Moonlight Surrender (Moonlight Book 3)

by Ferrarella, Marie

  Samuel spat on the dusty wooden floor. Then, as an afterthought, he rubbed it in with his foot.

  He leaned out the narrow window, the wind covering his face with rain.

  Damn it, where was that boy?

  The storm was growing too intense for him to see very far, even with his spyglass. He wrapped bony fingers around the instrument again in frustration. Duncan had promised to be home before the noon hour, and now it was more than twice past that.

  As if to verify his assumption, Samuel glanced at the pocket watch that Duncan had given him last Christmastide. As he had looked down at the gift all those many months ago, Samuel had scoffed at it as a symbol of a landlocked man. But truth be known, he had admired the gold case around it and the fine craftsmanship on the face.

  Samuel had always loved fine work and pretty objects.

  He closed his hand about the watch as he pocketed it in the pouch at his baggy trousers. Touching the watch only reminded him of things, made him long for the life he’d once known. A life of privateering on the high sea; a life of danger and excitement, where a man felt alive.

  Before then, he and the crew had lived on the streets of London, seeking their fortunes in other men’s lapses. But Samuel preferred the sea, even though it was on the streets that he had first found Duncan. He’d been a young, angry whelp of a lad then, in danger of being devoured by the bands of miscreants who roamed the dark alleys, plundering and taking from those weaker than they.

  Duncan was his. He had given him life, though his loins had not produced the boy. Samuel had rescued Duncan from meeting his maker that fateful day, jumping in beside him when there were four to his one. Then there were two, and the odds had turned drastically.

  Samuel smiled fondly, remembering. He had been a fine one with a sword in those days. None better. He could slice the hairs from a peach without bruising the skin. He sighed longingly. That was when his eyes were clear. Now he squinted when cutting Duncan’s hair, secretly fearful of cutting his neck instead.

  Old age was a bastard thief that mercilessly stole the most meager possessions of its victims.

  He sighed more deeply, then raised the glass to his eye again, vainly sweeping the road that led to the doors of Shalott.

  Silly name, that, he thought, fruitlessly attempting to make out the figure of a horse and rider when there was none to see. Shalott... it sounded as if a fop lived here, instead of Duncan, the former terror of the English sea. Not that this estate was Duncan’s, of course. It was only his to oversee for that former British transplant, Sin-Jin Lawrence. But it felt like his, and they had the run of it. The arrangements Lawrence had made were generous. Food and shelter for Duncan and the crew and money to line their pockets with amply.

  So they had remained and continued to do so. And grew soft in the bargain, he thought with a trace of bitterness. He thought of Duncan. Soft enough to fall prey to things that they wouldn’t have before.

  Something appeared on the road, materializing out of the shadows. A large, dark shape. It was moving, and moving quickly.

  Samuel started and leaned forward. Rain thudded against the end of his glass as he strained to make out what was approaching.

  A ghostly apparition.

  His heart stopped.

  He forced himself to look again. It was a coach from hell, the horses’ hooves pounding the earth as they came straight for the manor. The very earth trembled as they grew larger.

  “Sweet Jesu.” He crossed himself the way his mother had each time she’d uttered the oath.

  His breath caught in his throat as he made out the form of a woman, her rain-lashed hair flying about in the wind as she urged the horses on.

  It couldn’t be real.

  Samuel took an instinctive step back away from the window. The spyglass nearly slipped from his icy fingers. He could see the coach now without benefit of the glass.

  A moment later, he came to life and fled the room.

  Chapter Six

  He was turning into an old woman, Samuel upbraided himself, as he hurried down the narrow stairwell that eventually led to the second floor. That wasn’t a ghost coach approaching, no vehicle from hell searching for a passenger to take over the River Styx to the netherworld. That was a woman driving the coach. A ripe, wet, flesh-and-blood woman. It was the weather that had disoriented him so.

  That, and his damnable concern.

  Well, Duncan be damned. He was probably holed up with some tart, acquainting himself even now with what she had hidden beneath her skirts.

  He thought of the woman driving the coach. Maybe he’d do some acquainting himself, tonight. It was high time, too. All the women in the manor were either spoken for, babes in nappies, or toothless old hags. The manor needed young blood, and so did he.

  “Rider approaching!” Samuel shouted.

  He hurried down the long, darkened hallway to the front stairs that led into the large sitting room. Candles flickered as he passed, striving vainly to hold onto their flames.

  Grasping the banister to aid his quick descent, Samuel saw two of the crew at the game table below.

  Hank, with his thatch of strawberry hair hanging in eyes the color of sand pebbles, looked up at Samuel’s cry, barely interested.

  “Duncan back?”

  His gaze returned to the cards he held. Another poor hand, he thought, disgusted. Jacob was going to win this round as well.

  He glanced at the younger man sitting across from him. That would make four in a row. Hank frowned thoughtfully as he studied the deck. Jacob was his brother, but that didn’t absolve him from cheating.

  “No,” Samuel announced, as he reached the bottom. “It’s not Duncan. There’s a woman driving a coach as if the very hounds of hell are snapping at the horse’s hooves.”

  Hank dropped his cards, coming to life. He had heard only one word Samuel had said, but it was the only one he needed.

  “Woman?”

  “Yes,” Jacob said easily. He flipped over his brother’s hand and smiled. Beaten him again. Too bad they weren’t playing for real money, instead of pebbles. “You know, those creatures who like to wash themselves more often than you.”

  Samuel laughed as he passed them. “The cat likes to wash itself more often than Hank does.”

  Hank frowned, his face looking even more pinched as his lips drew together. “Don’t hold with taking me skin off to satisfy some giggling wench.”

  Samuel laughed, the sound reminding the others of a hen cackling triumphantly after laying an egg. “Yeah, only his britches.”

  Jacob pushed away from the table. The day had been long and monotonous, just like the day before it.

  “Let’s have a look-see on what the fates have sent to Master Sin-Jin’s door.” He hurried after Samuel.

  Hank trailed behind both of them, still muttering about what foolishness it was to wash more often than each full moon.

  Samuel unlocked the heavy oak doors. His fingers ached as he grasped each handle and turned it. With a mighty shove, he threw both doors open in unison. The courtyard before him was slick and dark as he took a step out.

  A shift in the wind’s direction had the rain lashing out at the trio, sending them momentarily retreating to the shelter of the house. Angry waves of rain fell on the ground as if the sea had suddenly been upended and hurled pell-mell into the sky. It was determined to return back to earth.

  Beth felt as if her arms were being pulled out of their sockets. She’d been struggling with the reins from the first and now yanked hard on them, attempting to bring the horses to a halt. It wasn’t easy, after the full gallop she’d allowed them. She’d needed no whip to spur them on their way. The rain and the thunder had driven them far faster than she could have. It was controlling them that was the trouble.

  That, and stopping them.

  If she didn’t manage to bring them to a halt soon, they were going to run straight into the house, Beth thought in mounting despair. A house as fine as any she remembered seeing in Virgi
nia.

  Apparently, she thought, as the distance between the horses and the house decreased at an alarming rate, she’d misjudged the man within the coach. He didn’t live in some small hovel with his wife and twelve children.

  Unless, of course, the manor wasn’t his.

  Straining, struggling to hold onto the reins even as they bit into her palms, Beth saw an old man appear in the doorway as the dark doors suddenly yawned open.

  Dear God, she was going to run him down, she thought in horror.

  “Hold, you horses, hold!” she ordered, shouting the command at the top of her lungs.

  Bracing her foot against the brake, she tugged on the reins with all her might. Her entire body was straining against the horses’ will.

  “Is she real?” Hank spilled out into the doorway, crowding Samuel.

  Jacob was instantly aroused. Blessed with better eyes than the others, he saw the way her breasts were straining against the wet fabric of her dress. More than two handfuls. His mouth watered and his young loins began to burn in anticipation. At nineteen, he hadn’t had what he deemed his fair share of women. This one would make up for it nicely.

  “Real or not, she’s mine.”

  Hank turned and looked at him sharply. “I saw her first.”

  “And last, if we don’t stop those horses of hers,” Samuel snapped.

  He hurried into the courtyard, leading the way. With hands that were still nimble, hands that had once taught Duncan how to lift a purse without the owner feeling so much as a light flutter, Samuel caught hold of the harness on one side.

  Hank mimicked his actions on the opposite side while Jacob clambered up onto the driver’s seat. The woman moved quickly aside as he snatched the reins from her. Of the three, it was Jacob who was most at home at the manor. The youngest of the three, he had an affinity for animals and counted horses as among the most beautiful of God’s creations, second only to women.

  Straining manfully, his young body like a sturdily rooted sapling, Jacob stood and pulled mightily on the reins, saying something to the horses in a native tongue Beth had no familiarity with.

  Within a moment, and a heartbeat away from the front doors, the coach came to a halt.

  Proud of himself, Jacob looked down into the woman’s face. What he saw there temporarily made him forget his lust as a higher emotion transcended it. He was looking down into the face of an angel.

  Jacob was instantly smitten.

  “They’re stopped, mistress.” He very nearly tripped over his tongue as he raised his voice to be heard above the howl of the wind.

  Beth struggled to gather herself together. She let out a long breath of thanksgiving. For a moment, as the horses were thundering across the cobblestones in the courtyard, she had the horrible impression that they were going to crash through the front door and trample to death the old man who stood there.

  “Yes, I see,” Beth whispered, then raised her voice and repeated herself. She smiled as warmly as she was able. Jacob was hers for the asking. “Thank you.” She pushed the wet hair from her eyes, relief still spilling through her veins.

  Jacob remained where he was, gazing at her, completely unmindful of the rain that was coming down.

  “I’d like to get down, now,” she coaxed, when the young man continued sitting there, staring at her like an eager puppy.

  “Oh, yes, of course.” Jacob leaped down fluidly, then turned, waiting. He raised his hands toward her, anxious to be of any assistance. “Here, let me help.”

  Hank was behind him, ready to elbow Jacob out of his way. But Samuel placed a restraining hand on the other’s shoulder. The grip was firm, the warning clear: no fighting. Though they laughed and teased Samuel, in Duncan’s absence, the man maintained order.

  She would have rather refused the young man’s offer, but she was tired, so she allowed him to wrap his wide hands about her waist and guide her down.

  “Thank you again.”

  Belatedly, awkwardly, the man withdrew his hands from her waist. She smiled at him. He had to be the twins’ age, she guessed. She looked around at the dreary surroundings. Beth had no way of knowing if she had reached her destination. The weather had made it all too easy to lose her way.

  “Have I reached Shalott?”

  Samuel stepped forward. “Yes, mistress.” He inclined his head in a formal bow. “Have you business here?”

  Thank God.

  “No,” she admitted. “But I believe he might.”

  The three men followed her, curious, as she moved to the coach. Beth opened the door. The three were momentarily struck speechless as they stood gaping into the interior.

  Samuel recovered first. His heart beat quickly at the sight. The lad looked far from well.

  “Duncan!”

  Then he did belong here, she thought, surprised and relieved at the same time. Beth stepped back, out of the way, as the taller of the men climbed into the coach. “He was shot saving us from a highwayman.”

  Yes, that sounded like Duncan. A regular do-gooder he’d turned into, Samuel thought. Not that he’d ever been a cutthroat, of course. They’d never killed anyone who hadn’t deserve it, he liked to boast. But of late, the edge had been taken off. In private moments, Samuel referred to his former protege as “Saint Duncan.”

  Hank took hold of Duncan’s feet as Jacob eased him from the coach.

  “Steady, boys, steady. Be gentle with him, now,” Samuel instructed. “Don’t drop him on his head, it’s the softest part.”

  Conscious, Duncan gave him a woeful look. “After that ride, anything would seem gentle by comparison.” He looked at Beth and smiled wanly as she stepped forward. “Next time, I’ll drive.”

  He was continuing to make the assumption that she was going to remain somewhere on the perimeter of his life, she thought, annoyed. Besides being egotistical, it was foolish. She had no time for the foolish.

  Samuel was staring into the coach. “The other is the driver,” she explained. “There’s no help for him in this world, I’m afraid.”

  Samuel nodded solemnly. He was vaguely acquainted with the man. There would be a new widow in town tonight. A new widow and three or four fatherless children. He shook his head at the waste. Samuel would send someone to tell her.

  “I know the man’s wife,” Samuel attested. “Donovan will go in the morning to fetch the poor woman.”

  A noise that sounded like an animal whimpering had his attention reverting to the coach. It was then that Samuel saw her, a cowering shadow in black. He turned toward Beth.

  “Your mother, mistress?”

  Her mother was younger, Beth thought fleetingly. And undoubtedly as worried as Sylvia was at this moment, with far more cause.

  “My traveling companion,” Beth corrected.

  Though she knew that Sylvia’s nerves were on the verge of causing her to faint again, she had little time to soothe the woman now. All through the journey here, she’d heard Sylvia’s cries and shrieks of fear with each crash of thunder. Ebbing and flowing, they had echoed even above the sound of the thunder and the horses’ galloping hooves.

  “We’re here, Sylvia. You can come out now,” Beth urged, trying to curb her impatience.

  The dark head peered out. Sylvia looked around timidly. “Here?”

  “You are at Shalott, madam,” Samuel said, bowing low. “Welcome.”

  “It’s mistress,” Sylvia corrected hesitantly, color rising to her damp cheeks.

  “Then doubly welcomed you are,” Samuel said, extending his hand toward her.

  Sylvia took it and something akin to a smile fluttered across her lips as she stepped down.

  “It’ll be all right,” Beth assured her.

  Then, having no further time to coddle the older woman, she turned on her heel and hurried after the men who were carrying Duncan into the house. She still had a wound to tend to.

  She slowed down as she fell into step beside Duncan. “I need fresh boiled water, clean sheets—“ she began telling Hank.


  Her words brought a smile to his lips as well as to Jacob’s. Both men envisioned the woman languishing in a tub of water, washing away the grime of the journey from her supple body. They exchanged looks. They’d lead her to the east bedroom. There were knotholes in the door.

  “And a clean knife,” Beth continued as they entered the house.

  They’d almost dropped Duncan then.

  Hank looked at her wide-eyed, trying to fit her request in with the scenario he had been painting eagerly in his mind.

  “For a bath, mistress?”

  Were they simple-minded? “No, to remove the lead from his shoulder, of course.” She gestured toward the bandage on Duncan’s arm. “I couldn’t see to it before, there was no time.”

  Samuel followed, shaking his head. “Of course.” Entering, he called for Donovan to see to the horses and to have someone dispatch the driver’s body to the cellar until the morrow. Then he looked at the beautiful disheveled woman giving orders, and wondered what manner of woman had Duncan run afoul of this time.

  Chapter Seven

  Donovan emerged from the depths of the manor at the sound of Samuel’s voice. Quickly he hurried past him to do Samuel’s bidding. He stopped only to glance curiously over his shoulder at the inert form Jacob and Hank were carrying. His eyes hovered on the two women, then returned to Duncan.

  “He ain’t—?”

  Horror prevented the shallow-faced man from finishing his question. Duncan was their leader, their protector. Unable to make his way in the world alone, Felix Donovan had always been in need of a protector, someone to tell him what to do and make certain that he was provided for.

  He had suffered a great deal at the hands of bullies and opportunists before he had had the good fortune to fall under Duncan’s wing.

  Behind him, a slight-built youth of no more than twelve or thirteen scurried in from the kitchen, drawn by the noise and the clatter. Tommy’s mother was the cook, and he made himself useful by scouring the pots and pans and hoping someday to prove himself indispensable to Duncan. He dreamed of being his right-hand man, like Lancelot had been to Arthur. He was too young to know the end of the tale.