Under the Moon Gate

by Marilyn Baron

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Praise for Marilyn Baron…

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  PART TWO

  Prologue

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  PART THREE

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  PART FOUR

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  DESTINY: A BERMUDA LOVE STORY

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Under

  the Moon Gate

  by

  Marilyn Baron

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Under the Moon Gate

  COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Marilyn Baron

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc., except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Vintage Rose Edition, 2013

  Print ISBN 978-1-61217-787-8

  Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-788-5

  Published in the United States of America

  Praise for Marilyn Baron…

  Winner of the Georgia Romance Writers

  Unpublished Maggie Award for Excellence in 2012

  in the Paranormal/Fantasy Romance category

  Winner of First Place in the Suspense Romance category of the 2010 Ignite the Flame Contest sponsored by the Central Ohio Fiction Writers chapter of Romance Writers of America

  Finalist in the Georgia Romance Writers

  Unpublished Maggie Award for Excellence in 2005

  in the Single Title category

  ~*~

  “Baron offers a bit of everything…There’s humor, infidelity, murder, mayhem, and a neatly drawn conclusion.”

  ~RT Book Reviews (4.5 Stars)

  ~~

  “Expertly handled relationship…a page-turning journey…a riveting read.”

  ~Anna K.

  ~~

  “Wonderfully witty writing…sharp characterisation and…brilliant dialogue…humorous asides and…the quite fantastic twist at the end…left me with a real lump in my throat…highly recommended. Worth more than 5 stars if that were possible.”

  ~Andrew Kirby

  ~~

  “Ms. Baron’s portrayal of her heroine’s thoughts, feelings and actions was spot-on. Five stars! Highly recommended!”

  ~Pam Asberry

  Dedication

  In loving memory of my younger brother,

  Paul Meyers,

  who lost his valiant battle with cancer

  on Valentine’s Day 2012.

  His fighting spirit and genuine goodness

  will forever be an inspiration to me.

  Paul, you are my hero.

  Author’s Note

  After the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, Bermuda was surrounded by German U-boats. Although the move cut off vital supplies, the islands were never invaded. Why did the Germans stop short of capturing that tiny speck in the ocean, when the value of controlling such a strategic possession could have altered the course of the war? Under the Moon Gate, a romantic thriller set in contemporary and World War II Bermuda, is a fictional account of why Bermuda was spared.

  PART ONE

  The Princess and the Pirate

  Tucker’s Town, Bermuda, 2013

  Chapter 1

  Patience Whitestone struggled out of a familiar nightmare, agitated and bathed in a cold sweat. The curtains rustled slightly in the faint night breeze, and she shivered, although it rarely dipped below sixty degrees Fahrenheit in sub-tropical Bermuda. Smoothing moisture from her brow and her breast onto her cotton gown, she clutched the fabric as she stood almost frozen beside the bed.

  She didn’t remember leaving the window open. But since her grandmother’s funeral a week ago, she’d been in a fog and hadn’t remembered much of anything. Hesitating, she bit her bottom lip and cautiously ventured over to take a look outside.

  Heart hammering, she stole a glance into the garden and sensed the movement even before she saw it. By the light of the full moon, an imposing shadow darted under the moon gate. The man glanced over his shoulder and, for a moment, her grandfather looked up at her. She could barely distinguish the man’s features, but he had her grandfather’s rugged build, and he moved like her grandfather, with the grace and power of a panther. That was impossible, of course, unless this presence was her grandfather’s ghost.

  She had been right there under the moon gate when William Whitestone’s lifeblood had slowly seeped out of his body.

  She slammed the window shut and sprinted down the hall toward her grandfather’s study. But when she got to the door, she couldn’t bring herself to enter. Before his death, this room had been her favorite place, their private place.

  Her grandmother had little interest in her husband’s business affairs, so as a rule she’d left them alone in his sanctuary.

  As a little girl, Patience would push open the door and scamper over to her grandfather’s chair. He’d scoop her into his arms and lift her onto his lap. He could be on a private business call, busy with his nose buried in files, or in an important meeting, but he always had time for her.

  He would select a massive picture book from the shelf and let her leaf through it or set her up with crayons and paper so she could color while he worked. Her grandfather had been a notoriously ruthless businessman, but with Patience his gruffness disappeared. His arms had always been welcoming.

  She hadn’t had the courage to cross the threshold of her grandfather’s study since his murder. Sallie, the housekeeper, assured her nothing had changed inside, that she had taken care of having the bloodstained carpet cleaned. But Patience knew if she walked into that room, the pounding in her head would start again, as it had after she’d followed her grandfather’s blood trail to the garden. She couldn’t bear to relive those final moments.

  Now her feet were set in concrete, and she couldn’t summon the strength to move forward.

  Her grandfather’s Walther PP 7.65mm with its eight-shot clip would still be in its place, in the desk drawer, right where she’d found it that day, surprised it hadn’t been fired. Why, if her grandfather was such an expert marksman, so strong and fearless, such a dangerous adversary, hadn’t he tried to defend himself? Obviously, the intruder had surprised him. But her grandfather had excellent re
flexes, even at his age. He should have been able to rebound from any attack. It was almost as if he had let himself be bested.

  The urge to enter the study, to pick up the weapon and feel the familiar weight of her grandfather’s firearm in her hands, was strong.

  Finally, her pounding heartbeat pulsed back to its regular rhythm. Just knowing the gun was there, in his desk, like having part of her grandfather there, made her feel safer. But she questioned whether she’d ever have the courage to use the weapon, even though her grandfather had raised her to be capable enough to handle any situation.

  By the time she returned to her bedroom, she was convinced it had all been a nightmare. There had been no man below the bedroom window. How could there have been? Marigold House was a fortress. Her grandfather built it to be impenetrable. William Whitestone was dead, but the wall of protection he’d erected around her life was still intact.

  Tears slipped down her cheeks. She tried to stop the flow of water with the back of her hand. She’d never fall asleep again tonight. She’d just have to find something to stop the incessant throbbing in her head and soothe the constant ache in her heart. She might as well stay up and wait for the next telephone call. Whoever was trying to scare her was doing a first-rate job.

  Patience flipped on the light, strode into the bathroom, and discarded her drenched nightgown in the white wicker clothes hamper. At her closet, she slipped into an old pair of shorts and well-worn fuzzy bed slippers, pulled on a pale blue Rediscover Bermuda T-shirt, and entered the parlor to resume work on her latest watercolor, a beautiful seaside scene.

  Naturally, whenever she saw beauty, her thoughts turned to her grandmother.

  Her grandparents had lived for each other, had eyes only for each other, had existed in a world apart. Their world. But after their only child and her husband had been killed in an automobile accident and Patience cut from her mother’s belly, they’d surrounded her with love. She was their “little miracle.” They’d even adopted her, given her the Whitestone name. She’d always envied her grandparents’ special connection, but never resented it. They were the only parents she had ever known. She loved them as a daughter.

  At least Patience had been able to say a long goodbye to her grandmother. Diana Whitestone had been lucid until the day she lay dying in the hospital cot Patience had set up in her grandparents’ bedroom. At the end, a round-the-clock nurse had made sure her grandmother wasn’t in too much pain. Diana did suffer, but mostly from the loss of her husband the month before. After her beloved William’s death, she said nothing was the same for her.

  Despite the doctor’s opinion, Patience knew her grandmother had really died of a broken heart. She simply couldn’t go on without her husband. His unexplained murder had hastened Diana’s rapid deterioration. Patience hoped she was finally at peace.

  Patience and her grandmother had talked long and late into their last nights together, talked about how much they missed William and dreamed together about the future.

  “Someone will come along,” Diana promised, as though it were a certainty, not merely a prediction, “and you will never be alone again.”

  “But Grandmother, I don’t need anyone,” Patience had insisted gently, not wanting to upset Diana in her weakened condition.

  “I know that, sweetheart. I just want you to always be protected, cherished, and loved, like I was.”

  “I’m never going to find the kind of fairytale love you and Grandfather shared. All it took was one look at you dancing in your yellow dress in the ballroom at the Castle Harbour Hotel and it was love at first sight.”

  Diana had smiled, sighed, blinked back the tears, and assumed that faraway look she wore whenever she remembered her husband.

  “Of course your true love will find you, and you’ll have your own storybook ending,” Diana assured, struggling for each breath.

  Well, Patience had certainly been waiting long enough. At twenty-seven, her prospects looked pretty bleak. To say her grandfather had been overprotective was putting it mildly. Her dating experience had been severely limited. No man was ever good enough for Patience Whitestone, according to Grandfather. She was his “Princess,” safely locked away in the castle for all eternity. She had never even been allowed off the island. Now that her grandfather was gone, she had some decisions to make about the rest of her life.

  “Grandmother, stop talking now, and try to get some rest,” Patience had whispered in their final hours together. She closed her hand around her grandmother’s, hoping to ease her distress.

  “I’ll have all the time in the world to rest—well, maybe not in this world, but…” Her grandmother had suddenly shifted to a more serious, almost conspiratorial and softer tone, forcing Patience to edge closer to hear her words.

  “Patience, you need to get away from here, get off the island,” Diana whispered urgently. “I want you to experience things you never did when your grandfather was alive. He was so…protective…of both of us. I’m sure he had his reasons, and I was content with the way things were, content to be with him, but it was never fair to you.”

  A loud, insistent knocking at the front door interrupted Patience’s memories, until the sound became a pounding that echoed inside her head. Annoyed at the intrusion, Patience put the finishing touches on her painting and wiped her hands on her T-shirt. She stretched her hands behind her and rubbed her lower back. Had she really been painting all day and lost track of another chunk of time?

  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 cau
ght 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.”