Must Have Been The Moonlight

by Melody Thomas

  “That will be all.”

  The steward mopped up the spilled brew on the table. “The seas are rough and most of the passengers are sick in their cabins. Supper in the dining saloon will be served cold tonight.”

  “I imagine that’s typical fare for this time of the year.”

  “Yes, your Grace.” He placed the rag on the tray. “If I can be of further assistance, please let me know. I’m in charge of your suite.”

  Michael’s gaze followed the man’s departure. Beyond the makeshift stalls, a pair of young military officers wearing regimental uniforms had gathered to play shuffleboard. He’d seen their open glances at his wife. Sliding the helmet lower over his eyes, Michael leaned back in the chair and crossed his ankles, content to remain where he was.

  He didn’t see Brianna look up as he stirred his coffee, or know that not for one moment had he been dismissed from her thoughts, any more than he’d dismissed her from his. She knew that he watched her from beneath the rim of his helmet with eyes that were anything but lazy. Even after three weeks, he still made her heart beat faster than it should.

  She was unused to feeling like someone’s chattel. She’d always been adept at fending for herself and making her own decisions. Yet, in the course of the last few months, she’d managed to lose her virginity, common sense, and her liberty. Some men just had the natural ability to bring out the worst in a woman.

  Gripping the rail, Brianna began to regret her stubbornness to come topside. Her bonnet had fallen off and now clung to her neck by its ribbons. The deck heaved and sank away again, and the drenching salt spray stung her face. Within sixty seconds she was beyond caring whether she was cold or might be sick on the deck. A hand fell over both of hers, which were clinging to the rail. “Come, amîri.” Michael turned her into his arms and wrapped her cloak around her shoulders. “It’s time to go below.”

  Lifting her easily, he swung her around in his arms and walked with her across the swaying deck. It wasn’t fair.

  “I’ll secure the mare for the night,” he said.

  She leaned her head against the solid strength of his shoulder. “Thank you,” she murmured matter-of-factly. “I suddenly find that I can’t walk.” The churning of the paddle box blocked out the sound of her voice as he passed beneath the doorway and down the stairs.

  “I imagine this service is included in my duties as your husband.”

  She knew that he’d been annoyed that she had not sent a steward topside to feed the mare, that she’d insisted on taking care of the horse herself.

  The drawing room off their sleeping quarters was furnished with plush armchairs and tables topped with Italian Brocatelli marble. It was disconcerting as he sat her in a chair and removed her stockings and shoes that he should appear so capable.

  “G-Gracie and Alex haven’t been well either.” Brianna’s hand splayed the muscled curves of his shoulder as he knelt beside the chair. “I’ve been told the sea is rough this time of year.”

  “This is the Atlantic in January, Brianna.” He pulled her to her bare feet. “It’s bloody rough. And ass-freezing cold.”

  The faint hint of rebuke in his voice was more than her pride could endure. “I owe you,” she said.

  “Do tell, love.” He tipped her chin. “Put it on my bill along with everything else that you claim to owe me.”

  “You know how I feel—”

  “When this trip is over, I’ll send you a goddamn bill, Brianna. Would that make you happy?”

  “Yes.”

  How dared he be so obstinate about something that was important to her.

  The ship rode a swell and threw her against him. “Are you finished?” Michael gently burrowed his hand into her hair.

  Through a haze of misery, she eyed his perfect coloring with hostility. “Actually, I w-would have preferred that you were s-sick.”

  “I know.”

  “The malady would make you…” She flitted a hand in the air. “What is the word I’m s-seeking?”

  “Manageable?” Michael carried her into their sleeping quarters. “Helpless?”

  “Normal.” She stumbled against him as he lowered her feet. “The Irish favor their curses about the devil and Brits, your Gr-Grace. But I would never wish anyone to feel helpless or at another person’s mercy. That would be unkind of m-me.”

  “Indeed.” A corner of his mouth tilted.

  He used his hands on her shoulders to turn her around. He touched his mouth to within a sigh of her ear. His body was a solid wall at her back. “I’ve noticed that about you, amîri.” He made quick work of her gown. Her teeth had started to chatter in earnest. “While other debutantes hold court over their flock of admirers, you like to beat the hell out of yours. You’ve a man’s thirst for blood.”

  “Very amusing, Michael.” She’d wanted to take offense at the backhanded insult, but she rather liked the analogy, or would have if she hadn’t felt so ill.

  “Fortunately, for me, your rifle was empty that day at the oasis,” he said. “To think that you could have spared yourself this trouble.”

  “What a terrible thing to say.”

  “Then you are content with your life, Lady Ravenspur?”

  Outside, sleet began to pound the port window. Finally, her chemise followed the way of her stays and she stood in front of her husband naked as the day she was born. She opened her eyes and stared into the handsome face so close above her own. The invisible walls that had been her security since Stephan had walked away from her no longer separated her from her heart. She had never loved with her soul. But Brianna felt the dangerous flutter of wings in her heart and knew the strangest urge to fly. Not away into the clouds, but toward the sun.

  She could not answer that question except to look away. His very nature demanded her dependence on him. She could not be strong and be in his presence.

  A soft down comforter went around her shoulders, and the hint of sandalwood rippled against her senses. “Do you think the physician made it to Alex and Gracie’s quarters?” she asked.

  Michael wrapped her snugly and sat her on the edge of the bed. He poured two snifters of brandy and thrust one into her hand. “Drink.”

  She watched him toss back the glass, then studying her own glass, did the same, but with far different results. Fire burned down her throat and exploded in her belly. She coughed and sputtered. For all of her progressive drive for equality, she was excruciatingly aware that she drank like a novice, and that Michael noticed.

  But after a moment her limbs grew warm and languid, and she plopped on her pillow like a log. Her eyes became dreamy. “How many people have you nursed, to be so capable, your Grace?”

  Michael slipped the glass from her fingers and remained looking down at her profile. She was already asleep. The life of a public official in Egypt called for forbearance when dealing with the unanticipated. He’d repaired broken bones, dealt with dysentery, and delivered babies. “Treating one stubborn bride with a glass of brandy hardly takes the skill of a surgeon,” he said quietly, adding another comforter to the bed.

  Outside, the weather had worsened. Michael made sure the stove had ample fuel. He returned to the deck and found that he wasn’t the only fool outside. Another man stood in the darkness by the rail. Michael slid his hand into his coat and retrieved his tin of mints. He snapped open the lid and slipped one between his lips as he peered toward the man’s back, but the icy spray climbed beneath his collar, and he lowered his chin to make his way through the darkness toward the berth where Brianna’s mare was stabled.

  He could hear the upper half of the stall door banging against the bulkhead. None of the horses had been tended, and as the storm beat down on the deck, Michael secured the mare, shut and bolted the latch on the door; then he did the same for the two bay geldings on either side.

  He’d allowed Brianna to bring the mare with her to England. It had seemed important to her, and he’d practically moved mountains to see it done in the short time they’d had before leav
ing Cairo.

  She’d not petitioned anything else from him, when it had been her right to do so. While he’d been preoccupied at the consulate that last week, she managed to put together a winter wardrobe for herself and her maid, and to have a heavy coat made for him. She’d settled her own accounts before leaving. A part of him knew that it was important to Brianna to come together with him as an equal. If only because in some things, she could. But attempting to pay her way in this marriage only proved there was no wisdom to stubbornness.

  The ship rode a swell and Michael caught himself against the rail. He reached the passageway to find the door locked against him.

  He turned to look behind him. The man who had been standing at the rail was gone. With an oath, Michael struggled to make his way up the stairs to another entrance, barely avoiding the dangerous wash of waves. He was wet and furious by the time he found his way inside. He walked down the corridor to check the door, but found it unlocked. A vague smell of something medicinal filled the passageway. He retraced his steps and checked his cabin door to make sure it was locked. Hesitating a moment, he removed his helmet and knocked at the cabin next to his.

  The door eased open. Lady Alexandra raised her gaze to meet his in surprise. “Major Fallon. You’re looking somewhat dampened.” Her red silk dressing gown whispered as she stood aside to let him enter.

  “You haven’t opened your door recently?” he asked as she closed it behind him. “The corridor smells like a restorative retreat.”

  Lady Alexandra held up a damp rag. “My maid and I are caring for Gracie. I fear she’s quite ill. A steward just brought me a new supply of rags. Thank you for sending up the physician this afternoon.”

  “Brianna was concerned. I should have made her see the physician as well.”

  “Would you care for tea, your Grace? Or do you still prefer ‘Major’?”

  Michael walked to the port window. Bracing a hand against the wall, he peered out into the darkness. “You’re my sister-in-law. Michael would be a more acceptable moniker to me in private.” He took the cup from Lady Alexandra’s hands. Wearing his military boots, he towered over her. “As for the other? My military duty will officially end upon my return.” Turning a leafy mint sprig over in his hand, he dropped it back in the tea. “Is this a miraculous antidote against vomiting?”

  She regarded him with warmth. “Mint helps to calm one’s stomach.”

  He drank, his gaze going to the door that opened into Gracie’s room. Alex touched his arm. “My servants will be with Gracie tonight.”

  “My wife and Gracie have known each other a long time?”

  “Gracie helped deliver Brianna into this world. She was with her when her mother passed away. The death was very hard on Brianna. Twenty-two years can forge a bond as strong as one forges with family.”

  Michael leaned a hand against the wall and stared outside the window toward England, somewhere on the unseen horizon. He was no longer thinking about the weather or the strange scent in the corridor. He wondered if he’d ever been truly close to anyone in his entire life.

  “How long since you’ve been home?” Alex asked.

  “Too long. Not long enough. Twelve years. I’m under no delusions as to my homecoming.” Turning back into the room, he peered at her over the rim of his cup. “Already, England is as cold as I remember.”

  “Where will you be going once you get there?”

  “My family has a London residence,” he said. “We’ll go there first, until I can get my affairs in order.” He would need more than the one suit of clothes he had. “Brianna will need time to adjust.”

  “You underestimate her.” Alex merely smiled. “Brea kept me alive for three days in the desert. She protected me with her life by sheer force of will because she is stubborn and she loves me. She loves me enough to suffer through research and poor French to help me finish a book no one but a handful of scholars might read. Because she has a need to protect me from my peers,” Alex said, turning her head and her gaze to him. “She’s already loyal to you. And you’re not even Irish.”

  Michael lifted a faintly ironic brow. “Neither are you.”

  “True.” She leaned against the window, her eyes also looking toward home. “Christopher and I left England shortly after our marriage,” she said. “We did not leave on the best of terms with his family. I’ll be surprised if anyone shows to take me home.”

  He set the cup down near a lamp at his hip. “Your husband wired his family before we left Alexandria. They’ll be waiting when we arrive. I’ll wager my inheritance on it. You’re part of their family. One of them.”

  She laughed. “I suppose you can refer to the Donallys as them. They are a very tight-knit, earthy family. Protective of their own.” She leaned against the window. “Cairo in April is no place to be when this baby comes. But it doesn’t make me feel any better to leave.” Touching her abdomen, she looked up to find Michael watching her. “Forgive my immodesty. I fear that marrying a Donally has corrupted all sense of propriety.”

  Michael remembered a particular photograph caught by a particularly talented photographer of Lady Alexandra wearing only gauzy veils and a seductive smile. At the time, he’d been intrigued that she had somehow escaped the confines of her life. Now, he realized that it had been much more that he’d envied.

  “I like impropriety, my lady.”

  Brianna stopped just inside the grand salon, her gaze scanning the few people present. A small orchestra played music to an empty floor. Yule decorations remained scattered over the tables and draped across doorways, remnants of the celebration held here last week. Michael sat at the back of the salon, bent over a chessboard. She wondered what he thought about when he was alone.

  He’d not been in the room when she finally crawled out of bed late that afternoon. She’d eaten with him at breakfast only because he’d forced her to eat; then she promptly fell back to sleep. Later, when she felt human again, she’d visited Alex and Gracie. Out on deck, one of the stewards told her that Michael had already fed the mare that evening.

  “He’s sitting in front of the window, Lady Ravenspur,” the steward said as he pushed a food cart behind her.

  She still wasn’t used to that name. As Brianna approached, Michael lifted his head. She wore a rose-colored gown. Her hair lay in glossy waves over her bare shoulders and down her back. Behind him, the gunmetal-gray clouds of yesterday had surrendered to the fading glow of a sunset. “I hope you haven’t eaten supper,” she said.

  Brianna directed the steward to leave the cart. He stopped in front of Michael. “Is there anything else you need, your Grace?”

  “That will be all.”

  Still unused to being invisible by virtue of Michael’s presence in any room she shared with him, Brianna remained where she stood as the man walked past her. People talked to Michael in crowds. Acknowledged his presence with deference. Respected him.

  His gaze made a slow pass over her. “The kitchens are closed. Did you coerce the cook to do your bidding? Or was it merely your smile?”

  “Neither. I promised that you would write a glowing report of his culinary prowess to the captain. It seems he’s looking to advance his position to head chef, and the recommendation of a duke in his portfolio of endorsements is worth a bribe in gold.”

  He ran his thumb over the queen in his hand. “Is that right?”

  Brianna caught herself watching his hands. Behind her a quiet waltz played. Michael had removed his uniform jacket and seemed more vulnerable—as if he’d eliminated the protective outer layer that always surrounded him. Now, as she pondered her next words, she felt other things as well. Guilt. Regret.

  Relief.

  Like clockwork, she’d started her menses that afternoon. Her body never failed her in that regard. She would have to tell him. As much as she trusted that Michael had done the right thing by her, the tiny seed of doubt inside grew. Now that the real reason for the marriage was no longer an issue, he could be free of his responsibility
to her. Or not.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Alive.” She swept around into the chair. “Thank you for taking care of my mare. And checking on Gracie last night. That was very kind.”

  His gaze followed her. “I’m a kind person.”

  “No you’re not. I mean you are about some things. You can be charming when you choose. And you look nice. Your uniforms are always clean and no one but you sees that it is. It’s true that we have differing expectations of marriage.”

  “You’ve made me aware of that.”

  Brianna brushed her skirt. There was so much that she didn’t understand about herself when she was with him. “I wanted you to know that there will be no baby.” She’d tried to make her voice sound level.

  Brianna had half expected anger, disappointment, some recriminating comment that he’d ruined his life for naught. “I started my menses today…in case you were too polite to ask how I’d know.”

  “I’m not that polite, Brianna. I assumed that to be the case.”

  Despite herself, she felt her face grow hot. “We’ll be in England in a week. I’ll agree to an annulment. You can go your way, I’ll go mine.”

  “Where is it that you want to go, Brianna?”

  Daunted by his words but comforted by the authority he seemed to take over this matter, she dropped her gaze to the sleeve on the chair. She didn’t really want to go anywhere, but said the first place on her mind. “India,” Christopher had once been there, “the Himalayas.”

  Michael was watching her, his expression unchanged, yet his eyes seemed less stark. “Don’t you think it’s insulting? We’ve been married three weeks and you want to leave me for the Himalayas?”

  Despite herself, she almost laughed. “I’d think that you’d be glad to find yourself free to marry whomever your family wanted you to marry.”

  “You don’t need to explain your feelings.”

  “I do.” She cast her gaze to the wall. Deep sapphire watered silk draped the windows that overlooked the sea. The room was no longer gray with the passing day, but filled with a soft, luminous brilliance that came with candlelight and seemed to pick the silver from Michael’s eyes. “I don’t want an annulment.” She finally voiced the words she’d come here to say tonight. “But neither do I want to find myself relegated to a shelf in your life. I want to know you. I want you to know me. It seems that we started out backward, upside down. Literally, on our backs.”