Must Have Been The Moonlight

by Melody Thomas

  “Don’t tell me you came alone?” the man’s father-in law scoffed.

  Wind breathed across the street and stirred the gnarled tree branches above them. “I’m not as foolish as some.”

  Michael’s gaze lifted. Surrounded by leafy branches, Finley crouched on the weathered stone wall above the street. He smiled like a wolf. “My men are already on the grounds, your fancy lordship.”

  Tucking his gun away, Michael cocked a brow at Donally, hastily removing his coat. “How is it that you two know one another?”

  “We grew up together.” Donally lifted himself onto an overhanging branch.

  A moment later Michael settled beside him in the tree. He was glad for Donally’s friends. Water dropped from the leaves onto his hands. “Your Grace.” Finley held out a knife, hilt first. “You’ll be needin’ this.”

  “Keep it. I have my own. And don’t anyone touch Cross. He’s mine.”

  His focus clear, his footing sure, Michael lowered himself off the ledge and into the night. Then he was sprinting full-out through the trees. Nothing else mattered but finding his wife. And if Cross didn’t die first of his wounds, Michael would kill him.

  Brianna sat on the edge of the bed. The turnkey had returned. She tried to talk to the dullard who’d refused her food and water. So weak, she’d tried desperately to distract him to get to the window.

  “What does the bitch want now?” Selim strolled into the room.

  He’d spoken to her guard in Arabic, but Brianna recognized the tone well enough to know what he’d said. His venomous gaze went over her before he backhanded the hapless guard. “Abît. Idiot. What is she doing untied?”

  Realizing he intended to strike her as well, Brianna leaped off the bed, too frightened to breathe. Dizziness swarmed over her senses. She didn’t know where she was. But a gust of wind sent branches scraping the roof above her head and mingled with the creaks and groans of distressed joints. She suspected that she’d been put in the upper reaches of a house. The ceiling sloped to within three feet of the floor.

  “All I want is something to eat and drink. Is that so much?” Her voice was hoarse, her throat dry from screaming so long in the gag.

  “Do you think you’ll live long enough to die of starvation?”

  Selim lifted her and tossed her on the bed so hard, she heard the frame snap. Fighting to regain control of her panic, she struck out at him and screamed, only to hear her high-pitched rasp. Her legs entangled in her skirts. He tied her ankles. “We weren’t supposed to be here but for you.”

  “Enough!”

  Through a waterfall of her hair, Brianna saw Charles Cross leaning against the door frame, a wine flask held loosely in his hand as if he were drunk. Her friend. Her ally in Cairo. For a moment he struggled to stand, and Brianna, disbelieving, noted his pallid features, the way his hand trembled against the door frame. Until now she hadn’t known for sure that he’d been the one she’d shot. Someone had hit her and knocked her unconscious. But now she knew.

  “How could you?” She tried to scream at him but couldn’t as Selim turned her over on her stomach and bound her hands tightly behind her.

  How could he be associated with a murderer like Selim?

  “Leave us,” Charles said to the younger man. “Now!” he said again, when it looked as if Selim would argue. “You are free to go.”

  “You still have time, my brother,” Selim pleaded. “We have avenged our mother. We have won. You don’t need to stay. Come with me.”

  “Go, Selim. Before it is too late for you.”

  “I cannot!”

  “Go. And lock the door.”

  Glaring at Brianna through tears, the younger man whirled away and stalked from the room. Mother? They shared the same mother?

  His face hidden in the shadow, Charles seemed to be staring at her. She heard the click of the door, and struggled to sit against the cast-iron headboard. Selim was Omar’s youngest son. Brianna remembered what Omar had once said about having an English mistress while he’d attended Oxford. Brianna’s gaze rose to Cross’s. No sound escaped her.

  “With my hair and coloring, my illustrious father thought I could be of more use to him if no one knew the truth, that I could even care the slightest for him after he made a whore of my mother.” Charles moved into the dull sphere of light cast by the single candle on the nightstand. She could see the bloodstain spreading outward in a circle on his shirt. “Do you know what he used to do to the young servants in this room? Sometimes he would even bring my mother and me up here to watch.”

  “You are the one who killed him.” She’d exhausted herself in her struggles. “He was never part of those caravan raids.”

  “Had I been able to convince Fallon that Omar was the one behind the attacks, I could have trusted him just to deal with the bastard. That gold shipment raid had been our last. I’d accomplished what I’d gone to Egypt to do. Ruin Omar. I’d wanted him to know that his bastard sons were better than he was. I could go anywhere in the world and live like royalty with what I took off that caravan.”

  “I live like royalty. There’s better ways to ruin your life.”

  He chuckled, such a normal sound that they could have been sitting down over tea. Pain creased his features. “You shot me, Brianna.”

  “I didn’t know it was you. How could I?”

  The bed dipped as he sat beside her. He smelled of disinfectant and sweat. Brianna turned her face away as he held the flask to her mouth. “You have to drink now, Miss Donally.”

  “Please…don’t.”

  “You are thirsty. And this will help.”

  She tried to fight. The wine dribbled over her lips and down her chin. Then he shoved a fist into her hair and pulled her head back. “I have no need of poisons, Miss Donally. This will not hurt you.”

  She was so thirsty, her throat could barely swallow. She breathed it into her lungs and choked. Suddenly, Brianna found new strength. She rolled off the other side of the bed, stumbled and hit the wall.

  He seemed startled that she would run from him. Watching her gag, Charles drank from the flask and considered her over the rim. “Fallon has already begun to turn London upside down looking for you.”

  She wanted her husband. Needed him desperately. She raised her eyes. “How do you know?” Her voice was a pathetic whisper.

  “We’ve just been chatting downstairs. A pleasant chat, actually. I told him that you belonged to me. Do you know what he did? He left.”

  Her gaze flew to the window, where he might even now be outside.

  “You needn’t fear me, Miss Donally. I could have taken you many times.” Cross pulled a chain from beneath his shirt and withdrew the amulet. “I came back with you on the steamer. I was in the suk that afternoon you’d gone with your brother. I used to watch you ride. I gave you back your book. I helped you with your research. I wanted you to know that I felt the same about you that you felt for me.”

  “I should have known. You quoted Dickens.”

  “I know you were forced to marry Fallon.”

  Dizziness tried to pull her down. If he’d been the one who returned her book, then…“Your job allowed you to get stolen merchandise and rare antiquities out of the country. You knew which caravans carried valuable goods,” she whispered, the full scope of his crimes hitting her. “You’ve murdered British soldiers, women and children. You would have murdered me.”

  “Not you.” He eased around the bed to stand in front of her. “Never you. Don’t you understand?” he rasped, as if she should have no qualm comprehending his motives for everything he’d done. “Selim was in that caravan to see that you weren’t killed. I knew that Lady Alexandra was seeking the location of that Coptic temple and that she’d planned to stop near there. We’d arranged for Pritchards to be the one to take that caravan out of Cairo.”

  Tears burned her eyes. She stumbled, then hopped in an effort to maintain her balance.

  “Because Major Fallon knew the desert. He would never have de
pended on the guides,” she said.

  Brianna had heard of people who had no moral compass. People unable to grasp the difference between right and wrong. He’d murdered his own father, thought nothing of killing Alex and Michael, and possessed no remorse, no inkling of the horror that he’d wreaked on hundreds.

  Somewhere in the madness of her thoughts she heard doors slamming as if from far away. Shouts. “You are very wise, Mr. Cross.” God, he was insane, and she was trying to reason with him. “We could still go away together.” She’d worked one hand loose from the rope.

  “I know you’re lying, Brianna.” His knuckles caressed her cheek. “But that doesn’t matter. Soon we’ll be together forever.”

  It was then that she smelled smoke. It seeped from the floor like a slow rolling mist rising from a bog. “The wine will make this painless, Miss Donally. Do you know what suttee is?”

  In that fatal moment, Brianna realized what he had planned. “You are insane!” He’d sent the house up in flames like some ungodly funeral pyre. “I’d as soon go to hell than spend a second in eternity with you!” She stumbled against the wall, hitting her head when she fell. She lay momentarily stunned.

  This couldn’t be happening!

  “You don’t mean that, Miss Donally.”

  In frustrated rage, Brianna hit the wall with her feet. Pain ricocheted up her deadened calves, but she didn’t care, her kid boots absorbed the impact. Soon, plate-size pieces of plaster began to crumble. She screamed for Michael. The wine at least had given her back her voice. Then there was another roar in her ears, as if the sound of the sea crashed through her head. Dizziness pulled her down. She only knew that if she didn’t stay conscious, she would die.

  “He’s set the goddamn house on fire!”

  Even as Michael watched, a tapestry in the sitting room went up in flames. Fire licked at the photographs on the wall. Boyish faces melted and blackened. Michael’s heart hammered in his chest. He met Donally’s desperate gaze across the corridor. “She has to be here!”

  Within a half hour, six of Cross’s men were stripped of arms and lying facedown on the drive. Panic had erupted into chaos as the first hint of smoke touched the air. But there was no sign of Cross. Michael and Donally had been tearing the house up looking for Brianna.

  “The carriage is inside the cottage at the back,” Finley gasped as he ducked around the corner into the narrow smoke-filled corridor. “Your wife’s trunks are still inside.”

  Michael’s blood ran icy cold. “We’ve missed a door someplace,” he shouted to Donally, rolling his hand to signal that he should go back into the cellar. Michael took the stairs, his eyes on the walls and the floor, looking for someplace that pulled at the tendrils of smoke.

  “Here!” Finley yelled, laying a shoulder against the wall, nearly crashing through to the corridor on the other side.

  Michael took the long staircase into the darkness. “Listen!”

  Above the shouts and gunshots outside, he could hear something banging. He followed the noise down the hall, throwing open doors until he reached one that was locked. “Brianna!”

  Michael smashed his boot heel against the metal plate of the door. Brianna was somewhere inside, and then he forgot to care whether there might be more men about as he emptied his gun into the lock and kicked open the door. There was a deadliness about him as he ducked inside the smoke-filled chamber.

  “Get Donally out of the basement,” he called to Finley. “I’ve found her.”

  The vision of Brianna dead would haunt him until he could no longer bear it. Seeing her lying motionless on the ground, her knees bent against the wall, her face turned toward the window, he ran to kneel beside her. Cross sat unmoving against the back of the bed.

  Then Michael was sawing at the ropes on her wrists and ankles and pulling her into his arms. Somewhere, he heard shouts, but the only reality was Brianna in arms, his mouth pressed to hers, holding her to his heart as if he feared that she might somehow get away.

  “You’re late, Ravenspur,” he heard her hoarse whisper.

  “It’s a big house, amîri.”

  He had known little of love his whole life, even less of tenderness, but today he’d learned what it was truly like to lose both, and he never wanted to know that devastation again. He lifted her into his arms. “It was Charles Cross all the time,” she murmured.

  “I know.”

  “He’s Omar’s son,” Brianna murmured.

  Michael had guessed that much when he recognized the second boy in the photo as Omar’s youngest son. Her head lulled against his shoulder. He swung around to get out of the room. Cross moved, and Michael was suddenly looking into his eyes. The man was still alive.

  “It won’t matter what you do,” his voice whispered. “Where we’re going, you can’t follow.”

  Michael saw an amulet clutched in his hand.

  “The amulet,” she whispered. “Get it off me. Now.”

  He pulled the chain over her neck. “Where you’re going, she’ll never be—” Michael tossed the amulet at Cross. “You bastard.”

  Brianna murmured, and Michael knew she was slipping out of consciousness. He turned with her in his arms. The corridor was narrow. Then he was running. Whatever happened to Cross would be in the hands of a far higher power than his. Smoke burned his eyes. He had to get out of the house. Bars covered the windows. Michael broke the glass in the bedroom. He kicked at the bars, but nothing moved. He did the same for both windows. The bars were solid iron. He stopped in the doorway, pushed back by the flames that had already consumed the front of the house. Helped by kerosene, flames caught the draperies and chased up the walls to lick at the ceiling. Light fixtures shattered.

  With an oath, Michael turned and ran back up the narrow stairway, encountering smoke rising from the floor below. He could only pray that the stairs led to the roof and that he could get down from there.

  Gunshot splintered the wood next to his head. “Burn, Fallon!” Cross stood at the top of the stairs, blocking their escape.

  “Can you stand?” Michael asked Brianna, setting her down behind him.

  “I would fly if you asked,” she murmured with a weak smile.

  Tilting her head, he looked into her eyes. Barbiturates.

  Michael didn’t know how much she’d consumed. Cross had fed her the same drug given to widows in India who were burned to death on the funeral pyres of their husbands. Reaching behind him, he pulled the revolver from his belt and checked the load. One fucking bullet. Brianna leaned a shoulder against the wall. Another bullet smashed into the doorjamb, then another. His heart pounding slowly, heavily, Michael knew he had no choice but to step into that stairwell. He must take a chance on getting shot. But regardless, he had to take out Cross.

  Michael stepped into the stairwell. A bullet creased his sleeve. Cross had panicked and fired too soon. Michael’s arm was already raised. He fired and hit Cross between the eyes. Cross fell against the wall.

  Michael turned for Brianna and found her eyes wide on his. He pulled her into his arms and ran up the stairs. He found a way to one of the turrets on the roof. Smoke bellowed from the windows below.

  “We have to climb,” Brianna said, stumbling toward the branches of a tree. Michael grabbed her hand and looked down. A long way down.

  Then he was stripping off her skirt to her chemise. He held her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. They could both die leaping onto those branches, and he had something to tell her, so help him God.

  “I know,” she said before he could voice the words. “I love you, too, but if we don’t get off this roof none of that will matter.”

  Michael stopped her. He kissed her lips, brushed the hair from her sooty face, and kissed her again. Then he lowered her to the thickest branch about three feet below the turret.

  “I’m not watching,” he said. “Christ…”

  But he did watch, helplessly, as she wobbled to the center of the tree and started down, disappearing into the thick sm
oke. Michael jumped across and soon he’d caught up to her. Donally and Finley waited below, and when they hit the ground, they started running. Behind him the fire burned. The scene was dramatic. People had moved away from the yard.

  Michael stood on the drive watching the flames lick at the sky before turning to join Brianna inside the carriage. She was conscious, her hair singed, her face black, and he pulled her into his lap.

  “How did you know I was in that house?” she whispered.

  The shouts had disappeared, and a pale stretch of light, faintly purple, had begun to change the sky. “English roses,” he said against her hair, and he felt the smile on her lips, the welcoming embrace of relief as he held her. “It was the same scent that led me to you before.”

  In a world far away, a long time ago when he’d found her veil in the desert. Michael tried to explain what he’d meant, but it didn’t seem to matter, for she knew. “It took you long enough, Ravenspur.”

  And he knew that she’d be all right.

  Chapter 25

  “Cross might have gotten away if she hadn’t shot him.” Michael raised a steaming mug of chocolate to his lips and drank. “Selim has been convicted of three counts of murder and accessory to murder for crimes committed against everyone found in the carriage. The verdict was issued yesterday.”

  “Thank you Jesus that most of this was left out of the newspaper,” Ryan said, stabbing a cigar in an ashtray at his elbow.

  The sun had risen hours ago, and the men gathered around the settee and chairs in Christopher Donally’s library remained tense, though no one admitted as much. Setting the mug down, Michael leaned forward on his knees. “You owe Ware for keeping this out of the papers,” he said, looking at the faces of Brianna’s brothers gathered around the chairs.

  Michael noticed the cozy picture they made. In contrast, Lord Ware stood outside the circle of camaraderie with his hands clasped behind him. “It seemed that Charles Cross sailed from Alexandria under the name of Solomon.” Ware’s hand opened and closed over the head of his cane. “It was his legitimate name. From what we could discern, their father took both boys away from their mother to Egypt after she killed herself. Cross returned later and was educated here when he turned seventeen. Whatever he felt for his father had only festered.”