The Trouble With Moonlight

by Donna MacMeans

  Surprised, James glanced quickly around the room. He heard her voice, but where could she be hiding? And how did she control this writhing unnatural entity trapped by the ropes? “Miss Havershaw?”

  He advanced into the center of the room, searching the areas that still clung to shadows. “You can come out now.”

  The net undulated with the shifting form beneath. Amazing! He could see straight through the wave of movement clear to the other side. “How do you do it?” he asked, his awe evident even to his own ear. “There’s no thread or wire. I can’t see a thing even in the light.”

  There was no answer, no reply, but 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. Langtree.”

  “You’re naked,” he said, his body responding with acute awareness and tantalizing pressure. Common sense whispered that he should withdraw his hand, but sense, common or not, abandoned him. Her lungs expanded against his chest as she gulped for air, driving the enticing nub deeper into his palm. Her position suggested her hips—naked hips—would be perfectly situated for penetration. His hardening manhood signaled it was up for the task. Sweet heavens, if only he could see her to tell if desire swept through her features the same way it played havoc with his. If only . . .

  A quick blow to his privates ended all thought. He groaned and rolled to the side, curled in a ball like a babe.

  Lusinda was somewhat surprised at the effectiveness of her instinctive knee jab. However, once relieved of the weight of his body, she easily crawled out of the cumbersome net.

  Free of his fiendish trap, she looked back at the motionless Mr. Langtree. A vague sense of remorse tugged at her heart. She couldn’t recall ever having purposefully injured another before. Though instinctively wanting to flee, she hesitated.

  “Will you be all right?” No answer. “Mr. Langtree?” Still silence. She bit her lip, not wanting to leave him alone if he needed a doctor’s attention. She took a step toward his back curled like a protective shell.

  “I’m leaving now,” she said. Of course, he wouldn’t know if she was leaving or not. She was careful not to make a sound as she crept closer, avoiding the rope webbing. She had bent over his head, just to make sure he was still breathing, when his arm lashed backward and grabbed her ankle. She cried out as she fell. He let go of his hold, but it was too late. She had lost her balance and crashed on top of the Persian carpet. He crawled along side of her while she gulped for breath.

  “Miss Havershaw, may we call a truce? Truly, I have no wish to harm you. I hadn’t anticipated . . .” He pulled himself to his knees and removed his jacket. He held it out to her. “Take it, please. Even though I can not see you, I can understand that you might feel a certain disadvantage.”

  “If I wear your jacket, I shall lose my only advantage. You’ll be able to see my location.” She struggled to slow her breathing, assuming that was how he knew precisely where to offer the garment. For the love of Jupiter, she should have run out the door when she’d had the opportunity.

  His eyes crinkled and a smile teased his lips. A pair of most handsome lips, she noted, now that they were free of the mustache. “I assure you,” he said, still a bit breathless, “I could find you even without clothing.”

  “Impossible.” She’d gone unnoticed too many times to believe anyone would have that ability. She pulled herself to her feet. He did the same, though he hunched a bit with his hands on his thighs. The bottom of the offered jacket puddled on the floor by his feet.

  “Test me,” he replied, the cockiness in his voice unmistakable. “Move about the room and I’ll tell you precisely where you are.”

  She headed straight for the door.

  “Don’t leave.” He drew a deep breath. “I’d only come to your house tomorrow. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just needed to make sure I had the right person.” He straightened.

  The right person for what? The words formed on her tongue, but she held back. Speaking would provide unwanted clues, and she was curious if he could truly track her as he had indicated. She slipped silently to the corner where he had initially waited for her. A cool air current slipped over her feet.

  “You’re in the corner by the fireplace. It’s a bit drafty over there, but it’s hidden from the door. You wouldn’t have looked there had you expected a trap.” He held out his jacket once again. “If you wish to stay in that corner, you may wish to reconsider my offer.”

  She bit her lip. Arrogant cur. She’d show him. She stepped lightly around the room to circle the desk. She slipped directly behind him.

  “You’re to my back,” he said without turning. “You do realize that by allowing you to stand there, I’m demonstrating my trust. My neck is just an arm’s length away”—he glanced down toward the vicinity of her kick—“and you’ve already proven an ability for violence.”

  Her cheeks warmed and she stepped away.

  She slipped to an oval wall mirror to see if she was phasing back to normal, but the mirror reflected only the shelves of books behind her as if she didn’t exist. The image, or rather lack of one, jabbed at her heart.

  “Why are you looking in the mirror?”

  That startled her. “You can see me?” A deep awareness shuddered to her very core. No one had ever seen her without clothes, and yet she had been prancing about the room like a total wanton. She snatched the jacket from his outstretched arm and slipped it over her shoulders. It wasn’t long enough to cover her as modesty would dictate, but under the circumstances . . .

  He smiled. “No, but I could tell you were positioned in front of the mirror so I just assumed, correctly I take it, that there was a purpose in your actions.”

  She ignored the gloating in his words. “But how could you tell I was in front of the mirror?”

  “Ah, my lady, you have a scent like no other.” He breathed in deeply, pleasure registering across his face. Just watching him sent a delightful tingling throughout her body. “It’s a floral scent, with a bit of spice. I’d never smelled anything like it until I met you this afternoon.”

  A disturbing thought pulled at the edges of her delight. She purposively avoided all scents and perfumes for just that reason. She was afraid someone would track her.

  “How long will you stay transparent?” he asked.

  She pulled her thoughts away from his observant nose. “It varies. If I stay away from the moonlight long enough, I will phase back.”

  “Phase?”

  “It’s the term we use.” She shifted uncomfortably, not accustomed to sharing information with someone outside of the family. She glanced at his
perceptive, clever eyes. He hardly seemed the type to believe in old superstitions. If he did, he’d be chasing her about with a pitchfork, determined to rid the world of evil spirits. Still, he did try to catch her with a net.

  “We? Are there others like you?”

  “Perhaps, but I’ve not met them. This is a bit of a rare condition.” And he was a bit of a rare man, she decided. He almost made her feel . . . normal.

  “But there are others.”

  She smiled at his tenacity. “Have you never heard of ghosts? I’m told I had a great-uncle, a Hessian, who liked to ride across the countryside in full-phase. Have you never heard of the headless horseman?”

  “Fantasy.” He waved his hand, dismissing the notion. “Tales told to frighten small children.”

  “How else to explain the unexplained?” Yes, she would miss this well-formed Mr. Langtree. Pity. Men of his acceptance were not common. But now that he knew of her abilities, as well as her address, she would need to rouse the family to move once again. Perhaps this time across an ocean.

  “I can’t remain here any longer.” She slipped the jacket from her shoulders. “My driver is waiting and my aunt will be worried.”

  “It’s not my intention to hold you prisoner.” He accepted the jacket and draped it over his arm. “In case you’ve forgotten, the door is unlocked.”

  She walked over to the library door and tested the truth of his statement. The door opened easily in her hand. She turned to face him.

  “Mr. Langtree, before I go, may I ask you a question? How did you know where to find me?”

  He smiled in a manner that brought heat to her chest. “I saw you when you recovered Mrs. Farthington’s necklace.”

  “The man in the study!” She gasped, suddenly realizing why he seemed familiar. “What were you doing there?”

  “I would have thought you’d have figured that out.” His cocky tone challenged her. “My name is not Langtree. I’m afraid I invented the character to lure you to this house.” He moved to the cabinet and withdrew a crystal decanter. “Would you care for a brandy?”

  “Not while in phase,” she replied absently, still puzzling over his statement. “You lied about your identity?” She supposed she should feel insulted by his deceit, but as one who routinely lied about her own circumstances, she was apt to be more forgiving. “So how do I address you?”

  “My name is Locke, Miss Havershaw. James Locke.” He raised his glass to her as if in salute. “Named by a frustrated headmistress at the orphanage who recognized my youthful ability to extricate myself from a locked room.”

  She laughed. “The name does suit you better than Langtree.” She thought back to the night in Pembroke’s study. “Let’s see . . . It was late. You were hiding behind the draperies in the study. The safe was unlocked, but that’s not unusual.” She couldn’t resist the slight smile that tugged at her lips. “Remembering a combination must be taxing, just as iron walls must provide a false sense of security. I often find safe doors closed with the latch not thrown.”

  “Do you, indeed?” he replied. “I’ve not experienced that tendency. I suppose it becomes a question of what one considers valuable enough to secure.”

  She glanced up quickly. Her eyes widened in surprise before narrowing in accusation, though he couldn’t see it. Instead, she let her disapproval drip through her tone. “You’re a thief.”

  “Such as yourself?” he added with a raised brow. “May I remind you that the necklace was not your property. That would make you a—”

  “Her husband shouldn’t have gambled away her property. I was only retrieving it for her.” Indignation stiffened her back. “I told you before Mr. Lang—Locke. I’m not a thief.”

  “Relax, Miss Havershaw. Neither am I, at least, not in the common sense.” He settled behind the desk with his drink in hand. “I only take information.”

  “You’re a spy?” She had heard of the existence of such people, but she’d never actually encountered one before. The notion made him a bit more intriguing.

  He smiled. Though not confirming her suspicion, she knew she had hit the truth of it. “But why would you be spying on Lord Pembroke?” Curious, she moved back into the room, but left the library door wide open in case she needed to exit quickly.

  “Have you heard of the Great Game?” he asked, abandoning his teasing tones for a more serious nature.

  “I haven’t time for games, sir. I have a family to support.” And a family to protect, she thought, again regretting that she would have to put a great distance between herself and Mr. Locke. She’d need a distance that not even his handsome nose would ascertain. A shaft of moonlight struck the pocket watch where it had rolled when Locke’s trap was sprung. A smile tilted her lips. She stooped to retrieve it and held it out to him.

  “You promised me twenty pounds, sir. I’m here to collect.”

  “And I will happily pay you that and much more.” He chuckled, a low sound that made her apprehensive. “Like it or not, Miss Havershaw, you’re now part of the game. A very vital part.”

  She could think of only one game where a gentleman paid a woman a great deal of money. Her spine stiffened, and her cheeks blazed hot with embarrassment. “I will not be your whore, Mr. Locke.”

  He choked on his wine, splattering drops of the liquid on the desk and papers. She turned and headed for the door, making it halfway across the room before she heard him gasp. “Wait! You misunderstand, I would never . . . I mean, not that I wouldn’t . . . I mean . . .”

  The poor man looked half-strangled. She waited for him to catch his breath so he could properly apologize. He owed her that much. She supposed she could forgive him for making such an assumption. She was, after all, alone in his residence, stark naked. A man might be inclined to think . . .

  “Good Lord, woman, I was inviting you to be a spy.”

  Stunned, she felt her indignation drain from her, leaving embarrassment in its wake. On one level, she was strangely disappointed. No one had ever made an indecent proposal to her before. She glanced at Mr. Locke, still struggling to clear his throat and catch his breath. Under different circumstances, she might consider . . . but then, there was no point proceeding down that path. The man obviously wasn’t interested in her for those purposes, but a spy? Surely, he could not be serious. She glanced at his glass, half expecting to see it drained. It was not. A spy?

  “Miss Havershaw, what you fail to realize is that you have no choice in this matter. Now that I know of your unique abilities—”

  She felt the blood drain from her face. “You can’t tell anyone about me. You have no idea what will happen if people find out.”

  “I’m sure Her Majesty’s service will take the utmost care in preserving your identity. After all, you will be performing a valuable service for—”

  “I’m afraid I shall have to decline, sir. You’ve overestimated my skills.” Her extremities began to tingle, a warning that she would transition soon, first to a pale ghost image and then her full solid self. Had she clothes on, the phase cycle would not present a problem, but as she did not . . .

  “It is a bit unusual, isn’t it, Mr. Locke?” Just thinking of the ridiculous notion made her smile. “A woman spy?”

  “I’m sitting here having a conversation with an invisible woman,” he replied. “I’m afraid, Miss Havershaw, you’ve redefined the meaning of the word ‘unusual.’ ”

  Three

  "MISS HAVERSHAW?”

  He strained his ears listening for the sound of her breathing. She was gone. Her fragrance was fading. Had he not choked on his brandy upon hearing her misinterpretation of his offer, he might have avoided forcing that burning liquid into his nose and thus noticed her departure earlier. Not that it mattered; he knew exactly where she would go. However, the room felt emptier, colder without her presence. Odd that her absence would affect him that way. He glanced at the open door. All his life, he’d learned to survive on empty and cold, yet at this moment, it felt . . . insufficient.
<
br />   He took a long swallow of his brandy. Of course, insufficient was becoming a close companion. Ever since his release from those long days trapped in a coffin-sized prison cell, he’d been aware of his own insufficiencies. He carried the knowledge of how to open a safe in his head—no one else in all of England knew as much—but his own traitorous left hand refused to listen. He clenched the hand tight into a fist, digging each fingertip deep into his palm, but it was no use. He couldn’t simply will the problem to go away. He’d tried that often enough. He relaxed his grip, letting each finger unfold with aching sensation. Without the control of both hands in tight situations, his value in an information-gathering capacity was only a fraction of what it needed to be. Never was that more clear than now. His name was without doubt the first on the purloined list of British agents and his ability to retrieve it questionable.

  He glanced at the door and smiled. But with Miss Havershaw there was hope. He emptied his glass.

  She may have given him the slip this evening, but he wouldn’t be so foolish as to let her escape again.

  “AUNT EUGENIA!” LUSINDA CALLED FROM THE HALLWAY as soon as she returned to the town house. Her dear aunt always waited for her return, but this time she had fallen asleep over some knitting. Her gray head bobbed gently with her breathing. Lusinda felt a bit guilty about waking her. Still, that trickster Locke might well be hot on her heels, and now that she’d been identified, they would have to move. “Aunt Eugenia.” She gave her aunt’s shoulders a squeeze. “You must wake this instant!”

  “Good heavens, child. What is the reason for all this ruckus?” Eugenia blinked rapidly and yawned. She realigned her spectacles before her gaze settled on Lusinda. She smiled. “You’re home. Did you recover the watch for Mr. Langtree?”

  “There is no Mr. Langtree, only a Mr. Locke.” Anger and concern over the consequences of his discovery had built to a considerable pitch on the ride home. Some of it slipped into her tone. “The watch was merely a ruse to trap me.”