Surrender by Moonlight

  "Well, he thinks that his plan worked and she's dead. So we have to let him keep thinking that. Away with you now and I'll wait here."

  Long before he expected her, she slipped into the shadows beside him. He took the bundle she thrust into his hands. "Don Carlos is just leaving. I looked before I came out. If you leave now, he'll see you. Andres—"

  "Go back inside and go straight to Don Gilberto, before Don Carlos leaves. I'll come back in the morning to learn what happens. Hurry! And remember to be hysterical."

  She laughed shakily. "After tonight's events, it won't be difficult." She pulled him into her arms and they kissed each other swiftly but deeply and then tore themselves from each other's embrace. Paquita waved and ran back to the house, to finish carrying out her instructions.

  She ran through the house to the office and nearly collided with Don Carlos, who stood at the door, still talking to Don Gilberto. The commandant laughed and the sound sent shivers down Paquita's spine.

  "Don Gilberto! Don Gilberto!" she cried.

  Her master glanced her way as she clutched him with desperate hands. Impatiently he shook her off. "What do you do here, girl?" he said. "Why are you not in your bed?"

  She fell to her knees sobbing. "I was asleep and I had such a terrible dream and it woke me and then I went to see . . . to see about . . ."

  Her sobs choked her and she found herself being jerked to her feet. "Speak up, bitch, or I will order you whipped. One does not disturb me when I am in a business meeting with our commandant. Tell me instantly!"

  "I left the little dressing room where I sleep—"

  "I care nothing for your sleeping habits. What are you here to say?"

  "a-and went to see about Senorita Leonor. I had dreamed about her and so I went to see if she was safe and she . . . she was not t-there."

  "Not in her bed? At this time of night? Where could she be?"

  Through her long lashes, Paquita saw Don Carlos and Don Gilberto exchange a swift look of triumph. "I-I don't know."

  "My friend," said Don Carlos hoarsely. "You should acquaint yourself with the goings-on in your household. It is not seemly that the young mistress should be out and gone in the middle of the night. Has she a lover?"

  But his tone was one of teasing and it annoyed Don Gilberto. "Of course not," he snapped. "Perhaps she is with her mother."

  "No, no, she is not," broke in Paquita. "I looked there before I dared disturb you. I was afraid you would be displeased."

  And she was afraid. Servants had been whipped for far less than what she had just done. She looked at Don Gilberto fearfully.

  "There is nothing to be done until dawn," said Don Gilberto. "Then I will need soldiers, Don Carlos. You can spare some to aid me in the search? Then I will await them." He glanced at Paquita. "Get to your bed, girl, and not a word of this to anyone else. Dona Juana does not need to be disturbed this late. We may find the senorita before it becomes necessary to inform her mother that she is missing."

  "Si, Don Gilberto," said Paquita as she wiped tears from her eyes. She stole away quietly, trying vainly to hide her smile. It was a real pleasure to deceive the master and she would enjoy seeing him get what he deserved. As she ran back down the hall, she saw Don Carlos return with the master to the office. Evidently those two had more to discuss now that word was out that Senorita Leonor was missing. Paquita thought briefly of sneaking back and trying to listen to what they said but Eduardo's office was in front of the master's office and her fear of discovery overcame her curiosity. She was very tired and it was late. She slipped back to the little dressing room, lay down on her cot and was asleep in minutes.

  The moonlight, flitting in and out of the clouds, lent a silvery glow to the lawn. It sparkled on the light frost and gleamed on the kitchen door. All was quiet, with the sleeping silence of the very late hour. A shadow moved stealthily from the shrubbery in the enclosed garden at the back of the house toward the kitchen door. The man tried the knob but he already knew it was locked. He had seen the Russian servant shut and lock the door several hours earlier, while he waited in the concealing shadows of the shrubbery. He had had a long chilly wait in the dark garden, but it was worth it. If he succeeded, the commandant would return his daughter to him. If he did not succeed, it did not bear thinking about, since Don Carlos had spelled out to him in detail the fate that awaited his sixteen-year-old daughter, she with the long black hair and the trusting eyes.

  People had arrived at the house and left, the servants had bustled around for what seemed like eternity and he had despaired of ever having a chance to get inside. His knife gleamed in his hand as he gently inserted it into the crack of the door beside the lock. He had known he would have to force the lock so he had brought a long, heavy blade, one well suited to his task. The lock gave under pressure with a snap that sounded hideously loud in the silence. He froze, waiting. Nothing moved. No one called out or lighted a lamp. He eased the door open and slipped into the dark kitchen. Only the dying fire lit the long room.

  He pushed the door shut and pulled off his boots, tying them to his heavy leather belt by a strip of leather. His bare feet padded over the cold tiled floor and he shivered. He was thoroughly chilled from the long wait in the frosty garden but he dared not pause and warm up by the fire. The house lay silent, sleeping, as he left the kitchen quarters and made his way up the servants' stairs to the second floor. His feet made no sound on the polished boards and the moonlight, capricious earlier, now seemed steady, sending a faint but reassuring light through the tall windows. He counted the doors as he made his way down the hall. If his information were correct, Don Dimitri slept in the large master bedroom at the end of the hall. He paused to listen, his palm against the next to the last door along the hall. This should be the guest room, empty now of visitors. He moved on, approaching the door at the end. And, if it were locked?

  He stopped and thought about it and decided he would have to force the door and pray that Don Dimitri was a heavy sleeper. He shivered again. He had no stomach for this task but if he did not do it, he could not live with the consequences. From his few glimpses of the master here, he did not relish having to depend upon the man being a heavy sleeper. He appeared to be a man who was always alert, always ready. Nor was he foolish enough to imagine that his task this night would be an easy one. Yet he had to try. He knew he was risking his life but it would be worth it. The attack on the Russian at the riot had failed. He shuddered at the memory of Don Carlos's cold anger when that was reported to him.

  So he, Ramon, had been ordered to complete the task and when he demurred, Don Carlos had told him in a conversational tone what would happen to his daughter if he did not. That horror had driven him on.

  The door was not locked. The handle turned under his hand and he inched it open, making sure it did not creak or betray his presence. With a sigh, he saw there was fuller moonlight here. It flooded the room through the three large windows on the front of the house, showing clearly the bulk of the wide bed against the far wall. As he approached, he could easily make out the shape of the man he had come to kill, lying on his side, facing away from him. He tested every step, holding his breath lest a floorboard would creak and wake the sleeping man. The long, sharp blade was in his hand, ready Dimitri awakened suddenly. He had heard nothing but his instinct, so well trained during the years of war, came alive and sounded an invisible alarm. He did not move. He listened acutely, probing the darkness for what had awakened him. A whisper of sound, of cloth brushing against cloth, tensed his muscles. Someone was in the room, approaching the bed. His keen hearing saved him. He heard the faintest thread of a sound behind him, a quickly caught and held breath, and he rolled clear.

  The knife plunged into the feather mattress as Dimitri lunged for the far side of the bed. His own blade was on the other side of the room behind the man, so, as he gained the edge and put the bed between them, he looked for a weapon. Nothing more menacing than a china washbowl and pitcher was at hand so he seized the pitche
r, and turned to face his foe, now circling around the foot of the bed. The moonlight glittered down the length of the long dagger as Dimitri grimly weighed the pitcher in his hand. It was half full of water.

  The assassin, his blade ready, rushed at him. Dimitri jerked back, sending the contents of the pitcher into the man's face. Half blinded, the man tried to wipe the water from his eyes as Dimitri closed on him. An iron hand grabbed his wrist, twisting the knife away. The man tensed against the pressure, forcing the blade back toward his victim.

  The knife drove hard toward Dimitri's chest but he forced it aside. He felt the blade catch his nightshirt sleeve, heard the rip and then felt the sting of steel gouging his arm. With a mighty heave he managed to turn it further aside. His free hand closed on the man's throat and he squeezed with a strength born of desperation. Dimly, in the distance, he could hear someone running down the hall but he was intent only on that knife. The arm wavered and Dimitri applied more pressure. The blade slowly began to turn back toward the assassin's chest, inch by inch.

  Sergei burst into the room, his candle wavering dangerously in his hand. He stared at the fight going on on the other side of the room and hesitantly approached. His own knife was in his free hand but he dared not interfere. Don Dimitri would be distracted and that could be a fatal mistake. So he hovered, watching, scarcely daring to breathe.

  The point of the knife touched the man's chest. Dimitri could hear his assailant's raspy, terrified breathing but he concentrated on sending strength to his left arm, forcing that blade home. Calling on his reserves of strength, he pressed, still holding the man's throat in his free hand. The blade checked, then went in, Dimitri's weight behind it. A clean thrust, it penetrated the rib cage and slid into the man's heart. He choked, gasped and slumped forward. Before he could even form a thought of his daughter, he was dead. Dimitri let him go and stepped back, watching as the man crumpled to the floor.

  "Ah," Sergei breathed in relief.

  Dimitri sat down heavily on the foot of the bed, gazing down at the man. "I'm getting too old for this," he muttered. "A nice, quiet estate, with nothing interesting to do," he said bitterly. "Isn't that what we said?"

  "It's what I said," Sergei retorted, bringing the candle forward. "You said you were bored with quiet and longed for adventure."

  "I take it back. Some peace and quiet would be acceptable right now."

  Sergei grinned and shouted for a servant. They could hear doors opening and closing and feet thudding on the stairs and down the hall. A servant, half dressed, skidded to a halt in the doorway, gazing wide eyed at the dead man on the floor.

  "Fetch a bowl of water and some bandages," said Sergei The man gulped and fled.

  "How did you know I was in trouble?" asked Dimitri.

  "I don't know," replied Sergei. "I just did."

  Dimitri nodded. He understood. It was the same instinct that saved him.

  "Now what?" Dimitri demanded, trying to tear his sleeve away from the gash that was soaking the shirt with blood. A hammering had begun on a door down the hall.

  ''The senorita," Sergei told him with resignation.

  "Go tell her to be quiet! To go back to sleep."

  Sergei put down the candle and went down the hallway, muttering to himself. "Tell her to be quiet, he says. If he thinks that will do any good, he doesn't know her as well as I do! I'm coming," he said loudly as he approached her door. She continued to hammer on the door and call his name.

  "Senorita—"

  "Sergei, open this door!"

  "My lord said to tell you to go back to bed. Nothing is amiss, senorita."

  "I will pound on this door," she shouted grimly, "until someone opens it and tells me what is happening out there."

  "He did not say to let you out," Sergei protested. "He asked that you stop the noise and return to bed." This had precisely the effect he had predicted. She began to thump hard on the door again and, shrugging, Sergei fumbled in his pocket, located the key and opened the door.

  She stood there in her nightshirt, her feet bare, her dusky hair tumbled wildly around her shoulders. "What is going on?"

  "Nothing now. An intruder got into the house but—"

  She brushed past him and ran down the hall to Dimitri's room.

  "Senorita—" He stumbled after her, realizing that he could not stop her from investigating the incident for herself. "Wait—"

  Leonor ignored him. She stopped, aghast, at the doorway, looking first at the dead man on the floor and then at Dimitri, sitting on the bed, holding the remains of his bloody sleeve. "Is he dead?"

  "He's dead. Leonor, go back to bed. Sergei, where are those bandages?"

  "Coming, my lord."

  "Then fetch me some brandy and hurry that man up. Don't faint, it's only a scratch," he said briefly to Leonor, who had approached and was peering at his arm.

  "I have no intention of fainting!" But she was very pale and he looked sharply at her as she sat down on the bed beside him. "Who is he?"

  "I don't know. You don't recognize him?"

  She had not, she admitted, taken a very good look.

  "Then do so. It will help if we can identify him."

  Leonor leaned gingerly over the man and she was even paler when she sat up. "I don't know his name but I've seen him. He is one of Don Carlos's men, I think. Andres would know." She drew a deep, steadying breath. "He was after me, was he not? Don Gilberto knows—"

  "No," said Dimitri sharply. "He did his job far too well to have made any mistake like that. He was not after you. Don Gilberto does not yet know that you aren't dead so put that out of your head. This man was sent to kill me."

  She stared at him for a moment, her dark eyes wide and incredulous. "But . . . why?"

  "Why? They missed earlier and Don Gilberto and Don Carlos know that by now. They still think that their plot to kill you was successful, but they also want me dead. They decided, I imagine, to take the risk of trying again tonight. If it had succeeded, and the man got away, everyone would assume it was some hot head from the riot who had carried the attack one step further and broken in and killed me. Very clever, but it did not work. The man was good, I'll give them that. I don't know how he got in but he nearly got me."

  He could feel her slender body shaking uncontrollably and when Sergei hurried in with the bottle of brandy, he poured a generous measure and pressed the glass into her hands. "Drink it. No, don't argue. Drink it down or I'll ask Sergei to insist. For once, do as you're told. I'm in no condition to make you do it."

  Her teeth chattered against the edge of the glass but she managed to get the brandy down. Sergei busied himself with the bowl of water and cloths that the frightened servant had brought.

  "Ouch!"

  "Sorry, my lord. It's not a deep cut. Just a scratch but it bleeds."

  Leonor, moving back to give Sergei room to work, crawled up the bed and slid her chilled feet under the covers, drawing the blanket and coverlet up to warm her. The brandy sent a bracing glow through her, warming her shaking limbs, and she lay quietly, watching Sergei bandage the arm. If the man had come to kill her, she thought miserably, she would be dead now! Instead, he had tried to kill Dimitri and found a worthy opponent, a man tough and strong enough to defend himself. But if one came next for her . . . She shivered convulsively and burrowed more deeply under the covers.

  "There," Sergei said at last. He moved the tray with the bloody cloths and water into the hall and came back. "You should rest now, my lord," he said, looking doubtfully at Leonor.

  "First, go and fetch Cesar. I want guards posted around the house."

  "My lord . . ." Sergei began, his face disapproving.

  "After I talk to Cesar."

  Dimitri sat deep in thought while he waited and ignored the girl who watched him. They had been lucky tonight. If that man had killed him, there would be no one to protect Leonor. And if the man had seen her and then escaped with that knowledge, his plan would be wrecked. As it was, the man knew far too much for Dimit
ri's satisfaction. Someone here on his estate had given the man information. That someone could also see and report Leonor's presence.

  "Senor?" Cesar came slowly into the room, seeing all with his quick glance. He looked at the man on the floor, then at Leonor and then his eyes returned to his master.

  "Do you know that man?"

  Cesar knelt, turned the man over and studied the face carefully. "I know him. Ramon, who works for Don Carlos. Over the years, Don Carlos's enemies have quietly disappeared and the rumor is that this man killed them. Don Carlos has some terrible hold on him. It made him ruthless and dangerous."

  "He was that," Dimitri said dryly. "He knew a way to get in and exactly where my bedchamber was."

  Cesar stood up, his face startled and worried. "Someone here is selling or giving away information?"

  "Has to be. Besides Andres and ourselves, how many people know Senorita Leonor is here?"