Surrender in Moonlight

by Jennifer Blake

  "Correct." He held it out to her. "Ladies first."

  She took the box, saying frankly, "I'm not certain what to do with it."

  "Sit in the bottom of the boat, so you can lean over and hold the box down in the water. Just keep the top clear, so the water doesn't get into it."

  She did as he said, hanging over the side of the boat. The moment she let the box down into the water, it was like having a window on the sea. She could see the white coral sand of the ocean bottom, the waving of fingers of coral, and, darting here and there, the bright blue and gleaming yellow of fish. She also saw long pieces of gray planking with coral and barnacles growing on the sides.

  "There's something down there. Wood. Is it-?"

  "The wreck of an English merchant ship driven onto the reef during a storm twenty years ago."

  It was strange to see it, the wreck lying there so plainly. She thought she could make out round openings in the planking where portholes had been, and a piece of the keel. "I suppose the wreckers took everything of value."

  "Before she sank," he agreed. "You are looking through something like fifty feet of water."

  He moved to crouch beside her, watching over her shoulder as he told her the names of the fish she saw: a dark turquoise blue parrot fish, a huge gray grouper, a red snapper, and many others. He helped her to identify the low-growing, convoluted forms of brain coral, the waving lavender beauty of sea fans, and the spread fingers of starfish. It was marvelous, an unforgettable experience. Lorna could have watched for hours, if the ache in her neck and shoulders from bending over the side of the boat had not forced a halt.

  Leaving the site of the wreck, they passed a man in a dinghy, cleaning fish he had caught and washing his knife over the side. He lifted a hand to them, the only human being they had seen since they had left New Providence. They then set a course for a distant island and held to it with the wind straining and snapping their sail while they narrowed their eyes against the sun's glare.

  The island drew near. The surf caught them in its surge, carrying them over the reef. The boat grounded on the sand and Lorna, in sudden exuberance, leaped out with Ramon to pull it higher on the beach. When she waded ashore, her muslin skirts were sodden, flapping around her. The island was deserted, he told her; there was no one to care if she wanted to take off her gown and wear only her underclothing, or nothing, while it dried.

  It was impossible to resist, and Lorna did not try. She stripped off her gown and hung it on the branches of a sea grape tree to dry, then removed her corset and slung it up beside the blowing muslin. When she looked up, Ramon had removed his shirt and boots, and flung them down on the coral rock. He took her hand, drawing her with him toward the beach.

  "Have you ever bathed in the sea?" he asked, his black eyes alive with laughter and something more that left her breathless.

  "No," she answered, holding back a little, though she was willing enough. The water looked so inviting, like liquid jewels, aquamarine and turquoise and amethyst, a priceless and promising elixir.

  "It's time you did," he said, and took her splashing into the cool, clear, salty water.

  They could see their toes on the coarse sand of the bottom, so crystalline were the depths; see the tiny fish that swam here and there, and the white crabs that scuttled from their approach. The surf, its strength broken by the reef, was gentle, caressing near the beach. Nudging, beneficent, it pushed them against each other. Ramon, his chest bronzed in the sunlight with the exception of the scars, which were still an angry red, cavorted around her. He swam away a few yards, offering to teach her the way of it, grinning when she refused in distrust. He returned, gliding past her, touching her under the surface in artless, familiar intimacy.

  The thin, wet lawn of her camisole molded itself to her breasts, hugging their proud contours, lying cunningly over the contracted peaks. Her pantaloons clung to the gentle curves of her hips and thighs. Through the transparent material, the pink and cream of her skin glowed with the bloom of health and enjoyment and vibrant feminine awareness.

  She was waiting, expectant, when Ramon came to his feet before her, drawing her to him. His mouth tasted of salt and the sweet mastery of desire; the surfaces of his lips were smooth, adhesive. His hands cupped and kneaded, clasping her against the hard strength of his body. She stood on tiptoe, twining her arms about his neck, pressing herself against him, moving with sinuous grace to the ebb and flow of the water that lapped about her shoulders.

  He unbuttoned her camisole, easing the edges apart, his head bent as he studied the rose-pink peaks straining upward with the lift of the water, gleaming in the sun rays slanting through its limpid depths. He pushed the garment off her, slinging it toward the beach, then slipped free the knot that held her pantaloons.

  Her thighs gleamed white, marbled with the refracted light from the water's surface. His own were a deeper gold as his trousers went bobbing in the surf. They drifted together as gently and naturally as the first man and woman to couple under a pagan sky.

  Lorna felt the strength and surge of him inside her, the strong support of his arms as she was lifted against him, her legs positioned around his body. Her breasts pressed against his chest, moving, ever moving, their peaks burrowing into the hair that furred its planes. Their mouths clung, while the world swung slowly, the horizon turning. The sound of the sea was in her ears, the taste of it in her mouth, the feel of it both upon her and inside her. She was a part of it, and it a part of her. It was right, an elemental pleasure that mounted so that her hands upon Ramon's shoulders tightened and she moaned, a soft sound that was lost in the flow and suction of the water.

  Slowly, relentlessly, the tension increased, until her blood thundered in her ears and the water was cool against her heated skin. She was helpless in its grip, uncaring for where she was or who might see them there. With a need that bordered on desperation, she wanted to take the man who held her deep inside and hold him there, fused, inseparable, the two of them one with the sea.

  The molten run of the ocean's current burst within her, flooding, flowing. She lifted her lashes and stared into the black eyes of Ramon Cazenave, her own gray gaze stark with love and wonder. His pupils widened and his indrawn breath was sharp. He bent his head and took her mouth, then holding her to him, plunged deep into the turquoise waves.

  They glided, revolving in sweeping turns, their hearts near to bursting. The sea took them, caressing, cradling them in that moment of supreme ecstasy. Disembodied, caught in the ancient magic of the sea, they lingered, the emotions that held them more clamorous than the need for life. Then with a powerful thrust of his shoulders, Ramon rose to the surface. With her tucked against him, he found his feet and lifted her, gasping and laughing, in his arms. His dark eyes unshadowed, he smiled down at her, then hoisting her higher, carried her slowly toward the beach.

  While Lorna's rescued underclothing and Ramon's trousers dried, they spread their lunch on a tablecloth laid over a blanket that smelled faintly of fish. Naked and splendidly unaware, they ate, though Lorna had to keep pushing back the long strands of wild silk hair that wafted around her where she had taken it down to dry in the wind. Afterward, they wrapped what was left in the cloth and put it in the straw basket they had brought it in, then shook the crumbs from the blanket. Replete, pleasantly sated with sea and sun and love, they stretched out to doze in the shade.

  "Lorna?"

  "Hmmm?"

  "You know that tomorrow is the new moon."

  She knew. It did not seem possible that it could be time, that the phases could have changed from full to quarter, and back to the dark of the moon again. Her voice low, she answered, "Yes."

  "You will have to go back to the hotel."

  The words had a reluctant sound, as if he did not want to say them. That was some comfort. She moistened her lips. "Couldn't I go with you?"

  "The risk is too great. Even if you weren't wanted by the federals as a courier, there are fewer women making the runs these days."
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  "I don't care."

  "I do. I have to; should anything happen to you, the responsibility would be mine to bear."

  "I absolve you of it," she said, her voice tight with disappointment.

  He rolled to face her, heaving himself to one elbow. "You can't. It's not in your power."

  "I wish…I wish you didn't have to go." She kept her lashes lowered, staring at a gray-black lizard that had scuttled out onto the rock beside the blanket to bask in the sun-dappled shade, showing his yellow throat.

  "Chérie," he said, his voice low, shaded with a peculiar uncertainty. He reached to touch her face with his strong brown fingertips. She looked up and was caught in the dark mirrors of his eyes, aware of a sudden breathlessness in her chest.

  His attention moved beyond her, sharpened. Abruptly, he lunged over her, snatching the blanket edge and pulling it across her as a covering. In the same movement, he came to his feet. "If you will stand now," he said, his tone resigned, "you may have time to duck out of sight and get dressed before he passes by here."

  She swung her head to see the fisherman they had passed earlier in his dinghy. He was just rounding a point of the island, the square brown sail on his clumsy boat taking him slowly over the water just outside the reef. No daring seaman, he was keeping close to land as he navigated toward an island lying no great distance beyond the one on which they had landed.

  With the blanket around her, Lorna struggled upward. For something to say to relieve the sense of heavy anticlimax she felt, she said, "Do you think he lives over there?"

  "Probably. Most of the larger islands, the ones that have water available, are livable enough. Between what you can get from the sea and what you find growing wild, there's plenty to eat, providing you know what to look for, of course. But the damned old wrecker most likely came by to be sure I hadn't piled the sloop up on the reef, being so entranced with my companion. It would have been fair game then."

  She laughed, shaking back her hair, so that it rippled like a gold silk flag in the breeze. "He will be disappointed."

  "By the grace of le bon Dieu," he agreed, his sidelong glance droll, "and he isn't the only one."

  Her clothing was dry, flapping in the trade wind. The leaves of the sea grape trees that lined the shore rustled with an inviting sound, while bees hummed in the thick undergrowth beyond. If she dressed, it was probable that they would leave this quiet place with its somnolent peace, sailing back to the bustle and noise of Nassau. She sniffed at the blanket around her, wrinkling her nose at its aroma, which had been made riper by the heat of the sun. Tilting her head, she asked, "Do you think we could just hide until he goes on by? Another dip in the water would be lovely."

  He glanced at the fisherman, then back to her, a warm smile moving into his eyes, curving his mouth, so that his teeth flashed white. "Anything you say, chérie, anything at all."

  Dusk was falling, lying purple across the opalescent blue water, when finally they sailed into the long harbor that lay between Hog Island and New Providence. The palm trees were silhouettes against the soft, dark blue of the sky. Fort Montagu loomed gray and stolid in the dimness, while the lights along. Bay Street and on the ships lying at anchor were like fairy lanterns: small, scattered, and pulsing, reflecting over the water.

  Lorna was sitting in the prow, facing forward, her face lifted to the soft breeze. They were no great distance from the Lorelei when she saw it. She was watching the ship that Nate Bacon had been fitting out these past weeks, a merchant tub, trim, but without the grace of Ramon's ship. They were within a few yards of her when two men caught her attention. One was Nate himself, unmistakable in his bulk and flowing brown hair shot with silver. The other was a man of medium height with a sharp, pointed face, made oddly fox-like by a bushy growth of carrot-colored side-whiskers and wearing a small, flat hat on the back of his head. They were shaking hands, the pair of them, firmly, as if to seal a contract; then, the fox-faced man did a strange thing. He took out a pipe and a metal box of matches from his jacket pocket. He opened the box and extracted one, striking it in a flare of sulphur-yellow flame. Instead of putting his pipe in his mouth and applying it, however, he stood holding the match in his fingers, watching it burn, laughing. Nate Bacon gave a rich chuckle, too. Then as the man shook out the match, the two clasped hands once more.

  Lorna turned in her seat to see if Ramon had noticed. He was staring ahead at his ship, where Chris stood waiting at the landing stage. Following his gaze, wondering what problem had come up in their absence that made it necessary for the young second officer to meet them, she forgot the incident she had just witnessed.

  The trouble was minor, a hitch in the loading that was soon straightened out. By mid-afternoon the next day, the ship was sitting low in the water and the last of the stevedores had padded away down the gangplank. The passengers, four gentlemen, had made their way to the dock and were waiting impatiently with their trunks and carpetbags about their feet for the order to board. Lorna had gathered her things, ready to depart. She and Ramon had said their good-byes the night before, but still she lingered for a final parting. He was busy with Edward Lansing and a port official in his cabin, going over the bills of lading, signing documents for harbor clearance.

  Lorna walked to the railing, running her fingers over the smooth, freshly painted surface. She did not want to go. The thought of returning to the hotel was a leaden weight inside her. The days that lay ahead stretched endlessly. She would much rather venture the dangers of the trip than endure the hours of waiting, of not knowing, to say nothing of the stares and whispers she could not avoid.

  Her gaze narrowed. One of the passengers below had a familiar look. It was the fox-faced man she had seen the night before. She could not be mistaken; she would have recognized those orange side-whiskers and wide flaring tufts of beard anywhere. A chill ran over her as she stared at him. She did not like it, she did not like it at all.

  She had tried to tell Ramon about the man and his action the evening before. He had been indulgent, teasing her about her feminine intuition and the lack of logical reason for her instant suspicion simply because she had seen him with Nate Bacon. He was inclined to discount the damage one man could do, anyway, especially when surrounded by his officers and crew.

  She thought of speaking to him again, of suggesting that the man be denied passage. Would he listen or would he merely smile and kiss her into silence? She stood frowning, trying to decide.

  At the sound of footsteps, she looked up. It was Chris. He stopped for a few moments beside her, saying good-bye, promising they would return as quickly as the old girl, meaning the ship, could bring them. As he walked on, slim and straight in his uniform, with the sun shining on his soft brown hair and glinting on his wire-rimmed spectacles as he glanced up at its position, a vague idea came to her. She considered it carefully for flaws, a gleam appearing in her gray eyes that gave them a silver sheen.

  She had learned in the past few weeks that an action delayed could become useless. In a swoop of skirts, she swung and picked up her straw bag. With it in her hand, she moved swiftly back toward the companionway and ducked inside.

  An hour later, she stood in her room at the hotel dressed in a pair of natty brown and green plaid trousers, a crisp white shirt, a brown silk cravat, and a forest green jacket. Her hair was coiled on top of her head and covered by a soft wool cap. The shirt was rather wide across the shoulders and long in the sleeves, the jacket the same, but the trousers were an excellent fit. If she waited until dark and chose her time well, no one would notice the other deficiencies, or discern that she wore slippers instead of boots.

  While the sun sank slowly into the ocean, she reviewed her preparations. In her straw trunk, she had food enough, ordered from the hotel kitchen, for the three-day voyage, as well as a jar of water, a comb, one muslin gown, and her underclothing. In one pocket of Chris's jacket, she had the last of the money that Ramon had left her, and in the other, Nate's derringer, loaded with recently purchas
ed powder and ball. There was nothing else she could think of that she would need.

  She would approach the ship during the dinner hour and walk on board with her baggage in her hand, for all the world like some late-arriving passenger. Once below, she would slip into the ladies' cabin, just as she had done before. Only on this occasion, there would be no female expected, so there should be no reason for Cupid to have any interest in that cabin. All the conveniences necessary for human comfort were to be found there, and she saw no reason why she should not take advantage of them. With luck, there was no reason why she should have to emerge before they reached the passes of the Cape Fear.

  On the other hand, it was possible that, through some miscalculation, she might find the ladies' cabin in use. The male passengers might well have spread their belongings into it, since it was not supposed to be occupied. In that case, she would go to the hold and expect to show herself after twenty-four hours or so, when it was too late to turn back and put her off.

  It wasn't that easy. The watch on deck was Chris. The others she might have fooled, but it was unlikely that he would fail to recognize his own clothes. She loitered along the wharf, keeping to the shadows, starting at every movement and staying well away from the men who passed to and fro. As the minutes passed, she grew afraid that she was making herself conspicuous, that she would draw the attention of the second officer just by being there. At the same time, she had to stay close, so she could seize any chance offered to go aboard.

  This could not go on. They would be leaving soon. Already, there was light gray smoke coming from the stack as the boilers were stoked for a full head of steam.

  As she stared at the ship with a frown between her eyes, a young Negro boy of perhaps ten or eleven wandered past where she stood. He was a soft brownish-black, with huge dark eyes and, as he caught her gaze, a melting smile. He was eating a sugar apple, spitting the seeds out on the ground. He had several of the knobby green tropical fruits in a sack over his shoulder.