Forbidden Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book Three

by Jane Bonander

  “But … but how do you know he isn’t encouraging it?” Somehow she knew Buck wouldn’t, but the words spilled out anyway.

  “If he encourages it,” Charles said lightly, toying dangerously with the knife he’d used to cut their meat, “I’ll kill him.”

  A fresh jolt of fear washed over her, bringing Buck’s warning back to her ears. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course. As I’ve said repeatedly, Margaret, he’s just a breed. The hired help. He can be replaced, and I don’t tolerate insolence—from anyone.”

  Molly listened to his tone. It bothered her. What was it that Buck had called him? A feudal lord. Yes, he rather sounded like the kind of boss who delegated all the dirty work, but she would hardly call his actions feudal. He wasn’t medieval, and he certainly didn’t expect his help to pay homage to him. That was just Buck, trying his best to make her angry. He’d always been able to do that with such aplomb.

  She was grateful when Angelita entered the room carrying a tray of desserts. Charles picked a piece of thick, rich chocolate cake.

  Molly was sure she couldn’t eat another bite. First, Buck’s presence had caused her to lose her appetite. Now, Charles’s coldhearted cure for Nicolette’s crush made Molly’s skin crawl. Should she warn Buck? Surely he wouldn’t be so foolish as to encourage Nicolette’s advarices. He wouldn’t contradict his own warning to her. But he was, after all, a drunk. He was an irresponsible drunk, and everyone knew that drunks couldn’t be counted on to make sense.

  “Please,” Mrs. Alvarez said softly as she stopped beside Molly’s chair. “Try the flan. It’s a specialty of mine.”

  Molly almost refused, but thought better of it. The housekeeper already didn’t seem to care for her. It wouldn’t do to reject her “specialty.” Nodding slightly, Molly answered, “Then, the flan it shall be. Thank you, Mrs. Alvarez.”

  “Oh, call her Angelita, Molly. Everyone does.”

  Molly’s gaze locked with the housekeeper’s. She couldn’t read what was behind those hard, grief filled black eyes. “Would you mind?”

  The housekeeper straightened. There was fierce pride in her stance. “No, senorita, I don’t mind.”

  When Angelita left the room, Molly turned to her dessert. She was able to get down a few bites, and it was wonderful. Almost as good as Concetta’s. “Charles,” she began. “I don’t think that woman likes me.”

  He snorted. “Angelita? What difference does it make? She’s only the help, Margaret.”

  She almost asked if he’d kill the housekeeper, too, if she displeased him, but kept her mouth shut. His prejudice was so casual. The sign of something inbred; something he’d lived with a long, long time. She decided it was best to change the subject. “What time do you expect Nicolette to arriver?”

  He patted his mouth then laid the napkin on the table. “Since she knows you’re here, I expect she’ll be here bright and early in the morning.”

  She had hoped Nicolette would arrive before bedtime. It was an awkward situation, her being in Charles’s house without another female companion, especially since he’d voiced his desire for her. She shifted uncomfortably.

  “Well,” she said, pushing herself away from the table. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m suddenly awfully tired. I guess the trip is finally catching up with me.”

  Charles was at her elbow in an instant. “I understand. Here,” he added, guiding her toward the stairway. “I’ll see you to your room.”

  “That isn’t nec—”

  “Nonsense,” he interrupted, taking the stairs with her. “I intend to make the best impression I can, Margaret. I only hope your beauty doesn’t undo all my good intentions,” he added, giving her a sly smile.

  Molly swallowed hard. She suddenly hoped there was a lock on her bedroom door. Bidding him a hasty good night, one that gave him no opportunity to kiss her again, she hurried into her room and shut the door.

  Examination of the barrier revealed no lock. Biting nervously at her lip, she scanned the room, searching for something to put in front of the door.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Worry lines wrinkled her forehead and her mouth was pulled tight. Shaking her head, she stared at her reflection.

  “Would you just look at yourself?” she whispered. Whatever made her think Charles would risk everything by barging in on her in the middle of the night? He was too smart for that. He was wooing her, and she knew it. He wouldn’t jeopardize his chances by forcing himself on her like some eager adolescent.

  Her entire state of mind was Buck’s fault. Had he not materialized into her life like a persistent bad dream, she wouldn’t have even considered locking Charles out of her bedroom, because it was absurd to even think he would seriously enter it against her wishes.

  Trying to relax, she undressed and slipped into her white, short-sleeved cotton nightgown, then took the pins from her hair. She combed through the heavy mass with her fingers, stopping periodically at her scalp to massage the blood vessels that had begun to throb during dinner. Her fingers automatically threaded her hair into a thick braid which she let hang over her shoulder.

  Stifling a yawn, she crawled into bed and reached for her book. Although she was tired, she was also anxious to finish The Last of the Mohicans. She’d only discovered Mr. Cooper’s novels a year ago, and now she couldn’t get her fill of them. They were one long death dance of knives, scalps and hatchets, but she adored them. She’d tried for years to read Jane Austen and Louisa May Alcott, but somehow the lives the characters lived pulled little sympathy from her. She realized it was an odd reaction, coming from her, since those women were living the kind of life she’d always dreamed about.

  She propped two pillows behind her, leaned against them and started to read. The book was clumsy and lopsided, for she was nearing the end of the adventures of Natty, Chingachgook and Uncas. She became immersed in the story immediately, sharing Uncas’s sorrow upon witnessing Cora’s death.

  Magua buried his weapon in the back of the prostrate Delaware, uttering an unearthly shout as he committed the dastardly deed. But Uncas arose from the blow, as the wounded panther turns upon his foe, and struck the murderer of Cora to his knees, by an effort in which the last of his failing strength was expended …

  A furtive knock on her bedroom door startled her so, she gasped out loud and pressed one hand over her thumping heart.

  Holding her breath, she listened for the sound again.

  “Margaret?”

  She frowned at the door. “Charles?”

  “Might I come in for a moment?”

  His muffled voice beyond the door sounded urgent. Anxious, she put her book down and pulled the bedding to her chin. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “It’s about Nicolette.”

  Alarm spread through her. Pulling the bedding higher, she answered, “Is she all right?”

  “Yes, yes. But … I’d like to speak with you briefly.”

  Hesitating, she wrinkled her nose. “Well, all right.”

  Charles stepped into the room, stopped short, and stared at her, as if he’d been struck dumb.

  Molly felt his gaze crawl over her. “Well, what is it, Charles? Is Nicolette here? I didn’t hear anything—”

  “Margaret,” he said on a whisper of breath. “You are a vision.” His voice held traces of adoration.

  “Charles, please,” she urged, trying not to squirm under his heated inspection. “You’re making me very uncomfortable, and this isn’t proper at all. What about Nicolette?”

  The flare of heat in his eyes died slowly. “Of course. You’re right. I forgot to tell you to come down early in the morning. I’ve just gotten word that Nicolette will join us for breakfast.”

  She sagged against the pillow. “You had me scared to death. I thought something had happened to her.”

  He took a step toward the bed, then stopped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

/>   “Well, you did. Good night … again.” She waited for him to leave, then scurried from the bed and peered out the window. She hadn’t heard anyone ride up. She knew he wasn’t telling her the truth. She had the distinct feeling that he’d merely manufactured an excuse to see her in her night clothes.

  Leaning on the windowsill, she dragged in a breath, filling her lungs with the sweet night air. She briefly studied the cheesecloth covered mosquito board, grateful to have it, for insects slapped at the screen, attracted by the light.

  Glancing outside, she noted that someone moved near the corral. She pulled back slightly and watched him stroll toward the house. Her instincts told her it was Buck. So did the fluttering of her heart, she thought with a wry twist of her mouth. Refusing to leave, she stared at the figure moving beneath her window.

  He lit a cigarette, his face suddenly washed in the harsh yellow light of the flame. A slow, lazy smirk slid over his lips before he blew out the match, leaving him in darkness once again.

  She wondered what he was thinking, then realized she didn’t give a tinker’s damn. Pulling herself upright, she turned briskly from the window, crawled into bed and turned out the lamp. But sleep eluded her. She tossed and turned, punched her pillow and considered lighting the lamp and finishing her book. But she was too edgy. Too nervous.

  With a disgusted sigh, she threw her bedding off and slid from the bed. A glass of milk sounded like just the thing to lull her to sleep. She grabbed her robe, slipped into it and left her room, careful not to make any noise as she made her way downstairs to the dark kitchen.

  Buck took a long drag on his cigarette and watched the smoke as it was released on his breath. When he’d seen Molly at dinner, sitting at that damned long table like a duchess, he’d wondered who she was trying to fool. The trouble was, no matter how much he tried to believe otherwise, she looked right among Campion’s treasures. And he had no doubt that Campion thought he was getting another treasure. A trophy. Something to add to his collection. And he was. But Buck knew that if the bastard ever found out the truth, Molly would be tossed aside and disposed of like a crippled calf.

  And as much as he wanted to let her get hurt, he knew he couldn’t. She was trying so hard to be something she wasn’t. That damned prissy visiting music teacher routine was a role she was playing. She’d fool Campion for a while, but she would never fool him.

  One side of his mouth lifted in a wry half smile. Prissy teachers rarely, if ever, hung out their bedroom windows like hungry tarts, the backlight showing every luscious curve of their bodies. As she’d backed away and turned, her breasts had been visible beneath the lightweight nightgown.

  He shifted, trying to adjust himself more comfortably. Now, whether he wanted to or not, he’d probably dream about those breasts all night. His mouth watered, and he swallowed, knowing the symptom only too well. Whenever he was upset, randy as a billy goat or mad as hell, he wanted a drink.

  Swearing, he crushed his cigarette beneath the heel of his boot and crossed to the back door that led to the kitchen. Angelita always left milk out for him, knowing it was the only thing he drank. He’d learned to crave it, grateful something worthwhile had even halfheartedly replaced his craving for whiskey.

  As he pushed the door open, he heard someone gasp from inside. A figure stood at the counter.

  “Angelita?”

  “Lord in heaven, you scared me to death.”

  His heart jumped at the sound of the strained whisper. “Oh, it’s only you.”

  “Why are you creeping around in the dark?”

  He moved closer, noting that the moon flooded the kitchen, bathing her hair with silver light. “I could ask you the same question.”

  Molly grasped the collar of her robe, pulling it tightly against her neck. “I … I couldn’t sleep. I thought a glass of milk might help me.”

  He smiled in the dim light. “That’s my glass of milk.”

  “Yours? Oh, I didn’t know …”

  “Angelita always leaves some out for me. It’s the only thing I drink these days. That, and coffee.” He stepped closer still, unable to help himself.

  She cocked her head to one side. “Really? I find that hard to believe.”

  He reached out and touched the thick braid that lay over her shoulder. With his fingers beneath the plait, he moved his hand downward until it rested against her breast. His mouth watered and a lusty itch sprang in his groin. “Believe what you like, brat.”

  Clearing her throat, she stepped away and thrust the glass at him. “Here,” she offered, her hand shaking. “We can share it.”

  His fingers touched hers, caressing them lightly before he finally took the glass from her. He downed the rest of the milk in two swallows. “I guess that much will have to do.” Putting the glass on the cupboard with one hand, he reached out and grabbed the belt of her robe with the other, pulling her close again.

  She looked up at him, her eyes wide and wary. When she spoke, her voice sounded strangled. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  Unable to help himself, he loosened her belt and pulled her robe open. She was trembling, and her breasts quivered against the thin cloth of her gown. He wanted to touch her, fondle her, bury his face against her soft, swelling curves. He swallowed a groan and his hands shook with need. Although her skin was warm beneath the thin gown, she shivered, her entire body quivering beneath his touch. Suddenly, he pushed her away. “Get out of here.”

  She stumbled back, frantically closing her robe. “Why did you have to be here?”

  Her voice sounded more panic-filled than angry. Or maybe that was what he chose to hear. “It’s fate, brat. Someone has to save you from yourself.”

  Shaking her head, she moved silently toward the door. “But who’s going to save me from you?”

  She ran from the room, leaving him standing alone in the dark. Balling his hands into fists, he realized she had a point. Somehow he had to get himself under control. Somehow. Swearing again, he left the kitchen and crossed to the bunkhouse. He had no idea that seeing her again would make him want her so.

  His hunger returned. The milk hadn’t done its job. Needing to clear his head and cleanse his spirit, he went to the well and drew a pale of water. Without a second thought, he lifted it above his head and poured, drenching himself. It wasn’t a permanent solution, but it helped.

  Three

  Molly had just awakened from a restless sleep when her bedroom door burst open.

  “Margaret! You’re here! You’re finally here!” Nicolette ran to the bed and threw herself on the pink and gray coverlet.

  Molly yawned and stretched, then pulled her hair loose from the braid and combed her fingers through the tangled mass. Noting Nicolette’s barely leashed energy, she said, “No one deserves to be so cheerful so early in the morning.”

  Nicolette sat back on the bed and sighed. “And no one deserves to be as beautiful as you are so early in the morning.”

  “Ha! Such flattery will get you anything you want, you little liar.” Molly slid from the bed and stretched again.

  “It’s not flattery, Margaret. You’re so … so sensuous. So erotic looking.”

  “Erotic?” Molly frowned at her. “Now, how would you know about a word like that?”

  Nicolette made a moue. “Don’t think I haven’t heard the way Charles talks about you to his friends.”

  Molly gave her a stern look. “You shouldn’t be eavesdropping.” But the eavesdropping didn’t bother her nearly as much as the picture of Charles talking with his friends about how “erotic” he thought she was.

  Nicolette flopped onto her stomach and supported her chin with her fists. “I couldn’t help it. And anyway, I didn’t hear that much. Only that you had the voluptuous, erotic body of a goddess and the soul of a frightened virgin.”

  Molly hid her alarm. “And you didn’t find that an unflattering thing for your brother to say about me?”

  “Unflattering?�
� Nicolette bounded off the bed. “Oh, I’m sure he didn’t mean it as an insult, Margaret. Don’t you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

  Molly straightened her bedding. “Beauty isn’t very important in the scheme of things, Nicolette.”

  She waved the words away. “Oh, I know. Beauty is only skin deep, and all that rubbish. But I know you’re beautiful inside, too.”

  Molly had to smile, for the girl knew only those things Molly wanted her to know. The rest she would know—one day. She wondered if Nicolette would still find her “beautiful” when she discovered she had Indian blood.

  “C’mon, sleepyhead,” Nicolette urged, tugging at Molly’s nightgown. “It’s time for breakfast.”

  Molly let herself be pulled toward the bathroom. “Just how long have you been up? You’re far too cheerful for me.”

  Nicolette giggled and gave Molly a tight hug. “I don’t think I even slept last night I was so anxious to see you.”

  The giggle was infectious and sweet, and Molly returned the hug, but she’d never been a giggler. She’d never been a lot of things, and though she used to blame her miseries on her heritage, she’d long since realized that if you blame your parents for your failures, you have to give them credit for your success. She was bound and determined to be a success in spite of what she was: A bastard, a breed, and the product of a savage rape. Her father was a stranger and had never known or cared that she existed. Though Nicolas had always been a father figure to her, there had been times in her youth when she’d craved the love of the man who had sired her.

  “Well,” she said, tweaking Nicolette’s nose as she stepped away, “I’ll never get ready if you’re here. Why don’t you—”

  “Oh, please, Margaret. Let me stay. There’s so much I have to tell you, and I won’t bother you, honest.”

  Molly gazed at the girl. She was a budding beauty, and today, in a peach colored striped gingham with three drop flounces, she looked like a confection. And she was sweet and unspoiled, a realization that had surprised Molly when she’d seen how Charles doted on her.