Scent of Triumph / A Novel

Scent of Triumph / A Historical Novel

Author:s Note: This is the original indie-published version of Scent of Triumph, which was published in 2012. The new, edited edition is coming out in March, 2015 from St. Martin's Press: http://amzn.to/1xFbFXM Have some fun and compare the two editions to see how a NY wants edits done :)

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Chapter 1 

Danielle Bretancourt von Hoffman braced herself against the gleaming mahogany-paneled stateroom wall, striving for balance as she flung open a brass porthole. A damp kelp-scented wind whistled through the cabin, assaulting her nose with its raw intensity.  

She kept her eyes focused on the horizon as the Newell-Grey Explorer slanted upward, slicing through the peak of a cresting wave. The sleek new 80,000 ton super liner creaked and pitched as it heaved through the turbulent grey waters of the icy Atlantic on its voyage from New York to England. Silently, Danielle urged it onward, anxious to return home. 

A veil of salty spray prickled Danielle's fevered brow, and her usually sturdy stomach churned in rhythm with the sea. Was it morning sickness, or the ravaging motion of the sea? Probably both, she thought, her hand cradling her gently curved abdomen. She gnawed her lip, the metallic taste of blood spreading on her tongue, thinking about the last few days. 

Dabbing her mouth with the back of her hand, she blinked against the stiff breeze, her mind reeling. Had it been just two days since she'd heard the devastating news that Nazi forces had invaded Poland? 

A staccato knock burst against the stateroom door. Gingerly crossing the room, Danielle opened the door and caught her breath at the sight of Jonathan Newell-Grey, vice president and heir apparent to the British shipping line that bore his name. His tie hung from his collar, and his sleeves were rolled up, exposing muscular forearms taut from years of sailing. A rumpled wool jacket hung over one shoulder. Though they hadn't been friends long, she was truly glad to see him. 

"Is your husband in?" His hoarse voice held the wind of the sea. 

"Max will be back soon. Any news?" 

"None." He pushed a hand through his unruly chestnut hair. "The captain has called a meeting at fifteen hundred hours for all passengers traveling on Polish and German passports."  

"But I hold a French passport."  

"You'll still need to attend, Danielle." 

"Of course, but-" As another sharp pitch jerked through the ship, Jon caught her by the shoulders and kept her from falling.  

"Steady now, lass," he said, a small smile playing on his lips.  

Feeling a little embarrassed, Danielle touched the wall for support. Suddenly, she recalled the strange sense of foreboding she'd had upon waking. She was blessed-or cursed-with an unusually keen prescience. Frowning, she asked, "Jon, can the ship withstand this storm?" 

"Sure, she's a fine, seaworthy vessel, one of the finest in the world. This weather's no match for her." He stared past her out the porthole, his deep blue eyes riveted on the ocean's white-capped expanse. Dark, heavily laden clouds crossed the sun, casting angled shadows across his face. He turned back to her, his jaw set. "Might even be rougher seas ahead, but we'll make England by morning." 

Danielle nodded, but still, she knew. Oh yes, she knew. Acid churned in her stomach; something seemed terribly wrong. Her intuition came in quiet flashes of pure knowledge. She couldn't force it, couldn't direct it, and knew better than to discuss it with anyone, especially her husband. She was only twenty-four; Max was older, wiser, and told her that her insights were simply rubbish.