Bound by Moonlight

by Donna MacMeans

  Indeed, he could only imagine. He tried not to laugh in an effort to be stern, but it was difficult, and not very effective. He scowled. “Lusinda.”

  “All right.”

  Her long, thin cloak jumped into the air as if it had a life of its own and molded itself around what he knew to be a shapely feminine body. Though the possibility of seeing her womanly attributes glow in luminous radiance no longer existed, he knew that only a single layer of cloth separated him from said attributes, and that knowledge registered in his groin.

  Bloody hell. He should have thought to bring a coat of his own, but then he hadn’t considered the effect a woman’s cloak would have on his long-denied libidinous behavior. Pickering had been right in that regard. He was a healthy man with healthy appetites, and in this context, ravenous.

  Her coat lifted at the hem, and two slippers jumped to attention. The coat arms discovered gloves in the pockets that gave definition to her hands. Finally, she completed the ensemble with a lacy black veil that draped over the front of her face, hiding the void that would otherwise appear beneath the hideous widow’s cap.

  Once he was sure they could leave the shadowed alcove without discovery, they hurried to the street. Then they walked, as a normal gentleman escorting a normal widow might, to the waiting carriage. At one point, he looked askance into the dark veil. The emptiness draped in black resembled the caricature of the grim reaper popular in Punch. A shiver slipped down his spine in the manner of one who has just glimpsed his future.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  Strange to hear words spoken by a human form without benefit of lips.

  “No,” he said. “I was thinking how much you resemble the image of death.”

  Her elbow stiffened beneath the light touch of his hand. He couldn’t see her face, but something in her manner suggested she didn’t appreciate his observation. She was silent for several steps.

  “Not to say that you remind me of death. Quite the opposite,” he quickly added. “However with that black coat and the lack of your...features...some superstitious bloke might construe that you resemble a gatherer of souls.” He forced a chuckle. “Why, all you’d need is a scythe and—”

  “What do mean, ‘the opposite’?” she interrupted.

  “Well...” This was difficult. He wasn’t exactly sure himself what he had meant. “Walking with you just now…it rather makes me feel alive.”

  That was an understatement. That she was safe and out of danger made him feel alive to the point of being giddy. He should be interrogating her about what she found in Farthington’s safe, and yet, at the moment, he was more concerned that she understood that he meant no harm in his earlier ill-considered comment.

  “I can’t recall ever feeling as alive as I did this night after I learned you were safe. I was so worried that something had gone wrong. Then you appeared and...I hadn’t realized how much I needed to know you were unharmed.” He smiled to himself, reliving the experience. “Of course, when you radiated so magnificently with the moon’s beams, I was most certainly glad to be alive.”

  “Or when we kissed?”

  He stopped, and she turned to face him. Of course, when they kissed! His manhood throbbed with the memory. He struggled to think of how to put into words the effect those kisses had on his life. How she made him forget the misery that his life had once been. How she reminded him what it meant to be embraced. Her black mourner attire reminded him that death had come close once before to claiming his soul, yet the reaper had passed on by, letting him live. Suddenly, he very much wanted to live, and she was responsible for awakening a joy that he thought had been buried forever. But he couldn’t think how to begin, how to put it all in words. So they stood looking at each other, or at least he supposed she was looking at him, in silence.

  “We should hurry,” she said. “The sky is not predicable this evening.”

  He nodded and took her elbow to take the final steps to the carriage. “And I have yet to hear the details of your investigation.”

  THE DOOR CLOSED TO THE CARRIAGE, confining her with Locke in an intimate wooden and leather environment. The carriage rocked forward, racing away from the possibility of the Farthingtons discovering her identity, racing away from danger. She relaxed onto the cushions of Locke’s well-appointed carriage, comfortable in the close confines. It seemed she spent a great quantity of her life alone in carriages. In some ways, these surroundings felt more like home than when she was surrounded by her own family. But, of course, she wasn’t alone. She was knee-to-knee with the only man who knew of her “gift.”

  “There isn’t much to tell,” she said, reaching over to lower the right window shade on her side of the carriage. She had left both sides raised on the trip to the Farthingtons’ so as to maximize the moonlight. Now, however, she preferred privacy. “I found the key and safe, just as you indicated, but there certainly wasn’t a list of names.”

  “Nothing in Russian or Arabic?”

  She was in the process of lowering the left shade when he reached over and stilled her hand, stopping the shade from cutting off all view of the outside world. She glanced his way, anticipating an explanation, but he just thinly smiled. She acquiesced. No one outside would be able to view anything of substance in the carriage through that limited space.

  “I’m not sure what those languages look like, but everything was in English.” Even in the dark interior, she could sense his disappointment. She removed her veiled bonnet and placed it on the bench beside her. She had purchased it for the coverage it afforded, not for its comfort. The stiffened lace of the cap scratched her neck while the veil obscured her vision. She was far more comfortable without it, even though she knew the effect was disconcerting. “Would you have been able to?”

  He glanced up, puzzled. “Been able to what?”

  “Read the documents if they were in Russian or Arabic.” His intelligence amazed her. Intimidated her, truth be told. What could she offer to a man that intelligent? Perhaps he shared similar concerns. Perhaps that is why he had remained silent on the subject of their kisses.

  He nodded. “Then what happened?”

  “Farthington and another man entered the room. The second man asked about the list and Farthington said he had passed it on. Nothing seemed amiss in the room, so they left.” She wished she had discovered something to make the mission worthwhile. “I’m afraid my first foray into espionage was not a productive venture.”

  “Not so... You’ve eliminated a possibility, and that is always productive.” His eyes narrowed. “Did you see who was with Farthington? Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “No. I just heard his voice.” She was about to say that the voice sounded familiar when she realized that Locke looked straight at her, not out the window, or at his feet or hands, but right at her. And not for the first time, even though she knew she was still in phase. “You’re looking at me.”

  He drew back. “Does that pose a difficulty?”

  His brow rose, giving him an incredulous air, an expression she found endearing.

  She smiled, though she knew he couldn’t see it. “Even my aunt has a problem looking at me when I’m fully phased—but you don’t. Why is that, Mr. Locke?”

  “I would think that not looking at the other person during a civil conversation would border on rudeness, would it not?”

  “And yet my aunt, who is one of the most polite women in all of London, has difficulty, whereas you do not. I shall repeat my question, why is that, Mr. Locke?”

  He dropped his head but a moment, then bit his lower lip. This was difficult for him, she could see that, but couldn’t imagine why. It was a simple question, really.

  “Not so long ago, I was confined in a dark place where hearing a voice, any voice, was a cherished event. It meant I was still alive, I was still human. Often I couldn’t see the speaker, so I’d imagine them.”

  He looked away and was silent a moment. She wanted to offer comfort, but in her c
urrent invisible state, she wasn’t sure what she could do.

  “I’d imagine their faces, make them complete in my mind.” He reached over and took her gloved hand in his. “I suppose I do that with you as well.”

  He was a rare man, indeed. One that could imagine her when there was nothing to see. A yearning that she could be with such a man beyond the conclusion of their mission began to build. To share a life with someone who wasn’t affected by her inconsistent visibility. Why, it would almost be...normal!

  “I imagine your face, even though I can’t see it. I can imagine your eyes, so direct and challenging, and your nose with that little upturn at the end.” He leaned forward and tapped her precisely on that very spot. She smiled at the rare mischievousness in his touch.

  “And I imagine your lips, especially when they’re touching mine.”

  He was affected by her kisses! Just as she was! She leaned forward and kissed him. How could she not? But before she could withdraw, he slid his hand up her arm and pulled her to him, finding her lips with unerring accuracy.

  While thus engaged, she felt his hand press at the small of her back, urging her to move onto his lap. It was heavenly, this feeling of being wanted, even while in phase. He wanted her. She had never experienced that with anyone before. She had always felt the freakish one, but now she was desired.

  She tingled all over, not sure if it was from his ardent kisses or because her body was phasing back. Before, such sensations were confined to her extremities; now the sensations reverberated in her most private areas.

  His hand fumbled with a button, then slipped inside her coat, finding her breast. She gasped from the sheer intensity of the explosions throughout her body.

  “Ever since that first night, I’ve wanted this,” he said, fondling the tip of her breast with his fingertips. “If we hadn’t been interrupted in the conservatory...”

  Then he stopped and grew still. Lusinda pulled back, afraid he was once again withdrawing from her.

  “What’s happening?” he asked. “You’re glowing.”

  She smiled; indeed, the interior of the carriage was illuminated as if a torch had been lit. “Without direct moonlight, I’m returning to normal.”

  “Whereas I may never be normal again,” he said, trailing kisses down her neck. “How long does this last?”

  “Not long. It varies.” Even without her restrictive corset she was finding it difficult to breathe. Delicious tremors racked her body from her knees to her nose. “I should be fully phased in...”

  His tongue laved an area immediately above her breast, an area that should have been covered by the coat. She glanced down to see that he had managed to unfasten all of her buttons. The fabric had parted, exposing her completely to his view.

  He glanced at her, a teasing grin on his face. “I’m sorry, Lusinda. I had to see. I didn’t want to miss it.”

  She gasped at the panic churning in her belly. Although she was accustomed—to a certain extent—to being naked in a man’s company while fully phased, no man had ever seen her thus. She wasn’t sure of his reaction.

  “My God, you are beautiful.” He raised both hands and covered her breasts. “Your skin has the alabaster sheen of a marble statue but the warmth of a living, breathing woman.”

  She pulled back and narrowed her eyes. “I am a living, breathing woman.”

  “Thank the Lord for that.” He placed his hands on either side of her and slid them down past the curve of her waist, then out along the flaring of her hips.

  “When you fell from that tree, your beauty nearly brought me to my knees. If I hadn’t been so concerned as to your safety, you would have had to pick me off the ground.”

  The bright glow produced by her phasing began to dim, leaving behind opaque skin tones. She wondered if now that she was normal, he would lose interest in her. But she soon learned what a silly notion that was.

  The carriage rocked through the deep rut worn in front of Kensington House before coming to a stop. Lusinda straightened in her position on Locke’s lap, much to his delight. He began to lave one of her breasts that seemed poised for his ministrations. His hands dipped into the sagging cloth of her coat and grasped her derriere. Her eyes rounded to Locke’s. “I’m not ready to leave the carriage.”

  “I quite agree.”

  He opened the latch window that allowed him to talk to the driver. “Keep driving, Fenwick.”

  “Where to, sir?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just keep moving.”

  The carriage jolted forward, as did she, a circumstance of which Locke took full advantage. He captured the tip of her breast in his mouth and suckled as an infant might. Her eyes grew large. “I’m not sure it’s proper—”

  “Miss Havershaw”—he released the nipple, which now extended beyond normal proportions, almost as if it were reaching for his lips—“I believe we’ve moved far beyond proper.” A smile tugged at his lips. He resettled her on his lap, only this time forcing her astride him. “Now, I propose to taste you in all the places I tasted previously, to see if there’s a subtle difference between your various phases.”

  Lusinda giggled, enjoying this wantonness between a man and a woman. “There should be no change. It was me all along.”

  “Never question the research, Lusinda,” he said before beginning to kiss her neck all over again.

  Emboldened by his attention, she determined to engage in some research herself. All those times she had ventured to the less respectable areas in London, she had witnessed men and women engaged in various titillating activities. A deep yearning pulled inside her. She loosened the knot of Locke’s neckcloth.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I want to see what you feel like.”

  Instantly, the bulge between his legs stirred and hardened, though her attention was directed to his chest. Locke made something of a choking noise. “Let me help you.”

  He removed his jacket and vest, her fingers already working on the buttons of his shirt. She unfastened four of the bone obstacles, then pushed her hands into the shirt opening. Her fingers slid through tight curls of chest hair, drawing a smile to her lips. Some men had hair on their chests, she knew from her observations, some men didn’t. Already her tactile exploration of his chest answered her unvoiced questions regarding the textures of a man’s body. She pushed the enlarged shirt opening over his shoulders, in essence trapping him in a restraint made of his own linen, so she could visually confirm all that her fingers reported. She splayed her fingers wide and ran them up the hard planes of his abdomen and chest till they uncovered his masculine nipples. Delight rippled through her. “Are they the same as mine?”

  “I wouldn’t think they could nourish a babe,” he replied with a grin.

  “Silly.” She laughed. “I mean, do they feel the same as mine do. When I touch you like this...” She leaned down and rolled her tongue around the hard protrusion, just as he had done to her earlier. “Do you feel a tingle?” She dragged her hand down the center of her chest to just below her belly button. “All the way down here?”

  “My God, do you know what you’re doing to me?” He placed her hand on the rising bulge. “Tell me if you believe I can’t feel your touch.”

  Of course, placing her hand on his straining cock did nothing to alleviate the pressure building within his trousers. James felt himself harden to unimaginable proportions, but with his wrists bound alongside his hips by the shirt restraint, he couldn’t reach far enough to loosen the fastenings. He leaned back, away from the naked beauty so intently studying him, shifting his hips slightly forward in an attempt to ease the pressure. Had she truly asked if her touch affected him?

  Both her hands pressed and molded his chest, exploring his anatomy beneath the fabric.

  “Lusinda, please...” he gritted out between his teeth. “I’m at your mercy. Unfasten the garments. I promise I won’t take advantage, just—”

  “You’re at my mercy?” For the first time she seemed to
realize that he couldn’t move his hands beyond a limited frame. A mischievous look crossed her face. She made short work of the buttons on his trousers, although coercing them through the fabric hole proved a bit difficult. He sprung from the loosened fabric like a phoenix reborn, which again delighted her.

  “I’ve seen men like you,” she confided.

  “Oh, you have, have you?” Her confirmation of his suspicions dampened his spirits a bit. What did he expect? She paraded about London naked on a monthly basis. Was it any wonder that she’d experienced naked men? She’d obviously enjoyed the meeting from the delighted expression on her face. She teased him as an experienced woman, confident with her sensual proclivities. Pickering’s insinuations taunted him. Although he knew Lusinda well enough to know she was not the baser sort that indiscriminately entertained men, her knowledge was apparently beyond that of an innocent.

  “Yes.” She slid her hand up his member and like an obedient dog, it stretched higher to receive more of her ministrations. “And when the man looks as you do now, I’ve seen the women position themselves thusly.” She raised her hips above his and balanced herself with the tip of his manhood aligned for her core.

  “Lusinda,” he said tightly, “I’m not sure this is wise.”

  She eased down, allowing the tip of his shaft to feel the moist inner lining of her core, but stopped before the entire head could gain entry. A drop of her juices ran down the length of his shaft in excruciatingly slow deliberation.

  “My God,” he ground out between clenched teeth. His entire being cried to thrust upward, while caution and some undecipherable hesitancy held him at bay.

  “Something’s not right,” she said, her face twisted in puzzlement. “The women appeared to just slip down on the man’s shaft like a candy stick plopped between a child’s lips.” She frowned. “Am I too small? Too narrow? Because I must confess, your shaft looks much larger than the ones I observed at the Velvet Slipper.”

  A tiny alarm triggered in the back of his mind. She was describing actions in terms of witnessing them, not participating. The discomforting observation began to claw through the sensual euphoria that made logical thought impossible.