Free To Love a Traitor by JL Merrow Page B

George yanked on the rope and, fearing that wouldn’t be enough, dug in his heel. The toboggan, indignant at such rough usage, retaliated by tipping as it turned and tumbling them both out onto the snow.
    George wasn’t entirely certain for a moment exactly which limbs were his, and which belonged to Matthew. They disentangled themselves, laughing, and bowed to the applause of the young woman whose toboggan they had borrowed.
    “Go again! Go again,” she cried, clapping her hands. “That was ripping!”
    Matthew grabbed the toboggan’s ropes and hauled it up the slope once more. He insisted on steering this time, with the predictable result—as when the toboggan veered to the left, he couldn’t so easily force it to the right—that their progress was only half as fast, and at least as much lateral as downhill.
    “Wretched thing,” Matthew complained as they dismounted, although George wasn’t sure if he meant the toboggan or his missing arm. “That wasn’t nearly so much fun. You’d better steer it from now on.”
    George didn’t protest, having his own reasons for preferring Matthew at his back, rather than nestled snug between his thighs—layers of clothing notwithstanding.
    They went down several times more, each time somehow managing to avoid collisions even if only by a whisker, before relinquishing the toboggan back into the hands of its rightful owners, who were heartily thanked.
    Wet, chilly and a little bruised, the two young men returned to Mrs. Mac’s in high good humour. It turned, in George’s case, to guilt as he sat down at his desk to pen a quick missive to Mabel. He was supposed to be investigating Connaught, not larking about like a child with him.
    Then again… Hadn’t Sheila said he shouldn’t be too precipitate with his inquiries? Should take the time to gain the man’s confidence? Put like that, playing snowballs and hurtling down slopes with Matthew was practically a national duty. George gave a rueful chuckle at that excellent piece of self-justification. Damn it. The trouble was, he was having a hard time believing Matthew capable of any underhand behaviour.
    And this wasn’t getting his letter written. George took up his pen.
    Dear Mabel,
    I write, as promised, to reassure you of my continued existence. Really, you needn’t worry on my account. I haven’t even set one toe into danger just yet. Miss P_ (late of Military Intelligence) seemed to think it a good idea that I should start by befriending Connaught, so that’s just what I’ve done. We had a minor skirmish today, but as our ammunition was entirely comprised of snowballs, no casualties were sustained.
    Has it snowed back home? I always used to love the sight of the fields clothed in white. Here in the city, it isn’t quite the same—the Heath is a vision in white, of course, but although the trees along the streets are still lovely, the streets themselves soon lose their lustre with all the traffic that passes.
    And yes, please do visit poor Wharton. Tell him I’d no idea until recently it was his influence that got me into Sir Arthur’s department, and that I’m very inexpressibly grateful for his help. I should have visited him myself while I was down in Buckinghamshire if I’d had any idea my company would be anything other than unwelcome. Tell him Sir Arthur remembers him fondly—probably best not to add the old man thought he was a damned fool for insisting on going to sea. Which, by the way, I don’t agree with. Sir Arthur doesn’t know what it was like for a young man seen out and about in mufti during the war—I don’t think there was a single man in our department who hadn’t, at one time or another, been handed a white feather. It was hard enough to bear for the civilians among us—imagine what it must have been like for a career Navy man.
    Oh, and please call me George in your letters. Not that I’m planning to leave them around for anyone to read, but I had a narrow scrape when I opened your