The Trouble With Moonlight (17 page)

Lusinda opened the door to the conservatory. The heavy humid air reminded her of her purpose and gave her pause. They were going on a mission tonight, with the moon less than full. She smoothed her hands down her sides to keep from balling them into worrisome fists. Isn’t this what she wanted? Didn’t she insist that they take immediate action to find the list so she could leave? Of course, that supposed she had somewhere to go. After her visit home, she wasn’t sure Portia, who was just coming into a life of her own, wanted her there.

There was no time to think about that now. She needed to focus on this evening’s task. Green leaves of indigenous and foreign plants brushed her dress as she paced the length of the conservatory. Perhaps it was just as well that she hadn’t been able to tell Locke of her news of her success with the Milner. She wouldn’t have to prove her newfound skill with tonight’s mission. The inconsistent moonlight would cause her enough worry.

A breeze blew through one of the many windows opened to alleviate the trapped heat, releasing the relaxing scent of lavender. She turned to see thin purple heads swaying with movement. She sighed.

There was no point in worrying about things not of her control. She would simply gather as much moonlight as possible and pray that Locke would come to her rescue should events not occur as planned. He would do that, she realized. Even after having witnessed him the morning after a night of drunken rowdiness, she knew he would come to her aid if needed. He needed her steady hands. She lifted a geranium plant to her nose and sniffed. Now if only he could need her loving heart as well.

Love! The thought surprised her. Did she love Locke? She liked him, truly, but could one love someone who did not return the sentiment? Lusinda’s path round the conservatory placed her before the pots of moonflowers that she had brought with her upon arriving at Kensington.

Tending to these remembrances of home had initially helped with the separation from her sisters and aunt. Now they were simply favored flowers. Their white petals were still tightly curled, waiting for the moonlight that called to them to open and bloom in profusion.

Much like her ancestors, moonflowers were not indigenous to England. However, they preferred tropical heat and rich, fertilized soil, whereas she could tolerate the London cold. She lifted a pot, holding it carefully away from her overskirt apron. Perhaps she shared similar traits with the plant. She basked in the warmth of Locke’s kisses, thrived in his embrace, but withered when he distanced himself from her as he had last evening.

She had thought their shared kiss would have made a difference, yet it did not. He still held himself carefully aloof at breakfast and always managed to keep a chair or a barrier between them. Perhaps Locke was afraid of her. After all, he was the only male who knew of her ability to phase. She placed the flowerpot back on the shelf. No. She doubted even a hungry lion would frighten him. Locke would stay pensively in a corner and determine the best way to satisfy the lion’s needs without jeopardizing his safety.

Perhaps Locke was afraid that his touch would damage her fragile abilities, although that certainly hadn’t crossed his mind the night they had struggled on the floor. She felt the familiar heat in her cheeks and dismissed that notion immediately. Locke hadn’t been afraid to touch her last night, nor she him.

She felt torn, uprooted. On one hand she yearned for more kisses and more embraces like the one they had shared last night. Yet she also wanted to be surrounded by a family that loved her.

Tears welled in her eyes at the thought of her aunt and little Rhea, and she fumbled for a handkerchief to brush them away.

“Enough of that,” she said aloud, finding comfort in the sound. “My plants won’t thrive with salty tears.” And neither would she, she noted. She gave herself a mental shake and glanced around at her surroundings while pressing the scented square of linen to the corners of her eyes. “Yes, I think this should work.”

The potted palms and benched plants would provide sufficient cover to hide her from outside view. The panes of glass overhead would admit what moonlight would be available. If the clouds dissipated by nightfall, or at least avoided the moon, she might be able to collect enough light to phase, at least for a while.

She slipped her finger into the pot of moonflowers to test the soil. Dry. She frowned. She’d need to speak with Pickering about the watering schedule, but in the meantime . . . She scanned the many shelves of the conservatory . . . there. She spotted a copper watering can on top of a tall shelf with a footstool conveniently positioned by its base. She gathered her skirts and advanced to the top step, then balanced on the tips of her toes to reach . . . reach—

“Lusinda! That stool is off center. Be careful or you might—”

The unexpected intrusion of her given name spoken by a man whose voice made her insides tremble resulted in a miscalculation of balance. Her fingers brushed the side of the watering can, sending it crashing to the brick floor below.

Which was where she would be if Locke’s strong hands hadn’t reached up and spanned her waist, steadying her on the footstool. Her hands wildly sought purchase in the empty air before discovering the firm support of his shoulders. She glanced down, the warm satisfying comfort of his grip penetrating the stays of her corset. Framed by the swirling fabric of her skirts, he slowly lowered her to safety.

He held her at sufficient distance so that her jonquil-striped skirt apron barely brushed the front of his white linen shirt. However, as the swell of her bosom glided past his eyes, his nose, and his tightly drawn lips, a surge of heat jolted through her, making her wish he would pause her downward journey for a brief moment. He glanced up, and she felt evidence of her desire burning on her cheeks. Her lips briefly brushed his nose as she descended, and on impulse, she pressed her lips gently to his as they passed. Her feet touched the floor, but her hands remained on his broad shoulders, while his continued titillating the span of her waist.

“You’re playing with fire, Miss Havershaw,” he said, his eyes darkening beneath low, half-shuttered lids.

He might be right. The flames consuming her feminine core flared higher beneath his gaze.

“I preferred it when you called me Lusinda,” she said, wanting to experience more of that delicious heat.

His firm, finely sculpted lips remained a breath away from her own. She could feel a tenseness in his hands. He was struggling within, holding himself back. How very much like Locke to allow some absurd sense of propriety to rule his emotions.

This was her last chance, her only chance, to experience those things commonly shared between a man and a woman, to feel, to be touched. Just to be held in such close proximity without fear of discovery was a marvel of sensation. The realization that it was short-lived was almost too painful to contemplate. After they had recovered the list, she’d have to return to her previous isolated existence. Just as she needed to soak up moonbeams, she wanted to completely absorb this experience of touching and being touched in return.

She reached her hand to smooth the hair away from his face. As soon as her fingertips touched his skin, she felt a tiny jerk in reaction, as if she had breached some invisible barrier. She felt the expansion of his lungs as he took a deep breath, then he lowered his head, moving his lips over hers with a fierce intensity, demanding entrance, which she freely gave. Her arms slipped around his neck, allowing her to press her chest against the muscled wall of his. Such a simple motion, yet all manner of delightful chaos and urgency erupted within her, all finely tuned with a need to press closer, tighter, till there was no room for air between the length of them. His hands pulled her tight at the small of her back as if he too were infected with this crushing need to touch, to press. His hands splayed across her back as if to count the number of lacings in her corset. Oh, if only his talented fingers could loosen those restrictive ties as the tumultuous commotion inside her was making it difficult to breathe.

Then she felt it. A hesitation. An indecision. His kiss gentled, his tongue retreated, his thumbs followed the top of her corset around to the front. He broke the kiss and stepped back while his hands dallied at her breast as if reluctant to lose that final contact. His gaze stayed focused on his thumbs as they slid back and forth across the lip of the molded form. Even though several layers of fabric separated his touch from her skin, she could feel the motion much like Shadow must feel her stroke across his fur. For an instant she thought she might purr in response, but her throat remained too constricted from the broken embrace.

“You do realize most thieves are more sure-footed,” he said, transfixed with watching the movement of his thumbs, or was it the rise and fall of her breast? Both seemed interconnected.

A quick retort leaped to her tongue, but she hesitated. Her eyes searched his face. His eyes appeared somber, his lips tightened, almost as if in pain. What was happening? One moment his embrace whispered one emotion, the next moment his actions proclaimed another. She gentled her voice.

“I’m not a thief.”

“Indeed, you are.” A brow quirked. “You’ve already stolen a kiss.”

A smile tugged at her lips. “Then allow me to return it to the owner.” She leaned forward, intent on engaging in another delightful exchange of passion when the sound of a man clearing his throat intruded.

Lusinda stilled. Her gaze flashed up to meet Locke’s eyes. He continued to stroke the top of her corset, his actions unseen by the intruder behind him.

“Yes, Pickering?” he said, his gaze remained locked with hers.

She winced at the sadness and longing in that gaze. Her arms disengaged from the embrace about his neck. She let her hands slide down the front of his chest.

“I have a communiqué from Colonel Tavish, sir.”

Lusinda heard condemnation in his tone. There could be no doubt as to its target. Locke took a deep breath; she could feel it in the expansion of his chest beneath her hands.

“Put it in the library, Pickering. I will attend it there.”

“But there may be need for an immediate response.”

Locke almost turned. Indeed, Lusinda thought he would have if her hands were not splayed on his chest. Instead he turned his head to speak over his shoulder.

“Do not make me repeat myself. I will attend to it shortly.”

Surprised by his unusual display of annoyance, Lusinda waited for the sound of retreating footsteps to fade, then said, “You promised me that he would not be present in the household.”

Locke glanced out one of the windows into the early afternoon sun. “He will leave before dusk, I promise you.” He shifted his gaze back to her and slid his fingertips along the side of her face. “The house will be empty by moonrise.”

She turned her face slightly to press into his light embrace, but he withdrew his hand as if embarrassed, then stepped toward one of the panes of glass, peering through it as if searching the gardens for miscreants and interlopers.

“I hope you are more agile climbing trees than climbing footstools,” he said.

“What do you mean?” He had shifted faces on her again, presenting first one of compassion and then another of indifference. Perhaps it was just as well that this mission be quickly completed. For many years she had feared she would never experience love and intimacy with a man; if such inconsistencies were typical of intimate relationships maybe it was best to be alone.

“Mr. Farthington keeps his safe in his bedroom. It’s behind a painting on the inner wall.”

“I’ll have to enter his bedroom?” Most of her recoveries were from studies or libraries, never in a man’s bedroom.

He squinted. “You’ll be invisible—”

“We hope.”

“You only need to be invisible long enough to enter the house. There’s a window and a nearby tree for an emergency escape if needed.” He looked back at her, a smile teasing his lips. “I’d suggest using the steps for entry, though. Climbing up the tree might be difficult.”

Especially if I’m naked, she thought. “What about the safe? What kind is it?”

“This one has a key lock, and I’ll direct you to the key.”

“What am I looking for?”

“Papers, letters . . . If the papers are in English, read them and report back to me. If they’re in Russian, return them to the safe, and we’ll devise a different tack so I can unlock the safe on the morrow.”

“Perhaps
you
should do the deed this evening.” If he could open the safe on the morrow, why not as well tonight?

He smiled.

“And who do you suppose is entertaining Mr. Farthington? ”

“IF YOU DON’T MIND MY SAYING, SIR, I THINK YOU’RE making a mistake with that tart you’ve conveniently installed, ” Pickering said the moment James appeared in the library. “She’s no good. She’ll jeopardize all that we’ve worked for.”

“I do mind, Pickering. Miss Havershaw is none of your concern.” Though it certainly was of his, James reflected, the taste of her still on his lips. She may have initiated the kiss, but even while logic insisted he stop, he had allowed himself to indulge, to feel her response.

“I found her in here last night,” Pickering continued. “You were out and she was rummaging around here in the dark. How do you know that she’s not running to the Russians with our secrets?”

Locke scanned the note on his desk, a routine request for an update. He struck a match and lit the paper, tossing it onto the cold hearth. He’d have to keep this meeting a secret from Lusinda, so as to avoid another embarrassing encounter at the foreign office. He knew she trusted him to keep her abilities secret, but as evidenced by their recent activities in the conservatory, her willpower might be her Achilles’ heel. As well as your own, an inner voice scolded, at least where she’s concerned.

“Miss Havershaw is not a Russian spy, Pickering. I purposely left her alone in the library last night. She had a task that required focus and concentration. Nothing more.”