Moontide Embrace (Historical Romance)
Read Moontide Embrace (Historical Romance) Online
Authors: Constance O'Banyon
Tags: #Historical, #Romance, #Fiction, #19th Century, #Western, #Multicultural, #Adult, #Notorious, #Teenager, #Escape, #Brazen Pirate, #New Orleans', #Masquerade, #Tied Up, #Kidnapped, #Horse, #Sister, #Murder, #Enemy, #Wrong Sister, #Fondled, #Protest, #Seduction, #Writhed, #MOONTIED EMBRACE, #Adventure, #Action
Table of Contents
Copyright © 1987 by Constance O'Banyon
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior
written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes
used in reviews.
This is for you, Karen and Gerald Gee. How far we
have traveled together—how many unforgettable memories
we shared. Amid tears and laughter we faced our growing
years and survived only because we had each other. I would do it all again if I had the two of you beside me.
In loving memory of David Joe Gee. You touched our
lives so briefly, but left an imprint that will endure. I believe we are better, and more tolerant, for having known you.
To my friend, Phil Cease, from the Great American Shoe Store. Thank you for your wonderful sense of humor that allowed me to make a pirate out of you.
Moon Tide
Moon Tide rising impels frothy waves upon the shore.
Cannons break the silence like the thunder of
impending war.
You tantalized and seduced my love, oh deceiving
devil moon.
In your golden light of splendor you hide the
promise of forthcoming doom.
The canvas spread to catch the wind as my love sails
to sea.
Moon Tide you are triumphant, for he loves duty
more than me.
Constance O'Banyon
Outside Boston Harbor, 1811
A heavy fog hung in the air, making it impossible to see
more than fifty feet ahead. With her captain at the helm,
the
Winged Victory
was running smoothly over the choppy sea. She was a twenty-eight-gun frigate with a long keel that produced a finer line than that of most frigates, and made her ride lower in the water. Her
undercut hull was built for swiftness, adding several knots
to her speed. Her three masts supported yards of white
canvas that now billowed in the wind.
Judah Slaughter, her captain, stared through the fog. A
worried frown creased his brow, and he wondered how
much longer he would be able to keep the
Winged Victory
afloat. There was precious little money coming from the
coastal trade. His cargo from Boston to South Carolina was usually furniture and household goods. The return
cargo was always raw material—cotton, timber, or sugar
cane. After paying the crew's wages, there was hardly enough money left to buy supplies for the next voyage.
The first mate, Philippe Cease, a man of medium height, with soft blue eyes and a ready smile, made his
way up the quarterdeck. Approaching his young captain,
he stopped at his side, and both men stared into the fog,
trying to catch the first sight of the Boston shoreline.
Judah Slaughter stood with his legs widespread, while
the wind ruffled his golden, shoulder-length hair. His
white linen shirt, with its crisscrossed ties, was open at the
throat revealing the golden hair on his broad chest. Judah
was a handsome rogue. His face was deeply tanned; his
turquoise blue eyes were penetrating and seeking, almost
overwhelming to any person he chose to intimidate.
Philippe knew his young captain was a powerful force
that invoked confidence from the crewmembers of the
Winged Victory.
Without question they followed his or
ders to a man.
Judah caught the smile that curved the rough plane of
his first mate's face. "Is it visions of gold that hold your
attention, my friend, or were you thinking that you are only hours away from home?"
"Neither. I was just thinking that there are very few
men who have a gut feeling for the sea, even fewer who
have a deep kinship with it —men who use the seven seas to their best advantage, and feel the slapping of the waves
in some innermost part of their brains. In all my life I have known only three men who had that God-given ability. Your papa was one of them, and you are another."
Judah smiled at the compliment. "Who was the third?"
Philippe grinned, and his blue eyes danced. "With all due modesty, I must admit it is none other than I." A teasing light sparkled in his eyes. "And to think my mother wanted me to be a cobbler, and make shoes. Had
I followed her advice, I would have missed sailing with
your father and yourself, and some of the greatest adven
tures of my life."
Judah felt proud that Philippe should compare him to
his father, for Philippe had stood by him when he was
nothing more than a young, floundering youth learning to
be a man. Judah had never known his own father, who had died when Judah was but an infant. It was Philippe who had served his father, taking the young Slaughter under his wing and teaching him about the sea.
"With you, I am reminded of your papa. When you issue an order, you never raise your voice in anger, yet your men would follow you into hell. Your papa would be proud of you."
The
Winged Victory
had always been a privately owned
vessel. It had once belonged to Judah's father—it now
belonged to Judah. Daniel Slaughter had won many sea
battles when he had used the ship in the Revolutionary
War. He had sailed her as a privateer, to help the Ameri
can cause, and he had been a hero, decorated for bravery
by President Washington himself.
But he had been killed in a sea battle involving the Barbary pirates. That fact burned in Judah's heart. He hoped one day to face those pirates and gain some amount of satisfaction.
At Judah's mother's request, Philippe had taken over the
Winged Victory,
and had enlisted her in trade for
several years. But very little money had come from the
venture. The ship had fallen on hard times, and was placed in dry dock until Judah was old enough to take her out and make her seaworthy again.
Judah looked at his first mate. "I have learned much from you, Philippe. You took a half-grown lad, and made a sea captain out of him. Do not think I am not
aware of the times you stood at my side, quietly showing
me the right way to carry out a deed. Most of what I am, I owe to you, my friend."
Philippe clapped Judah on the back in a rare show of
affection. Always when the crew was about, Philippe
treated his captain with professional respect. "I owe it to
your papa to look after you, so I stood in his place and
taught you the things he would want you to know. I guess
you could say I borrowed the joy that would have been his in watching you develop into a fine captain." Phi
lippe's eyes danced with mischief. "Of course, I never got
around to teaching you about women . . . but I believe you were born knowing about them."
Judah laughed. "Not so, my friend. I find myself in a
quandary where the fair sex are concerned. I admit to
being at a loss when it comes to having an intelligent
conversation with them. Besides my mother, I find very
few who have a serious thought in their heads."
"What about your pretty songbird, Adriane Pierce?"
"Adriane does not have to be intelligent. She has other
attributes to her credit."
"Such as?"
Judah smiled. "She has a lovely voice."
"Ah, yes, I have heard her sing. She does indeed have a
lovely voice," Philippe agreed.
Judah thought of Adriane. He had met her one night
when he'd attended one of her performances at the Blue
Rose Theater in Boston. Her face was lovely, and her
voice sweet. He had been surprised when she had allowed
him to call on her, and his puzzlement had deepened
when she'd begun to favor him over older, wealthier men.
She had now been his mistress for two years.
The watchman broke into his thoughts, yelling down
from the crow's-nest. "Land ho! Boston Harbor dead ahead."
Judah knew these waters as well as any man, knew
where to look for sand bars and shallows. Bringing the
Winged Victory
about so her sails caught the billowing
wind, he headed her nose into the horizon and homeport.
A heady wind dipped out of the angry, gray sky and
slammed frothy waves against the
Winged Victory,
which was riding high in the channel since her cargo had been
unloaded and placed in warehouses along India Wharf.
Judah, draped in a black cape, turned his face to the wind, tasting the salty mist that wet his lips. His turquoise blue eyes moved past the channel, choked with
sailing vessels, to the shops, the numerous inns, and the
brick warehouses that cluttered the waterfront.
Since Boston was located on a peninsula, the city was
almost like an island, and it was quickly becoming a major harbor, in spite of the fact that many American ships were being challenged by British, as well as the
French fleets. Rumblings of war were in the air. America
was waiting, holding her breath. She had enemies— powerful enemies. Aside from the English and French that tormented the American shipping trade, there were the Barbary pirates to contend with. The pirates controlled the Mediterranean, and demanded tribute from any vessel within her waters. It did not matter that a
peace treaty had been signed between America and the
Barbary States in 1805. For several years now the Pasha
of Tripoli had renewed his piratic attacks, taking Ameri
can ships and enslaving both the passengers and crew,
sometimes even women and children.
Judah knew in his heart that one day he would do battle with the Barbary pirates, and avenge his father's
death. His most fervent wish was that he might stand
face-to-face with Abdul Ismar, the man who had struck his father down.
The dark mood left Judah and a smile curved his lips
as he caught sight of a lone carriage rattling down India
Street, the horses straining against the wind. After being at sea for the last month, he welcomed the thought of a few hours of pleasure with Adriane.
Judah waved to his crew and, with a chuckle, charged each of them not to waste their first night ashore on the
pleasure of women and demon rum.
Adriane poured wine into the delicate glass, then handed it to Judah. Her heart was beating wildly as he
lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip, his eyes moving
down her body. Even though she was five years his senior,
she found him to be the most exciting man she had ever
known.
He reached out and pulled her onto his lap, and she melted against him, trying to analyze her feelings. Why
did Judah Slaughter have the ability to turn her bones to
molten lava? She had known many men who desired her.
What was so special about him?
He twisted a red curl around his finger and gently pulled her face closer to his. Shivers of delight raced
through her as his lips touched her mouth. "Can you stay
long?" she questioned breathlessly.
"No. Just the night."
Disappointment clouded her eyes. "But why? I have
missed you. I had hoped we could — "
His mouth covered hers to silence her. When she was
breathless from his kiss, he raised his head and smiled down at her. "We must make the best of the time we have," he whispered.
Still hurt that he was not going to spend more time with her, Adriane drew back. "Why can you not stay a day or two?"
"My mother has sent word that she wants to see me. I
must leave early in the morning."
"Will you be back before you sail again?"
He toyed with the bow on her gown. "I don't know."
Adriane sighed heavily and laid her head against his
broad chest. She had realized long ago that she would
never hold the smallest part of Judah's heart. She would
have to be content with the knowledge that, at the
moment, he desired her. She was wise enough to realize
his craving for her would wane in time, and she would have to let him go. Already she could read discontent in
his eyes.
As his lips moved down her arched neck, Adriane ran
her fingers through his golden hair. She must not think of
tomorrow and the agony of parting from Judah. Tonight he belonged to her, and her alone.
Judah called to his mother as she waited on the steps of
her modest, red brick house, and Gabrielle Slaughter's eyes softened when they rested on her son's handsome face. Joy sung in her heart as he strode toward her, his black boots clicking on the cobblestone walkway.
When he reached her side, Judah picked her up and
hugged her tightly. "You are looking wonderful as always.
I believe you live life in reverse and grow younger with the
passing of time, Mother," he said, placing her on her feet
and beaming down at her.
A soft smile curved Gabrielle's lips, but her eyes were clouded. "Welcome home, my son," she said with a heavy
French accent. "You always know what to say to make me
feel good about myself."
Judah did not miss the troubled expression on her face
as she led him into the sitting room. "Is anything the matter?" he asked. Like his father before him, Judah spoke with a definite Boston accent.
"We will speak of it later," Gabrielle responded as
Nelda came in carrying a tea tray. The maid beamed a
welcome to Judah. "I made your favorite butter cake," she announced proudly.
"You spoil me, Nelda."
The white-haired maid giggled. "I suspect all women
spoil you, Master Judah," she declared.
When Nelda departed, Judah's attention returned to his
mother. Even though the bloom of youth was no longer
on her cheeks, and the curls that softly farmed out across
her forehead were sprinkled with gray, she was still a
lovely woman. There was an elegance about her, an air of
superior breeding. She came from a proud old French
family which had settled in New Orleans over a hundred
years earlier.
