The Trouble With Moonlight

by Donna MacMeans

  He appeared. As if summoned by her very words, a pale face and a white shirt swayed at the hill’s crest. Lusinda raced barefoot up the slope, grateful she didn’t have skirts or corsets to hinder her progress. A cloud slipped over the moon, but she had absorbed so much moonlight waiting for him that she knew she wouldn’t phase. A disappointment, really, as she wished he could see her and know she was there.

  “Sinda?” he said barely above a whisper as she drew near. He dragged his elegant dinner jacket behind him, exposing his back to the cool breeze.

  “I’m here, my love.” She moved forward and slipped her arm under his. “Put your arm around me and I’ll assist you down the slope.”

  He grinned, looking something like a drunken sot. “You called me love.”

  “I suppose I did,” she said, scolding herself for the slip of the tongue. It would be hard enough on her poor heart when he left because their mission had ended, and now she had embarrassed herself by giving voice to her feelings. “You can lean on me for support. Let me show you where my shoulders are.”

  “I know where you are,” he protested. “It’s my arms. They ache so from the ropes . . .”

  She took the jacket from his hand, then tenderly lifted one arm and wrapped it around her shoulder. Careful to avoid the fresh wounds, she wrapped her arm about his waist. She heard his swift intake of breath. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes. How could they do this to him?

  He swayed and she realized how difficult it must be for him to even stand upright. “Portia, come quickly,” she called. “We need your help.”

  “I only need you,” he said, soft and low. “Don’t leave me.”

  “I won’t,” she promised, knowing it was a lie. She wasn’t safe now that Ramsden knew her secret. Locke was not the sort of man to follow. Of course, now that his mission had been completed, he’d have no more need of her. So they would part. Her chest cringed.

  Portia trudged up the hill, holding her gown aloft and grumbling about the ruined state of her slippers and skirt. Her nose wrinkled as she approached. “Is he drunk? He smells awful.”

  “Take his other arm and help support him,” Lusinda said, dismissing her sister’s criticisms. “Be careful, he was ill-used by the enemy.”

  Using a glove-covered hand, Portia gingerly lifted his arm and ducked beneath it to rest across her bare shoulder. However, just as the skin of his arm touched hers, she gasped and began shaking.

  “Portia, what is it?” Lusinda asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “The pain . . .” she gasped, then screamed. “My arm, my back . . .”

  “I can’t lift my arm . . .” Locke ground out between clenched teeth.

  Not thoroughly understanding why, Lusinda pulled her sister out from beneath the weight of Locke’s shoulder. Portia collapsed to the ground, faint stripes resembling whip marks visible above the back of her gown. Lusinda watched, amazed, as the marks quickly faded before her eyes and then disappeared.

  “What just happened?” She knelt down beside her sister. “Portia, are you all right?”

  “My back was on fire,” she whimpered. “My shoulders ached as if my arms were pulled from their sockets, and my back burned . . . Is it all right?” Tears coursed down her cheeks. “Can you see? Am I scarred?”

  You’re not the only one with special abilities, her aunt had said. Lusinda looked with amazement at the smooth, unbroken skin of her sister’s back. Witnessing what had just occurred raised more questions in Lusinda’s mind than answers.

  “Is she all right?” Locke asked, looking down at the two of them. “I don’t understand what happened, but the pain in my back and shoulders . . . it’s as if a magical salve has healed them.” He rolled the shoulder touched by Portia in demonstration. “Can it be?” He peered down at Portia. “Did you do this? If so, I’m most grateful.”

  He extended an arm to help her rise, but Lusinda pushed it away. “I think it best if you don’t touch her right now.”

  Portia’s eyes widened and her lip trembled.

  “Your back is as beautiful as ever, Portia,” Lusinda reassured her. “Are you up to standing now? I’ll help you.” Knowing her sister couldn’t see her, Lusinda grasped Portia’s arms and gently tugged before offering full support. Portia rose and swayed a bit before finding her balance. She quickly grasped Lusinda’s arms before she could pull them away. Her eyes appeared half closed as if she might collapse again at any moment.

  “I’m so tired,” she said. “What happened to me? Why did I feel that way?” Her eyes widened a bit, as if forced by a conscious will. “Does this happen to you, Lusinda? Am I like you?”

  “I think your questions are best directed to Aunt Eugenia,” Lusinda said, helping her sister navigate the slope. Locke hovered on Portia’s other side, careful not to touch her but obviously flummoxed that he couldn’t assist. “She told me you had special talents, but she didn’t tell me what they were.”

  “Me? She told you that? I . . . I thought I was the normal one.” Portia’s lip quivered, obviously shocked, but perhaps a bit pleased by that knowledge.

  Poor child, Lusinda thought. She has no concept of what a curse “special talents” can truly be. She had sudden insight into Aunt Eugenia’s determination to keep the information hidden. “Let’s get you home,” she said. “Perhaps then we can get some answers.”

  Portia nodded. Lusinda turned her attention to Locke. “How are you doing? Can you manage the hill alone?”

  “I think so.” He glanced over to Portia. Lusinda noticed that even the swelling of his eye had reduced, leaving a ring of dark purple high on his cheek. He smiled at her sister. “Now that I’ve been touched by an angel.”

  His grateful expression toward her sister released a twinge of discomfort in Lusinda. She had always been the object of Locke’s wonder and appreciation. Had Portia gained some of his affection as well? She glanced at her sister, but she seemed preoccupied with simply standing upright. It didn’t matter, she decided. They would be packed and gone before dawn. Locke would be free to call any woman “angel,” and she would have plenty of time to nurse her wounded heart.

  He started down the hill before them, and she could see that, though the marks on his back were still visible and still pained her in what they signified, they were remarkably reduced. She wrapped an arm around her sister’s waist, and together they started down the hill.

  Locke slipped away to collect the carriage, which pulled to a halt before the still invisible Lusinda and her barely awake sister. Fenwick immediately abandoned his high seat to assist Portia into the carriage. Poor Fenwick had done more than his share of hoisting bodies to and fro of late, she thought, though Portia was a mere featherweight to Locke’s sturdier frame. Lusinda carefully kept her distance and then discreetly climbed into the brougham once Fenwick stalked to the other side.

  Portia lost consciousness as soon as she hit the squabs. Locke sat forward on the bench, keeping his back free of the cushions, yet careful not to touch either Lusinda or Portia.

  Lusinda, not knowing how long before she would phase back to normal, retrieved the widow’s weeds from beneath the bench and pulled the dress around her.

  “Will she be all right?” Locke asked with a nod toward Portia. “I wouldn’t have hurt her for the world, you know that, don’t you?”

  Lusinda glanced at her younger sister sleeping peacefully on the opposite bench. “Yes, I know.”

  “As soon as my arm touched her shoulder, the pain in my back and shoulder rushed out of me like a gushing river. I never anticipated such a thing could happen.”

  “Neither could I,” Lusinda answered truthfully. “I was unaware of her talents, as I think was she.”

  “My back still burns like the devil, but it’s only half as bad as it was. How did she do that?”

  “She’s Nevidimi,” Lusinda replied with a note of pride in her voice.

  “I certainly can understand why you’d need to keep her ability under wraps, so to speak,” Locke sai
d with a note of reverence. “There are people who would want to use her talent for their own benefit.”

  Lusinda’s head abruptly swiveled toward his, though he couldn’t see it. How was it he recognized Portia’s talent as in need of protection and not her own?

  “You mean the kind of people who would want to use my talent of phasing to find a nonexistent list?” she said, not bothering to mask her irritation. “You’re referring to that sort of people?”

  She could hear the spinning wheels of the carriage, the rhythmic clap of the horse’s hooves, her sister’s heavy breathing, but she heard nothing from Locke.

  After a few moments of silence, he said, “I suppose I am.”

  “Well, you needn’t worry about Portia. Now that you’ve accomplished your mission, I assume you no longer have need of me . . . or my family. Now that Ramsden knows of my ability, we’ll move. I’m thinking of America.”

  “Ramsden is dead.”

  “He’s dead!” Shock chased away her irritation. “But he was alive when I left that cellar, and you said—”

  “I think he chose to die rather than face life in prison as a traitor.” Locke’s words held no rancor. If anything, she detected a note of awe. “Whatever his intent, he attacked me and I stabbed him with the knife.”

  “Are you sure he is dead, and not just wounded?” She hadn’t intended to sound callous, but Ramsden’s death meant they could delay an otherwise hasty departure.

  “I assure you,” his voice issued in a cold monotone. “I was most efficient in killing my best friend.”

  A shiver slipped down her spine. Having shared Locke’s charming company these past weeks, she tended to forget that his occupation demanded a deadly demeanor as well. She noted the tingling in her fingers and quickly glanced to ascertain that all the necessities were covered.

  “Oh, James, I’m sorry,” she said, imagining such an action must have woeful ramifications beyond her understanding. She reached to lower the shades on the windows. “But we all must suffer the consequences of our decisions. Ramsden chose his path and ultimately his end. I know you wouldn’t have killed him unless it was absolutely necessary. ”

  Her body began the glowing that signaled the transition from full-phase to full visibility. In the illuminated interior, she could see that much of Portia’s color had returned to normal. Curled in slumber, her face retained a bit of the childhood innocence so evident in Rhea. Wispy tendrils from her adult upswept chignon floated about her temples; the blue gown swallowed her up like a baby’s bunting. So much still a child, yet a woman too, Portia was transitioning in her own phase cycle, Lusinda thought with a smile.

  She turned her gaze to Locke, shocked to see the reverse effect. He hunched forward in the brougham, giving testament to his open wounds. Though his back appeared less angry than when she had discovered him in the cellar, reddish stripes still split with the raised welts of abused flesh. His head sagged, as if the effort required to raise it was far beyond his abilities. His face was tense and creased, fighting the pain with clenched eyelids and teeth that bit into his bottom lip. His hands dangled between his knees, inches from her sleeping sister. How tempting it must be to touch her, she realized, and how difficult to restrain. Yet, he bore the pain himself and refused to issue a voice of complaint. Her heart ached, wishing she had some of Portia’s ability to take away his pain, even to take it on herself.

  The carriage rocked to a stop in front of the town house. An instant later Aunt Eugenia rushed outside, hurried toward the brougham, and pulled at the door.

  “I was so worried. Did everything go smoothly?” She glanced at Portia lying on the bench. “Poor dear, she must be exhausted.”

  “More than exhausted, Aunt. We need to speak of this evening’s occurrences.” Lusinda left the carriage, pulling her aunt’s attention away from the other occupants.

  Her aunt’s eyes widened. “Is she hurt?”

  “Not in the usual sense,” Lusinda said. “It’s probably best if Locke not assist her to the house.” Her lips tightened. “He is the one with injuries.”

  Her aunt held her gaze. “She touched him?”

  Lusinda nodded, then pulled her aside so Fenwick could climb into the brougham and retrieve Portia’s prone body. “Had I known she would suffer so, I would not have involved her in this scheme. However, she may have saved Locke’s life, and for that I am exceedingly grateful. She will recover, will she not?”

  Eugenia’s brow creased; she glanced at Fenwick, who fumbled in the carriage. “She’s sleeping. That will assist her regeneration. She’s young and strong.” Her glance swung back to Lusinda. “Was it an extended touch?”

  “No. I pulled them apart as soon as it appeared Portia was in agony.” Fenwick emerged, and her aunt started to lead him into the house. Lusinda caught Eugenia’s elbow and turned her until she had captured her aunt’s gaze as well. “I saw stripes appear on her back . . .”

  Eugenia stifled a cry with the clutched handkerchief she pressed to her lips. Lusinda’s heart twisted anew at her reaction. She knew Portia had felt pain, but she had hoped that Portia’s petulant nature had exaggerated the occurrence. Now she knew that was not the case.

  Eugenia closed her eyes and took a breath. “Go and take care of Mr. Locke. I’ll see to Portia.” The guttural tones of her aunt’s native tongue seemed more pronounced. The only testimony of the strain she felt. “I suppose she and I are overdue for a discussion about her legacy. Come back tomorrow and we’ll talk about future plans.”

  Fenwick still waited a few feet away with Portia nestled in his arms. But before her aunt could lead him inside the house, Lusinda had one more question. She grasped her aunt’s arm and studied her beloved face. “How did you know that Portia had this ability?”

  The old woman’s smile twisted as if she were sharing an unpleasant secret. “Because when I was younger,” she said, carefully and distinctly while she disengaged Lusinda’s hand from her arm, “I had the ability as well.”

  Twenty

  JAMES WATCHED FENWICK’S GLOVED HANDS SLIP beneath Portia’s knees and back, then carefully lift her from the bench seat. The man had no idea of the precious cargo he held in the shape of a mere girl. Of course, neither had he, or he would have refused Lusinda’s suggestion of bringing her to the ball. Had Ramsden known? Not that it mattered now. Marcus was dead. That thought brought a fresh wave of pain that had nothing to do with the burning injuries to his back. He had killed his best friend over a list that did not exist and possibly jeopardized two remarkable women in the process.

  What was wrong with him? Why had he done something so foolish? Was it any wonder that he had no friends, only acquaintances? No family, only servants? The pain in his back intensified. The effect of Portia’s healing touch beginning to fade.

  He glanced out the door at Lusinda and her aunt, their heads bent in conversation. Fenwick passed them carrying Portia and, after a brief exchange of words, the aunt hurried to show Fenwick the way. Lusinda hesitated a moment, then followed as well in her black widow’s weeds.

  She was just going to see to the comfort of her sister, he told himself. She’d be back. She must come back. He tried to slide down the bench seat to call after her, to remind her that she must come back, but she was already gone. He was alone with only the searing pain of his injuries for company. Abandoned once again, just as Marcus had suggested he would be.

  No. Marcus had lied. Lusinda hadn’t begged to be free of him. She came to his rescue when he was at his most vulnerable. But that was before she discovered the foolishness of their venture, and before he had heard the derision in her voice. You mean the kind of people who would want to use my talent of phasing to find a nonexistent list? You’re referring to that sort of people?

  He should have said something then. He should have explained that he had changed. Granted, his initial motives for blackmailing her into cooperation were selfish. If it hadn’t been for his dammed hand that refused to exercise the skills he had trained to ma
ster . . . If it hadn’t been for that dammed list that threatened everything to which he had committed his life . . . committed his life . . . His head slumped to his chest, too weak to even raise his arms for support. He had no life . . . Marcus was right. The very isolation he had carefully maintained all these years would follow him to the grave.

  A sound from the town house caught his attention. Was it the door? Was Lusinda coming back? Instantly he felt a bit stronger, more alive. He turned his gaze to the town house, but it was for naught. No sound of footsteps or swishing skirts echoed down the path. The smell of horse manure, sweat, and his own blood teased his nostrils, not the fresh clean scent of moonflowers. He was still alone, still empty.

  But up there . . .

  He glanced to the well-lit town house, far smaller than the Kensington residence. Up there existed all the things that he desired. People cared within that house. They laughed, they loved. They had Lusinda.

  He couldn’t lose her. Not to any ridiculous misunderstanding. They’d been through too much for that.

  Suddenly, his life as it could be became so clear in his mind. It could include Lusinda. And children, little children that looked just like her, and cats—cats that would sleep in warm windowsills and jump in one’s lap when least expected. And Lusinda . . . He wanted her in the sunlight, tending to plants, or in his study swishing her skirts in distraction, and definitely in his bed.

  Bloody hell. He wasn’t going to sit still and let all that slip between his fingers. He hadn’t survived Ramsden’s torture to lose the only thing worth living for. He needed her. He wanted her. He climbed out of the carriage with difficulty. His arms were inclined to hang helpless by his side, while his legs struggled to maintain his weight. He fought the urge to fall to his knees and instead placed one foot in front of the other. He could do it. Lusinda was the goal. He had to make it. He would crawl to the front door if necessary, but she had to understand. She had to know.