Bound by Moonlight Read online

  Bound by Moonlight

  Donna MacMeans

  Where could she be hiding? And how did she control this writhing unnatural entity trapped by the ropes?

  The bulge in the net slowly rolled toward the side, approaching eminent escape. Without hesitation, he sprawled on the wave, overpowering it with the weight of his body. “We’ll have none of that,” he said, feeling it struggle beneath him. “Not until my questions are answered.”

  Lord, that sweet exotic scent fairly surrounded him, overpowering even the rancid scent of the ropes. Miss Havershaw must be near. He grasped one of the smaller ripples and discovered something that felt a bit like bone.

  “Get off of me, you lying, deceitful blackguard!”

  The hot breath of her curses burned his neck, bringing with it the realization that Miss Havershaw did not control the creature, she was the creature. The delicious discovery both stunned and thrilled.

  She thrashed beneath him, not an entirely unpleasant sensation. Arousing thoughts of this she-cat similarly trapped in his bed caused him to momentarily forget the purpose of the encounter. However, a rope knot pressing into his increasingly sensitive groin brought him round.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Miss Havershaw.” He moved his hand to the spot he approximated to be her shoulder. Instead of a fabric-bound collarbone, his fingers pressed into a soft warm mound with a fleshy peak that extended between the ropes.

  She gasped and instantly stilled. All his senses tuned to the fingertips that circled and explored the pebbling peak. His groin tightened, not needing to see what his fingers instantly recognized.

  “Take your hand off my breast, Mr. Locke.”

  Other Books by Donna MacMeans

  THE EDUCATION OF MRS. BRIMLEY

  BOUND BY MOONLIGHT

  THE SEDUCTION OF A DUKE

  THE REDEMPTION OF A ROGUE

  THE CASANOVA CODE

  THE WHISKY LAIRD’S BED

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2008 by Donna MacMeans

  First published under the title THE TROUBLE WITH MOONLIGHT by The Berkley Publishing Group, an imprint of Penguin Books Ltd.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission by the author.

  Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill.

  For more information, please contact the author at www.DonnaMacMeans.com

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to offer acknowledgment to some special people who contributed to Bound by Moonlight in various ways.

  First, a very special blessing and gratitude to my daughter, Jessica. Lusinda’s character was born while we chatted over dinner at the airport, waiting for her flight to begin boarding. I’m sure I don’t say enough what a treasure you are. Therefore, I dedicate this book to you.

  Thanks as well to Oberon Wonch, who contributed a rough translation of the Russian word for invisible that I corrupted to create “the Nevidimi,” and to Saralee Etter, who suggested I consider the Great Game as a backdrop for my story.

  Many appreciative thanks to Sherry Hartzler, who served as my second pair of eyes and kept me going with her words of encouragement.

  A special thank you to my talented editor, Cindy Hwang, and to my agent, Cori Deyoe, who insists on a high standard.

  Finally, all my love to my wonderful husband, who has always given me his unfailing support.

  One

  London, 1877

  IF HIS LIFE—ALONG WITH THOSE of so many agents faithful to the Crown—didn’t hang in the balance, James Locke knew he would turn and escape Lord Pembroke’s study as silently as he had entered. This mission, however, demanded his legendary skill at cracking safes, a skill, unfortunately, more myth than reality.

  The narrow, stuffy room steeped in darkness opened before him much like a tomb. He shuddered, reminding himself he wasn’t in a hellhole prison cell, not this time. Paying no heed to the cold sweat drenching his linen shirt, he looked for a window, knowing he couldn’t risk opening it, but needing to know one existed all the same.

  Thick curtains hung on the wall to his right. Swallowing a bit of the desperation he pretended to ignore, he parted the heavy velvet to allow bright moonlight access. The flood of soft ethereal light revealed a Milner Holdfast floor safe near the desk. By his calculations, he had little more than one hour before the servants would be roused to welcome their employer back from the gambling hells.

  Kneeling before the hinged black door, he slipped a skeleton key and a holding lever into the narrow slot, letting the delicate tips of his fingers register the lift of a tumbler. Twice the slight tremor in his hand caused the lever to slip, forcing him to start the process from the beginning. He cursed silently but knew he couldn’t abandon the safe, not with so much at stake.

  Finally, the lock clicked and he allowed himself the luxury of a deep breath of relief before turning the latch and swinging open the heavy iron door. Inside a series of small compartments held the valuable treasures Lord Pembroke believed secure. James checked each, methodically moving from the top down, searching for the list of British operatives that had presumably fallen into the wrong hands. Just as he had examined the last drawer, the sound of light footsteps in the hall caught his ear. Damn! He carefully closed the safe door, but did not turn the latch as the sound of resetting tumblers might signal his presence. He slipped behind the velvet draperies, hoping the footsteps would pass by, but no. They stopped. Holding his breath, James peeked through the gap in the heavy panels.

  The door to the study opened, then closed. Footsteps softly padded across the thick Persian carpet, hesitated, then continued in the direction of the safe. James squinted through the narrow opening but saw...no one. Mystified, he carefully pushed a small measure of the dusty velvet aside to give greater visibility. Knowing one’s opponents could be as valuable as locating the elusive list. But no one appeared to be in the room. How could that be?

  The heavy safe door slowly swung back. One by one, the compartment drawers slid open and closed. Stunned, James watched a jewelry case from one of the drawers levitate and hover in midair. Logically, he knew there had to be some explanation for the unbelievable event transpiring before him. But his eyes provided none, and no flute-playing Indian fakir had suddenly taken residence in the study.

  The jewelry case opened and a necklace of finely cut rubies escaped from its housing, flashing blood-red in the moonlight. The empty case returned to the drawer, the drawer slid into the safe, the heavy safe door swung back on its hinges, and the latch turned, all without benefit of a human hand. Had he not been cold sober, James would think he was deep in his cups. Were his eyes playing tricks, or was some fiendish jest afoot? His nose pushed further into the drapery, unsettling the accumulated dust. James fought the tickle deep in his nostrils. His eyes burned and watered yet he followed the necklace’s silent flight across the room. As it passed the desk, corners of scattered papers lifted briefly as if in silent salute. An unusual scent, foreign to that of the study’s wood polish and book leather, floated on a stirred current. What the devil?

  He couldn’t restrain the sneeze any longer. He tried to swallow the sound, but a strangled harrumph escaped beyond his best efforts. The necklace swung momentarily in his direction. He heard a swift intake of air, almost feminine in nature, then rapid footfalls to the door. The study door flew open. The necklace darted through.

  “Wait!” James called in a hissing whisper. Fool. A
s if a necklace had ears to listen. He dashed from his hiding place in quick pursuit, of what he wasn’t sure, but he was determined to find out. He followed both the sound of running footfalls and the lingering trail of a sweet floral scent down the hall. No time to think about that now. The heavy jewels bounced and swayed in their flight toward the kitchen, then flew in a high arc around a corner. James followed, his hasty exit generating far more noise than his earlier entrance, his heart pounding as if he were the fox and not the hound.

  The kitchen doorknob turned before the wooden door opened. The necklace flew into the night. A gasp to his right warned James that he was not alone. He glanced at a wide-eyed scullery maid whose open mouth and frigid paralysis suggested he wasn’t the only one witnessing a flying necklace fleeing the household. Even with her validation, he still wasn’t sure he believed what his own eyes told him to be true.

  The necklace proved more elusive in the dark. Only the chance spark of moonlight reflecting on the jewels allowed him to follow in shadow. He had spooked the necklace once; he didn’t intend to do so again. Dashing from hedge to tree to bush, he silently pursued the strand of jewels through the back garden to a waiting brougham. It was an older model, but obviously serviceable. The door opened, and the carriage body sagged as if a passenger had boarded, but naught but the jewelry entered.

  The driver clicked the horses forward. Without hesitation, James raced for the back of the brougham, even though his own hack waited around the corner. He caught a handhold on the edge of the moving conveyance and braced his feet on the fenders above the spinning wheel axles so that he was tenuously attached to the back end like some overgrown street urchin.

  After several minutes and near fatal turns, the carriage slowed and Locke dropped off. He dashed across the street to a park to avoid detection and to allow the blood to flow back in his whitened fingers. Although he attempted to appear unobtrusive, his gaze clearly focused on the brougham. The driver hopped down and rushed to open the carriage door.

  Although he half expected to see a necklace fly from the carriage and up the townhouse steps, a widow emerged from the depths of the brougham. A young widow at that, judging from her pleasing waist and saucy bustle. A jet black reticule with a bulging bottom swung from her wrist. James smiled in spite of himself, imaging a fat ruby necklace nestled inside. He strained to see beneath the black lace veil that contoured a narrow face with distinctive cheekbones, but she was either too distant or the lace too dense. How did she do it? He hadn’t seen a woman anywhere near Pembroke’s study. One had to admire such talent, even if it was used for common thievery.

  She mounted the steps toward a townhouse door framed with blooming white flowers. Odd to see flowers blooming at this hour, he mused before dismissing the thought. The widow paused, then turned to look straight at him, as if she knew he’d be there. He should turn away. Play the role of a drunken sot stumbling down the pavement, but instead he remained rooted to the spot. He raised his arm as if to tip his hat, but then he remembered that he’d left it in his waiting carriage at Pembroke’s residence.

  She quickly turned and entered the house. What to do now? He was tempted to storm the house and demand to know how she had palmed the necklace. However, storming a widow’s home at such a disrespectful hour might raise a bit of unwanted attention. Better to observe the mysterious widow, make a few inquiries, and discover where her allegiances lay before making any rash moves.

  A welcome breeze surrounded him with the strange floral fragrance he’d noted earlier. He took a deep breath, reliving the fascinating memory of all he didn’t see in the study. The widow’s techniques would certainly make her a formidable spy. That gave him pause. He glanced back up at the residence, noting the address. It shouldn’t be difficult to gather a bit of information about her tomorrow once the working world was about. He noted a shift at the draperies, then turned to retrace the path to Lord Pembroke’s house where his own carriage waited.

  “HOW DID IT GO, DEAR?” AUNT Eugenia asked.

  Lusinda Havershaw hurried to the front window to peek out between the drapes. The lacy veil obscured her vision, but she didn’t dare move it until she was certain... “Someone saw me tonight.”

  “Oh my!” Her aunt, a thickened, bespectacled, and older version of Lusinda herself, rushed to the window to add her scrutiny to the street. “Were you followed?”

  “I’m not certain.” Lusinda tugged at her black gloves. “I had thought I had lost him once I reached the outside of the house, but there was a strange man on the pavement just now. I think he was watching me.”

  She removed her hat and veil, then tossed them to the well-worn settee. The grandfather clock in the corner chimed two bells. Aunt Eugenia readjusted the draperies before turning toward her niece. She gasped.

  “Dear heavens, I don’t suppose I’ll ever become accustomed to seeing you like that.”

  Lusinda smiled, although she knew no one could see it. She had peeked at a mirror once when she was in full-phase.

  Viewing the headless dress reflected there had shocked even herself. She had avoided mirrors while in phase ever since.

  She opened her reticule and retrieved the beautiful ruby necklace she had liberated from Pembroke’s safe. “Mrs. Farthington will be very happy to see we reclaimed her necklace. I hope she can keep it out of the hands of her foolish husband this time.”

  “I hope she doesn’t.” Aunt Eugenia took the necklace from Lusinda’s invisible hand to store in their parlor safe hidden beneath a chintz tablecloth. She lifted the flowery fabric and inserted an ornately carved key into the exposed keyhole. “We make more money if he gambles it away. A woman on her own can never have enough money, dear, especially with four mouths to feed and a household to run.”

  “Sinda?”

  Lusinda turned quickly to see her youngest sister, Rhea, in the hallway. The sight of the eight-year-old clutching a bedraggled velveteen kitten brought a smile to her lips.

  “I’m here, my sweet.”

  “But I can’t see you,” the little one said with a yawn.

  The child’s lament pulled at Lusinda’s heart. It was bad enough Rhea would never know her own mother, and then to add a sometimes invisible sister to the situation must certainly lead to insecurities. Thank heavens Rhea had Portia, the normal sister, and Aunt Eugenia to turn to on moonlit nights. Lusinda swooped the sleepy-eyed child into her arms while her aunt hastily closed the family safe. “You can feel me all around you.” She nuzzled the top of the little blonde head. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

  She cast a disapproving glance at her aunt, but of course, her aunt was oblivious to her expression.

  “I had a bad dream.” The child reached up and touched her face. “I thought you were gone.”

  “The moon is still full and the stars are awake.” Lusinda kissed Rhea’s fingers. “Go back to bed, sweet angel, and tomorrow morning you’ll see me just fine.”

  “Come on, little miss. I’ll see you back to bed.” Aunt Eugenia patted the child on the back.

  The little girl puckered her lips in a kiss, while Lusinda moved her cheek to meet them. “Good night, Sinda.” Rhea clenched the ear of her bedraggled kitten, then proceeded to climb the stairs using both hands and feet.

  “Your blessed mother would be proud of the way you’ve taken care of the girls,” Eugenia said as she passed by Lusinda, “as am I.”

  “Thank you, Auntie.” Eugenia’s appreciation of her efforts warmed her like a welcome cup of tea. She stooped to kiss her aunt’s cheek as well, but as the older woman couldn’t see her, Eugenia continued by without pausing to receive the affectionate tribute. Lusinda’s pursed lips met only air.

  A familiar jab of frustration stabbed at her, reminding her of the loneliness that went hand in hand with her unique ability. She had no choice but to accept her fate. She sighed. Anger couldn’t change what God had made. Better to concentrate on providing for her family, which brought her thoughts back to tonight.

  Lusinda do
used the oil lamps on the mantel and the gas jets on the wall before returning to the parlor window. She’d been spotted. Consequences always followed a sighting. At best the rumors of ghosts and headless horsemen would resurface; at worst they would need to once again find a new home. What would it be like not to schedule one’s existence according to the phases of the moon? To not constantly worry about being labeled the devil’s child or a witch? Perhaps she was being too vigilant. Perhaps there was nothing to worry about. Still, an uneasiness settled heavy about her heart.

  THE NEXT MORNING, JAMES SPOTTED the quaint townhouse easily enough. Although the flowers that had bloomed so enchantingly in the moonlight were closed and twisted tight, he remembered the location and the glimmer of the brass plaque by the door. How could he forget it? Late into the wee hours of the morning, he had contemplated the mystery woman and her magnificent feats of magic—if, indeed, they were magic. One way or another, he was determined to find out.

  Already he had learned through inquisition of the neighboring merchants that a widow, Mrs. Eugenia Gertrude, and her three nieces had rented the residence. The information pleased him as it validated his sighting of a widow the evening before.

  The townhouse faced a park, so he found an empty bench and watched the front of the house. The day stretched on with no remarkable activity. Indeed he had invested enough time on that hard bench to have read his copy of the Illustrated Times five times, front to back. Waiting in the open air, however, would never again prove a hardship, not after all he had endured. Thank God he served the British Empire and earned their intervention when needed the most.

  The rattle of an approaching closed carriage interrupted his thoughts. It rumbled to a stop in front of the townhouse. Watching with interest, he observed the rather broad Mrs. Farthington exit and climb the few steps to the townhouse with difficulty. She was ushered inside without incident.