Under the Moon Gate

by Marilyn Baron

  An intriguing collection of antique maps was displayed under the stairwell. The parlor walls were painted a pale yellow, trimmed in high-gloss white, and the room was graced with antique English imports. The comfortable couch, covered in a robin’s-egg-blue stripe, blended with chairs dressed in a sea green floral pattern and seemed to extend a leisurely invitation to sit and stay awhile. Beckoning floor-to-ceiling windows all opened to water views.

  He was interested in exploring the bedrooms and backrooms that held the promise of unexpected treasures. Although Patience was still jittery around him, Nathaniel sensed an aura of peace settling over the house, an atmosphere he hoped would dissolve her resentment. But he knew she was desperately clinging to her anger and her fear as she steeped herself in her grandfather’s past, threatened by Nathaniel’s determination to dig up her family secrets at any cost.

  PART TWO

  The Socialite and the Spy

  Bermuda 1937-1958

  Prologue

  Hamilton, Bermuda, May 1937

  Nighthawk worked best under cover of darkness. But on this particular Sunday morning, he was forced to come out into the light. His typical style was, in effect, to swoop down on long, broad wings, like a giant bird of prey or a sleek, shadowy vampire, and pluck up unsuspecting victims in his sharp talons.

  His latest victim, Sir James Markham, hardly presented a challenge. Sir James should have been born a fish. Weekends invariably found him on the water in his trim, two-masted seventy-two-foot luxury yacht, Guilty Pleasures, a craft worthy of the richest and most powerful man on the island.

  “James, be sure to wear your hat,” his wife chided, as he skillfully maneuvered the boat out of its slip behind their waterfront estate in Hamilton. “You know how easily you burn.”

  Nighthawk knew Sir James had no intention of wearing a hat to protect his mottled skin. He wouldn’t need it. He planned to spend most of the day in his cabin—entertaining. But he was probably already burning for his exotic mistress. When he was with Yvette, he undoubtedly fancied himself young, vibrant, and in love again. Who could put a price on such a glorious feeling?

  Yvette claimed to work for the Imperial Censorship Staff handling transatlantic air mails. If there was one thing Nighthawk knew for certain, it was that Yvette, if that really was her name, was no British censorette. She was an expert linguist—proficient in German and French—and perhaps she was even engaged in the wartime censorship work being done in the colony. But she was no more British than the American-born Duchess of Windsor.

  Sir James knew very little about Yvette’s past. After some discreet inquiries, Nighthawk’s sources had revealed that her parents, a French mother and a German father, had been labeled “enemies of the state” and imprisoned in one of the detention facilities the Nazis started in Germany soon after they took power in 1933. Yvette, some kind of German-French mutt, had narrowly escaped the roundup.

  Compromised, Yvette knew she was no longer safe in Germany, so she passed herself off as French and aligned herself with the British. Sir James had arranged for her travel from England to Bermuda for an assignment in which her particular talents would be put to good use.

  Sir James had no idea what that assignment was. All he knew conclusively was that they were on the same side and that his contacts and position were useful to his mistress in her vendetta against the Germans. And that she was eternally grateful for the small role he had played in arranging her safe passage to the colony.

  Sir James had touched and tasted every hot-blooded inch of his petite French pastry, sometimes right in plain sight on the deck of his yacht, out in the middle of the Atlantic when there was no one around but Nighthawk to see. And what Nighthawk couldn’t verify with his own eyes, his new loose-lipped friend Sir James bragged about to his brash young drinking buddy after being primed with a bottle of five-star brandy.

  Yvette never asked anything from Sir James, but he would gladly have given her whatever she wanted. She claimed she only wanted to be with him, to be loved by him, for him to fill the empty spaces in her heart. He was the only family she had now. Sir James had no illusions about why she was with him. Perhaps he was just a doddering old fool. But if she thought of him as a father figure, he was perfectly willing to place her under his paternal protection.

  Sir James had offered Yvette diamonds, money, anything her heart desired, to keep her in his bed. And, with a little coaxing, she had graciously taken what he had to give. She had told Sir James she would use it to start her new life in America, as far away as possible from the unpleasantness of the past, where she would finally be safe.

  Sir James considered Yvette the perfect companion. She had the face of a goddess and managed to maintain an aura of innocence while loving him with the practiced body of a courtesan. She didn’t scold or whine or nag like his aging wife. She was attentive and seemed interested in every detail of his business. Her whole purpose in life seemed to be to give him pleasure.

  The wind veered to the east as the Guilty Pleasures docked at the Princess Hotel and Sir James stepped out to meet a smiling Yvette. Holding a bottle of Champagne and a large wicker picnic basket, Yvette looked fresh and delicious in her bright blue sundress. Even from Nighthawk’s motorboat, the glint of a giant emerald on her finger caught the light—an emerald her benefactor had presented to her on their last ocean outing.

  After steaming out of Hamilton Harbour and taking a brief pleasure cruise, Sir James brought the boat to anchor. Lunch would have to wait. And so would Nighthawk. No matter. He was used to waiting.

  On the heels of what Nighthawk hoped was a particularly satisfying and exhausting romp in Sir James’s cabin—he imagined the elderly gentleman crushing Yvette against his bloated body, kissing her greedily, then gently nuzzling her as she lay still, naked and vulnerable in his arms—he visualized a sated Sir James by now fallen into a drunken stupor. The sound of the waves rocking rhythmically against the boat would already have lulled him into a sound sleep.

  As he snored loudly, a contented smile on his face, he never saw the shadow that crossed the cabin toward him with silent but deadly purpose. He never felt the curved blade that sliced his throat wide open as easily as if it were an overripe melon. He never heard Yvette’s terrified but muffled screams as the predator’s strong hands clamped over her mouth when she struggled at the sight of Sir James’s blood saturating the sheets.

  “Oh, God, James,” she breathed in terror, trying to scream but never making a sound. She was probably wondering if her actions had precipitated this attack, if Sir James was just an innocent victim being punished because of her, if the Germans had finally discovered her. Tender-hearted girl that she appeared to be, she wouldn’t be able to bear the thought of that. She couldn’t possibly be in love with Sir James, but she obviously cared for him.

  Nighthawk choked off the air to Yvette’s delicate throat as he dragged her away, struggling, to the waiting launch pulled up beside the Guilty Pleasures. She kicked and scratched and bit and lashed out until, finally, when she had no strength to continue fighting, her body hung limp at his side. She would have been surprised to learn that Sir James, not she, had been the target of this particular foray.

  ****

  Nighthawk’s mission had been simple. Out with the old, in with the new. When the British Navy finally found the Guilty Pleasures, after an exhaustive search, Sir James was not on the craft. Nor was there any evidence he had been entertaining. It was assumed that Sir James had consumed too much alcohol, accidentally fallen overboard, and been eaten by a shark. Evidence of blood and some of his personal effects were conveniently discovered in the water around the boat. The sea never gave up its dead.

  At the funeral, Bermuda’s elite paid Sir James the proper respect, appropriate to his position. At his perch, Nighthawk stood apart as he listened attentively to the suitable eulogies from Sir James’s business associates and friends, and appeared sympathetic to the tears that spilled from the eyes of the wealthy widow. Everyone wo
ndered how Bermuda Power Company, Ltd., would ever recover from the tragic loss of its chairman. But Nighthawk knew that no one was irreplaceable.

  Chapter 8

  Tucker’s Town, Bermuda, 1940

  William Whitestone had only come to the Starlight Terrace of the Castle Harbour Hotel for a quick diversion. A few drinks. Maybe one dance. He’d heard there was a fancy coming-out party for the spoiled daughter of the new vice admiral. He’d do his best to steer clear of the vice admiral and his snobby socialite daughter at all costs tonight.

  Since his arrival in Bermuda three years ago, William had attended an endless round of such boring balls, exchanging meaningless chatter about everything and nothing, so he could be in the right place at the right time. Since Britain and France had officially declared war on Germany, information was king in wartime Bermuda, and secrets were as negotiable as coin of the realm.

  William had a mission, but he was still a man. He was lonely, and he craved the company of a soft woman. It had been a long time. He had been given a new identity, a new life. From the beginning, he’d understood that a new woman was part of the plan. He had resisted until now, but marriage was the next logical step. Perhaps he could find an addlebrained woman, one who could be easily manipulated, who wouldn’t ask too many questions. She didn’t have to be beautiful, but it wouldn’t hurt if she were pleasant to look at, at least, and to touch.

  In that instant, a blonde beauty danced into view, and he was lost.

  The girl was a vision, flitting around the room like a hummingbird thirsting in a sumptuous garden. She was impossibly lovely in the pale yellow silk gown that molded to her body, with the flare of the full-length skirt swaying to the rhythm of the music as she moved under the bright lights with one man, then another, then another. Never left unattended, she was a much-sought-after partner.

  William couldn’t keep his eyes or his mind off her. With just one look, his heart had expanded and all rational thought had flown out of his head. Now he wanted—no, needed—to have his hands on her. No other woman, since Emilie, had ever caused such a stir in him. But Emilie was his past. He moved closer to the orbit of the beautiful dancer in yellow, his heart pulsing to the rhythm of the swing music.

  She was heavenly, achingly young and innocent, with unruly blonde curls cascading around her head. Her green eyes flashed as her smile lit up the room. Though she was tall, she was elegant and moved with a grace and a spirit that shone like an aura around her, a butterfly who could never be captured. He knew he could never bend this girl to his will. And that made her even more attractive.

  She was doing the jitterbug, imitating the latest craze from America. The Brits were wild for all things American. The girl moved tantalizingly, racing across the room to the beat of the drum in “A String of Pearls.”

  When the music fortuitously switched to “Change Partners and Dance,” he made his move. He cut in on a tall man in dress whites, and, taking the girl in yellow into his arms, melded their bodies together until he was on fire. He didn’t let her go when the music slowed to “I Had The Craziest Dream.”

  “I must be dreaming,” he said smoothly. “Your name. I must have your name.”

  She laughed. “Well, if you must, then, it’s Diana…Diana Hargrave.”

  “Like the Goddess Diana. The huntress. Do you hunt, Diana?”

  “No, I could never kill anything.” She looked up at him, mesmerized like a deer trapped in the searing lights of his eyes.

  “But I imagine you are a hunter,” she said, as he tightened his hold on her.

  “Yes, and I’m stalking you right now.” He smiled and risked kissing her softly on one side of her mouth and then the other, brushing his lips full against hers to gauge her reaction.

  “Sir, please,” she said, placing a gloved hand against his shoulder to steady herself. “I don’t even know your name.”

  William could feel her warmth through the flimsy silk fabric. She stirred and trembled, and he pressed his advantage, nuzzling his cheek against hers, tasting her lips again.

  “You needn’t be afraid,” he whispered. “I would never hurt such an angel.”

  When the music stopped, they stood swaying in the center of the room, and then, slowly, they moved again to the strains of “That Old Black Magic.” By the time the dance was over, she had him completely enchanted.

  Other men moved to cut in, but William’s warning glare caused them to step aside.

  “I need your name,” she pleaded.

  “And I don’t need anything but you.”

  “Don’t say pretty words you don’t mean.”

  “But I do mean them. Let me show you.”

  He whisked her outside into the garden, snatching a drink from a passing waiter for her and another for him. The band played “Moonlight Serenade” as he continued to hold her in his arms.

  “Come out into the moonlight, under the moon gate with me, Diana.”

  The smell of her mixed with the scent of hibiscus and pink oleander, and the sounds of jazz were punctuated by the rhythmic night music of the tree frogs.

  He ached to touch her breasts, as pale and smooth as alabaster in the moonlight, but that would have to wait until they were alone. He could hardly contain his desire.

  William placed a flurry of kisses across Diana’s face, kisses that left her breathless. He could feel his heart beating. Gott, what was this woman doing to him?

  ****

  Her partner’s gravelly voice melted Diana’s remaining reservations.

  “Drink this, Diana,” he coaxed.

  She obliged him, although she’d already had two glasses of Champagne earlier in the evening. The frothy concoction, deliciously sweet and wicked, went right to her head. She felt loose and a little reckless in the stranger’s arms as she sipped and then drained the glass. While she stood sheltered in his grasp, his strength and warmth shot to the bottom of her toes.

  The man placed the empty glasses on the stone wall and bent her back for a leisurely, languid kiss under the moon gate, the centerpiece of the Castle Harbour’s massive stone structure.

  In the moonlight, the decade-old hotel looked less like a stately resort and golf club for wealthy British and American tourists and more like a fortress. In this man’s arms, she was a willing prisoner.

  “Did you know that an English steamship company, Furness-Withy, built this hotel in England, then had it shipped piece by piece to Bermuda?” Diana asked.

  “You’re intoxicating, Diana,” William sighed, and she knew then her attraction to him had nothing to do with Champagne. He took his time and used his tongue to taste her. Then he massaged her shoulders and risked a touch beneath the silver heart locket in the spot where it disappeared beneath her dress.

  She reached for his hand and tried to push it away, but he pressed her closer. Her back felt cool against the stone of the moon gate, but she knew his kisses were heating her blood.

  When she started to move away, he captured her lips with another mind-numbing kiss and placed his heat against her.

  “No, my sweet, don’t push me away,” he coaxed. “Let me feel you.”

  She moaned and sighed. “I don’t think we should—”

  “Sssh, don’t think. I want you, Diana. I have to have you.”

  “This is a public place, sir,” Diana pleaded. “My parents are watching us. Everyone is. People will talk.”

  “Let them, then,” William said, kissing her again. “Diana, I don’t think I’m going to be able to control myself. Is there somewhere we can go, somewhere more private?”

  “I hardly know you,” Diana protested weakly. “I don’t think it would be right to leave my own party.”

  “You’re not married, are you?” he asked. “Not spoken for?”

  “No,” Diana admitted, “but it’s my—”

  “I just might have to marry you myself then, to get a moment alone with you.”

  She pulled away from him as her eyes searched his for the tiniest grain of truth. />
  Shivering, she wanted this feeling never to end.

  “Are you cold, my love?” He removed his jacket and covered her shoulders. “Let’s go back inside.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  ****

  From across the room, Vice Admiral Sir Stirling Hargrave hissed, “Who the devil is that man with his bloody hands all over our daughter? I’ll have his hide for that.”

  “Do you not see that your daughter seems to want his hands on her? She’s not exactly fighting the man off. For heaven’s sake, don’t make a scene. This is her coming out.”

  “By God, she’s fairly coming out of that dress, Olivia. The piece of silk barely covers her. If you needed more money for extra fabric, my dear, you should have asked. I can bloody well afford it!”

  “It covers her quite well, I think,” Olivia said, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

  “The man looks much too old for her. I think I’ll have a word with him.”

  “Don’t interrogate the boy. He’s not one of your ensigns. And, as I recall, when we first met, you were also an older man.”

  “That was entirely different. Look at the man, Olivia. He’s blond. He looks like one of those bloody Hitler Youth.”

  “Diana’s always had a thing for blonds,” Olivia said. “He could be Scandinavian. He looks like a Viking. He’s a handsome devil, at any rate. Cuts a fine figure in that white tuxedo. And he looks at her the way a man should look at a woman. The way you used to look at me.”

  “The way I still look at you,” the vice admiral insisted, placing his hand lovingly on his wife’s cheek to soothe her ruffled feathers. “But he looks as if he wants to devour her right here on the dance floor. This is war, Olivia. And that man is not in uniform. The island is probably crawling with German spies, saboteurs, agents, double agents, and informers, not to mention British intelligence officers. I’d lay odds he’s operating at British Censorship Headquarters in the bowels of the Princess Hotel or buried with all the rest of the moles underground in any number of hotels on the island. Some of them are so deep under cover I doubt even they know which side they’re on. And neither do we.