Bound by Moonlight

by Donna MacMeans

  Fury filled Locke and he pulled hard on the ropes suspending his arms. Suddenly one gave free and then the other. The strain on his arms and the shock of their release caused him to double over. The cut rope ends lay harmless on the ground. Lusinda! He looked up to see a knife hurling steadily through the air toward Ramsden’s throat.

  “Sinda, no!”

  Ramsden’s eyes opened wide as moonflowers. The knife point stopped an inch from his throat and slowly turned as if to slice his throat rather than stab it straight through.

  “You’ll never forgive yourself, Sinda,” James said, letting the blood flow back into his lifeless arms. “Don’t kill him. He’s not worth it.”

  “Look what he did to you.” Her voice was like a magical elixir. “He deserves to die.”

  He heard the emotional sob in her voice and wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms and cover her with kisses, but that would have to wait till they were free of this place. He gentled his tone. “Perhaps, but not by your hand. Give me the knife.”

  The knife wobbled a bit, then drifted down to the vicinity of Ramsden’s protruding trouser bulge.

  “Lusinda...” Locke warned, though he couldn’t suppress a bit of a smile. He wondered if Ramsden appreciated her defiant nature at the moment.

  “Can’t I take a little piece off? The pig broke my sister’s heart.”

  Ramsden turned as pale as...well, almost as pale as a Nevidimi in mid-phase.

  “I’ll wager your sister is better off without the likes of him.” James started to work at loosening the knots about his wrists. “Don’t forget he saved my life a long time ago.”

  The knife slowly withdrew but hovered close enough to Ramsden’s chest to become an instant threat.

  “I suppose now we’re even.” Locke addressed Ramsden as he finished untying the ropes. “A life for a life.”

  “Tell me the names of the agents and I’ll see that you both get out of here alive,” Ramsden said.

  Bloody hell! The man just didn’t know when he was defeated.

  “You had the list. Did you lose it?” Locke asked with a painful attempt at a laugh. He imagined the expression that must have been on Ramsden’s face when he discovered the list was missing. He had been right about one thing. Lusinda was indeed a treasure.

  “There never was a list,” Ramsden said with a smirk. “I invented that ruse to draw you back to London. You and I both know that if a list existed, your name would be on top. What you didn’t know is that we already knew of your skills and loyalties.”

  He couldn’t hide his shock. “Then all this...it was for...”

  “Nothing,” Ramsden sneered. “I thought that if I could place you in just this situation, and if you thought you had nothing to lose because we already had the information, I’d learn enough names to create a list.”

  “He’s lying, James,” Lusinda said. “I found the list and destroyed it.” Her voice changed. He imagined she had turned toward Ramsden. “I’m a thief, you know. A good one.”

  Pride swelled Locke’s chest in spite of his injuries. She’d done it. The result of his teaching and hours of practice, she’d broken into the safe and secured the letter. Though by the looks of it, she certainly didn’t have it on her.

  Ramsden kept his gaze on the knife as if it was the one speaking. Locke supposed in a certain sense, it was. “I’m not sure what you destroyed, but there was no list,” he insisted.

  “Pembroke said the letter was sealed. I burned—”

  “You heard Pembroke? You were there? But it was a new moon,” Ramsden exclaimed, his face a study in disbelief.

  Locke chuckled.

  “I burned the letter with a red wax seal,” Lusinda continued unperturbed.

  “The red seal? That was a letter from the tsar himself,” Ramsden said, a note of dread entering his voice. “The ambassador was to open it tonight after the ball.”

  “What do we do with him, James?” Lusinda asked.

  “Give me the knife, and then you leave. It’s a waxing moon, remember.”

  He couldn’t see her, but he knew she smiled. She had been the one earlier reminding him of the risks, now it was his turn.

  “Can you walk?” Her voice softened. “Do you need my help?”

  He needed her in far more ways than she could imagine. But knowing she was still there, knowing that she never abandoned him, gave him strength. He’d walk away from all this now that he had someone to walk toward.

  “I’ll find you in the moonlight,” he said, knowing that she’d be the one to join him. And she would. She’d be there. For the rest of his life, if she’d have him. “Were there guards in the hallway?”

  “No. They must be with the ambassador. There was quite a crowd searching his room when I left. However, before I go...”

  She slapped Ramsden across the face. Hard. Probably all the more painful, James suspected, as Ramsden had no way to see it coming. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”

  The knife handle floated toward Locke. When it came close, he leaned over and kissed Lusinda’s cheek before he took the knife. “Where’s Portia?”

  “She’s safe. I’m going to join her. You know where.”

  Locke nodded, keeping his gaze on Ramsden. He waited till he knew Lusinda was gone before he addressed him again.

  “She warned me about you. I refused to listen, but she knew what you were up to all along. How did you know she was Nevidimi?”

  “I had heard the stories, but I never believed them to be true. I’m still not sure I believe what I just witnessed,” he said with a glance to the knife. “I remember the day I met Lusinda in your library. You seemed different that day, happier. I had thought that if she were to get close to you, I could eventually use her against you. I even went to visit her to recommend you to her.” He laughed. “It seems ironic now, doesn’t it? But when I saw her that second time, I thought I recognized her from that Farthington disaster. Every time I called on her house after that day, the aunt made some excuse about her whereabouts. I had hoped the sister would be more accommodating with information.”

  “Portia told you Lusinda is Nevidimi?”

  “No.” He frowned. “She proved as cagey as the old woman in that regard. No, the confirmation of my suspicions came from a surprising source. That man of yours, Pickering, saw her in some form of metamorphous and believed she was sent from the devil. He felt that I, as your best friend, might be able to warn you of the danger, as it were. Apparently, you no longer listened to his counsel, a result of your association with Miss Havershaw.”

  Ramsden laughed. “Little did he suspect that he had given me the confirmation I had been searching for. Still no one believed me when I told them that Nevidimi had settled in London. Perhaps they’ll believe me now.”

  “It will do little good. Lusinda’s family will be long gone. They’re accustomed to moving on a moment’s notice because of people like you.”

  “Like me?” Ramsden’s brows arched. “Lusinda would have been better off with me. I would never have dragged her into the Great Game. You did that. You put her life in jeopardy. And for what? A list of names that never existed? You thought you could protect your identity by removing the list? We’ve known about you for some time, my friend.”

  “Then why have you allowed me to continue?” James asked, uncertain as to whether he really wanted to know the answer. Did they know about the hand tremors? About his ineffectiveness as a cracksman?

  “Have you found anything of value in recent months?” Ramsden chided. “If we removed you, someone would take your place. Isn’t it wiser to track your movements and take precautions, than open the door for someone unknown to us? Your days of effectiveness are over, my friend.”

  “As are yours,” James replied, chafing under Ramsden’s use of the word “friend.”

  “We shall see. You haven’t left the building alive yet. If you die, my identity as a Russian sympathizer dies with you,” Ramsden said, a dangerous glint in his eye.


  “Lusinda should be safe and far away by now,” Locke said. “It’s time for you and me to exit as well.”

  “Where are you taking me?” Marcus asked, alarmed.

  “I promised to let you live. I didn’t promise to let you live free.”

  “I won’t go back into a prison cell, James. I can’t do that again.”

  James wasn’t certain, as one eye was swollen shut, but he thought Ramsden had developed a tremor of his own, though one of the body and not the hand. “You don’t think your Russian friends will find a way to set you free?”

  “I’ll be of no use to them. My value was my history and connection to Colonel Tavish,” Ramsden snarled. “I imagine you won’t let that go untarnished.”

  “No. I imagine he’ll know all the details in the morning.” Ramsden rushed him, perhaps thinking to overtake him in his weakened state, or perhaps he thought it best to end his personal great game right then. Locke never knew. For whichever reason, the knife Locke held in his hand became buried deep in Marcus’s chest. Marcus slumped, supported by Locke’s weakened arms. Together they fell to the floor. Ramsden’s blood quickly soaked the front of James’s shirt, then spread to the floor surrounding them.

  Locke lifted Marcus’s head, then tenderly cradled it in his lap. His throat constricted. He had been a friend, at one time, long ago. “Why? Why did you do it? I was prepared to let you live.”

  “I told you...no prison cell. I don’t want to die in Russia.” He found Locke’s hand and squeezed it. His voice strained. “Before the game, we were friends. Let us be friends again in the end.”

  James had every reason to hate this man, but for once logic deserted him. His best friend’s life blood spilled out, and a deep sadness filled his heart. There was nothing he could do. He squeezed Marcus’s hand in return. “Friends.”

  Marcus smiled then, the first warm smile Locke had seen on his face since he had returned to London. Then his head sagged to one side, and he was dead.

  Locke closed his eyes and sat for a moment, waiting for the pain of abandonment. But it never came. Marcus had chosen this time to die, just as Locke had chosen to live. He gently lowered Marcus’s head to the floor, then struggled to stand. The guards could come back at any time. It was best to go.

  He mentally assessed his situation. He could walk, but not without a stagger. If someone were to see him, perhaps they would think he had enjoyed the party a bit too much. However, the ripped shirt and bloody stripes on his back would disavow that misapprehension. His frock coat was tossed across the table where the torture devices were proudly displayed. His torturers hadn’t wanted that layer of fabric to dull the bite of the whip.

  He pushed himself from the wall in the direction of the table and retrieved his coat. That’s when he spied the decanter of brandy, apparently the preferred beverage given the entertainment. He took off a swatch from the back of his ripped shirt, moistened it with the liquid, and swabbed his face. The alcohol burned his tender skin, but the effort removed the streaks of blood that would have marked him in the crowd. As an afterthought he sprinkled more of the liquid on his back, cringing under the resulting burn. He braced his hands on the table until the pain began to subside. The unmistakable scent of brandy would help his illusion, while the alcohol might help with the wounds. He spied Marcus’s silk cravat tossed over a top hat on a chair and made his way toward it. He tied the creamy silk loosely around his neck and stuffed the ends down the front of his coat. Pickering would be displeased with the poor effort, but Pickering be damned. It masked the rips and blood splatters on his shirt. The poorly tied cravat should add to his sodden masquerade, and Pickering would shortly be shown the door.

  He searched Marcus’s pockets. Finding a handkerchief, he sprinkled that with brandy as well. Finally, he placed the top hat on his head, angling it to throw his swollen eye into shadow. If needed, he could pretend to mop his forehead, or dab at his eye, to hide the more serious injuries. Of course, the added alcohol fumes might dissuade one from examining him too closely as well.

  In spite of his pain and vast fatigue, Locke pasted a silly grin on his face and left the room hidden deep beneath the estate. He wandered into the hallway, acting in the fashion of a drunken, lost party guest.

  The ruse held as he passed two guards, especially when he asked them for the whereabouts of the brandy. He nearly fainted when one of the men patted him on the back in an attempt to guide him to the stairway that would lead him upstairs. He paused for a breath at the top of a steep flight of steps. The orchestra music was much louder, and he hoped he had found the main floor. He was about to push forward toward the sound of the music when the door before him began to open. He ducked into the corner, letting the opened door shield him from sight, then watched through the crack as the ambassador, red faced and clearly angry, rushed past, followed by two of his henchmen. As they disappeared down the hall and toward the steps, Locke slipped through the door to discover he had found the ballroom.

  The gay music played and the couples swirled. Hopeful young ladies eagerly looked his way, while disapproving matrons quickly corralled them away. It didn’t matter, there was only one woman he wanted to see, and the path to her was clear. He staggered across the room, laughing to himself at odd intervals and carefully avoiding contact with any in his path. Each step was exhausting, as was maintaining the silly grin on his face. The temptation to collapse was overwhelming, but Lusinda waited in the moonlight, and that beckoned just beyond the terrace doors. Each step away from the crush of the party dulled a bit of the pain and brought his sole purpose sharply into focus: to find comfort, to find home, to find Lusinda.

  Nineteen

  WHERE WAS HE? DID HE MAKE IT out without difficulty? Lusinda paced back and forth in the grass at the base of a hill beyond the formal gardens.

  “I feel foolish standing out here alone. Can’t we leave yet?” Portia wrapped her arms tightly across her chest. “It’s cold out here.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Lusinda mumbled under her breath. “I wish I hadn’t left my gown in the garden shed.”

  “Sorry,” Portia said. “I forgot.” Her face twisted into a frown. She spoke in the direction that Lusinda had stood a few moments ago. “It’s easy to forget when one can’t see you.”

  “I know,” Lusinda said. Portia whipped her head toward Lusinda’s current direction. Lusinda sighed.

  How was it that Locke always seemed to know her exact placement, even when invisible? Her own family couldn’t do that. Even with one eye swollen shut, he had managed to unerringly kiss her cheek when other matters certainly demanded his attention.

  She rubbed her arms and remembered his offer of the munisak to make her more comfortable while invisible. He never seemed to forget that invisibility required a lack of clothing. Nor did he forget to take advantage of it, a small inner voice added. She remembered that fateful ride in his brougham when he unbuttoned her coat to feel her invisible body. The memory brought a rush of heat that warmed her in a way her gown never would. Stop that! she scolded herself. When she left him, he was in no condition to initiate any of those kinds of physical explorations. Besides, now that Ramsden knew of her invisible nature, she and her family would have to move once again. It would only cause pain to remember Locke’s touch.

  But even if she and her family had to move, surely she would see Locke again. She had to see him again. If only to say goodbye.

  Where was he?

  “Didn’t you say the carriage was waiting nearby? Couldn’t I just take Locke’s brougham home and send the driver back?” Portia whined.

  Lusinda was tempted to snap a rebuke but then remembered how brave her sister had been earlier in the evening when trussed up by those miscreants, and how her tender heart had been sorely used by that villainous Ramsden. Lusinda softened her tone.

  “I know that you are cold and tired and anxious for a soft bed, Portia dear, but please be patient. Locke will be here shortly. You’ll see. He’ll need the comfort of the carriag
e more than the two of us combined.” That last made the constriction in her throat uncomfortably tight. Could he make it this far on his own? She had thought the hill would shield her from roving eyes or accidental contact, but perhaps Locke’s injuries warranted more risk on her part. “I’m just going to go to the top of the hill to see—”

  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.”