The Trouble With Moonlight (6 page)

“I can not live with my family.” Her own voice sounded dead to her ears.

“Given your ability to slip undetected from one place to another, you should be able to move into my residence without raising suspicion.” His hopeful tone did little to lift her spirits. “I’m sure we can arrange an occasional call upon your sisters to review their welfare.”

She raised her face to his, refusing to wipe the wet tear tracks, and focused her anger into a searing glare. “Mr. Locke, I should never have trusted you. I curse the day I laid eyes on you.”

He leaned down and placed his hands on the sides of her face. Using the pads of his thumbs, he gently stroked the moisture from her cheeks. His gaze swept her face, and for a moment, she thought he might kiss her. Instead, he leaned close to her ear, filling it with a gentle warmth.

“I, however, thank the powers that be for the night I failed to see you.”

“WHERE THE DEVIL IS SHE?”

James glanced from the map of central Asia on his desk, to the nearby tray containing two glasses of a nice French Bordeaux for toasting their new partnership, to the open doorway of the library. Her trunk, valise, and infernal black cat had all been delivered earlier in the day. He had anticipated that she would wait for the cover of darkness to come to his residence, but it was nigh on midnight without a sight or, he allowed himself a slight smile, scent of her.

Stop that. Thinking of Miss Havershaw as anything more than an assistant could only lead to attachment. Attachment was bound to lead to trouble. He should think of her as a useful instrument, like a pick or a skeleton key, something in his control that he could hold in his hand.

Of course, thoughts of hands led to memories of discovering his invisible assailant was a woman, and an unclothed woman at that. His mind recalled the tactile feel of her breast with a tight bud at the apex thrusting into his palm, begging for the attention of his fingertips. It had been so long since he had caressed a woman’s body, or allowed a woman to caress his. He had no wish to see a woman’s lustful gaze turn to pity at the sight of his scarred flesh, and so he avoided those situations. Yet no harm could come from lingering over that tantalizing memory of Miss Havershaw.

He closed his eyes and sunk his head in his hands. “Concentrate, ” he ordered himself. Still the memory of her sweet fragrance haunted him, swirling about his senses like a mythical jinni emerging from a magical lamp.

“Concentrate or you’ll be bloody well lost.”

“You don’t appear to be lost,” Lusinda said. “If anything, I would guess you to be found.”

He bolted to his feet upon hearing her voice and glanced toward the doorway. Of course he saw nothing, but she was obviously there. The fact that he saw nothing smacked him in the gut, because if he saw nothing that meant she was—

“Miss Havershaw, I’m so pleased you could make it.” He took a deep breath with the intention of clearing his mind of wayward thoughts, but instead he filled his lungs with air laced with her scent. The realization launched him into a coughing fit. He reached for the nearby glass to quaff the reflex and took two deep swallows of wine meant to be sipped and savored. The alcohol fumes traveled quickly up the back of his throat, burning the inside of his nostrils, making it difficult to smell anything but Bordeaux. Which, of course, meant that he could no longer track her progress about the room.

“Miss Havershaw,” he said, grimacing, “why is it every time we meet I am reduced to this lamentable state?”

“What state is that, sir?”

Her voice sounded cold, impersonal. He supposed he couldn’t blame her. He had, after all, forced her hand to assist his purposes. In truth, her indifference toward him would lend itself to a smooth working relationship.

He cleared his throat hoping to avoid answering her question. It would serve no purpose to admit to weakness, especially where she was concerned. “I thought we might begin by reviewing some maps of India and its neighbors so you could better understand the politics involved in our endeavor. ”

“Did Shadow arrive safely?”

“Shadow?” Her question distracted him from his plan of attack. “You mean the cat? I believe he’s outside at the moment.”
And hopefully finding his way home to the town house.
He hadn’t anticipated the cat when he’d insisted she move into the residence. Returning to his original focus, he tried again to formally set the groundwork for their discussions.

“Before we begin, I think we should establish a foundation upon which to govern our lessons.”

“This is beautiful.” Her voice drifted to him from the vicinity of the octagon table and chairs at the far end of the library where he had placed a patterned silk robe for her use. “What is it?”

He frowned at the door, feeling a bit of a fool, then altered his stance to address her in this new location. Of course, part of the foundation he had wished to discuss was a method to easily track her at moments like this. The robe rose unassisted from one of the chairs and stretched out its sleeves to a near five-foot span.

“I thought you might be more comfortable if you were to wear something on those occasions when you were otherwise unclothed.”

“You mean naked?”

Her blunt words, so unexpected from a well-mannered lady, brought an instant response from his groin. He took a moment to regain his focus. “It’s called a
munisak
and is often worn by the native people of central Asia.”

“The colors are so vivid and bright, just like a painting, only I’ve never seen a pattern quite like this.”

Her delight surprised him. Not every woman would be as pleased with an uncommon gift so far removed from current fashion. Although he knew Miss Havershaw was unique by virtue of her special abilities, she was proving original in other aspects as well, an unanticipated complexity that should be interesting to untangle. A smile tilted his lips. “The people there have a unique method of dying the silk. I’ve been told the pattern is meant to resemble the shimmering mirages rising from the desert sands.”

He stood, waiting for her response, before realizing that he must appear a blooming idiot, standing at attention, grinning like a schoolboy. He glanced at the desk and fingered the maps, before clearing his throat. “Now if you study this top map—”

“I’ve never seen the desert, though I hadn’t imagined it would be as pink as this garment.”

He sighed. This was not proceeding at all according to plan. Miss Havershaw apparently had no interest in maps and lectures. Still, the hour was late and there would be opportunities for more formal lessons in the days ahead. If only for this one evening he could indulge Miss Havershaw in her appreciation of the artistry in the munisak. There’d be no harm. Leaning back against the desk, he abandoned his maps and raised his gaze to the robe dancing on unfelt air currents.

“The desert light and sand in central Asia share a complex relationship. One moment you believe you can see colors and shapes so clear you can almost touch them, and then, in a blink of an eye, they disappear. I’ve found that the heat and unending sand can be both bloody tortuous and lovely at the same time.”
Not unlike the naked Miss Havershaw.

A bulge began to push against his pants. He silently cursed and stepped over to the wooden globe stand so as to be partially hidden from her view. He needed to forget, somehow, that she was luscious and naked if they were to effectively work together, but his traitorous body fought that notion.

The munisak swung high in the air, the bottom flaring out as if to take flight. Against his better judgment, he found himself asking, “Would you care for some assistance putting it on?”

“I believe I can manage.”

No shimmering mirage had ever intrigued him as did this magnificent floating robe. It lightly settled on her invisible shoulders, one brilliant sleeve straightened out before bending, then the other. The front edges of the robe nearly touched.

“It fastens by that little red tie.” He crooked his finger at the dangling ribbon, which if memory served correctly, should be in the vicinity right below her breasts. The bulge thickened.

“Yes, I can see that, Mr. Locke.”

However, rather than the ribbon magically looping itself in the fashion of a bow, the sleeves reached toward the ceiling before bending back at the elbow. The movement caused the unfastened robe to splay far apart before returning to its original position. Knowing what had just been exposed to his view—if only he could have seen it—caused his throat to constrict. That simple parting of the robe was clearly the most sensuous thing he had ever witnessed—or not witnessed.

“That’s better,” she said. “I had to lift my hair from beneath the robe.”

“Your hair?” His voice sounded tight and strained to his own ears, and why not? Lord, she made it impossible to think straight. He hadn’t anticipated that imagining what must lay just beneath the slit in the front of the robe would be far more stimulating than accepting that she was totally naked yet unseen somewhere in the room. His manhood throbbed.

“I’m afraid I don’t own any invisible hair pins or combs.”

Lord, he remembered her hair, soft with a shimmer like captured moonlight. It must be long and loose, as if she’d just stumbled from bed. He squinted as if that would allow him to see.

“I braid it into two thick ropes,” she said. “But without a ribbon to fasten it—”

“Locke? Are you back there?” Marcus! His voice boomed down the hall, mere steps from the doorway. What the devil was Marcus doing here?

The robe quickly sat in one of the chairs, then slumped to the side, letting the sleeves dangle over the wooden arm. Smart girl. If he didn’t know better, he’d believe the munisak had been carelessly tossed over an angled pillow on the chair.

James stepped away from the globe, hoping to intercept his friend before he entered the room, but he wasn’t fast enough. Of course, the painful bulge in his pants did nothing to assist speed. Marcus barged through the open doorway, his evening attire a bit disheveled, his cheeks flushed, and his voice a trifle too loud.

James grimaced. Judging from his demeanor, his friend had spent the better part of the evening in the gambling hells. While his spirits appeared characteristically high, bright glittering eyes and the high flush across his cheeks indicated he had spent a goodly portion of the time drinking as opposed to concentrating on his game.

“I thought I heard a woman’s voice.” He looked pointedly at James’s trousers. “I knew it, you dog. You’ve got a woman in here.” He glanced wildly about the room. “Where is she?”

James positioned himself so Marcus’s back would face the robe-draped chair. “Nonsense,” he smiled tightly. “There’s no woman here.” He glanced over Marcus’s shoulder and saw the top sleeve of the robe rise up, then flop down flat as if empty.

“You’re a liar, Locke.” Marcus sneered. “Just like one of those abysmal Indian snakes.” Using his arm, he imitated a snake’s sideways movement before he clapped James’s shoulder in a friendly salute, not acknowledging James’s resulting flinch. “Where are you hiding her? I heard her talking, I did.”

“I suspect you’ve heard quite a few voices this evening without the bodies to match.”

The robe made a few more innocuous movements, then stilled. Good, she was free from the robe. He had to admire her quick thinking, but where was she? His lips quirked. Best to get Marcus on his way and then track down Miss Havershaw. He turned to his friend. “Why don’t you—”

“What have we here?” Marcus stumbled over to the wine tray. “Two glasses?” He sipped from the full glass and raised one brow. “Fine French wine?”

“I tell you, again, I have no woman here. However, if you don’t believe one of your oldest friends, look about the room for yourself.” Even in his cups, Marcus wouldn’t abandon an argument without an opportunity to search.

Marcus leered, and tilted at an unnatural angle to look beneath the desk. He grabbed the top to help him regain his balance upon straightening. “A bit of skirt would do you good, Locke.” He tossed back the rest of the glass of wine, then laughed. “A bit of skirt would do us both good.” He raised his gaze to the back end of the room. “By George, is that what I think it is?”

He put the glass down, none too gently, and staggered over to the chair where the munisak lay. “You still have this thing? I would have thought after all that happened in that stinking hellhole, after all we went through in that rat-infested prison, you would have burned this rag and all the others.” His eyes widened. “Let’s do it now. You and me, for old time’s sake.” He stumbled toward the cold fireplace.

James put his hand on his friend’s shoulder to stop his progress and slowly pulled the robe from his grasp. “Why did you come here, Marcus?”
And where the devil did Lusinda go?

“I heard you were back from Calcutta. I thought I’d come to see what my old pal Locke was up to.”

“Is it money?” James tossed the robe toward the chair and guided Marcus to the opposite end of the room. “Do you need to cover a debt?”

“The cards were not in my favor, tonight. Pembroke about cleaned me out.”

“Yes, I’ve heard he’s been on a bit of a streak of late.” James opened a drawer and removed a few notes, pleased to have discovered the means to send Marcus on his way.

LUSINDA WAITED IN THE DOORWAY. IT APPEARED TO BE the safest spot while the two men conversed. The newcomer, Marcus, was a handsome bear of a man with soft brown curly hair and thick lips that pulled in what she suspected was a permanent smile. He seemed a bit overbearing in nature, but she imagined many women might find that quality attractive. She preferred Locke’s quiet assertiveness to this Marcus’s physicality. Look how Locke had managed to steer the bear away from her robe. Nothing seemed to rile him.

She frowned. Even her attempts failed, though she had certainly tried. She had even insisted on bringing Shadow to the house on the premise that it would annoy Locke. If she annoyed him enough, he might recognize the folly of his scheme and let her return home.