Surrender in Moonlight

by Jennifer Blake

  A knock sounded on the door. Hard on it came Chris's voice. "Orders to dock, Captain!"

  Ramon's imprecation was soft, but vivid before he released her, stepping back. He moved to the door. With his hand on the handle, he turned. In his dark eyes was a smouldering promise. "We will finish this later. Remember it."

  How could she forget it? The thought of it remained with her as she dressed in her walking costume of tan d'or, put the oilskin packet into her purse, and went back up on deck. It lingered in the back of her mind as she waited for her chance to leave the ship, and also as she took it. It hampered her concentration as she made her way to Governor Dudley's mansion. For the few minutes necessary for her to relinquish the precious packet into safe hands, she was free of it, but it returned to haunt her once she was back on the streets again. So persistent was it, she was quite unable to feel the relief she had expected at being done with the task appointed her.

  She did not want to go back to the ship. She wandered about the streets as the afternoon waned, watching the once familiar activities: a maid sweeping off the front steps with deliberate strokes, a gardener pulling weeds from a border; a pair of boys in short breeches, rolling a carriage wheel down the street and chased by a trio of dogs of no discernible breed. Through a doorway, thrown open to the air, she saw a group of women busily at work, obviously a sewing circle, though the material that lay across their laps was the gray of Confederate uniforms. Away from the residential area, nearing the waterfront once more, she paused before the window of a bakery displaying breakfast rolls, arrowroot crackers, and pilot bread; of a druggist advertising dye stuffs, perfumery, and soaps, as well as the filling of prescriptions from medical men. She glanced, too, at the display window of a "Photographic Room" where could be had photographic portraiture of every known style, beautifully colored in oil, pastel, watercolor, or India ink. Farther along, her attention was caught by the shop of M. N. Katz, who offered staple and fancy dry goods, including silks, merinos, alpacas, and French millinery, also Balmoral and hoop skirts, double elliptical skirts, and mourning and fancy veils, with prices quoted in gold and Confederate scrip. His stock did not seem much less complete than was average before the war had begun. It appeared that the blockade had not made that great an impression here as yet, or else M. Katz was a preferred client of the blockade runners.

  "What do you fancy? A length of silk? A clutch of feathers for a bonnet? Or how about the seed pearl collar to hide a scraggly neck? Oh, I do beg your pardon, Madame. The last would be most inappropriate!"

  "Peter, you idiot," she said, a smile rising to her eyes and sounding in her voice even as she turned. It died away as she faced the Englishman-and Ramon, who stood at his side.

  "True, I must accept the title," Peter replied somberly though with a gleam in his eye, "but even the best of us have these failings. Forgetfulness seems to be yours. I do wish you had told my friend here where you were off to; he's made a damned nuisance out of himself beating my quarters and looking in my pockets for you."

  She sent a quick glance at Ramon's stiff features. "Yes, I suppose I should have."

  "Definitely you should have. On the other hand, if he means to keep you, he should either use a longer rein or else refrain from frightening you into flight." The concern and the query were there, couched in his easy banter.

  "It wasn't like that. I…I had a message to deliver."

  "Oh, I see. If I had known you had business in Wilmington, I would have been happy to have you travel on the Bonny Girl. She's a fine lass, my ship, but you would have been an ornament to her." He paused only a fraction of a moment for an answer and, when it did not come, went on without missing a beat.

  "But, that's neither here nor there. I find my fellow countrymen have rented a house to use during their time in Wilmington, a place where they plan to hold revel this evening, following the performance of the Thalian Association at the market house. I am told the quality of the play-acting will be near professional, so high, in fact, that the officers from the federal fleet have been threatening to sneak into town to see the show. The bill features the bard's Taming of the Shrew. I don't expect a great deal of a Katharina with a languid southern drawl; still, it should be entertaining. Will you do us the honor of joining us, both of you?"

  "I don't know," Lorna began, glancing at Ramon.

  His dark gaze raked her face before he turned to fling a look at his friend. "We will be delighted."

  "Good," Peter said, flashing a smile. "We will have supper after the play, so you need not worry about that. You can walk to the market house, and to our little pied-a-terre afterward, or a carriage can be arranged. There is still an amazing number of equipages around with fine horseflesh not yet commandeered by the army."

  "We will walk-that is, if this house you mad Englishmen have rented isn't too far from the theater?" Ramon said, his tone casual.

  "No more than a step or two, just far enough to stretch your legs after sitting."

  He nodded and stepped to offer his arm to Lorna, who took it automatically. "We will see you there, then."

  "Yes, see you there," Peter repeated, but his voice had a deflated sound as he watched Ramon turn with Lorna back toward the ship. He stood, still looking after them, until the downward slope of the street hid them from sight.

  Lorna felt a tightening in the pit of her stomach as they neared the Lorelei. She glanced up at the man strolling beside her, aware of the corded muscle of his arm beneath her fingers and the controlled strength of his movements. She could not help wondering if now was the time when they would finish what they had begun, while they were supposed to be dressing for the evening before them. Did she want it, or did she not? She could not decide, but neither could she deny the sense of perilous anticipation that rushed through her veins.

  At the gangplank, he faced her. "This. is one more thing that will have to be accounted for, soon."

  She saw little use in pretending to misunderstand. "I had something of importance to attend to, as you well know. There was no point, and considerable danger, in dragging anyone else into it."

  "You might have mentioned it."

  "You might have guessed," she countered. "It was a responsibility, one I had to meet myself. In any case, would you have let me go alone?"

  He reached to take her hand, smoothing his thumb over the backs of her fingers. His voice was quiet as he spoke. "So independent. What will you do when you discover that in this world you need a man?"

  "The same as other women, I expect." She had already made that discovery, but she did not intend that he should know it.

  "You aren't like other women."

  "Of course I am," she said tartly.

  "No." He dropped her hand and stepped back. "I still have a few things to attend to before the evening. I will join you in a little while for the walk to the theater. Wait for me."

  He gave her no chance to answer, but swung and strode away. So abrupt was his manner, and so disturbing, that Lorna did not watch him. Snatching up her skirts, she boarded the ship and swept below to the cabin.

  Her mind seethed with the things she should have said, with angry accusations and bitter reminders. At the same time, she found herself standing suspended, the compliment he had paid her running through her mind. He was an infuriating man, blowing hot and cold. What did he want of her? He had given no indication that he had changed his mind concerning a permanent relationship, therefore he must want her as his mistress. He felt something for her, though it might be no more than a case of snatching at the morsel the other dogs were fighting over.

  What a revolting comparison. She shook her head and went to fling herself down on the bunk, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. Was a man necessary to her? Could she, perhaps, learn to be as independent as he had called her? There must be something she could do to earn her way, to provide a roof over her head and food to eat without having to depend on Ramon's bounty or the favor of any other man. She was a fair seamstress; Aunt Madelyn had seen to tha
t by requiring that she help with the mending and occupy any leisure time that might have been spent in idleness on fine embroidery. She spoke fair French but, due to her aunt's indifference to learning for females after the age of twelve, had not the grounding in other subjects that might be expected of a governess. She was strong and had no objection to work. She could scrub, take in laundry, anything.

  The light inside the cabin grew dim with the approach of dusk. Noting it, finally, Lorna sprang up and moved to the door, calling for Cupid to arrange for a bath. Still, even when it had arrived and she had settled into the copper hip bath filled with fresh, not salt, water, the nagging question would not go away. What did Ramon expect of her now? That she would occupy his bed, forfeiting all claim to respectability, holding herself at his beck and call? Did he expect her to be satisfied with the gratification of her desires, enthralled by his masterly sway over them?

  And if she could abandon self-respect and be what he expected, what then? Obsessed, he had called himself. Was it so, or was it merely that his possession of her had been complicated from the beginning, that she had spurned him, then used him as no other woman had dared do? How long would his need for her last? What would become of her when it faded?

  In the strict social sphere in which she had moved all her life, there was no place for a woman who had been kept by a man without the sanction of marriage. She would be forced to take a lower position, to go on catering to the desires of men, to become a woman of the shadows. To think that Ramon would casually demand that sacrifice of her brought rage rising to her brain; more than that, it brought anguish.

  She was still crouched in the short tub with its sloping back and brass handles, when he returned. He stopped just inside the door as he saw her, then came into the cabin more slowly, closing the panel behind him. He lifted a brow, a faint smile at one corner of his mouth as he crossed to the bunk and sat down.

  "Are you about finished?" he inquired, his voice mild. "I could use a quick rinse myself."

  "Yes, you can have it, though you had better ring for more water."

  "I'll use yours."

  It was amazing, the sense of intimacy his words suggested. From beneath lowered lashes, she watched as he pulled off his boots and began to undo the buttons of his jacket. There had been little chance for moments such as this in the time since they had left Nassau. After that first night, Ramon had been constantly on duty, snatching only interrupted moments of sleep. It had not been a great deal different on the run from New Orleans; always there had been the need for vigilance. What would it be like, she wondered, to see him completely relaxed and at ease? What would it be like to see love on his face instead of the dark desire for revenge or the brooding need of possessive jealousy?

  Her thoughts were so disturbing that she surged to her feet, reaching for her towel. It was snatched from under her fingers. Ramon, wearing only his trousers, stood holding the width of Turkish toweling, ready to wrap her in its folds. As long as she stood up to her knees in water in the bath, he was enjoying watching her, his black gaze moving over the wet curves of her body, resting on the froth of bubbles that glided slowly, with the rivulets of water pouring down her, along the shapely turn of the inside of her thigh.

  "Give it to me, please?" she managed to ask.

  "Come and get it."

  She mistrusted his smile. "Really, we don't have much time."

  "We don't, do we?" he agreed pleasantly. "But, then, I don't think this will be wasted." His gaze flicked to her face, then traveled deliberately lower, as if assessing her points one by one.

  Irritated beyond bearing by his manner, she shot her hand out to grab the towel. He caught her wrist and hauled her from the tub, so that she stumbled, failling against him. He accepted her full weight, cradling her, wrapping the towel around her. She pushed away, coming erect, but could not evade his grasp. With soothing gentleness, he began to dry her back. He swept his hands up and down along her spine, dropping lower with each stroke. As he reached her hips, lingering on their curves, she squirmed, protesting, in his grasp. He allowed her to turn, and, as she did so, proceeded to dry her side, sliding his hand beneath her arm and up to her collarbone, drawing it caressingly down over her breasts. She tried to turn back, but he would not let her. His hand dropped to her waist, massaging, skimming over the flat surface of her abdomen, pressing the small, triangular mat of fine gold to dry it, and sliding quickly between her thighs.

  She stiffened, lifting her lashes to glare at him. He smiled, his movements slowing, becoming exquisitely gentle. Any sudden attempt to free herself could be painful. She was still, her muscles slowly losing their tension, her breasts rising and falling with the increasing depth of her breathing, their nipples hardening as they pressed into his bare chest.

  Abruptly, he released her, bending to swirl the towel around first one leg, then the other. Lorna swayed, placing a hand on his shoulder to steady herself, incensed with herself for that spreading weakness. He raised up, flinging the big damp square over his shoulder. With a tight grin, he said, "We should hurry. We don't want the others having to wait on us."

  She turned from him tight-lipped, though she felt more than a little dazed as she went about her dressing. From her trunk, she brought out a fresh camisole and slipped into it, then took the time to dab on a little perfume before turning back to look for her pantaloons. Though she turned the contents of the trunk upside down, she could find none. Turning away, resigned to wearing the same ones she had pulled off, she found Ramon already out of the tub, standing on the other side as he briskly dried himself. As she moved toward her discarded undergarments, he picked up the pantaloons, holding them wadded in his hand.

  "Is this what you need?"

  For an answer, she stepped toward him, hand outstretched. Just as the pantaloons were within her grasp, he let them go. She made a grab for them, but so did he, knocking her hand aside. The leg casings of white linen fell into the copper tub and sank beneath the soap-scummed gray water.

  Lorna watched them for a moment, then slowly lifted her gray gaze to his face. "You did that on purpose!"

  "How can you say so? It was an accident."

  "Where are my others?"

  "I haven't the least idea. Maybe Cupid decided to wash for you too, while we are in port; he came this afternoon for my shirts. Anyway, what does it matter? You don't need such things. Go without them."

  "It…it wouldn't be decent."

  "It would be cooler."

  That much was true. "I couldn't."

  "No one will know-except me."

  "And me!"

  "You wouldn't want to miss the play, not for such a reason." His tone was persuasive, only faintly shaded with amusement, and something more that she couldn't identify.

  "N-No."

  "It won't matter, believe me. Who could possibly find out under those haystack mounds of skirts you women wear."

  That much was treue. By degrees, Lorna allowed herself to be persuaded; still, it felt peculiar, unbelievably lascivious, to put on her corset and petticoats while she was bare below the waist, to walk in the dome of her crinoline with nothing between the nakedness of her legs as she moved. Even fully dressed in her gown of soft lavender blue tulle, with her purse and fan in her hand and her cloak over her arm, she was aware of her nakedness underneath, so much so that she felt the heat of a flush rise to her cheekbones as she met Ramon's quizzical gaze just before they left the cabin.

  Was it imagination, or was he affected as much as, if not more than, she by the state of her lower body? The question hovered about her for the rest of the evening. It seemed that he missed no opportunity to touch her, to brush the swell of her breasts with his sleeve or even a fingertip, on the pretense of banishing a mosquito; to spread his hand at the small of her back and lower, where the edge of her corset met bare flesh; to make double-edged remarks about the dress of the actors on stage, which included doublets and skintight hose. She could not concentrate on the play for the sensations that g
ripped her, for the feel of a draft beneath her skirts, the sensuous slide of the material around her, the warmth of Ramon's breath against her ear as he turned to speak to her.

  When she could focus her attention on the stage, it was no better. Every word that Petruchio spoke was freighted with carnal meaning, if not downright lewd. His part was played with swagger and boastfulness and sensual dominance, a violent wooing that carried a hint of tender understanding. Katherina's graceful capitulation in the end was expected, but still disturbing. In order to throw off its spell and forget her own state as they walked along the street afterward, Lorna instigated a running argument with Peter, Ramon, and the others. She laughed to scorn their idea that Kate had really been tamed. She had merely shifted tactics to suit the strength of her opponent, Lorna claimed, like any woman of intelligence. When they protested at the idea, she swore in laughing certainty that the erstwhile shrew had winked at the audience during her last tender speech of submission, indicating that her meekness was but a gentle way of ruling.

  Peter's friends and compatriots, a boisterous crowd dressed in every kind of costume imaginable, from, correct frock coats to velvet smoking jackets and uniform coats from the Crimean campaign, greeted the suggestion with hooting disbelief. Simply because that was the way southern gentlewomen marshaled those around them did not mean an Englishman would be taken in by it. Kate had gotten no more than she deserved, what any man worth his salt would have given her.

  "Is that so?" Lorna inquired, half-serious, half-laughing. "I see nothing particularly worthy about starving a woman into submission."

  "He was only attempting to bring her to recognize that she was fed by his efforts," Peter remonstrated.