Moonglow

by Kristen Callihan

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Tell me about her.”

  Daisy’s soft voice cut into Ian with the stealth of a switchblade as they waited for a skiff to take them to their destination. Standing beside her on the wooden docks, Ian tensed. Talking about her was the last thing he wanted to do. The very idea made him sweat.

  “Her who?” Lovely response. Made him sound like a bloody night owl.

  The corner of Daisy’s succulent mouth lifted but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “The woman whom you seek in redheaded whores.”

  Jesus. Where was this coming from? What did she want of him?

  “I no longer seek whores, luv.” Not when what he wanted stood less than a foot away.

  Again that look, pitying, accusing, and sad. It made his insides itch and his collar go tight.

  “Ian,” she said softly, “do not play games now.”

  Ian. The sound of his name on her lips surely did make him weak.

  Blue eyes pinned him. “Was it truly another? Or is it… Is it my sister whom you think of when you bed them?”

  Right. She’d been visiting with Miranda just now. Lovely.

  He must have scowled for Daisy made a furtive move, as if to place a hand on him in placation. “I will not judge you for falling in love with her,” she said quickly, insanely. “Who wouldn’t love her? I love her to distraction myself. But after last night…”

  White teeth dug into her bottom lip, denting it, but she faced him without flinching. “I need to know. I won’t be a substitute for what you cannot have. Especially not if it is my sister’s shadow you mean to place me in. I will not be that woman, Ian.”

  Brave, proud lass. Something inside his chest shifted.

  “And if I should tell you that you are more than what I craved before?” he asked. “That you are not a substitute, or distraction, but a balm, would you believe me? Or accuse me of saying what I would in order to get you into my bed?”

  Her expression grew pinched. “You cannot deny that is the tactic most men would employ.”

  “So I am buggered no matter how I answer?”

  She flinched.

  When he spoke, his voice came out rough and angrier than he’d like, for he could see her skittishness. “There is only one thing you truly need to know about me, Daisy-Meg. And that is that I will not lie to you. Ever.” His fingers curled over the silver wolf’s head of his walking stick. “I told you before that it was not your sister who made me want to seek ginger-haired lasses. That was truth.”

  She nodded with a jerk of her head, but her eyes did not clear. “But you did fancy her.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” He threw a hand up out of sheer irritation and a passing dockworker flinched. The man gave Ian a wide berth as he walked around them, and Ian lowered his voice. “Yes, I fancied her, but it wasn’t what you think.”

  Surrounded by swirls of fog, her heart-shaped face glowed like a fine pearl. “What do I think?”

  “That I was so beguiled by her beauty that I lost my mind to it.” He made a sound of disgust.

  “Well…” She frowned.

  “I’ll tell you, and then we’ll have no more talk of your sister. I’ll not have her standing between us, aye?”

  Again she nodded stiffly, but she’d flinched at his use of “us.” Out of surprise? Or distaste? His hand shook as he raked his fingers through his hair. He wouldn’t lose her to this. Not this. Damn Miranda. And damn himself too for letting the world believe she meant more to him than she did.

  “Part of it was her looks. Her ginger hair and green eyes mostly, mind. I’ve had plenty of beautiful women in my life. Enough to not be turned into a panting pup by appearance alone.” By God, it wasn’t redheads that plagued his dreams now. Not even a little. He took his eyes from Daisy’s golden locks.

  Her voice was hesitant, unbelieving. “If it wasn’t her appearance, then what?”

  Thick, cold fog seemed to creep down his throat and smother his nostrils. He struggled not to pull at his collar. “She was a supernatural. Like me.”

  Around them, commerce teemed with activity: dockworkers and sailors, streetwalkers and pickpockets went about their daily lives. Here, standing beside a wooden piling, it was just him, just her.

  “Most humans would likely think I was mad if I revealed my true self. I thought she would understand. I found the notion of not having to hide what I was attractive. And she was loyal. So very loyal to Archer.”

  Daisy was silent for a moment, her head tilted slightly as though she were contemplating. Which he gathered she was. How could she not ponder on his humiliating confession of neediness? Again came the feeling of suffocation, the air too heavy, the smell of brine and fish overwhelming. His hand convulsively clutched his thigh.

  Daisy saw the action. “If not Miranda, then who is the redheaded woman you seek?”

  He hated the softness in her voice most of all. Perspiration bloomed along his upper lip as he stared at the mucky brown water of the Thames. When her pointed silence grew unbearable, he made himself say it. “My wife.” He swallowed. “Una.”

  Saying her name was akin to calling forth her ghost, and his hackles rose in defense. Under the cold eye of scrutiny, Ian didn’t really know what he was after when he bedded women who resembled her. Forgiveness? Another chance? Revenge? His thoughts were muddled, and part of him resented Daisy for making him examine his motivations.

  Daisy’s eyes were wide when he looked back at her. Hadn’t expected a wife, had she? Perhaps she thought him incapable of love. If only that were true. It would have saved him much. He almost laughed, save his chest hurt too much. “Not to worry, she’s been dead some seventy years.”

  Daisy’s bottom lip pushed out. “I did not think you had her tucked away somewhere while you dallied about, if that is what you are implying.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “No. You are too honorable to treat any woman so poorly.”

  “You are the only one who seems to view me as honorable,” he said with an unfortunate rasp in his throat.

  Her expression did not alter but stayed hard, piercing. “What happened to her, Ian?”

  I thought I could stand it, Ian. I was wrong to hope for the best. They’d both been wrong to hope.

  His nails turned to claws, catching on the fine weave of his trousers. “She died.”

  “How?”

  You destroy everything! You and your… beast. Just by being.

  His jaw clenched. For a moment, he wanted Una in front of him so badly he could taste it. “Of a broken heart.”

  “Oh.”

  Yes, oh, he thought with a silent shout. He saw Daisy’s frown of disappointment and wanted to punch something. He took a ragged breath, and then another.

  “Did you… did you no longer fancy her then?”

  His laugh was light, sardonic, yet it burned like acid in his throat. “Who said I was the one to break her heart?” God, if only Una were here. He would put his hands around her slender neck, and wring it.

  Possession of an excellent sense of smell was not always a boon. Beautiful in its own way, the River Thames was nevertheless a foul place to be. Overcrowded on the dock with the sweating bodies of men laboring to lift and transport huge crates as well as the riffraff of hawkers, vendors, pickpockets, and cutthroats—and the whores who serviced them all.

  But on the river, well, one could not get away from the thick, burning stink that came from the millions of gallons of raw sewage that emptied into it twice daily, nor the briny dampness that clung to one’s hair and clothes.

  A fact that had Daisy breathing through her mouth and resisting the urge to burrow her nose in the folds of Northrup’s coat. It couldn’t be any better for Northrup, whose senses were no doubt stronger than hers. But he sat erect and alert as their hired skiff bobbled across dark, glossy waters toward a ramshackle-looking barge moored near the Waterloo Bridge. Only a certain tightness around his eyes and nostrils betrayed that he too was suffering from the sme
ll.

  At some point, Northrup had quietly taken her hand in his, pulling it close. He had yet to give it up. Now and then, he would idly play with the tips of her fingers in a gesture that she realized was subconscious. She had yet to take her hand back, for the touch left her feeling warm and cosseted. Were she to concentrate too greatly upon the sensation, she’d crawl into the circle of his very capable arms and nuzzle his well-formed mouth. Kiss and suck those lips until she forgot everything. A shiver lit through her. God, he’d been delicious last night. And she wanted more. Always more.

  Which was insanity. A wife. He’d had a wife. One that he had obviously loved. She had seen that much in his eyes. A wife whose ghost he sought in so many others. And yet the woman had her heart broken by another. Daisy had wanted to ask by whom and why, but instinctively, she knew he would have cracked if she’d asked more just then. She wouldn’t do that to him. Because she cared. She needed to end this… thing between them. Now, before she sank in too deep.

  Weary and confused, she turned her head to find the haggard-looking man who rowed them staring at their clasped hands. The muscles along the back of her neck tightened. Words such as “strumpet” and “jezebel” came to her mind unbidden, filling her with thwarted rage. Why was it that her affection for men, her need was so very vile, while a man’s was simply touted as natural?

  Northrup felt her tension, for he looked down at their linked hands as if suddenly aware of them. His brows drew together in a puzzled frown, and then his nostrils flared and he brought her hand against his flat stomach. His blue gaze settled on the man before them.

  “I don’t recall paying extra for the scenic route, Clive.” His expression, for all its outward pleasantness, held a hard glint of warning.

  Clive flinched and put his legs into the next row. The oars slapped through the brown water and the skiff cut into the light wisps of fog with a smooth whoosh. “Scenic route’s free for favored customers, guvnor.”

  Northrup flashed a set of even, sharp teeth. “Just get us there before I lose my breakfast.”

  Clive cackled with good nature. “Never was a good waterman, was you, milord?”

  It was then Daisy truly noticed the gray cast to Northrup’s skin, but it was of little matter, for the dark, hulking shape of the barge now loomed before them, the craft rocking gently against the slow-moving waters. Clive maneuvered them to the side of it, where its hull spread out over the water in a wall of dull, black-painted wood.

  Barnacles and slick algae clung to the old wooden vessel, various creaks and groans an ominous sound among the clangs and whistles that rang out over the river proper. A ladder made of graying rope and dubious-looking slots of weathered wood dangled over the side, and Daisy mentally cursed the fashion for narrow skirts.

  She was grateful that Northrup went up first, for the idea of stepping onto the ghostly craft alone did not appeal. His step was light and sure, and he soon disappeared over the side. After a moment, his head popped over the edge, and he gave her an encouraging smile.

  “Up with you, old girl, or risk missing out on the fun.”

  Hands on hips, she glared. “Call me ‘old girl’ again, and I’ll leave you here.”

  Northrup merely winked. “I am certain Clive would be most willing to give you another scenic tour of the Thames. Wouldn’t you, Clive?”

  “ ’Twould be my great pleasure, milord,” Clive called back, his bleary eyes alight with the prospect as he ogied Daisy.

  Northrup held out a hand. Glaring promised murder, Daisy grabbed the ladder.

  With Clive holding the bottom and Northrup calling down various cheeky suggestions, she managed it to the top, and despite wanting to kick him rather badly, she happily accepted Northrup’s warm hand and stumbled onto the abandoned deck.

  “There’s no one here,” she said, allowing him to draw an arm about her waist and hold her close. The dank air was cooler on deck, a chill that seemed to run over her and coil about her ankles.

  A growl sounded deep in Northrup’s throat, and he raised his voice, his gaze not on hers but on the empty deck. “Oh, there is someone here, and if they’ve a mind to keep their throats intact, they’ll leave off.”

  On that rather odd request, the air about them stirred and suddenly it was warmer.

  Making a sound of annoyance, Northrup led her forward, their steps hollow against the damp wood as they went to the captain’s cabin.

  The door opened easily, and Daisy found herself stepping into a riot of color and light. Saffron silk damask lined the walls that glowed like fire in the light of a dozen Moroccan lamps. Her footsteps were muted as they moved over jewel-toned carpets made in the East. Before her, lay a great table of golden ormolu, on which a lavish buffet had been spread. The foul scent of the river receded in favor of roast beef and hot rolls. She could not help but blink in stupefaction.

  “Lord Northrup,” came a deep voice from the far end of the room. “Precisely on time, as always. And you’ve brought a guest.”

  It was only then that she noticed the man lounging in a throne-like black chair inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The man himself was as stunning as the room, his caramel-colored skin light compared to the shining raven hair that rose from his high brow to flow like ink around an exquisitely carved face. He turned his eyes to her, and a little breath left her. They were eyes of the palest green jade that seemed to glow with an inner light.

  Northrup heard the sound and his grip on her waist tightened a fraction. She might have laughed at the possessive gesture. Certainly the man before her was handsome, but there was a coldness in him, an oddness that left her feeling on edge. The man seemed well aware of the effect his appearance had on the uninitiated, but the look in his eyes was weary and resigned, as if he took no joy from it. Daisy was left with the oddest feeling that he resented his own beauty.

  He wore not the attire of a proper modern gentleman but something out of the previous century: blue satin breeches, a lacy jabot at his throat, and a frock coat of aquamarine satin embroidered with tiny chartreuse dragonflies. His voice was smooth and welcoming as he stood.

  “Welcome to the Marietta, madam.” He bowed with grace before gesturing to the seat beside him. “Please, do me a great honor and join me for a bit of refreshment.” His words ran together in a thick syrup of sound, the lilt in them foreign yet pleasing. An American southerner, if Daisy had to guess.

  Famished, she moved to accept the seat to which he gestured, but Northrup put a staying hand on her arm. “I think not, Lucien.” Northrup’s mouth twisted wryly as he glanced down at Daisy. “Many an unfortunate innocent have sat down to sup with a gim, never to get up again.”

  Northrup drew out a chair for Daisy, decidedly away from Lucien, before sitting in the one Lucien had offered to her. “Poison or sleeping draughts are their most-loved weapons. Never share a meal with a desperate gim, mo gradh. Or risk it being your last.”

  Lucien laughed at that, a deep rumbling sound that unnerved her, despite its warmth. “I am greatly aggrieved at the charge, Ian.” His smile was the uncoiling of a snake as he took his seat. “Even if it is true.”

  “A gim?” Daisy asked, finding her voice at last.

  Lucien’s strange green eyes settled on her, and in the candlelight, they seemed to glow. “GIM—short for Ghost in the Machine, ma chère.”

  She turned to Northrup, who, for all his talk of poisoning, settled back into his seat with casual grace. “Yes, a GIM. It is what we came to see.”

  “Whom.” Lucien’s drawl, though still mellow, had a bit of steel beneath it when he addressed Northrup. “If you intend to come for a visit, Ian, I expect a measure of politeness.”

  Northrup inclined his head, all sense of play having fled from his expression. “Quite right. A thousand pardons. I forget myself.” He placed a hand upon Daisy’s forearm. “Daisy, may I present Mr. Lucien Stone, formerly of New Orleans, Louisiana, now leader for the London faction of the GIMs.”

  Lucien gave a stately nod as N
orthrup continued. “Lucien, may I present—”

  “The lovely widow Craigmore,” Lucien finished for him. “Your paramour of late, if gossip is to be believed.” When Daisy sat up in ire, he smiled. “Though according to my sources, we are not quite there as of yet. Are we, my dear?”

  “I expect you to play nice as well, Lucien,” Northrup warned.

  “Mmm.” With a languid hand, Lucien picked up a glass of red wine and took a long swallow, somehow managing to make it look delicious to Daisy’s parched mouth. “Certainly, mon ami.”

  She rested her hands in her lap for fear of reaching out for the wine. “If the two of you are finished baiting each other, would one of you tell me what or who is a ‘ghost in the machine’?”

  Lucien set his wine down. “It is quite a tale, as tales go.” He plucked an icy-looking grape in his mouth and sucked it dry with relish. Daisy’s mouth watered. “There are,” he continued, “certain individuals who possess a great desire for life. Unfortunately, circumstance is never kind, and their life ultimately ends.”

  “Doesn’t it for everyone?” Lord but the grapes looked refreshing.

  He took another one. “One would think. However, these individuals refuse to go gently into that cold night, as it were. And so they wait, without a body to warm them, a soul drifting in search of a home. When lo and behold, this poor, lost spirit finds an opportunity.”

  “A dying body,” Northrup put in, his eyes narrowing on Lucien as the man licked up another succulent grape.

  “Yes,” said Lucien. “A perfect home, for the body is soon to be vacated.”

  “And so,” Northrup continued, “this spirit pushes out the rightful spirit of the dying body and takes possession.”

  “Crassly put but accurate.” Lucien toyed with the stem of his wine glass. “But there is a problem.”

  “The body is still dying,” Daisy said. The story had set her heart to a slow, hesitant rhythm and lifted the little hairs along the back of her neck.