Under the Moon Gate (2 page)

Why didn’t Sallie answer the door? She must be outside in the garden. Hadn’t Patience let her friends know she wanted to be left alone? She needn’t have bothered to make that request. She
was
alone, all alone. Probably it was another food delivery from one of the neighbors. As if she could eat anything now.

“For heaven’s sake, I’m coming,” Patience called out. She yanked open the thick Bermuda cedar door, ready to brush off the unwanted visitor. Instead, she experienced a shock of recognition when she stared at the man standing before her.

Taking a step back, she examined him cautiously. With long black hair pulled back by a stark white tie, stunning blue eyes, and a fabulous face that managed to look both sensitive and sensuous, he could easily pass for a dangerous pirate.

Perhaps she was daydreaming or hallucinating. She hadn’t gotten much sleep last night—or any night in the past month—and she
had
been reading a romance with a lusty pirate hero on the cover. Probably she still had pirates on the brain.

Although the man at her door was in desperate need of a shave, he intrigued her. Her “pirate” was a tall, imposing presence in tight-fitting but ragged khakis, with muscles bulging out of a snug, sweat-stained white T-shirt.

Good Lord!
was the first coherent thought that pierced her brain. She might have said it out loud had she been capable of speech. Her grandmother had said someone would come for her, but certainly she didn’t mean so soon and definitely not this brash pirate person. And what was he doing at her door, unannounced and unwelcome, on a Sunday afternoon, disturbing her peace and leaving her speechless? One look at this man and she was about to toss all thoughts of proper behavior out the window.

“H-how did you manage to get through the gate?” Patience finally stuttered.

“Ah, she speaks.”

“Of course I speak,” Patience hissed, still stunned. “What are you doing here?”

“You mean how did I manage to access a place that’s locked down tighter than the Tower of London?”

“I’m going to call the police now,” Patience threatened.

“If you’re talking about the two bozos at your front gate who are supposed to be patrolling your house, don’t bother. They’re snoring like drunkards. I didn’t have the heart to wake them. I’d complain if I were you.”

The pirate stuck an oversized deck shoe in the doorway as Patience tried to slam it shut.

“You’re not going to get rid of me before you’ve heard what I came to say. It’s about your grandfather.”

The breath caught in her throat. “What could you possibly know about my grandfather?”

“I can’t tell you if you won’t let me in,” he said.

Patience knew she should be cautious, but if the man truly had information about her grandfather, well, then, she wanted to hear it—now.

“If you have something to say, say it and leave,” Patience insisted, preparing to do battle.

“It’s obvious you’ve been misnamed, Patience. You don’t seem to have any.”

More indignant than ever, Patience snorted. Word of her notoriously sweet and tolerant disposition hadn’t yet reached this man, apparently.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he continued. “It’s teatime.” The man flashed a smile and a hint of dangerous dimples.

“I think I’ve been more than
patient
, and I don’t even know your name,” Patience insisted, wondering how he knew hers.

“I didn’t give it. And I scaled the fortress to get to the princess.”

“I’m hardly a princess.” Patience scowled.

“You’re the closest thing Bermuda has to royalty, one of the most respected names on the island. Blood in Bermuda doesn’t get any bluer than yours, does it, Patience? Your grandmother’s family has been connected to all the big names on the island. You can’t go anywhere in Bermuda without tripping over a legend—the Smithfields, and the Overbrooks, and the
Whitestones
.”

“Why don’t you come back later? This isn’t a good time.”

“I’ve come a long way to talk to you.”

“I don’t know you.”

“But I know
you
,” he said, eyeing her narrowly. “You’re Patience
Katarina
Whitestone.”

“Patience
Katherine
Whitestone,” she corrected. No one had called her Katarina since her grandfather died. She’d loved the way the hard sound of her middle name had tripped off his tongue, like a lullaby, when she was half asleep and he thought she couldn’t hear it. “If you don’t leave this instant, I’ll have to notify the authorities.”

“I don’t think you’ll want to call the authorities after you hear what I’ve come to say.”

The man was speaking in riddles again. And Patience couldn’t take much more of his insolence—or the unsettling effect his strange behavior had on her.

“Are you threatening me?” Patience bristled, surfacing from her fog and summoning a burst of energy. “Because I’m not alone here. Sallie will be back in a minute, and I have a gun.” Lifting her chin with a defiant jerk, she tried for a look of bravado she didn’t really feel. For all she knew, the man could be a criminal—a murderer—or her stalker.

“I’m no threat to you,” he assured her, as if he had the ability to read her mind.

“Tell me who you are, and I’ll be the judge of that.”

“My name is Nathaniel Morgan. You have something I want. And I have something you want. I think I may know who killed your grandfather.”

Patience faltered. The color drained from her face, replaced by a look of panic.

“What do you know about my grandfather’s death?” she demanded weakly as she faced him squarely, barely able to catch a breath, her knees about to buckle.

“More than you would want to know, I imagine,
liebchen
.” He spoke the last word like a caress, lowering his voice, with enough of a hint of sensuality and familiarity, to stir something within her.

Liebchen—darling, love, sweetheart.

“Goodbye,
liebchen
,”
were the last words her grandfather spoke to her. But how could this man have known that, unless he’d been there? And that would mean… She could still
see
her grandfather’s blood on her hands. Still
feel
the thickness that had oozed from his wounds and soaked her bright coral sundress. She needed to be on guard, but suddenly she was exhausted, overcome by a languorous feeling and a sensation of dizziness. Her mind clouded. Her pulse pounded as lightheadedness overtook her.

Chapter 2

What the devil?
The woman’s long lashes fluttered like a flag at half-mast. Her eyes glazed over. She was losing her sea legs. Nathaniel reached across the threshold as Patience Whitestone collapsed into his waiting arms.

Damn. He had a history of scaring women off, but he hadn’t meant to frighten her into a dead faint. As usual, he had bungled it, and now she’d passed out.

“Patience, can you hear me?” Nathaniel called frantically as he closed the door and carried her to an overstuffed couch in the next room. He grabbed a magazine from the coffee table and tried fanning her, shaking her lightly, sprinkling her skin with water from a pitcher on the marble stand behind the couch, even stroking her face gently. He was at his wit’s end. And that Sallie person she’d mentioned was nowhere to be found.

Helpless, Nathaniel looked down at Patience. Somehow he felt a connection with this woman. He had dreamed of her, or someone like her, on the deck of his boat, alone in the middle of the ocean, on a dark night drenched in moonlight, under a heaven sprinkled with stars, drifting in and out of sleep, of consciousness, as his vessel rocked toward Bermuda. But nothing could have prepared him for this visceral reaction to the flesh-and-blood woman who’d gone limp in his arms.

The truth of it had first hit him like a powerful wave when she opened the door to him earlier, nearly knocking the wind from his sails. And he’d detected a spark of recognition in her face, too. He was sure of it. She’d looked as stunned as he felt.

Before she died, his grandmother foretold he would find his destiny in Bermuda. He didn’t believe any of that hogwash about destiny or fate. But she had made him promise to go to the island and hand deliver a letter and a small fortune in diamonds to William Whitestone. He was honoring that promise now; however, he intended to take something much more valuable back with him.

But William Whitestone was dead, and so was his wife. Was Nathaniel obligated to reveal the contents of the letter to Whitestone’s granddaughter? And what was
his
grandmother’s connection to the German spy William Whitestone and his dangerous wartime associate Nighthawk?

He had a purpose in Bermuda beyond humoring his dying grandmother. He had come for the gold his uncle had told him about, and he was determined to locate and leave with every last ounce of it. The trip was long overdue, and no woman, breathtakingly beautiful or not, was going to interfere with his business here.

Nathaniel expected Patience wouldn’t be cooperative. He couldn’t just come right out and tell her the reason for his visit. He would have to skillfully navigate the choppy waters.

Naturally, she’d be angry. Anger only seemed to make her more magnificent, if that were possible, and more vulnerable. He couldn’t afford to have her fall apart. He wanted her alert when he questioned her. She was going to hear him out, whether she wanted to or not. But first he needed some information from her. And he could hardly get answers from an unconscious woman.

There was really no easy way to tell her about her grandfather. And no surer way to confirm whether she knew the truth about him than to question her face to face.

Looking into that face, Nathaniel acted on another impulse, one he couldn’t have controlled even if he cared to. He reached to slide a lock of her golden hair between his fingers. Somehow he’d known her hair would feel like fine silk. If he were the poetic type he’d tell her,
if
she ever regained consciousness.

Nathaniel looked around the room and out the window at the expansive grounds. Prime Bermuda real estate in one of Bermuda’s most exclusive residential areas—prestigious Tucker’s Town. This quaint village of splendid properties was home to movie stars, prime ministers, a veritable Who’s Who of the rich and famous in Bermuda and around the world. People with legendary last names like Astor and Rockefeller.

The sprawling stucco house, painted a pale yellow, was built in the island’s traditional architectural style and comfortably but luxuriously furnished. Morning glory vines ran wild along the roadside. Marigold House was fronted by a pair of elegant gateposts and accessed by a sweep of tapered stone steps leading to the front door in the traditional welcoming-arms pattern. Unlike the tepid welcome Patience had given him. Why didn’t the woman wake up?

Frustrated, he pulled her toward him and kissed her. That always seemed to work in the movies and in fairytales. The soft brush of her lips against his felt like the tiniest whisper of hummingbird wings. She stirred, and her arms wound around his neck involuntarily until the two of them were intertwined. She responded by kissing him back tenderly, barely conscious, apparently still in a daze.

No, actually, he was the one in a daze, an almost dreamlike spell. He clasped her tighter, gathered her closer and pressed her warm body to his. He wanted more, but romance was not part of his mission. In fact, it would be unacceptable in this instance. Not that he believed in romance. Love and romance was for fools, and he was very definitely not a fool, not anymore.

She sighed and moved in his arms.

“Patience,” Nathaniel whispered. “Good. You’re back.”

Chapter 3

Patience awoke in the pirate’s arms. He resembled a reenactor of
The Bermuda Journey,
just back from performing on St. George’s. No doubt he was one of the parish’s more feisty residents who belonged in the stocks or the pillory for committing a variety of public offenses, not the least of which might be scandalous behavior and taking unwarranted liberties with women. Yes, the man was definitely a St. Georgian, a consort of the devil, or at the very least, a sorcerer. Certainly he was an enchanter or a charmer. He was also hard and lean and rugged, and he looked better than any man or devil had a right to.

“Patience, say something.”

Patience tried to speak, but her mouth was dry.

“Water,” she finally whispered. “May I have some water?”

Nathaniel took a glass from the coffee table, filled it with water from the pitcher, and handed it to Patience.

While she drank, she recovered her composure, but common sense prevailed and fear crept back into her consciousness. Could he be the man who was threatening her? The one who’d broken into Marigold House, who’d called her every day since her grandfather’s death, sometimes late in the night? The stalker who breathed heavily into the phone and spoke in a harsh, guttural language? The stranger who lurked in her nightmares? The police claimed they would patrol the house. Obviously they hadn’t taken her concerns seriously or this man wouldn’t have slipped through their net.

But the man before her seemed too young to belong to the gruff voice on the telephone. And she had to admit he didn’t cause the same terrified reaction she felt when the stalker called. Her pirate sent chills down her spine, but they were chills of a different sort.

Patience placed the water glass on the coffee table and looked out the picture window. The sun, already settling lower in the sky, was still spreading riotous sparkles across the sea. Images that had horrified her in the middle of the night—shadows in the moonlight, strange sightings, and shallow breathing—seemed less intimidating in daylight. The immediate threat had receded.

But Patience faced a threat of another kind. She was entranced by this dark and dangerous stranger with the handsome face, this man she couldn’t seem to dismiss. The pirate was downright dazzling, and he knew it. His nearness was making her lightheaded. Or maybe it was the fact that she hadn’t eaten anything substantial in days.