the stage of pretending to themselves that it was purely accidental.

Matthew's shirt sleeves were rolled up slightly, and the weak sunlight filtering through the curtains caught the fair hairs on his forearm and… the backs of his hands, and a hot flame of arousal speared through Mary at the sight. She hadn't felt this with Patrick – never felt like this with him… She could see the scar of Matthew's earlier wound, cutting through the flesh. Boldly, she reached out to run her fingers over it. Matthew's lips parted in a quiet gasp.

"It's healed," Mary murmured quietly, her fingers gently tracing the puckered, pink line where the bayonet had slashed into his skin, "I'm glad." The gold hairs on his forearm glistened and were silky-soft against her fingertips.

"Thank you… for everything, Mary," Matthew said. "It's – only thanks to you, after all..."

"That's quite alright – and keep out of trouble, mind you!" She tried to joke, and she raised her fists like a fighter, but her voice trembled slightly, which gave away the fear that had secretly been blossoming in her chest and which she kept trying to quash. Like the ebb and flow of a tidal wave.

But Matthew's eyes suddenly took on a blank, tormented expression, as though her gesture had taken him somewhere else… and his mouth trembled.

"What's the matter?" Mary asked. "You suddenly look quite haunted."

"I am haunted," Matthew whispered bitterly. "I only don't talk about it because… it doesn't help. You see, when I'm here, or – on leave in Manchester, I like to think it's… not real. That I won't have to go back. But – of course it never leaves me."

Her eyes widened with compassion, with understanding… and she rubbed a thumb gently across his knuckles, comfortingly, trying to give him what reassurance she could. Because… They were friends, and she was trying to make him feel better. And because… she –

"Take care of yourself," Mary said, a note of pleading in her voice that only just masked her worry, and her concern for him… "Please. The worst thing of all is when people are… hurt, just before the end. And – I suppose the best we can do is… grit our teeth and carry on, and brave the storm as best we can."

Matthew looked at her, and she felt the warm sweep of his blue eyes on her again… The deepness of his voice was like a caress.

"You're strong," he whispered, in an almost awed voice. "A storm braver if ever I saw one."

"I wonder," she said, shrugging off the praise… Though inwardly her heart had done a pirouette in her belly. No one had ever told her she was strong… She didn't know if she was, truly… But Matthew had said it, and the way he'd said it, in that tone of admiration and respect and wonder… made her feel glorious.

They shared a small smile, and went back to the packing.

It was night time.

Matthew was seated downstairs, at the large circular table before the stone fireplace. They were going to have a bloody brutal time of it, he knew that… and what he didn't know was if he'd come out of it alive. If he'd ever see Mary again.

And the thought he'd been trying to fight suddenly floated to the surface like a cork… What if he never saw Mary again? Panic gripped him, at the thought of never again speaking to her, sharing a conversation with her, no more precious, beautiful moments spent in her company. Never again hold her, shimmering and shining, as she spun in his arms to the tune of a gramophone with her brown eyes looking up into his…

"Matthew?" He turned around, and swallowed. Mary had come into the kitchen.

"Do you mind if I – keep you company?"

"Not at all…" He stood up and pulled out a chair for her, his heart hammering excitedly that the object of his thoughts and his – desire – had come… to seek his company.

Mary settled herself at his side.

"We can drink to our health… and good luck," Matthew said, indicating the flagon and the three glasses standing at the centre of the table.

"Why not," smiled Mary. She watched him pour the dark liquid into a glass and pass it to her, then another for himself. They toasted each other and drank. Her eyes flicked upwards, watching him drink the wine… and then she looked quickly back down before he saw her.

"Thank you for helping me earlier," Mary said. Matthew's mouth was half open, watching her… he was still holding his glass, but was hardly paying it any attention. She transfixed him. "You really didn't have to."

He ducked his head. He didn't have to, that was true… He'd done it because he had wanted to, and because he enjoyed every moment and every second with this wonderful, wonderful woman. This married woman… and his heart broke afresh at the thought. But how could he possibly tell her what he felt for her?

"I hope I did my duty," he said quietly, shrugging, and made to take another sip of his wine.

"Are you a creature of duty?" Mary asked.

"Not entirely." He was… puzzled at the question, not quite sure where she was going with this line of questioning. He caught sight of a lock of dark hair having escaped her elegant updo, and curling at the side of her neck. The firelight was reflected in her eyes. Her lips were reddened slightly, with the wine… He forced himself to look back into his glass.

Somehow, they'd shifted together, instinctively coming closer… Their fingers were mere inches away. Tension thrummed in the air, and Mary blushed under the intensity of his gaze.

"You must be careful not to see too much of me, you know," Mary said idly, in the flippant voice he recognised. She tapped her fingernail upon the rim of the glass. Matthew stared at her in shock. "I am married, after all… and my husband is –"

"Mary – for God's sake, don't…"

"Don't what?" she said, pretending innocence.

Matthew took a sharp gulp of air. His whole body tensed and tightened at her directness, at her reference to them, their relationship, that he'd held in his heart and cherished for so long, almost since the moment he had met her. She couldn't… tease him like this, taunt him, make fun of what they were, though what they were, he hardly knew. Their relationship was… fragile and nameless, and must always remain so. He was torturing himself enough as it was, and in any case he hadn't expected the conversation to take a turn like this. The words had hung unspoken in the air between them so many times, and suddenly they were here, like this and having this conversation and… oh, God.

"Mary, you – must know how I… feel about you, but… You're married, and…"

"Yes?"

He took a sharp breath, his heart thumping wildly in his chest.

"Mary, I'd – like more than anything to… be with you always, and – well… I can't, can I?" Matthew breathed.

"Of course not."

"However much – I might want to..." His voice had dropped to little more than a whisper, and yet both their hearts were beating in their chests, drumming at the intensity of the moment and the loaded words and them…

"Absolutely not," Mary whispered.

Matthew's gaze dropped helplessly down to her lips, and… back up over her face, and in the split second, sparks flew and fire flared between them; and the barriers they'd held up between themselves and everything else was obliterated, as blue eyes met brown and they moved together… And their lips met with a hot clash, in a fiery, searing, passionate kiss.

A/N: Thanks for reading! I would love to know what you thought of it :)