Bound by Moonlight

by Donna MacMeans

  “You said you harbor issues of trust about me, sir. How so?”

  His hands pressed tighter a moment then released, though not before she felt a subtle disparity in the pressure of the squeeze and a slight tremor in his right hand.

  “In my business, Miss Havershaw, it is prudent to harbor issues of trust about everyone.” He leaned forward. “Especially attractive females.”

  His lips quirked in a way that made her stays tighten. She supposed she could forgive his earlier implied insult. She certainly could understand the pressure of not truly trusting anyone. Wasn’t that an apt description of herself?

  He reached inside his jacket. “In the spirit of mutual trust and cooperation, I have a gift for you.”

  A gift? Yes, she had noticed he had spent an inordinate amount of time in front of that jewelry store. She never suspected he’d been selecting a gift for her. A giddiness swirled through her as if she had sampled strong spirits. No man had ever given her a gift.

  He withdrew a tiny box. “Perhaps this will compensate for the sacrifices you have made in moving to my household.”

  She waited a moment after he placed the gift in her hand, savoring the momentary pleasure and suspense. Then she eagerly opened the silk-covered housing to expose a most unusual brooch. An opalescent blue stone surrounded by silver threadwork and weighted by a tiny silver bell glimmered in the sunlight. She shook the box to hear the soft tinkling of the bell, and in turn witnessed the seductive interplay of light buried in the confines of the blue gem.

  “They had a number of these stones. The color and shimmer reminded me of your eyes. The jeweler called it a form of feldspar, though I can’t remember—”

  “Adularia…feldspar adularia.” Her voice betrayed her awe. “It’s also called a moonstone.” The words seemed inadequate. It was not the expense of the brooch, though she imagined her aunt would pronounce it a “sentry against winter.” It was the personal nature of the gift. He had selected it with her in mind. She raised her gaze to his, conscious of her swelling emotion. If she wasn’t careful, she might truly begin to trust this man.

  “A moonstone?” He appeared surprised. “Then I suppose its appropriateness is not an issue, given your connection with its namesake.”

  She nodded her head; her throat tightened, making words difficult.

  “The jeweler suggested that this particular stone is said to protect the wearer from danger. Given that we are to embark on a venture that involves a certain amount of risk, I thought you would enjoy the added protection.”

  She hadn’t the heart to point out that she wouldn’t be able to wear the brooch when she most needed the protection. Even a moonstone hadn’t her unique abilities of transparency. She swallowed, and tried to blink back her threatening tears. “Perhaps you should have purchased a moonstone for yourself.”

  He looked startled for an instant, then turned his gaze away. “Perhaps I should at that.”

  He didn’t say as much, but she had the distinct impression that he was referring to a need based on the morning’s events rather than their future endeavor.

  “I would fasten the brooch about your neck, but perhaps that would be best in a less public venue.”

  Did she imagine the catch in his voice, the sudden detachment? What did she say that would bring such a result? His gift released a subtle yearning for a more intimate setting in her as well. After dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief, she nodded, and they turned as one with a quickened step toward the Kensington residence.

  THIS WAS A BAD IDEA. LUSINDA FELT it bone deep, most particularly in those bones pressed by the lip of the chair. Her fashionable bustle that extended and heightened the back of her overskirt was not conducive to the crush of sitting for long periods, and thus forced her forward into an uncomfortable position. It had been years since she had been relegated to a schoolroom. The fact that the well turned-out Mr. Locke filled the role of tutor made little difference.

  Her pleasant disposition inspired by Locke’s thoughtful gesture had slowly deteriorated since their return to the residence. Lusinda met the scowling Pickering, a distasteful older man who said little, yet managed to convey his disapproval of her presence and that of her cat, as well. Fortunately, Locke indicated her association with Pickering would be extremely limited, a consideration for which she was most grateful. She let Shadow loose in the conservatory, hoping he would earn his keep by chasing away the mice rumored to have taken residence.

  She shared an agreeable repast with Locke before he escorted her to the library for the purpose of continuing their conversation of the previous evening. Yet the morning’s exchange of confidences seemed to have been forgotten in his quest to educate her in the arena of political intrigue. He did manage to secure the brooch fastened to a velvet ribbon about her neck. Periodically, she twisted her shoulders just to hear the tinkle of the delicate bell. About the third time, she noticed his slight frown and wondered if he regretted presenting her with the gift.

  “Let us proceed with a history lesson,” he said, pacing back and forth before the desk. He obviously enjoyed his position of authority. That attitude forced her deeper into a sully mood.

  “I’m very familiar with history, sir.” She yawned, reminded that her unfamiliar surroundings last night had made for a poor night’s sleep. At least, she assumed it was the different bedroom and not the near presence of the only man who had witnessed her in an embarrassing state of undress. “I read the Times on a daily basis. Perhaps we can move beyond the lesson in history?”

  “Ah, Miss Havershaw, there is history taught in the nursery, and history that never makes the pages of the Times. This afternoon we shall discuss central Asia.”

  “I had thought we were to discuss Russia,” she said, a bit confused. History had not been her favorite subject, but his implication that their work would involve the powerful country to the north had intrigued her.

  “All in good time, Miss Havershaw, all in good time.” He pulled a large roll of paper from a specially designed cubbyhole and spread it out before her. “This is a map of central Asia, as we know it. You may recognize this country as India.” He pointed to the familiar peninsula on the eastern edge of the map.

  She nodded, a movement accompanied by the tiny bell, though she was far more interested in observing Locke’s hand circling above the map than in studying the country he designated. Had she imagined that tremor she had felt earlier when he had clasped her hands in his? Currently, he appeared in full control of both appendages.

  “And this large area to the north is controlled by Russia,” he said, spanning his hand over the upper edge of the map.

  “Now we come to Russia,” she replied a bit smugly, glancing at the giant land mass that smothered the regions below like one of Aunt Eugenia’s thick cream sauces. “Who controls this area in-between?” She swept her hand across the vast space bordered by India to the east, and Italy and Germany to the west.

  “Some of the most ruthless, blood-thirsty bandits ever to sit a camel.”

  “A camel?” She’d heard of such animals but had never encountered an individual who had actually seen one.

  “Much of this area is a desolate wasteland of sand and scorpions. A camel is a more dependable mode of transportation than a horse when crossing the desert.” He arched an eyebrow at her. “Did you believe all the world was as civilized as our London streets?”

  “Well no, I—”

  “Good. Because there is little civilized about this part of the world. Many a good Englishman has been savagely murdered and tossed aside in that abyss.”

  His hand twitched where it rested on the map, a quick impulsive movement. Had she blinked, she would have missed it all together. Her gaze leapt to his face, as impassive and withdrawn as stone. Her voice lowered to a more somber note. “If the region is so desolate and treacherous, why do we care who controls it?”

  “Even though the East India Company is no longer entrenched in India, the Crown benefits fro
m the trade. British authority governs and dominates the country. We reap the riches and therefore must defend the land from those that would take it from us.”

  “Russia?” she guessed, relieved to see a bit of warmth return to his eyes. A distasteful memory must have momentarily taken him away. The transformation reminded her that he had secrets of his own. Of course, he had suggested as much when they talked of trust earlier, though she thought he was referring to espionage.

  “Precisely,” he said. “They are a large enough power to seriously threaten India, and their presence to the north would pose a serious menace if they could find a way to transport their military across central Asia.”

  “And they can’t do that at present?”

  “The shahs and emirs that control the khanates are just as ruthless to the Russians as they are to Englishmen. Turcoman slavers routinely pick poor Russian fishermen off the Caspian Sea and sell them into bondage. The tsar has sworn to free his captured subjects, even if he has to move his army to do it.”

  “And you think the tsar is after more than slaves.”

  His eyes flashed approval, which tingled about her ribcage. She was surprised her little bell didn’t chime in response. “We are sure of it. Why do you think Queen Victoria was recently named Empress of India? Did you think it was just for the celebration?”

  “I thought it was performed out for respect for Her Majesty,” Lusinda said, surprised at his inference that there could be another possibility.

  “Indeed, partly it was, but it was also done to remind Russia that India is ours and to keep their bloody mitts off.”

  “I had no idea.” The concept was a bit overwhelming. The papers referred to Russia as a reluctant ally, but she hadn’t bothered to read to determine why. Of course, she had never imagined the intrigues of politics would affect her daily life amid the bustle of London. She glanced up at Locke. “And you call this a game?”

  “I didn’t coin the phrase. That honor belongs to Captain Conolly who was beheaded thirty years ago in front of the citadel in Bokhara.”

  The word “beheaded” brought a shiver to her spine.

  “So what is your role in this Great Game?”

  “Our role”—he lifted a brow in her direction—“will be to search out secret communiqués to see what the Russians are truly planning when they mount their troops on the borders of the khanates.” He shuffled and straightened a stack of papers. “There’s also the matter of a list of names that seems to have been misplaced.”

  Hmmph. One glance about this library would suggest that more than a solitary list could easily be misplaced. Books, maps, and papers were haphazardly piled on every surface. Only the beautifully detailed substantial globe and a green leafy fern managed to avoid a paper covering.

  “Where do we find these communiqués?”

  “We shall start by looking in the homes of various officials who have expressed some sympathy for the Russian position.” He seemed a bit relieved by her question, as if he’d stepped around an invisible obstacle. She mentally filed the observation to dwell upon another time.

  She supposed he meant that they would be making rounds of calls during daylight hours, until she remembered the circumstances of their first encounter. Suddenly, she had a dawning suspicion that the calls would be of a more secretive nature. “Such as the home of Lord Pembroke,” she said, “where I found you that first night?”

  He braced his arms on the table before her and leaned so close she could see the crinkles about the corners of his eyes. “I believe it was I that found you that first night.” His smile tingled down to her toes. “I’m afraid, however, your interruption distracted me from my mission. We shall need to go back and search his study more thoroughly.”

  He beamed at her with such confidence and admiration that a warning teased the back of her neck. She searched her memory to recall if they had discussed the conditions of her transparency.

  “You do realize that I need a full moon to become completely invisible, do you not?” she asked, watching the effect of her words play across his face. “My effectiveness has been compromised as the moon has already moved into its waning cycle.”

  He frowned.“But you were invisible last night.”

  “The moon is still fairly full, but it reduces nightly. It will take longer and longer to soak up sufficient moonlight to properly phase, and even then I may not be able to hold the condition for extended periods of time. At least, not as long as I did the night we first talked.” Her gaze involuntarily shifted to the spot on the ceiling where he had earlier secured the net. The trap had been removed. She had assured herself of that as soon as she entered the library last night, but the memory remained and taunted.

  “But you still retain a limited ability to transform, is that correct?”

  She drew her gaze back to him and nodded, setting the tiny silver clapper to chime in its silver housing. She struggled to keep the grimace off her face. Even she was tiring of that blasted bell. As it was his gift, she worked to shield her reaction.

  She wasn’t sure he even heard the irritating chime, as he appeared lost in his mental calculations, analyzing new information and adjusting outcomes accordingly. He was fascinating to watch, truly, and she yearned that such intelligence would be focused on her as a woman, and not on her abilities. She felt her lips tighten. Her gender didn’t appear to even be a consideration in his current calculations. Even the dreaded bell didn’t distract him.

  “In that case, we will concentrate on training to make those limited windows of opportunity as efficient and effective as possible.” He straightened, obviously pleased with his decision. “We shall plan and we shall practice.”

  “Practice?” Her lip curled in disbelief. “Have you forgotten that I’ve been practicing most of my life?”

  “Miss Havershaw, I’ll grant you that your expertise in picking a lock on a garden gate is unprecedented, but I assure you state papers are not left conveniently lying about on desks and davenports. You’ll need to know how to locate and crack a wall safe or a combination lock. Can you do that, Miss Havershaw?”

  His umbrage caught her up short. She stiffened her spine and looked pointedly at his right hand. “Can you?”

  If he noticed her reference to his tremor, he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he rubbed his fingertips together by his ear and smiled in a most mischievous fashion. “It seems I have skills to teach you, after all.”

  And it appeared she was destined to spend more interminable hours cramped in a chair. Her lack of excitement did nothing, however, to reduce his apparent enthusiasm.

  “How about climbing a rope? Have your years of burglarizing—”

  “Recovering,” she interrupted. “I’m not a burglar. Why is that concept so difficult for you to accept?”

  “Recovering,” he modified with a bit of a smirk.“I don’t suppose you ever needed to use a rope for escape?”

  “I’ve always used the stairs,” she replied.

  “That may not be an option where we’re going.” The man seemed almost elated, which she interpreted to mean she’d be involved in more than a minimum capacity.

  “Where exactly are we going?” she asked, a bit concerned. Increased exposure meant increased risk of discovery. He appeared distracted, absorbed in his plans and directives. She wasn’t sure he even heard her question as he paced the length of the library.

  “We’ll have to work out some way to communicate, perhaps by touch...”

  “Touch!” She stared at him in disbelief. “Have you forgotten I’ll be naked?”

  He stopped in his tracks and glanced up. A soft smile played about his lips. “No, Miss Havershaw, indeed I have not. That particular knowledge will taunt me in all our endeavors. But I will strive to overlook your lack of clothing, and I suggest you do the same.”

  “That’s easy for the one with all their familiars covered,” she said beneath her breath.

  “No, Miss Havershaw. I assure you, it is not.”

&nbs
p; Six

  “I SHOULD THINK THIS WOULD BE LIKE clockwork for an experienced thief such as yourself.”

  “I am not a thief,” she said, refusing to shift her concentration from the lock and lever before her. For two straight days, she had practiced her safecracking skills under Locke’s direction. The process had become more familiar, but certainly not easier. Her shoulders ached, the small of her back complained from her constant awkward positioning, and the compressed stays of her corset felt like Aunt Eugenia’s knitting needles poking into her skin.

  “Easy now. Don’t rush it.” His warm breath swirled about her inner ear, more distracting than his words.

  Having successfully raised the first three levers of the lock, she delicately twisted the pick while maintaining the elevation of the earlier jimmied tumblers. A slight smile tugged at her lips when she considered that, at least, her corset wouldn’t be an obstacle when she was cracking a real safe and not just practicing.

  “Concentrate,” Locke ordered off to her right. Although she never moved her eyes from the task at hand, she imagined her smile had triggered a narrowing in his eyes and a furrowing of his brow. After the past few days spent in such confined quarters, she could easily recall his facial expressions on command.

  A slight give of metal vibrated through to her fingertips. It was delicate work picking a lock. If she twisted just a tiny bit more…

  “Easy now,” Locke counseled. “Don’t rush the tumbler. Trust your fingers.”

  In a silent streak of black, Shadow leapt from the floor to the top of the safe. The sudden motion caused her hand to jerk, and the mechanism’s levers quickly fell back into place. She’d have to start all over again.

  “Bloody hell.” Locke slapped his hand on the desktop. “What is that foul demon of Satan doing in here?”

  Her fatigued arms fell to her side. She leaned slowly back in the chair, her stiff back complaining at the slightest movement! “I almost had the last lever. Perhaps when the time comes—”