Moonlit Desire
Carolann Camillo
Seattle, WA
Published by Camel Press
PO Box 70515
Seattle, WA 98127
For more information go to: www.camelpress.com
www.carolanncamillo.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design by Sabrina Sun
Moonlit Desire
Copyright © 2012 by Carolann Camillo
ISBN: 978-1-60381-872-8 (Trade Paper)
ISBN: 978-1-60381-873-5 (eBook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012931697
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Produced in the United States of America
Table Of Contents
Table Of Contents
Chapter 1
New York Colony
June, 1759
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Quebec, New France
July, 1759
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 1
New York Colony
June, 1759
The only sound pervading the still air came from the incessant rattle of the coach speeding through the night. The horses’ hooves plumbed the dry roadway skirting the Hudson River and sent aloft dust particles that drifted beneath the leather window coverings.
Neither the dust nor the constant jostling of the coach disturbed Catherine Bradshaw as much as the man seated across from her.
She had wed Jeremy Flint that very morning after disembarking the ship that had transported her from London. He gave no indication of discomfort. His wiry body swayed as if to the lilting strains of music. The hand resting on the plush gray upholstered seat tapped a slow, steady rhythm. His features were relaxed and unexpressive, save for his dark eyes, which touched her with carnal promise.
“My dear,” he said as if she welcomed communication. The commotion on the wharf that morning and the hasty ceremony before a magistrate had left little opportunity for conversation, which suited Catherine’s dispirited mood.
“Awaiting your arrival these past weeks put me out of sorts, but finally we are together. Soon you will settle into your new home in Tarrytown. Although I am under no illusion we share a mutual regard, our arrangement suits me well. You chose the correct course.”
Beneath partially lowered lids, Catherine studied her husband. His impeccable red coat and buff breeches gave the impression of a gentleman, as did his lightly powdered hair bound in a queue with a silk ribbon. His predilection for snuff might have marked him a dandy. Yet, a crude provincialism lurked beneath the surface. She’d sensed it when they first met, four months earlier. In unguarded moments, his gruff speech and manner lay bare his colonial heritage and suggested he had adopted the trappings of a gentleman later in life.
The coach gave a menacing leap, and Catherine tightened her grip on the strap affixed to the inside wall. Through a chink in the curtain, she searched for signs of civilization. Although the area was heavily forested, she thought she glimpsed a far-off flickering light. Perhaps a colonial settlement lay somewhere in the distance. Or perhaps the savages she’d read about in her history book inhabited these woods. She shivered at the possibility of an encounter.
“Your parents are well, I trust.” Flint’s concern seemed less than sincere.
“They were in ... passable health when we parted but will sorely miss my company.” Knowing she would most likely never see her parents again had tortured her from the moment she bid them goodbye. Two months at sea, confined to a small cabin, had only intensified her longing.
“The bank draft deposited in your father’s account the morning you set sail should ease their distress. At least for the immediate future.”
This last remark caught Catherine’s attention. “Did I not correctly understand that an additional five hundred pounds would be deposited twice yearly upon my settling into this marriage?”
“Yes. However, my generosity depends upon a number of circumstances.”
“I have become your wife. Surely that is the only circumstance to warrant consideration.”
Coldness crept into Flint’s dark eyes. “Let me be clear, then. Should you prove less than dutiful, all payments will cease. The same—and of no small import—will occur should I predecease your father. My agent in London will be notified to take the necessary steps. Also, I expect a fruitful union, in which case you will be adequately provided for in my will. A childless marriage, however, will not sit well with me.”
Catherine’s fingers clenched. When he had broached marriage, she had been too shocked to concentrate on the conditions that accompanied his proposal. Indeed, the entire matter was basically a coldly calculated business venture; he had, in truth, bought her as if she were a prized brood mare. She had put out of her mind what being wed to a man as arrogant and self-serving as Flint might entail.
“Let us not indulge in premature speculation.” His lips parted in a thin smile. “I am certain you will satisfy me in every regard.”
Catherine held her anger in check and allowed some moments to pass before she spoke. “It seems you have left nothing to chance.”
“You read me well. That should keep our disputes to a minimum.”
“Then I must wish you a long and ... pleasant life.” Her tone was stiff with frost.
Flint’s smile broadened. “That, my dear, has ever been my intent.”
The ride continued in silence. Exhausted, Catherine leaned her head against the soft plush and closed her eyes. Then a sudden commotion broke out alongside the carriage. Angry shouts roared above the echoing wind, followed by a loud thud, as if a heavy object had fallen onto the driver’s seat. Sounds of scuffling ensued. The coach gave a terrible lurch, careening from side to side, before it slowed and came to a halt.
Flint tore at the window curtain. “What the devil is going on here?”
The door was thrown wide. A man leaned in, a pistol gripped in his hand. He swung the weapon toward Catherine. It came to rest a scant hair’s breadth above the neckline of her gown.
She edged back against the seat and screamed. Her heart beat in a wild cadence that robbed her of breath; her stomach threatened to surrender the tiny morsel she’d consumed at her wedding lunch.
Jeremy Flint lunged toward the open doorway.
“Remain still, Flint, or I shall see you a widower far longer than you have been a bridegroom.” Darkness shrouded the man who spoke. However, the conviction in his deep, rich voice left Catherine no doubt that he would follow through on his threat.
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“See here.” Anger contorted Flint’s face as he eased back onto his seat. “You have no call to frighten my wife. State your intentions. If it be robbery, then get the filthy business over with and let us continue on our way.”
Slowly, Catherine turned her head, straining to see into the darkness. A pair of lanterns anchored to the inside wall of the coach lit the interior, enough to illuminate the man’s tall, muscular frame. She found herself looking into a pair of eyes that gazed back at her with unconcealed scorn.
She instantly recalled where she had seen those eyes. Darkened now by shadows, in daylight they were a clear deep green. That morning she had spotted him on the wharf. His unabashed stare indicated he cared little for propriety. His long strides suggested boldness, which was further evidenced when he had drawn close enough to graze Flint on the shoulder. Judging him to be a thief, she kept close the trivial contents of her pocket.
In the night’s gloom, his hair seemed even blacker now than first she had thought; his full lips hinted at rakishness uncommon to men of her acquaintance.
The cold metal leveled at her breast caused her fears to mount. Not daring to move, she forced herself to endure the man’s scrutiny. Finally, she tore her eyes from his mesmerizing gaze and sent a pleading glance toward her husband. He sat immobile, his breath hissing through clenched teeth, clearly impotent with rage.
“Mr. Flint, do something, please.”
“Stay calm, Catherine.” He returned his attention to the man. “I demand to know why you have waylaid my coach. Am I to understand coincidence has brought us together twice in one day?” When there came no reply, he edged toward Catherine. “I insist you draw down your weapon. Can you not see my wife is in fear for her life?”
The pistol remained in place, touching lightly now against Catherine’s flesh. “Your concern for the bride is a trifle late. In your haste to speed her to the marriage bed, you have done her a great disservice. You should remember these roads are treacherous at night.”
“Who are you? How is it you know something of my business today? What do you want with us? If you are after money, you are welcome to whatever small amount I carry with me.”
“The contents of your purse do not interest me.” Waving the pistol aside, the man reached behind Catherine, caught her firmly about the waist and pulled her from the coach.
As she fell roughly against him, she gasped from the shock of finding herself in his arms. Then fear rendered her mute. Sound dimmed, as if she could no longer hear. In all her twenty years, she had never experienced such close contact with a man. This one seemed bent on doing her harm. His tall, well-muscled body spoke of the power he possessed. The arm encircling her nearly cut off her breath. When, finally, her feet touched ground, he loosened his hold, but not enough for her to fully extricate herself from his grip.
Flint sprang from his seat and eased himself from the carriage. “I demand that you release my wife.”
“Louis!” The man issued a sharp command.
Another man, hidden by the shadows, stepped forward. Short of stature, he possessed a broad frame and a round face bordered by a thatch of unruly brown hair. Like his accomplice, he wore long trousers and a fringed shirt of animal hide.
“Take another step and I will kill you,” Louis said, “although it is my friend, Rive St. Clair, who has earned the privilege.” The gleam of a pistol leveled at Flint’s head reinforced his words.
Once again, Catherine wanted to scream. Yet who, in this vast wilderness, would hear her? The driver lay sprawled in his seat, motionless. A woman’s outcry would never deter the man—St. Clair—from carrying out his plan, which at the moment did not suggest murder. He might have accomplished that earlier on the dock and certainly as soon as he waylaid the coach. If not murder, what did he intend? Then she recalled how boldly he had stared at her that morning.
“Let me go.” With one fist she pummeled his shoulder. The other managed to land a blow to his chest.
Quickly, he secured the pistol in his belt and captured Catherine’s hands in one of his.
“The bride has courage, Flint. Or is she just ill-tempered? Whichever, she will learn to improve her disposition before long.”
With his free hand, he fingered the coil of hair at Catherine’s nape. She twisted her head away until pain stabbed at her neck. One stroke and her pale gold hair tumbled loose. When he reached for the closure of her cloak and gave the cord a tug, she was powerless to stop him. The garment slipped free and fell at her feet.
The color drained from Flint’s face. He took a tentative step toward Catherine. However, the pistol pressed against his temple stilled further movement.
“I will pay for my wife’s safety. Name your price and it will be yours, provided she is allowed to proceed from here immediately.”
St. Clair’s dark brows rose. “You are most gallant where it concerns a lady. Yet I remember a day sixteen years ago when you showed no such compulsion. However, this is neither the time nor place to rekindle old memories. My price is steep, but one day, soon, you will meet it. Until then, the bride stays with me.”
At his words, an anguished cry escaped Catherine’s lips. Her heart hammered against her chest. With renewed effort, she attempted to twist out of his grip. She managed to free one hand, but her blows, no matter how well aimed or forceful, carried no effect. If only she had a weapon. Her eyes lit on the pistol tucked in his belt. No, she had never fired one and knew nothing of its workings. His knife, then. It lay sheathed at his waist and so tantalizingly near. Had she the courage to use it? She had never so much as killed a spider. But, this man, yes.
Without further thought or calculation, she reached for the knife. Her fingers clasped the hilt. A good yank should bring it out of its case. The blade began to slide. Then a hand far stronger closed over hers. With a shake of his head the man disengaged the weapon.
“I believe you would have used that.” Brows raised in surprise, he slid the knife back into its sheath and repositioned it against the small of his back.
“Most gladly,” Catherine acknowledged.
“Why are you doing this?” Flint rasped. “I have never harmed you.”
“Your memory is as short as your temper. In due course, it will return to you. When it does, remember the oath sworn by a twelve-year-old boy as you went about the bloody business of murdering innocent people. Was it for the bounty, I wonder, or did you simply relish your role?”
“You have mistaken me for another man.”
“Another man does not bear that scar. I think that before long, you will remember me well.”
Flint touched the puckered line that cut just below the right side of his jaw.
For a moment, the two men locked eyes. Then Flint’s widened in slow recognition.
“Louis, I think we are done with Mr. Flint.”
Working efficiently, Louis bound Flint’s hands, thrust a gag into his mouth and shoved him into the coach. St. Clair released Catherine long enough to cut loose her two small trunks lashed to the roof and throw them to the ground. He sprang the locks and emptied the contents.
He pulled a plain, rose-hued muslin gown from the pile and tossed it to her.
“Change your clothes. You will have little need for fashion where I am taking you.”
She backed away until one of the coach wheels stopped her. The cold that had gripped her body gave way to an intense heat, which enflamed her cheeks. Did he expect her to strip before his eyes? To stand before him in her stays, hoop, linen shift and hose, all she wore beneath her outer clothing? Modesty, ingrained in her since childhood, sent her hands fluttering to her bodice. No doubt, he would have shed his garments and paraded in front of her as bare as the day he entered the world. She could do nothing beyond stare at him. She felt closed off from civilization, lost in a universe where reason no longer ruled. Fear stabbed at the pit of her stomach. Where did he intend to take her? What would he do to her?
“Don’t be stubborn. I’ll not ask you twice.”<
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“No.” To capitulate was unthinkable.
I must not capitulate.
“If you require the services of a lady’s maid ... that is a duty I shall gladly perform.”
For a moment anger replaced fear, and she tossed aside the gown.
“Temper, Catherine.” His tone was deceptively light-hearted.
For him to use her given name was an insult. She refused to obey. After surviving an arduous sea journey and a marriage that made a mockery of such a noble institution, she would suffer no man—whether sinner or saint—to strip the clothes off her back. Bravery, she reminded herself, played not the least part in valor.
He stepped close and slid his knife from its sheath. With the tip of the blade, he severed one of the ties that anchored an unadorned deep blue stomacher to the bodice of her wool gown.
“We have little time, and I am losing patience.” The tip of the knife slashed through another tie and then another. “Shall I continue?”
Catherine glanced down to where her stomacher lay askew, exposing her shift and, from beneath the fine oft-mended linen, the outline of her breast. She hastened to cover herself with her hand. The fear she had so gallantly bitten back resurfaced.
“Go behind the coach and change your clothes. Now. Or I will do it for you.” His affable tone did nothing to temper his warning.
This was no halfhearted threat. If she did not want the garments torn from her body, she must do as he ordered.
Tears threatened, but she forced them back.
With the tip of his knife, he scooped up the muslin gown and extended it toward her. “Keep in mind our journey will offer few of the comforts of a coach. So dress accordingly.”
She followed the line of his gaze. There was no mistaking his inference; her hoop must be left behind. She clenched her teeth and reached for the other gown.
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