His French was perfect, as if it were his native tongue. “You said something about a British soldier?”

Adelaide forced a smile, made herself take a slow, deep breath. “Yes, sir, I did.”

“That is him over there? In your wheelbarrow?”

She didn’t miss his smirk, or the grunt of laughter from the men behind him, although one sharp stare from their commander put an immediate end to their sniggering.

“Yes, sir, that’s him. He tells me his name is Peter.”

She received a warm smile in response, and the commander gestured for her to walk with him, which she did. Every step was filled with fear, her eyes downcast as she studied her small feet compared to the large black boots that belonged to the German.

“Miss DuPont, may I ask if you’ve seen any other British soldiers near here?”

Fear was like an arrow through her stomach, threatening to fell her. But she refused to drop the smiling façade she was trying so hard to perfect.

“No, sir, I haven’t,” she said, shaking her head and praying that Peter wasn’t going to give her away and declare her a liar to try to save himself. “I brought this one straight to you, and he says he would like to surrender.”

They kept walking until they were beside the wheelbarrow. When the commander stopped, so did she, and she slowly, bravely raised her eyes.

“Did you make this for his leg?”

Adelaide gulped. “I did. I had hoped he would be able to hobble along, but his injuries were far worse than I originally realized.” She lowered her eyes, not wanting to look guilty but having the most overwhelming feeling that he was trying to catch her out in her deception.

When the German smiled at her, it reached his eyes, lighting them as his gaze found hers again. Warmth flooded her cheeks and she fought the urge to wrap her arms around herself, knowing she should be feeling self-conscious and ashamed, but instead being strangely drawn to the handsome man standing before her.

“I surrender.” The pained whisper made Adelaide turn, and any warm thoughts she’d mistakenly had for the commander disappeared as she looked at Peter. Poor, poor Peter. The small flag was clasped tightly between his fingers, his knuckles as white as his face, terror written as plain as day all over it.

“What happens now?” she whispered. “To him?”

The commander simply gave Peter a curt nod before moving to stand in front of the wheelbarrow and blocking her line of sight.

“Don’t worry yourself. You did the right thing in bringing him here.”

She wanted to ask more, but her words stuck in her throat as she slowly looked up at the man demanding her attention, watching as he reached into his breast pocket. For a moment she froze, terrified of what he was about to produce.

“Cigarette?” he offered, as she exhaled in relief.