Surrender in Moonlight

by Jennifer Blake

  "Miss? Miss Forrester? Are you all right?"

  Ramon leaned to grasp the lapels of Nate's jacket, heaving him up and over his shoulder. He swung toward the French doors, then pivoted back. His voice low, he said, "Answer them. Stall as long as you can, but don't take any chances."

  "What shall I tell them?" she asked in dismay.

  "Anything. Make up something, and don't forget the gunshot." He leaned to kiss her, a brief, hard salute on her lips parted in protest. Then, he was gone.

  "Miss Forrester?" As the call came again, the doorknob rattled.

  "Yes, just a moment," she answered. "I…I'm not dressed."

  She could not resist following Ramon to the French doors, watching as he moved like a burdened wraith along the veranda, merging with the darkness. Even as she whirled to go back inside, however, a woman screamed several doors down. A man in a nightshirt to his ankles and a tasseled cap appeared in a doorway. He stared fixedly at the dim movement where Ramon, with Nate on his shoulder, was straddling the railing, beginning his descent on the rope. As the hotel guest started along the veranda toward Ramon, Lorna cried out, running toward him, clutching his arm and babbling hysterically of intruders, prowlers, everything she could bring to mind. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ramon swing out, then disappear from sight.

  "Here, I think I saw your intruder just there," the man said, trying to shake off Lorna's grasp. "He's getting away. Hey! You there!"

  He was about to set the chase hard on Ramon's trail. There was only one thing she could do, and, without hesitation, she did it. She gave a low cry and swooned with boneless elegance into the man's arms. He held her for a stunned moment, his hold slowly tightening; then carefully, as if she were made of finest porcelain, he lowered her to the floor just inside the room from which he had come.

  "Well!"

  The man's wife, a woman of large girth made larger by a yoked nightgown with layers of ruffles and sleeves to the wrists, appeared in the doorway. With her fists on ample hips, she stared at Lorna, at her creamy shoulders sweetly curved above the rounded neckline of her nightgown with her wrapper falling open, and at her hair lying in shining splendor across her husband's arm as he held her.

  "She fainted, pet," he said helplessly.

  "Did she indeed?" Lorna, watching the woman through slitted eyes, saw her swell with indignation.

  "She had a fright, I think. A man outside her room. Perhaps if you could bring your smelling salts?"

  "A few drops of water in the face sometimes suffices," the woman declared with a voice of grim authority.

  Lorna, seeing her step ponderously to the bedside carafe, pour a full glass, and start back, thought from the look of bland malice on the woman's face that it would be prudent if she revived by herself. Accordingly, she let her lashes flutter upward, sighing artistically. She looked around her, began to raise a hand to her face only to realize she still held the derringer and lowered it hastily again. She assumed an air of delightful confusion, frowned, then gave a realistic shudder, her gaze going to the woman now standing over her.

  "Oh, Madam," she said. "It was a prowler, a murderer at the least, come to smother us in our beds and steal our jewelry. I saw him outside my window and fired my little gun, but he got away."

  "So, that was you who made that infernal racket?" the woman said, her small mouth pinched as if she tasted something sour.

  "I saw the man, too, Martha," her husband said placatingly. "Looked like he was carrying something to me. What did you think, my de-uh, young lady?"

  "I couldn't say, I'm sure. I just closed my eyes and pulled the trigger of my pistol as my dear uncle taught me. I don't think I even hit him, for there is a great hole in the glass of my door, and I don't know what the owners of the hotel will say about the damage." She gave a worried shake of her head, then brightened. "But, perhaps I scared him away, which is the important thing, or so my uncle always says."

  "Yes. Yes, indeed," the man agreed. "I expect we may all owe the safety of our valuables, if not our lives, to you, young lady."

  "Humph," his wife said, her gimlet gaze on Lorna's shoulders where her husband still held her.

  By that time, the veranda was filled with people, all talking at the same time. Lorna, shivering now with reaction, was happy to have the man she had accosted take over the task of explaining. Gaining her feet with his solicitous help, she turned from them all to the veranda railing, staring with anxiety as a group of men emerged from the hotel entrance down below and began to look around. Among them was the desk clerk, the night watchman, and, ironically, Lorna's own guard. They turned, shouting up, wanting to know if anyone had seen which way the prowler had gone. A man, down from where Lorna stood, pointed toward the harbor. Immediately, she contradicted him, declaring that she had seen a definite movement on the carriage drive to the right. She turned to the man in the nightshirt, urging him to corroborate her observation. To her delight, he did so, though she was well aware that he had not so much as looked in that direction since she had latched hold of him. Her only worry was that Ramon, instead of striking for the harbor and the Lorelei, had actually gone in the direction she indicated.

  By the next morning, it was plain that he had not, for though police constables had been called in and the streets combed until daylight, no sign of the prowler had been found. They had discovered Nate Bacon lying behind a grogshop on the lower end of Bay Street. He had smelled of cheap whiskey and his pockets were empty; not surprising, considering the locality in which he had been found. The questions put to him by the constables had been met with surly answers. He had no memory of how he had come to be where he was, he said, and did not consider the matter anybody's business except his own. Making his way to the docks after he was released, he was seen to stare in rage and chagrin at the place where the Lorelei had been tied up the night before.

  It was Lorna who saw him. Unable to sleep after the turmoil, she had risen early, put on her clothes, and left the hotel. She had walked for a time but turned, finally, as if drawn, toward the harbor. Seeing Nate, she had hung back out of sight, coming out only after he had stalked away uphill toward the Royal Victoria. She stood for a long while, resting against a piling, gazing out at the blue-hazed North West Channel, where Ramon's ship had steamed away during the night. She watched the fishing boats going out, followed by clouds of gulls with the light of the rising sun on their wings. The shifting colors of the water were still a wonder as the sun grew stronger, filtering through its clear depths. As the haze on the water cleared, Hog Island loomed sharp and clear, so close a strong swimmer could reach it with little effort. The wind blew the smells of decaying conch shells and ripening fruit down the shoreline to vie with the smell of coffee and baking bread from somewhere nearby. It rustled the palms and sighed through the sea grape trees. Men woke and stretched where they had been sleeping rolled up in the lee of the warehouses. They shouted at each other with rough oaths and obscenities. When one, down the dock from where she stood, unbuttoned his trousers and began to attend to a necessary morning function against the trunk of a palm tree, she turned away. Gaining Bay Street, she swung west, walking aimlessly, leaving behind the hammering and sawing of construction just beginning.

  Ramon was gone. He could not have delayed, not and been able to make the run with a chance of success. She had not expected him to stay behind after the fiasco of the night before; still, she felt numb, bereft, as if a part of her had been severed. Would it have been so terrible if he had elected not to make another run? Would it?

  What was she going to do? Her lack of control when near Ramon was degrading, a bitter blow to her pride. He had only to touch her, anywhere, and she became weak and pliant in his hands. The sensuality that he brought forth within her was an affront. She did not want to be so aware of her body and its responses, to crave the feel of his under her hands. She wanted peace and order and self-respect. She wanted an end to this peculiar suspended feeling in her life. She wanted stability. She wanted love.


  Ramon did not love her. He was obsessed with his need for her body, with the passion she evoked in him. He cared nothing for her as a person, had only contempt for the processes of her mind. It did not matter to him what she felt, whether she was abased by the strength of the desire he aroused in her, or whether his every act of possession drew tighter the bonds of love that held her. But, if he did come to feel some more tender emotion toward her, what then? He had made it plain he had no place for a woman in his life-other than as a release, a convenience separate from the job that he was doing.

  What would happen if she ceased fighting him, if she succumbed to the lure of his desire for her and lived only to be with him when he wanted her? Could she bear such a life in the shadows, or would the sweetness of the times they shared change slowly to the bitterness of shame? She was certain, given her own strong sense of herself as a person of value, that what she feared most would happen but, oh, how tempting it was to throw caution into the sea and take the risk.

  "Lorna!"

  She turned at the sound of her name and saw Peter hastening after her. His smile was wry as he neared, removing his hat to sketch her a quick bow.

  Her mouth curved in gentle mockery. "Looking for me again?"

  "Conceited wench," he said, "Of course I was. I called to you three times just now, but you were so preoccupied you didn't hear."

  "I'm sorry," she murmured. She took his arm, and they strolled, leaving the warehouses and shops behind, coming into the open road with only a straggling house or two on the left and the wide expanse of the sparkling turquoise ocean on their right. They spoke of the captains who had left on a second run, and of the engine repairs that had kept him from being among them-thus leaving him able, to his delight, to serve as her escort. He mentioned the opera, and so full had been the time since she had said good-bye to him the night before that it was a moment before she could recall it and enter into a discussion of its merits. In a few minutes, they came to a clump of sea grape trees growing beside the sea wall that had been erected just there. He stopped and dusted the top of the wall with his handkerchief before seating her and dropping down beside her.

  Peter hesitated, as if choosing his words with care. "I understand there was some disturbance at the hotel last night."

  "You are a master of understatement. Your British heritage, no doubt," she said, sending him a smiling glance. "The disturbance was a prowler. I shot at him."

  "I take it you didn't hit him."

  "Unfortunately, no." It was difficult to tell if he accepted her explanation at face value. She almost wished he would not, for she did not like abusing his trust.

  "I didn't realize you kept a gun about your person. I would have been more careful how I conducted myself!"

  She managed a smile for his sally. "It was a…recent acquisition, but I don't take it everywhere."

  That much was certainly so. She still had the small weapon secreted in the drawer of the washstand. It gave her confidence to have it there; why, she could not have said. She had watched her uncle fire a much larger pistol once, watched him load and unload it, but had never handled one herself until the previous night.

  "Did you get a look at the man?" he asked, the expression in his dark blue eyes serious.

  She had been over this with the very correct police constable who had been called in the night before. It had been unpleasant, that crisp interrogation, and she was not certain the man had believed her tale, but he had had no choice but to accept it. Similar questions now could not surprise her.

  "I'm afraid not. It was a dark night."

  "Yes," he said thoughtfully. "Sometimes, if you know a person well, a great deal can be told from a mere outline."

  "It was not anyone I knew well."

  He nodded. After a moment he said, "Does this…incident have anything to do with your sudden need for other lodgings?"

  "My what?"

  "I had meant to wait until I had plied you with food and wine at dinner this evening to do my prying, but I'm a great believer in grasping opportunities. You have been making inquiries about town for another place to stay. I wondered if you…if there was someone who has been annoying you at the Royal Victoria."

  There was, of course, but she had no wish to have him feel responsible for remedying the situation. She had a vague feeling that there might have been something more he had wished to ask of her. Had he considered making her some kind of proposal? She was relieved that he had apparently, thought better of it, but could spare little thought for the form it might have taken. "No, no. It's just that the expense-"

  There was no need to say more. "Ah, yes, money. Everything is becoming hellishly high as the money pours in from Nassau's newest form of piracy. I'm sure your uncle didn't expect it when he handed over funds for your stay. Who could?"

  "Yes," she echoed stiffly, "who could?" How distasteful was all this subterfuge, these lies.

  "I don't see the problem, however. Surely Ramon will stand as your banker; Lord knows he has enough of the ready. You need not feel in his debt; your uncle will certainly want to repay him."

  She sent him a sharp glance, afraid of the whip end of sarcasm in his light words. It was not there. "Possibly," she agreed, "but I dislike being indebted in any way. And there is no need to pay the toll for the most luxurious accommodation in the city."

  "It's where a woman like you belongs," he said simply.

  "You don't stay there," she pointed out.

  "I'm thinking of moving."

  The smile he gave her was warm, leaving little doubt as to his reasons for contemplating the change. She said sharply, "Not for my sake."

  "There you go again," he complained. "Was there ever a more self-centered female? Have you had breakfast?"

  "No, but-"

  "I have a notion to try out the service and cuisine of this hostelry before I give them my custom. Come along."

  "I'm not hungry."

  "But, I am. You may have the great felicity of watching me gorge myself."

  She went with him because he would have it no other way. In the same manner, in the next few days, he coaxed and bullied her into taking not only dinner with him every night, but the midday meal as well. She was dragged up and down the Queen's Staircase, the great flight of stairs cut from solid limestone by slaves some seventy-odd years before as a means of access between Fort Fincastle and the town. They explored the fort also, laughing over its walls constructed in the form, though not deliberately of course, of a blockade steamer; the fort's flagstaff was even in the shape of a mast. Because Fort Fincastle was built on the highest point on the island, it was possible to see far out over the sea, to the North West Channel and the reefs and islands that lined it. For this reason, it was used these days as the location for a signal tower.

  Another day, they visited Fort Charlotte, too, on the west end of town, strolling around its massive walls and staring at its obelisk while a carriage waited. Nothing would do then, except that they also see Fort Montagu on the east end of the island, though it was something of a disappointment after the other two, being little more than a massive ruin. The main pleasure of the outing was that they were able to hire horses and ride a part of the distance along the beach, with the hooves of their mounts kicking up sand and spattering sea spray, and the trade wind in their faces.

  Not all of her time was spent with Peter. She managed finally to speak to Mrs. Carstairs. The woman seemed as doubtful of her need of employment as Peter had been of her need to economize on her place of lodging. She had flatly refused to allow Lorna to work in the shop and wait on customers, but was persuaded, finally, that the men crowding the city had need of shirts. If Lorna would make up a few samples, she would supply the material and arrange to sell them through a tailor she knew. It was plain to see, however, that the dressmaker expected her desire for employment to end when Ramon returned.

  The sewing did not prove difficult. It scarcely occupied half Lorna's attention, though many of her free hours. She acqui
red the habit of taking a basket filled with cut-out pieces up to the belvedere on the roof of the hotel, where the light was good and the view of the sea exceptional. Because of the height, she was seldom disturbed, and then not for any length of time. She looked up often from setting stitches to stare out over the ever-changing waters of the ocean, straining her eyes down the North West Channel in the direction from which Ramon must return.

  She heard nothing from the Lansings. It was as if she were no longer alive, so completely did they drop her from their guest list. She had thought at first it was because Ramon had not insisted upon her inclusion, but as the days passed she began to wonder if it were not more than that. Once, as she crossed the lobby of the hotel, she saw the large woman in the arms of whose husband she had fainted on the night of the excitement speaking behind her hand to another lady, her eyes malevolent as they followed her. Another time, she was aware of women whispering behind her as she left the dining room. More than once, she glanced at a man to find him watching her, a speculative gleam in his eyes as he inspected her with obnoxious familiarity.

  She no longer had time for the gatherings on the piazza; it was too difficult to concentrate on her sewing while being plied with offers of drinks and, also, invitations. The peculiar thing was that most of the requests for her company seemed to be for events that would occur in the late evening. More than one night, in the late hours between midnight and dawn, she had awakened to the sound of raised voices remonstrating with her guard in the hall outside her room. They were always male. Still, she did not spend much time worrying over it. She had no desire to go out, except now and then with Peter; no need for other company or the gaiety of the social whirl. Mrs. Carstairs had approved the work she had done and given her more, and that was all that mattered.

  Her main source of news of the war at this time came from the English papers brought in on the transport ships. Peter shared his supply of them when a new bundle arrived. The things she read concerning New Orleans filled her with pity and impotent rage.