Moonlit Desire

by Carolann Camillo

  What if she confessed everything right now—the circumstances that had led her to marry Flint and how the man had endeavored to win her hand?

  They had met at a piano recital given by Catherine’s only pupil. Flint, passing the Season in London, had introduced himself and thereafter never strayed from her side. Although polite, there was something disquieting in his demeanor. It went beyond his braggadocio and all too familiar manner. When the hour grew late, he insisted on escorting her home in his carriage.

  Social invitations followed, each met with polite, but cool, refusals. Shortly thereafter, she began to encounter him in the street with alarming frequency.

  He would show up at her home, uninvited, each time bearing gifts of wine and sweet cakes, cheese or fresh fruit—luxuries her parents could no longer afford since her father’s failing eyesight had forced him to abandon his surgeon’s practice. For their sake, Catherine tolerated it.

  The night before he sailed for New York, he paid his final call. The moment her parents retired, he made clear his intentions.

  His inquiries had confirmed her family’s financial distress. He could alleviate it, should she consent to become his wife. The thought of being bound to Flint was repugnant, but she was left with no other recourse. She agreed to the marriage; however, when she refused to set sail with him the next day, he made one concession: she would follow on his ship, West Wind, due to leave for New York in a month.

  Would Rive set her free if she were to confide in him? Would he even care? He hated Flint. No, he would never free her.

  Pine needles covered the ground and muffled her footsteps as she went about the task of collecting the kindling. Other than a darting squirrel, she neither saw nor heard another creature. City-bred and used to throngs of people, bustling markets, street performers and vendors, she was frightened by the isolation almost as much as the man who held her prisoner.

  Her supposition about a stream proved true. Clear water gushed over rocks worn smooth by its flow. Fierce sunlight glinted off the surface. Was it possible the stream led to a not too distant town? She stepped closer, listened, but heard only the softly burbling water.

  She heaved an anguished sigh.

  I can count on no one but myself to reverse my plight.

  Retracing her steps, she reentered the clearing and dumped the wood at Rive’s feet. He had already skinned the rabbit and fashioned a makeshift spit.

  “If you expect me to light the fire, as well, then you are in for a disappointment.”

  Before he could respond, she turned and dashed back to the stream. She would give her last farthing—if she possessed one—for a bath and a change of clothes, even a simple brush or comb. She ran her fingers through her disheveled hair and tugged at the knots, repeating the exercise until she had worked out all the tangles. As she pulled off her shoes, she felt his eyes on her back. Reaching carefully under her gown so as not to compromise her modesty, she removed her torn hose.

  Because she was within his sight, she resisted the impulse to hike up her gown and wade into the stream. She settled for a mere fraction above her ankles—a choice certainly not provocative enough to stir a man’s imagination—and stepped into the water. The numbing cold raised goose bumps along her skin. She tugged at one of the ruffles that edged her shift’s sleeves and tore it loose. Then she moistened the bit of lace and leisurely went about refreshing herself, dabbing at her face, arms and throat, in no hurry to rejoin her captor. The sun, rising steadily overhead, warmed her while she continued to accomplish her simple toilette. When she finished, she left the stream and sat upon the grassy bank. Listening to the gentle murmur of the flowing water, she discovered a newfound appreciation of the pristine beauty all about her and was nearly able to free her mind of the circumstances that had brought her there.

  Time passed and, eventually, she heard him call. Resigned, she tucked the wet lace into her bodice, donned her stockings and shoes and went to him.

  He was stretched out on the grass, picking at a piece of succulent meat. The sight of it only intensified Catherine’s hunger pangs. The rabbit, gutted and spitted, roasted over a low fire.

  “Here, help yourself.” He offered his knife as if they were dining in mutual camaraderie. “You’re in luck, for this is one of my better efforts. It could not be tastier had the royal cooks prepared it in the kitchens at Versailles.”

  She stared at the knife. What devilish trick was this, and to what purpose? Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she’d rather starve than accept food from him, but the sight of the juicy meat, roasted to a golden brown and dripping fat, along with the appetizing aroma emanating from it, reminded her she was ravenously hungry. When he pulled her down beside him, she didn’t protest. She accepted the knife and sliced a piece of meat off the breast.

  While they ate, it occurred to her she would rather plunge the blade into his heart than the rabbit, but she was already acquainted with the quickness of his movements and knew he watched her closely. So, instead, she helped herself to a liberal portion of the tender meat. He, too, concentrated on his food, cutting and eating small quantities. His show of etiquette surprised her.

  At the moment, he seemed to pose no threat, and her tension eased. She wondered at his reasons for hating Jeremy Flint. Rive had spoken of murder, but whose? Someone close to him, certainly. He had made reference to a boy’s sworn oath—his, she assumed—and thought her abduction the result of a long-standing vendetta. Apparently, the wound, still fresh in his mind, kept him bent on retribution.

  The companionable silence continued, and Catherine decided to take advantage of it, along with his seemingly good mood.

  “Why have you done this?” She fought to employ a neutral tone.

  Instead of answering, he leaned toward her and placed a finger lightly against her lips.

  She edged back. “I have a right to know.”

  “Do you? So you will, in due course. Meanwhile, you are in no danger from me. If harm befalls you, it will come through your own miscalculations.”

  Either his threats had lost some of their sting, or she was becoming inured to them. Therefore, she sliced off another piece of meat and continued to challenge him. “My curiosity is natural, don’t you think?”

  He shrugged. “It is misguided, however.”

  “At least tell me who you are. I know your name and precious little else. Surely it can make no difference if I learn about you now, or later, when you swing at the end of a rope.”

  He laughed and slowly shook his head. “I thought we had settled the question of my ancestry. I am a brute. You said as much yourself.” He uncoiled his long, lithe body and rose to his feet. “Shall I prove it further? There is at least a half hour before we depart.”

  “No.” Again her voice betrayed her. It emerged a squeak, when she meant to employ a far more forceful tone.

  “Then eat.” He settled back down.

  She nibbled on another morsel, but more than ever found her curiosity piqued. “You are French?”

  “I come honestly by the name St. Clair. Yes, I am French. Does that reassure you?”

  “Hardly. Not when our countries are engaged in a war over Canada.”

  It had begun with disputes over territory in the Ohio Valley. By 1756, war had been declared between the French and British. As it entered the third year, Catherine had devoured every newspaper account, which, lately, had touted her countrymen’s successes. French forts continued to fall, leaving Quebec—the center of French power in North America—vulnerable. If the British were to seize Quebec, they would control Canada.

  “The war has nothing to do with you. As a Frenchman, I bear you no ill will.”

  “You do Mr. Flint. Why?”

  “This is not the time to discuss it.”

  She exhaled in irritation. “I can think of no better.”

  “You will know everything soon enough, when your husband and I meet again.”

  “You
sound certain you will.”

  “Unless he is a fool, and I don’t believe he is, he will come for you.”

  Would he? Perhaps he had no stomach for a confrontation. Her ignorance of the circumstances tortured her, just as it troubled her that she might never learn the truth. She was certain Rive intended to kill Flint. Would he succeed? She thought it probable. The passage of time already boded ill for her rescue. She must escape before they traveled any farther.

  The possibility continued to tantalize her. The night before, from the coach, she thought she had spotted pinpricks of light. Did these suggest the existence of a settlement? If one existed there, then why not somewhere near here? She closed her mind to the dangers of the forest—snakes, wild boar, bears and who knew what manner of men who made their living in those woods. Yet, she must risk it.

  “It is getting late.” Rive tamped down the fire and crossed to where his horse grazed. The saddle lay on the ground, the blanket he had wrapped her in the previous night beside it. It would still require several minutes for him to prepare for their departure.

  Now, she resolved, while his attention was diverted.

  She backed away slowly, then turned and dashed toward a thick copse of trees. Her plan was to follow the stream, but her shoes, with their low slim heels, made running difficult. Still, she kept up a swift pace, slipping and skidding over small stones, dry pine needles and rotting leaves. Thick roots rose up in a tangle to trip her. When her skirt caught around her legs, she hitched it up to her knees. Modesty had no place on this day. For now, her one goal was to make good her flight.

  More than once, she tripped and fell, skinning her palms. Thistles clawed at her arms. Even after her breath became labored, her lungs threatened to burst and pain knifed into her side, she fled blindly. Finally, necessity forced her to slow. The only sounds, other than her wheezing breath, were her footfalls. Yet she knew he was searching for her.

  Screened by the trees, the sun provided only dim, filtered light. Shadows patterned the ground. Anticipating the dangerous pitfalls that seemed everywhere about, she kept her gaze lowered.

  Then, suddenly, a man stepped directly into her path.

  Chapter 4

  Rive pulled her to him and held her in a crushing embrace. Her heart beat with a fierce rhythm and pounded against his chest. Time passed, a minute, possibly two, and he made not the slightest effort to release her. For all he cared, time could have stopped altogether. Embers that had lain long dormant flared to life, and a surge of heat pulsed through his body. Her eyes registered genuine shock, but not even his concession she was well-bred could persuade him to let her go.

  Her pale hair tumbled about her shoulders, and he allowed himself the lightest touch. It lay as gossamer as a web against his palm. A tiny twig had lodged in a tress curled above her ear, and he plucked it out with utmost care. Then his fingers glided to the soft, moist, flesh at her nape. She gasped and her breathing quickened—after all, the merest touch from him no doubt rekindled her fear. Her skin reminded him of the smoothest satin and to explore it further would give him the greatest pleasure. His gaze fell to her perfectly formed breasts and slim, uncorseted waist. As to her legs, he made up his mind that one day soon he would judge their perfection for himself.

  He threaded the fingers of one hand through her hair and let them glide along her scalp before lightly cupping her head. She shivered, but he guessed not from the coolness of the forest. Certainly not in ecstasy from his touch.

  What if his touch had moved her? That would add a devilish complication to an already risky plan.

  Tiny beads of moisture formed a delicate sheen on her forehead, and he used the back of his hand to gently brush them away. Her cheeks, still flushed from her impulsive dash through the woods, invited touching as well. Her lips, full and ripe, remained parted as she fought to catch her breath. They offered, if not an invitation, then surely a temptation any man in full possession of his senses would find impossible to resist.

  Yet he forced himself to call upon restraint—not out of nobility, but necessity. To continue meant not only provoking her wrath but also threatening her virtue, for she was bringing him to the brink of arousal again. Unless he intended to bed the lady here and now, it became circumspect to put at least some distance between them.

  He pressed his hands to the small of her back, which allowed him to keep her in his arms. Her courage astounded him. Her beauty sent a torrent of heat tearing through him. Her recklessness made him want to turn her over his knee and give her a good old-fashioned drubbing.

  * * * *

  A shiver rippled though Catherine’s body, a shiver having naught to do with the lack of sunlight or the cool, damp air. She had responded to him, and she could no longer deny it. It had something to do with the tilt of his mouth when he smiled and everything to do with his touch, now so surprisingly light, considering that he must be furious with her. When he threaded those long, sculpted fingers through her hair, her scalp prickled with the most delicious sensations. She wondered when he would stop, was afraid to contemplate where he would stop. It took all her willpower to smother the moan that was forming dangerously in her throat. She could still feel his body imprinted against every part of hers.

  It also took a considerable dose of common sense, combined with a stout mental kick to the posterior, to gather her defenses. Admittedly, he treated her with some respect. He touched her, but in a far less intimate way than he might have done, and had been generous in sharing his breakfast. Still, she was loath to think of his actions as gallant. She had no guarantee he would continue playing the role of a gentleman if they were to spend many more days and nights together. Her body’s betrayal frightened her, and she resolved to give him no cause to abandon all decency.

  After what seemed an eternity, he said, “Don’t ever do that again. There are dangers about far greater than any you will ever suffer from me.”

  She pushed against his chest with her arms. “I cannot breathe.”

  He tipped her face up and gazed into her eyes. “I cannot trust you. So, Catherine, it seems I had better keep you close.”

  He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the stream, setting her on her feet at the water’s edge. A flock of wild geese flew overhead in a V formation. On the opposite bank a doe and her fawn stepped out of the trees and approached the stream. Rive placed a finger against his lips, and together they watched the animals drink.

  Having experienced such an idyllic scene only in books, Catherine stared enthralled. The doe raised her head and stood perfectly still for a moment before she turned and bolted for cover, followed closely by the fawn.

  Rive slipped free the lace ruffle Catherine had tucked into her bodice, dipped it in the water and dabbed at the tiny cuts on her arms and hands. Throughout his ministrations, she stood as still as one of the surrounding trees. Spent from her flight and desperately in need of refreshing, she let him cleanse her wounds. While he did, she deepened her resolve to allow nothing he said or did to affect her in that way.

  The task completed, he led her to where he left his horse, saddled and ready to ride.

  “Madame’s transport awaits.” Then he lifted her onto the horse’s back, gathered the reins and bounded up behind her. Looping one arm about her waist, he murmured against her ear, “Yes, from now on, I intend to keep you very close indeed.”

  Chapter 5

  Catherine pulled the leather slipper from her foot. An examination of the sole confirmed her suspicion. It had finally torn loose. With an exclamation of disgust, she pitched the useless footwear, along with its mate, into the nearest bush. Rive had encouraged her to walk beside him for an hour each morning and afternoon to stretch her legs, and she gladly acquiesced. Hence, the punishment to her shoes. Days earlier, she had abandoned her near-shredded stockings, and some of the stitches in her hem had unraveled. Her dress was soiled with dirt and sweat.

  “You will have to ride from now on.” Creating a stirrup with his hands, he boosted
her up onto the horse’s back.

  Time seemed to pass in an endless cycle, but she kept careful track. During their five days of travel, she’d had only a few moments of privacy. The second morning following her abduction, before they broke camp near one of the many sparkling lakes in the region, he suggested she strip off her clothes and bathe. Her look might have shrunken another man down to the size of a withered shrub. His only reaction was a shrug. But later, as if recognizing the imprudence of his suggestion, he hung a blanket from the lowest branch of a tree near the lakeshore.

  “This is the stoutest barrier I can provide. Have your bath. I shall respect your privacy. You have my word.” He turned toward where the fish he caught earlier lay on the grass and proceeded to build a fire.

  Desperate to cleanse and soothe her body, she decided to trust him. Backing away, she slipped behind the blanket. With her gaze fixed on the slender barrier lest he have second thoughts, she quickly shed her clothes. Making further haste, she waded into the lake, shivering as the first jolt of icy water lapped against her legs. When immersed up to her hips, she sunk down and turned her face toward the waning sun. Modesty, perforce, fell to a low rank in her list of priorities.

  Each night she slept wrapped in the blanket. Rive lay beside her, his wrist bound to hers. Once, having awakened, she discovered he had slipped the knot and was headed to the lake. As he pulled off his clothes, her mouth opened in shock, but she could not prevent herself from staring at him. His shoulders and back showed well-defined muscles; his waist tapered above buttocks and hips so taut it seemed his body contained not a spare ounce of flesh. Did he not possess the longest legs in the universe? A full moon lit the night sky. Bathed in its incandescent glow, his skin took on an ever deeper tone. He appeared more like a figure cast in bronze than a mere mortal.

  The sight caused her breath to catch. Apparently, he also possessed acute hearing. Before plunging into the lake, he called, “Go back to sleep, Catherine, or come and join me.”