Pale Moon Rider

by Marsha Canham

  “You would not be so foolish as to offer him yourself, would you?”

  He was held by the look in her eye for several more long moments, wishing he could justify it, wishing that whatever she imagined she saw inside him was really there.

  “There you go, overestimating me again,” he murmured gently, “while sadly underestimating my talents.”

  Leaning forward, he eased her carefully to her feet. With a cryptic crooking of his finger he indicated she should follow, then led the way through his dressing room to the adjoining study.

  Curious enough to obey, she gathered the folds of quilting around her shoulders and rustled after him, so close on his heels and so distracted by the sight of still more opulence in the upholstered chaises, enormous oak desk, and wall-length shelves full of leather-bound volumes, that she nearly ran into him when he stopped. As the flames took hold on the five-pronged candelabra he lit, more of the detailing emerged from the heavy shadows. Cornices and moldings were hand-carved, the squares of paneling had been fashioned to look like sheets of linen cloth. There was another fireplace, not quite so impressive as the one in his bedchamber, but supported nonetheless by marble caryatids, naked and full breasted. And commanding attention in the center of the room was one of the grandest pianos she had seen outside the walls of Versailles.

  He seemed oblivious to her uplifted eyebrows as he lit more candles and placed them on the desk, the piano, the mantelpiece. He had taken off his satin jacket and looked much like he had on the steps of the tower, with his waistcoat unbuttoned and his shirt gaping open over his chest. His hair was wet, bound in a tail at the nape, but strands had broken free of the riband and straggled down his cheek and throat. The rain had washed away most of the cosmetics, and a brisk toweling had removed the rest, restoring his complexion to a deep and weathered bronze. The fop was gone and in his place was a man of such breathtaking beauty, an enigma comprised of so many contradictions and so many hidden facets, that Renée felt a trembling deep inside that had nothing to do with their flight tonight.

  It worsened when he glanced over his shoulder and smiled, for now, it seemed, it was time for the boy in him to emerge.

  “Come,” he said. “Stand over here.”

  When she was positioned where he wanted her, he went to one of the long paneled sheets and released a hidden catch. The panel swung open and behind it were three multi-collared greatcoats, several black tricorns, gloves, and tall leather boots. The next panel revealed a gun case with shelves holding pairs of long-snouted pistols, pouches of shot and powder, as well as a rack holding at least a dozen swords of various styles and weights, from the lethal slimness of a dueling rapier to the solid deadliness of a Highland clai’ mór.

  At the third and last panel he stopped and held out his hand. When she put her smaller, cooler fingers into his, he pressed them to his lips first, then guided them to the latch concealed in the intricate wood carving. As the panel swung open, he held the candelabra higher, and Renée could not stop the gasp that escaped her lips. The cupboard was lined with shelves, all of them divided into compartments, most of them covered with felt or velvet. There were necklaces and bracelets and earrings of every gem imaginable; diamonds, rubies, emeralds, tourmalines, pearls glittered up at her in the candlelight, as did ropes of gold chain, watches and fobs, coins in gold and silver.

  “Mon dieu” she whispered. “All this?”

  “The spoils of a misguided sense of humor,” he mused. “Was that not what you accused me of having?”

  “But … so much!”

  “Yes, well. There is more in London. Definitely more than I can spend in this or any other lifetime.”

  “Then why do you keep doing it? Why do you keep taking such risks?”

  “Let’s just say I have not found anything quite as exciting to take its place.”

  Incredulity widened the glorious blue of her eyes as she looked slowly up at him. “And you would simply give all this away?”

  His gaze went from her eyes to her mouth to the jewels, then back again. “Half of it, anyway. We would not want to reward Roth too much for his greed. Then again, half of what is here is probably ten times more than he will ever steal on his own.”

  “You would do this for Finn?” she whispered.

  He hesitated again and brushed aside the wisps of damp hair that had fallen over her cheek. “No. But I would do it to see you smile again.”

  He walked past her toward the open panels and this time it was Renée who was left staring at the bright flames of the candles, his words echoing softly in the shadows. She turned swiftly, intending to say something—though she was not certain what she would have said—and saw Maggie standing in the doorway of the dressing room.

  “I’ve brought hot water for a bath, miss. And ointments for those bruises and cuts.”

  Renée pulled the quilts tighter around her shoulders. “M’sieur Hart needs tending more than I do. His wound has opened again.”

  The look in Maggie’s eye was enough to confirm the fact that she had already seen the spots of blood on his shirt and was not pleased. “The boy is almost finished in the tub downstairs and there is more water boiling for a fresh turn. We will get you warm first, miss—though you aren’t looking half so pale as you did when you first arrived—then you can be sure I’ll be giving Mr. Tyrone a rare strip of my tongue while I’m after seeing what manner of mischief he has done to my handiwork.”

  “How is Antoine?” Renée asked, startled that she had all but forgotten him until now.

  “Just fine,” Maggie assured her. “He has already eaten half a loaf of bread and honey, and I’ve given him tea laced with brandy to keep the dampness out of his chest. I might add that once the chill was gone out of him he started talking and hasn’t stopped for breath, not even with his cheeks full and his head under water.”

  “I do not understand what happened.”

  “Sometimes, when you’re frightened badly enough to lose something, you have to be just as frightened to find it again. Come along then, Robbie has put the tub in front of the fire. I’ve a nice hot pot of special chocolate ready for you and the bricks are in the bed, getting it rare cozy and warm.”

  Renée felt a pang of uncertainty as she glanced over her shoulder and watched Tyrone close and latch each of the panel doors. “Will you come back later?”

  He did not glance up. “If you want me to.”

  “I want you to,” she whispered. “Very much.”

  Renée soaked a sinfully long time. For the first time in more years than she could remember, she found herself sitting in a tub that was larger than she was. Maggie had sprinkled the hot water with herbs and while the steam did not exactly bring to mind a rose garden, each deep breath she took seemed to ease away another cramp, another ache, another knot of tightness in her muscles. She was almost drifting off to sleep when the Irish girl returned with clean buckets of warm water to rinse her hair and skin, and it was with a most regretful sigh that Renée stood and let herself be wrapped again in warmed towels.

  “Did you try the chocolate, miss?”

  “Two cups,” Renée said dreamily. “It was merveilleux.”

  Maggie’s smile was wide enough to bring out two dimples. “That would be the Irish in it. Warms the very marrow of your bones, it does.” She finished blotting the excess moisture out of the long blond hair then peered closely at the cut high on Renée’s cheek. “You were lucky with this one, miss. A bit to the left, you could have lost your eye. I’ll put some salve on it, though I cannot promise you’ll not be left with a mark. If I was a proper doctor, maybe I would know some way to stop a scar from forming, but …”

  Renée reached out and laid her hand on the girl’s arm. “It is all right, Maggie—I may call you Maggie, may I not?—I would be happy to have a scar, truly.”

  Maggie gave her an odd look, but continued applying ointments and salves to the various bruises on her arms and legs. When she was finished, she apologized again. “I had a quick p
eek in your bag, but everything you brought is soaked in rain and river water. I’m sorry, but I don’t have any proper nightdresses to offer you. Robbie prefers me to sleep naked and Mr. Tyrone never brings any of his lady friends here, so—” She caught herself just after the words tripped off her tongue, but although Renée turned her head slightly, waiting for the rest of the sentence, she did not ask for clarification. “But I did find one of his shirts that should do in a pinch. Very soft it is. And likely large enough to feel like a nightdress.”

  “I am sure it will be fine.”

  Maggie helped her into it and it was, indeed, soft as another skin, long enough to reach her knees. After that she was belted into one of Tyrone’s Chinese silk dressing robes, the sleeves of which had to be folded back almost to the elbows. She was ordered to sit again and enjoy a third cup of chocolate laced with the “Irish” while her hair was brushed dry in front of the fire.

  “M’sieur Tyrone? His wound is all right?”

  “Oh, aye. It was just a bit of weeping, naught to worry about. He’s bound up tight as a drum again and had a healthy dose of the brandy himself. No doubt he will be carrying on in the morning like nothing is amiss. You’ve seen his back? Aye, well, a beating like that would have killed a normal man, but according to my Robbie, his only complaint at the time was that he had to carry Dudley half a mile before they could steal a pair of nags. Just when you think he should be dead, he”—the crackling strokes of the brush stopped and both women turned to gaze in the direction of the adjoining study, where the lightest, sweetest notes of music were coming from the other side of the closed door—“plays the piano,” Maggie concluded with a wry chuckle. “Claims it relaxes him, heals him, helps him think. All hours of the day and night, I vow, and for days on end sometimes, he sits there and creates these heavenly sounds that—”

  "Faites les anges pleurer” Renée murmured.

  “Aye, I suppose. Whatever that means.”

  “Why was he beaten so badly?”

  “He doesn’t like to talk about it.” Maggie paused, cursing her loose tongue again. “But my Robbie told me. It was the first time the two of them came together.”

  “M’sieur Dudley and M’sieur Tyrone?”

  “No. Mr. Tyrone … and Colonel Roth.”

  Renée turned so quickly, the action almost dragged the brush out of Maggie’s hand.

  “Colonel Roth? He did that to Tyrone?”

  “He was only a sergeant at the time and stationed in Aberdeen. As full of himself as he is now, with a vicious temper and a cruel taste for inflicting pain. Mr. Tyrone had been caught running with the rustlers and Roth thought he could lash the location of their main camp out of him. The more stubborn Mr. Tyrone proved to be, the more brutal the beatings.”

  “And all this time … Roth does not recognize him?”

  “It happened seven years ago, when they were both gangly and young. Mr. Tyrone, especially, was so skinny and filthy—a bag of bones and raw nerve, as my Robbie described him. Add to that this tomfoolery with the wigs and the powders and the rouges.” She shrugged and set the brush aside. “I doubt his own mam would recognize him.”

  Renée stared into the fire a long moment and listened to the music, wondering why she had ever doubted, from the first instant of their meeting, that Captain Starlight would turn her world upside down. It was end over end now, and her emotions were paying the price, ebbing and flowing like tides on the shore, building, she was certain, toward the ultimate crash against the rocks.

  “If that’s all you need, m’lady, I’ll be going to my bed now.”

  “What? Oh, of course. Antoine?”

  “Is fast asleep downstairs. I can ask Robbie to carry him up if you would rather have him here with you.”

  “No. No, let him sleep.”

  “I’ll say goodnight, then.”

  “Goodnight. And thank you so much for everything you have done.”

  Maggie’s eyes twinkled in the direction of the study. “Thank you, miss. I was beginning to lose hope for him.”

  The door closed behind her and Renée was left alone with the fire, the shadows, and the music. Her eyes were heavy and her body tired, but she stood and walked through the dressing room to the study, hesitating with her hand on the latch for a moment before she quietly turned it and opened the door.

  Tyrone was sitting with his back to her, his head bowed forward in concentration. He was playing Mozart, and she waited until the long, magical fingers finished displaying their artistry before she walked over and stood beside him. He glanced up once … then twice as his eyes registered surprise and pleasure seeing her wrapped in his robe. Her hair flowed smooth and sleek over her shoulders, tamed free of curls, shimmering with every slight move of her body.

  “You play beautifully, m’sieur.”

  He smiled and touched his forefinger to his brow in a salute. “Since I believe that is the first compliment that has not contained the words ’madman’ or ’buffoon,’ I shall accept it with thanks.”

  “You are mad,” she allowed with the faintest hint of a smile. “But you play beautifully nonetheless.”

  “Do you?”

  She shook her head. “Maman tried in vain to teach me, but”—she held up her fingers and wiggled them—“they always wanted to go one way and the music the other.”

  “Here,” he said and edged the bench back enough to make room for her on his lap. “Put your hands over mine; I’ll take you in the right direction.”

  His fingers were much longer and the music he played was simple and slow, the tune familiar enough that she was able to anticipate which keys he would carry her fingers to next. His body was warm against her, beneath her, and by the time his hands came to a standstill, her body was a mass of hot and cool sensations, thick and sluggish in places, molten and fluid in others. The skin across her breasts was tight with anticipation, while elsewhere, it was throbbing with the shame of wanting him.

  “I feel so guilty,” she said on a shallow gasp. “Finn is in gaol and all I can think of is … how wonderfully warm I feel.”

  With her hands still splayed over his, he brought them up and circled them around her waist. “You can do nothing else for Finn tonight. And I shall take it as another compliment, mam’selle, that you feel so warm.”

  She closed her eyes and melted into the heat of his lips where they pressed into her neck. His breath scented with brandy, was soft on her skin, and she tipped her head back, needing to feel him, taste him in her mouth. Wary of her damaged lip, he kissed her so gently, she could have wept. Aware of the freshly bandaged injury to his ribs, she turned in his arms, deepening the kiss herself, holding his face between her hands, guiding his mouth down onto the curve of her throat where there were only sighs of pleasure to welcome his explorations.

  He loosened the belt at her waist and his hands slipped beneath the silk. They skimmed upward to cup her breasts in his palms, lifting them, raising them to his mouth as it descended to claim them through the soft layer of lawn. Renée arched back with the pleasure and her bottom brushed against the piano keys, producing a broken chord of mismatched notes. With slow, leisurely strokes of his lips and tongue, he teased her through the fabric, leaving two wet circles clinging transparently to her nipples. His hands meandered down her thighs and when they rose again they brought the hem of the shirt with them, exposing the milky whiteness of her bared limbs to the candlelight.

  The chords were stronger this time, lingering on the air as she leaned against the row of ivory keys. When he eased her thighs apart, her hands struck other notes, startled notes that resonated softly throughout her body, for his mouth was on her belly, then buried in the silky triangle of golden curls. She gasped at the outrageous wickedness of his tongue as it flickered and swirled across the tender folds and peaks. She groaned at the first deep incursion, a slippery, sliding thrust of sensation that nearly lifted her off the keys entirely. Her hands spread wider to brace herself for each new onslaught as he explored the sleekly
sensitive surfaces and probed the mysterious, lustrous depths. Shivers ran down her thighs while her hands, her fingers, skidded involuntarily over notes that were alternately sweet and sharp, jarring and gentle. He played her with the skill and expertise of a master musician building toward a shattering crescendo, each time holding back a single thrust, or a single stroke, holding her firm until her inner vibrations calmed, only to start again and again until she was in a trembling agony of wanting.

  When he grew impatiently envious of his own skill, Tyrone stood and unfastened his robe. He was naked beneath, his erection standing strong and vigorous against his belly. With her body shivering and tightening around him, he drove himself deeply and urgently into her, groaning when he felt the eager grasp of her flesh, knowing by the sheer heat of her body that she was well beyond any desire for delicacy or finesse. He was hard and full inside her and she moved with him, against him. The combined effects of their rushing thrusts created an irrepressible cacophony of sound beneath them that was as rhythmic and frenetic as the motion of their bodies. It stretched into a single, prolonged chord as he stiffened into one last, explosive thrust—their climax mutual, wild and fiercely unrelenting, stunning in its absolute purity.

  Then it was only their gasps they heard. Their shivered, disbelieving cries rent the air, and it was the fractured, ragged moans of their own unstructured ecstasy that eventually caused them to dissolve, panting and blissfully spent, into each other’s arms.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “Where did you learn to play the piano so well?” They were lying in bed, arms and legs twined together. The curtains had been deliberately left open so the daylight would waken him, but Tyrone had barely closed his eyes all night. He lay staring up at the ceiling most of the time, replaying the events of the past two weeks, wondering at exactly what point he should have listened to his instincts—which had noticeably been in turmoil since the first time he had clapped eyes on Renée d’Anton—and walked away.