The Trouble With Moonlight Page 19

  “But Lusinda gets to—”

  “Lusinda is older. Besides what would your Mr. Ramsden say if he knew you were planning to undress other men?”

  “I wasn’t going to touch him,” Portia complained. “I just wanted to—”

  “Dear merciful heavens!” Lusinda exclaimed after she pulled James’s arm free from a sleeve. She had turned him to his side so she could push free the material of his shirt.

  “What is it?” Aunt Eugenia moved forward, forgetting for the moment to protect Portia’s innocent eyes.

  “His back. Look at his back!”

  Twisted red scars sliced across the broad plane of Locke’s back in thick, cruel diagonal lines.

  “This man looks as if he has been whipped,” Aunt Eugenia said in shock. “Who would do such a thing? The wounds have healed, but not well. He didn’t receive decent care.”

  “Tortured,” Lusinda amended. She should have expected as much. The conversation she overhead with Ramsden that night in the library. The slight wince whenever someone clapped him on the back. Even Pickering’s overprotective nature. It all fell into place.

  Portia reached out as if to touch the angry puckered skin. But Aunt Eugenia slapped her hand away. “Don’t touch it, Portia.”

  Her eyes widened. “He won’t feel anything. I just wanted to see—”

  “But you might.” Her aunt forcibly turned Portia away, her tone stern and commanding. “Listen to me. You’re not to come into this room again while Mr. Locke is in residence. Do you understand me?”

  Portia nodded, surprise evident in her face.

  “I’m telling you this for your own good.” Eugenia glanced toward the window. “Go get some sleep while you can. Day-break isn’t too far away and the day promises to be a busy one.” She pushed her toward the door. “Off with you now.”

  Lusinda carefully lowered James back to the sheets, then worked on freeing his other hand from the sleeve. Was it only last night that James had asked her to free him from the shirt that held him captive? In the carriage, his shirt had fallen off his shoulders, behind his back. The scars would have been exposed had she bothered to notice, but she hadn’t. She had been too involved in experiencing the pleasure he had provided for her with his lips and fingers. A single tear splattered onto the linen cloth of his sleeve. She swiped at the corners of her eyes with her palm. She hadn’t even realized she was crying.

  “What was that about?” she asked her aunt once Portia had left the room.

  “Whatever do you mean, dear?” Eugenia blotted Locke’s forehead with a damp cloth while Lusinda moved onto the buttons on James’s trousers. “Do you really need to remove those? Perhaps you should wait for that man of his to arrive.”

  Lusinda glanced up at her aunt. “I meant why did you chase Portia from the room like that?”

  “She’s a young girl, Lusinda, too young to be witnessing the bare chests and buttocks of handsome young bachelors.”

  “There’s something else.” Lusinda watched her aunt shift uncomfortably. “Something about the scars . . .”

  Her aunt’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not the only one with special abilities, Lusinda. The nature of your ability couldn’t be kept from you, but Portia . . .” She looked toward the doorway. “I would prefer that she remain normal a bit longer.”

  “Portia has abilities?” Lusinda felt her jaw hang open like a gaping fish. “What can she do?”

  “Nothing that will help this young man here,” Eugenia said. “Let’s put all our attentions on him for the moment, shall we?”

  LUSINDA PULLED A CHAIR ALONGSIDE THE BED SO SHE could stroke and soothe his face whenever a tremor shot through him. As the night wore on, these occurred less and less. In time, he slept and she felt her own heavy eyelids drift shut, only to fly open at an insistent banging at the front door.

  By the raised voices downstairs, she deduced Pickering had arrived and insisted upon seeing Locke immediately, ignoring Aunt Eugenia’s protests to the contrary.

  “What have you done to him?” he asked as soon as he charged into the room. He held a package bundled with string that Lusinda suspected was a change of clothing. She had suggested in her note that such would be needed.

  Without waiting for Lusinda to respond, Pickering started to shake James’s shoulders. “Wake up, lad. Snap out of it.”

  James started to rouse if for nothing more than self-defense.

  Pickering glared at Lusinda. “Tell me girl, did you poison him?”

  “No,” Lusinda insisted, insulted. “I did no such thing. How dare you even suggest—”

  Locke put a restraining hand on his servant’s arm. “It’s all right. I’m awake. Miss Havershaw and her family are blameless in this.”

  Pickering glanced down, still holding on to Locke’s shoulder. “Are you sure?”

  James nodded. “Bad dreams. You know the ones.”

  Pickering gave one head bob and released Locke’s shoulder. He turned his head toward Lusinda but focused his gaze on her hands, not her face. “I apologize, miss. I see you only meant to care for Mr. Locke. I suppose I was mistaken about your intentions.”

  He turned back to James. “I brought some clean clothes. If you’re ready, I can help dress you and attend to your needs.”

  James’s eyes widened as if he suddenly realized he was bare chested and more. He gnawed his lip a moment and glanced askance at Lusinda. Her cheeks warmed in response.

  “Could you excuse Miss Havershaw and me for a moment, Pickering?” His gaze swung upward toward his manservant a moment before it returned to settle on her. “I would like to discuss something with Miss Havershaw in private.”

  Pickering scowled toward Lusinda as if to register a complaint. “I’ll be just below if you need me, sir. I’ll hear you if you call.”

  Pickering’s words were directed at him, though Locke had the distinct impression they were really meant for Lusinda’s ears. Why the man harbored such distrust of Lusinda troubled him, but it wasn’t something that required James’s immediate concentration. No. Something more important required his focus.

  James waited until his overprotective servant’s heavy steps had pounded their way back downstairs. An uncomfortable silence filled the room. James could barely glance at Lusinda. Explanations needed to be made, but that didn’t make the process easier or less painful. He studied his hand, still now, absent of tremors.

  “You saw my back?”

  She didn’t answer, but he sensed her nod. Logically, he knew he shouldn’t be ashamed of the scars. He had stood up to the whipping like a true Englishman, held his tongue throughout the ordeal. He bore the scars of a patriot. However, at this moment, her approval weighed heavy on his heart.

  “Do they hurt?” she asked.

  Her voice held a strained quality, most likely the result of hiding her disgust. His lips tightened, remembering another’s physical recoil when she first saw his back.

  Hideous, she had called him. Grotesque. She had run off with a noncommissioned rather than remain engaged to a monstrosity. Colonel Tavish had counseled that it was probably for the good, that a wife would have been a liability for the work ahead, just as he would remind him anew when Lusinda left in disgust.

  “Occasionally,” he said, wondering why he had allowed another woman to get close enough to scar him in less visible areas. “There will be a sharp twinge or a brief stab of pain.” At the moment, his scars burned as if freshly opened, searing with humiliation. This, of course, would go unsaid, but never unfelt. He grimaced. “Most of the pain lies in the memories.”

  “Of a place without faces,” she said without expression.

  He glanced to his left to see her tight-fisted hands twisting a poor linen handkerchief. She’d remembered. He’d forgotten he mentioned that, yet she remembered.

  “Yes, it was a prison in Bokhara. Ramsden and I were captured as spies and tossed in a hole no bigger than a coffin, to rot. I never thought I would live to see fields of grass or fresh-faced young
misses again.”

  “Did they whip Mr. Ramsden as well?” Her voice sounded strained, yet tightly controlled.

  He couldn’t raise his gaze to her face, afraid she might see his shame. “They reserved that treatment for me.”

  It wasn’t an unexpected question. When they had finally found their way back to camp, his superiors had questioned them both at great length about why only one man’s back was split to ribbons.

  “I don’t know why they spared Marcus, but it proved good fortune. I’d never have survived without his strong back bearing my weight back to camp.”

  His lips tightened in a failed attempt at a smile. Impossible to smile with those memories so fresh at hand. Would it ever change? Would he ever be able to leave the memories in his past where they belonged?

  “Since that time, I’ve had . . . difficulties in cramped quarters. I need evidence of a window or some other means of escape. In the dark, my mind travels back to that time, and my hand . . .” He glanced at his traitorous hand. “Last night—”

  “My lunarium,” she interrupted.

  His gaze rose to her face, expecting to find it twisted in repulsion, rejection evident in her eyes. Instead he saw compassion, concern, and something deeper. Something that stirred him in a manner he had never experienced.

  Two tear tracks marked her cheeks. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I thought we’d be able to talk in private. I never meant—”

  He reached over and took one of her hands and brought it to his lips. He felt a shudder go through her. Not a shudder of revulsion. No. In her deep blue eyes he saw only acceptance. Was it gratitude that expanded his chest and warmed his heart, or was it something else? Rekindled yearnings that he thought extinguished long ago fluttered back to life. Could it be possible that he didn’t have to spend the rest of his life alone?

  Caution, my boy, he heard Colonel Tavish in his head. You gave up that life. You know what the enemy can do. You haven’t the right to make another a pawn in their game. Think of England. You haven’t the right . . .

  He dropped his gaze and placed her hand back in her lap. Some things never changed. It was a consequence of birth. From the day his mother left him in the orphanage he knew he hadn’t the right of happiness. Tavish was right. He couldn’t ask Lusinda to make the same sacrifices.

  In that moment, the small flame of hope sputtered out so thoroughly the bitter taste of ash lingered on his tongue.

  “I haven’t the right to ask, but I need . . .” He swallowed. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her all he truly needed, all he truly wanted. Someone who wasn’t afraid to share a quiet life with a damaged man of poor background. Someone with a soft, loving, accepting touch. His heart twisted inside his chest. He glanced at her eyes and saw all the things he was denied. “You . . .” he said, reluctant to finish.

  “You need me . . . to . . . ?” she prodded.

  He dropped his gaze.

  “I need you to be my hands.” There he said it. Did she expect more? Was she disappointed?

  He heard her shift back into the chair and sigh, their earlier connection broken. An overwhelming sense of loss rushed into the void, drowning him in a sea of loneliness.

  “Pickering probably believes I’ve poisoned you anew,” she said with a humorless laugh. “I’ll send him up. The morning is upon us. I suppose it’s too late to pay a call to Lord Pembroke’s now. We’ll talk more when you’ve had a chance to freshen up.” She stood and headed toward the stairs.

  Locke visually followed her departure. In one desperate attempt to make her understand, he whispered after her. “With and without the moon, Sinda, I still need you.”

  She hesitated, then continued to the door.

  Thirteen

  LUSINDA WENT DOWNSTAIRS, HER MIND IN A BIT of a fog. How could anyone have survived that ordeal and escape without scars? The stripes on his back provided the final key to the mystery of his extraordinary past. Yet her admiration for his ability to survive was tempered by her shame that she had unintentionally caused him to relive the horror.

  The moment she entered the parlor, Pickering sprang to his feet and headed for the stairs, lowering his head as he passed her. Aunt Eugenia poured tea into a cup and offered it to Lusinda.

  “You look a bit dazed, dear. Is everything all right?”

  “I . . . I think so,” she replied. “I . . . so much has happened . . . I’m not sure.”

  Aunt Eugenia looked at her quizzically. “If you don’t mind my saying, dear, part of the problem is that you’re not dressed properly for thinking. That morning dress gives no protection for your heart.”

  Lusinda looked down her front. While it was true she wasn’t wearing a corset, all the essentials were covered.

  “Let’s get you dressed properly. Once Mr. Locke is on his way we’ll talk and sort things out,” Aunt Eugenia pronounced.

  She was too tired to resist her aunt’s gentle bullying. So, while Pickering assisted Locke in Lusinda’s bedroom, Eugenia helped Lusinda prepare for the day in another room. Although she had never given it consideration before, once properly outfitted in a strong foundation, she did feel a bit more in control of her thoughts. Eugenia brushed Lusinda’s hair and fashioned it into a stylish coif.

  “That’s better,” Eugenia said, stepping back to view her handiwork. “Now let’s send the men back to their establishments. ”

  “You realize I’m responsible for his collapse last night,” Lusinda said. Even though Locke had reiterated that he needed nothing more from her than her hands, something about sending him away tugged at her heart. “I took him out to the lunarium and it triggered memories from his past.” Her aunt had seen the scars. Lusinda saw no reason to go into further detail.

  “Hmm . . . the man came here last night on his own volition, ” she said.

  “Yes, but he believed I was going to assist him in cracking a safe.”

  “Were you?” her aunt asked.

  “After Ramsden had made the comment about the Nevidimi, I thought it wasn’t wise.” Why was she asking this? Her aunt had advised her not to leave as well.

  “Was it wise?”

  “Locke can’t do it on his own. He needs me,” Lusinda said.

  “Does he need you enough to justify risking capture? It’s not a full moon, Lusinda. He would have exposed you to unnecessary dangers.”

  They heard the sound of the men walking down the stairs. Then the front door opened and closed. Eugenia and Lusinda exchanged a glance and then followed after them. Their discussion was not yet finished, but neither wanted to leave the men unattended.

  The moment Lusinda entered the parlor, Locke turned and her breath caught in her throat. She noted a vulnerability about him that she’d not seen before. “Pickering will take a hansom back. That way you and I can talk in the carriage.” He held out a hand. “Are you ready?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not returning with you.”

  “Then I shall be back tonight to gather you for the mission we failed to execute last night.”

  She started to protest, but he held his hand up.

  “Your lunar dial shows that tonight is a new moon. There’s no possibility that you’ll be mistaken for anything other than what you are.”

  His indifference stuck in her throat. She forced her words around it. “And what is that precisely?”

  His brow quirked, and he stepped near. “A very good thief, for one.” He reached for her hands, then kissed them. “And the woman who holds my life in her hands, for the other.”

  He held her hands and her gaze for a moment or two longer. His eyes implored her in a way that his words could not. He squeezed her hands lightly. “I’ll be back.”

  He tipped his hat to her aunt and let himself out the front door.

  Aunt Eugenia turned back to her. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. And being properly dressed didn’t help at all.

  TWO HOURS LATER, HER AUNT FOUND HER BENEATH A parasol in t
he lunarium. “Have you come to a decision?”

  Lusinda squinted up at her. “If Locke were to stop his financial support, would we be able to get by?”

  She shrugged and sat on one of the benches. “We did so before. Portia would not be happy that we’d have to cancel the order we placed for a new wardrobe. I’d have to let the housekeeper go. But we could manage.” She glanced over at Lusinda. “However, I don’t think he’d let you go that easily.”

  “I don’t know why not. He said he needs me for my hands.” Lusinda glanced at her aunt. “He needs someone to break into safes. I would think there are many common thieves who would do it for the money. He could find someone else.”

  “You are hardly a common thief. I don’t think he wants someone else.”

  “He won’t marry me,” she said, dejected. “He said if he did that he would have to take me far away just to protect me.”

  “And you wish to go far away just to avoid him.” Eugenia smiled. “It seems to me you two have many things in common.”

  “He doesn’t love me. What happened before was an unfortunate accident.”

  “Perhaps it was . . . or perhaps it wasn’t,” her aunt said. “Do you love him, Lusinda?”

  “He’s unlike any other man I have ever met. He talks to me even if he can’t see me, and he has this uncanny ability to find me even when I’m in phase.”

  “I’ve seen your face when he walks in the room, and I’ve seen the way he watches you.” She pulled a box from within the folds of her skirt. “I’ve brought you something.”

  “What is this?” Lusinda opened the box and withdrew a small jar.

  “It’s a salve that may help with the scars on his back.”

  “Why are you giving it to me?”

  “He’ll have difficulty applying it himself.”

  Lusinda glanced up at her aunt’s allegations. To apply the salve, she’d need to view Locke’s naked back once again. Was she suggesting she return to Locke’s household in the most intimate sense?

  Aunt Eugenia settled onto the bench by Lusinda’s side and patted her hand. “I can’t say that I approve of what happened in that carriage, but we can’t undo what has been done. I know that most in society would not approve of your unique arrangement with Locke, but your special abilities require that you must sometimes bend society’s rules.”