Moonfire

by Linda Lael Miller

  “Damn you,” he breathed, addressing his brother, “don’t you die now. Don’t you give up and die. You’ve got Maggie to live for—”

  “He can’t hear you,” Cutter complained, weary of standing around in the house when there was so much work to be done. “And who, pray tell, is Maggie?”

  Despite the heartache he felt over Reeve, Jamie permitted himself a small smile. “She’s the hell-kitten my brother loves,” he said. “Lucky for him, she loves him back.”

  “Peony ain’t gonna like it one little bit if she hears you talkin’ so fond about some other woman, Jamieboy.”

  “Peony and I have an understanding,” Jamie replied, tossing his hat aside to lean closer to his brother. Had he seen a flicker of movement there by Reeve’s lower lip?

  “I’ll wager that understandin’ don’t include your spendin’ a night with a woman what loves your brother,” Cutter said.

  “Get out of here,” Jamie replied.

  When Cutter was gone, he reached out to turn up the bedside lamp. Light spilled over Reeve’s face, and this time Jamie was sure of what he’d seen before; Reeve’s eyes, closed by the doctor like a dead man’s, were open.

  Jamie’s own eyes had misted over, but he managed a lopsided grin. “So you found me. You never give up, do you, brother?”

  Reeve’s face might have been carved of granite, it was so still, but Jamie could feel his brother’s struggle in his own spirit.

  “I know what you want, mate,” Jamie said, his voice hoarse. “I’ll take you back home as soon as you can travel.”

  “When’ll that be?” demanded a man from the doorway.

  Jamie looked back over his shoulder to see Jacob Hughes, Reeve’s first mate, standing where Cutter had been minutes before.

  “We gotta get back to Sydney, mate. The men got families there, wonderin’ and waitin’, and there’s some that have to be told bad news.”

  Jamie sighed. “Sail whenever you’re ready; I’ll see that my brother gets back when he’s well enough for the trip.” An image of saucy gray eyes and tangled hair the color of moonlight rose in his mind. “He’s got a woman. I want you to tell her that Reeve’s alive.”

  “I’ll see that it gets done, Mr. McKenna,” Hughes answered, and then he was gone.

  Jamie swung his gaze back to Reeve’s face, still as impassive as a stone statue. “At least Maggie won’t be worrying that you’re dead,” he said.

  Reeve closed his eyes and Jamie bent closer, squinting. Sure as hell, there were tears glistening along Reeve’s coal-black lashes.

  “So Reeve managed to survive, did he?” Loretta smiled broadly at the crewman dispatched by the first mate of the Elisabeth Lee. “Why, that’s just wonderful news!” She turned briefly to the man behind her, who was dressed for an evening at the theater. “Isn’t it, Duncan?”

  Duncan’s green eyes were thoughtful. “Yes,” he replied, “wonderful news.”

  The man who had carried the message nodded his head nervously and turned to leave. He ran down the walk to the street and disappeared into the night.

  Duncan’s shoulder was still stiff from that unfortunate incident in Melbourne, and he rubbed it distractedly with his hand. “There is never going to be a better opportunity,” he said in that odd, faraway voice that had become his usual way of speaking.

  Loretta was annoyed. “Really, Duncan, your obsession with that little twit is really quite tiresome. She loves Reeve, and she’ll never want you, not after what happened in Melbourne.”

  Duncan smiled absently, looking through Loretta to something else, something that was out of her sight and her reach. “She must be devastated, believing that Reeve is dead. And vulnerable.”

  Loretta snapped open her fan and fluttered it angrily back and forth in front of her face. She looked her best, and here was Duncan, not even noticing. All he could talk about was Maggie. “I think,” she ventured to say, “it might be better if we don’t go to the theater tonight, Duncan. I can assure you that Maggie makes a very naive Kate.”

  That stupid grin was still on Duncan’s face. “If you don’t want to see the play, Loretta, that’s fine with me. Personally, I wouldn’t miss it for all the tea in China.”

  Loretta stomped one delicately slippered foot. “I don’t like being made a fool of, Duncan. Just what, exactly, are you planning to do?”

  Duncan gave an odd, slanting shrug and winced at the pain in his sore shoulder. “Offer my sincerest sympathies, of course.”

  Loretta rolled her eyes. She had half a mind to stay home that evening, but there was always the possibility that dear little Maggie would botch her opening performance completely, and Loretta didn’t want to take a chance on missing that. She reached for the bell cord and pulled for a carriage to be brought around. “Don’t make any foolish mistakes, Duncan,” she warned acidly. “Maggie may think Reeve is dead, but we know better. And his revenge is something you’d rather not experience, believe me.”

  Duncan opened the front door of Loretta’s town house and gestured grandly, with his good arm, for her to precede him.

  Maggie’s own pallid face stared back at her from the lighted mirror. The makeup she’d applied for tonight’s performance gave her a garish look, and her stomach was gyrating crazily. “I can’t do this,” she said softly.

  Behind her, Philip Briggs laid his hands on her shoulders. Her costume, a lovely thing of plush gray velvet, left them bare. “What do we say in the theater, Maggie?” he prompted as though she were a slow child and not a woman who’d been widowed before she’d even had a chance to be a wife.

  Maggie sighed. “The show must go on,” she recited forlornly.

  “Exactly. This is your chance, Maggie, to make a real place for yourself in the world. Don’t ruin it.”

  She bit her lower lip. What Philip said was true; with Reeve gone, her only chance to offer her baby a good life was to make a success of her acting career. If this play went well, she would be on her way.

  Philip bent his head and planted an innocuous kiss on the curve where Maggie’s neck and shoulder met. “You’ll be the toast of Sydney, darling,” he said.

  Maggie slipped away from him to fuss with her elaborately coiffed hair and examine her makeup. “Yes,” she repeated obediently, woodenly, “the toast of Sydney.”

  Maggie’s performance was brilliant. Duncan clapped enthusiastically when she took her bows, as did the rest of the audience—except for Loretta. She sat, stiff with disdain, in the seat next to his, her elegantly gloved hands lying still in her lap.

  “I’m going backstage,” Duncan announced when the lights came up. “Are you coming with me?”

  Loretta’s program was now crumpled in one hand. She gave Duncan a sharp look and shook her head, and he left her there to make his way through the crowds, climbing the steps at the side of the stage. Moments later he was standing in the wings, his feet riveted to the floor by the sight of Maggie Chamberlin. God, what a fool he’d been to let her get away.

  He smiled and straightened his tie. He would not make the same mistake twice. “Maggie?” he called, pressing his way through the throng of admirers to stand at her side.

  Maggie looked up at him blankly, her gray eyes full of misery. Duncan realized that she was totally indifferent to him and was stung; her outrage would have been better than this empty stare. Far better.

  “Maggie,” he said hoarsely, taking one of her hands to lift it for a kiss. By that time Duncan was hoping that Maggie’s memory of him had indeed faded away It would be wonderful to have a second chance to win her affections.

  But he saw the fury spark in her stormy eyes as she recalled her experiences in Melbourne. She wrenched her hand free and spat, “Let me go, you bastard!”

  Duncan was momentarily taken aback. He’d known that Maggie had spirit, of course; she’d defied him too many times for him to believe otherwise. But he had never dreamed that she hated him this much. “If you’ll just give me an opportunity, Maggie, I’ll make up for everyth
ing. I promise you I will.”

  Just then the actor who had played Petruchio appeared, still wearing his cape and dashing feathered hat. Possessively, he took Maggie’s arm, and Duncan didn’t like the way she leaned against the man.

  “Miss Chamberlin is really not up to dealing with her admirers tonight,” the actor said coolly.

  Duncan seethed, though he kept his gentleman’s smile firmly in place. “Are you ill, Maggie?” he asked indulgently.

  Her gaze was as cold as the blade of a sword. “A few more moments of your presence, Mr. Kirk, and I will surely vomit.”

  A slap across the face would not have outraged Duncan more. Color surged up from under his elegant collar and flowed hot along his jawline. Still, he bowed politely before turning to walk away.

  If Maggie wanted a battle, she would have one. And she would lose.

  Duncan smiled to himself as he left the theater by a side door and leaned against a brick wall, striking a match and lighting a cheroot. Queensland, he thought as he drew deeply of the smoke. Queensland was just the place for the taming of a certain very fetching little shrew.

  Of course, it would take days, maybe even weeks to make the necessary arrangements. Duncan threw down his cheroot and ground it out with his heel. There was no point in wasting time.

  Maggie lived for just two things during those first difficult days following her acceptance of Reeve’s death: the child growing within her and the surcease of pain that was achieved each night when she walked onstage. The newspapers were calling her portrayal of Kate a triumph, but she only sighed when she read the articles.

  One of the English sisters was letting out Maggie’s costumes, and she turned obediently in the direction indicated by the woman’s tug at her gown. There were flowers on the table in front of her dressing room mirror, beautiful hothouse orchids, fragrant and white as snow.

  Maggie turned up her nose. If Duncan Kirk thought that a few fancy blossoms were going to change her mind, he could just think again. Wistfully, she looked down at the diamond ring she hadn’t had the heart to take off, and sighed. Soon enough, she supposed, she’d be asked to leave Reeve’s house, and she might need to pawn the ring at some point. She wouldn’t be able to play the role of Kate once she was noticeably pregnant, of course, and then how would she earn her living?

  Maggie pushed the question aside. She would think about that later.

  Philip burst through the door at exactly the moment she’d made that decision, his face alight with excitement. “Maggie, would you believe it? You’ve been invited on a tour!”

  She drew in a breath, let it out again. “A tour?” she echoed blankly.

  “Of the United States, Maggie!” Philip blurted out. “If you want to go home, this is your chance!”

  For the first time in days Maggie was jarred out of her walking stupor. She stared at Philip, her eyes wide. “You mean my passage would be paid and everything?”

  Philip nodded eagerly. “And I’ll go with you, as your manager and”—he glanced at the wardrobe woman, who was listening shamelessly—“your husband.”

  Maggie paid no attention to Philip’s constant hints that they should be married, and she brushed this one aside as well. Would America really be home? She had no friends there, and no family.

  On the other hand, she would not be a foreigner in the United States as she was in Australia. She sighed. “When do we leave?”

  Chapter 18

  LORETTA DIDN’T KNOW WHETHER TO BE ELATED OR ENVIOUS. Maggie Chamberlin, invited to tour America! Why, it was preposterous. The chit had no theatrical experience to speak of, and very little talent.

  Thoughtfully, Loretta folded her newspaper and laid it aside. On the other hand, the fact that Reeve was alive couldn’t be kept from the girl forever; one day soon, he would return to Sydney and take up where he’d left off. And then there was the matter of Duncan’s growing preoccupation with the little bitch. Loretta was concerned about that; Duncan was just as rich and almost as powerful as Reeve, and if she couldn’t have Reeve back, she most certainly wanted Duncan.

  She sat back in her chair as a maid came into the dining room of her small town house to clear away the breakfast dishes, and a smile curved her lips. Under the circumstances, Maggie’s tour of America might be the most fortuitous thing that could have happened.

  Just then Duncan came into the room wearing the trousers and elegant dress shirt he’d worn the night before to the theater. There was no sign of his coat. “Good morning, Loretta,” he said with a dismal sigh.

  He had been considerably more pleasant in bed, Loretta thought peevishly, but she smiled. “Good morning, darling.”

  Duncan gave her a quizzical, wary look. Though they had been friends for years, they apparently hadn’t reached the stage where Loretta could address him with an endearment. “Let me see the newspaper,” he said as the maid set a plate of sausage, eggs, and scones before him.

  Loretta knew there was no way she could keep news of Maggie’s invitation to America a secret from him; she could only hope that he wouldn’t be prompted to do anything rash. With a small sigh she handed him the Sydney Times.

  Duncan opened the newspaper to the section where theater news was printed, and Loretta braced herself. She watched in helpless pique as the color drained from his face and his jawline tightened. He swore and flung the periodical back over one shoulder, and Loretta flinched.

  “Blast it to bloody hell!” he growled.

  Loretta sighed. “Now, Duncan—”

  “That little imbecile!” Duncan yelled, rising from his chair so quickly that it toppled over backward and nearly struck the maid, who was still trying to gather up the newspaper he’d tossed moments before. “I have half a mind to go down to that theater and drag her out by the hair!”

  Loretta called upon all her years of training and experience to summon up one sweet smile. “Duncan, do calm down. Maggie will have to finish the run of her play before she leaves, and that will take weeks.”

  Red from his collar to his hairline, his wonderful emerald eyes flashing, Duncan righted his chair with narry a glance for the shivering maid and sat down in it heavily. “She’s just foolhardy enough to take the next ship, Loretta, and you know it!”

  “Would that be so awful?” Loretta asked in a small, tremulous voice. “After all, Duncan, you have me.”

  Duncan gave her an exasperated look and began eating, glowering into space as he chewed. Loretta knew he was plotting, and that worried her.

  “Duncan,” she said softly. “Marry me.”

  He stopped chewing, and his fork was poised in midair as he stared at Loretta in amazement. “Marry you? Damn it, Loretta, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times—I mean to marry Maggie!”

  Enough was definitely enough. Loretta surged to her feet, hot color pulsing in her face, her dark eyes venomous. “It isn’t Maggie you’ve been bedding these past few weeks, is it?”

  Duncan hurled his napkin into his plate and stood up. “More’s the pity,” he retorted, and then he turned and stormed out of the dining room.

  Loretta squeezed her eyes shut tight when she heard the front door of the town house slam.

  Maggie wasn’t exactly looking forward to traveling to America; it was more a case of being resigned to her fate. Philip and Samuel would both be going along, though, and that meant that she would at least have friends. Standing in the center of Reeve’s bedroom, she laid both her hands on her stomach. The baby would be her family.

  She was just getting dressed for another long day of rehearsals when the door squeaked open and Elisabeth crept in. The child was more subdued than ever now that Reeve was gone, and Maggie felt a pang at the thought of leaving her.

  Her enormous aquamarine eyes round and sad, she approached Maggie and held up a shiny red apple and one of Cora’s alphabet cards. “Apple,” she said clearly.

  Maggie sat down on the edge of the bed, agape. Tears sprang into her eyes and she held out her arms. “Elisabe
th,” she said as the child scrambled into her lap and huddled against her in silent despondency. “Oh, Elisabeth.”

  Elisabeth began to cry. “Papa,” she sobbed. “Papa, Papa!”

  Maggie embraced the child. “I know,” she said. “I miss him too.”

  Elisabeth tilted back her head and reached up with one tiny finger to touch a teardrop on Maggie’s cheek. She didn’t speak again, but her expression said volumes. Somehow she’d sensed that Maggie was planning to leave Australia forever, and she was asking her not to go.

  “I don’t belong here, in this house,” Maggie said sadly, praying that the child would understand somehow. “I’ve got to go.”

  Elisabeth clutched at the front of Maggie’s dress, letting the apple and the corresponding alphabet card fall to the floor. Her small face was contorted with grief and fear. “Mama!” she whispered.

  Maggie hugged Elisabeth close again, her chin resting on top of the little girl’s dark head. “Oh, Elisabeth, I wish I were your mama. I truly do. Then we could be together always.”

  Elisabeth was still sobbing and Maggie rocked her in her arms, softly singing a lullaby that she’d learned from her own mother long ago. When the child had fallen silent again, she laid her gently on the bed and covered her with a satin comforter. Elisabeth slipped her thumb into her mouth and fell into a sound, exhausted sleep.

  “Poor little darling,” Cora said from the doorway. “I don’t think she’s been sleeping well lately.”

  Maggie bent to kiss the small forehead and dashed away her tears with the back of one hand. “It’s going to be dreadful to leave her,” she confided.

  “I know,” Cora replied quietly. “There’s a man here to see you, Miss Margaret, from Mr. McKenna’s offices.”

  Maggie steeled herself for some gruesome accounting of Reeve’s death and walked bravely out of the bedroom and down the front stairway. The clerk was standing just inside the parlor.