Must Have Been The Moonlight (13 page)

Brianna could have choked.

“If women get the vote, there’ll be no stopping the lot from trying to wriggle into our exclusive clubs next.” Baker winked at Major Fallon. “Then it will be parliament.”

“Since when would that be a bad idea?” Major Fallon said over his cup, his voice light with mirth.

Wrapping her hands around the warm coffee cup, Brianna smiled at the major over the rim. He’d won the round today. Hands down.

The conversation turned to other business. As they sat at the table eating almond pastries and drinking coffee, Brianna’s restless gaze roamed the cluttered room. Clearly, Colonel Baker abominated Victorian austerity. He was old school to the core. She also suspected that he was very poor.

“I hear that you’re having trouble with our old friend Omar.” The colonel set his cup down.

Major Fallon sat forward on his elbows. “He’s not letting this latest infraction go.”

“What does that mean?” Brianna asked.

“Nothing.” Major Fallon looked at her. “At the moment, anyway.”

“He yanked Omar’s beard hard this time. That’s what it means,” Colonel Baker said.

The muted patter of a hand-cranked sewing machine broke the silence. “Yasmeen is fitting the children with new clothes,” the colonel said, changing the topic. “She lines them up like soldiers against the wall and refuses to allow them to escape until they are measured and fitted. But they wanted to meet you.”

“Me?”

Major Fallon straightened and his arm touched hers as he leaned forward on the table. “You are like a lucky penny, Miss Donally.”

Again she smiled at him over the rim of the coffee cup. No one had ever accused her of being good luck. Her eyes told on her thoughts, but she didn’t care if he read her feelings.

The colonel cleared his throat. “You’ve allowed this old man to talk your ears off, Miss Donally.”

“You’re not so old,” she said.

“I have something for you.” Wheeling his chair around, he pulled out the drawer from the breakfront behind him and withdrew a stack of papers. “Yasmeen grew up here. She’s mapped out the Coptic section in Cairo and more that may interest you in your research.”

Disbelieving, Brianna took the papers. She turned to Major Fallon, her eyes filled with gratitude, and smiled at him.

“He said you were interested,” the colonel said. “I told him that I would have something ready today if he wanted to drop by.”

Major Fallon moved behind her chair. Brianna clutched the papers to her chest as she stood. “Thank you.”

“Most people who come here are interested only in taking something out of this country. Few ever give anything back. I hope that your book is of interest to our scholars.”

“Thank you, Colonel.” She held out her hand. “Please give my gratitude to your wife as well.”

Outside, the sunlight hit Brianna’s eyes. Major Fallon
didn’t say anything. Hidden from the street, the horses idled beneath a mimosa tree.

“Why?” she asked, holding her packet as she turned to face him.

He set one wrist on the saddle. He wore no head covering, and Brianna smelled the soap he’d used to wash his hair, maybe that morning—before he’d ridden to meet her at the stables. “Because I like your work. I’m impressed with your vision and your perseverance.”

“You are?” Most of her family had never told her that much.

“Especially when you don’t speak French that well. I admire resolve in a person, and you possess more than any single individual I know.”

She liked that he thought so. “What happened to him?” she asked after a moment. “To Colonel Baker?”

The major lowered his head and seemed to contemplate the gloves he held in his hand. When his gaze lifted, his mouth was tight.

“One night two years ago we were on patrol. I’d been here for six months. Near the Baharia oasis, we captured the biggest hashish shipment in history, and broke Omar’s supply line. Three days after he returned to Cairo, the colonel was attacked and left for dead. He took a bullet in his back. Omar was the man who’d fired the shot, but he had an alibi that night, and Colonel Baker’s accusation was attributed to delirium. Nothing could be proven.”

She held his gaze. “I’m sorry.”

He looked at a donkey passing on the street. “I was still at the oasis, and didn’t learn about the attack for almost a month. The bullet is too close to his spine to ever attempt to operate.” He met her gaze. “I’ve done what I could.”

Fallon helped her mount. He adjusted her foot in the stirrup.

“You’re a fraud, Major Fallon,” she said as he bent over her boot. He raised his face inquiringly. “You work so hard to extol less than a virtuous demeanor. But for all the trou
ble you go to get yourself disliked, inside you are really soft and fuzzy.” She grinned. “Quite likable. Sometimes even charming.”

“Is that so?”

“Borderline nice.” She pinched his cheek and laughed.

Conscious of his hand still warm on her ankle, she tilted her chin. “Why do you always look at me like you’re trying to figure me out?”

“I’ve never heard anyone laugh the way you do.”

She splayed her mouth with a gloved hand. “Am I too loud?”

“Very.” A salacious smile tilted his lips. “But in a good way.”

They remained smiling amiably at each other in the sunlight, the day still young, and filled with the promise he’d made her last night.

Suddenly mindful that he was aware of the subtle shift of her thoughts, she crossed one hand over the other on the saddle and looked at the small colorful stone house with bougainvillea hanging in clay pots. “Why haven’t you denied the gossip about Yasmeen and you?”

“Because the truth makes no difference to people.” He mounted and swung his bay gelding around. His hands reined in the high-stepping horse. He looked very good in the saddle as his eyes moved over her with a thoroughness that quickened her stomach. “And I learned a long time ago not to care what people say or think about me.”

She wanted to feel that manner of mental liberation. He dressed in native clothing. He’d stuck a gun against the head of one of the most powerful opium underlords in this country, then ridden back into the desert and dared her with his eyes and his lips to lay with him. Christopher didn’t intimidate him—for once, her brother’s protective presence didn’t eclipse her own.

She wondered if he’d ever been in love.

But not enough to break the mood and ask him.

They rode out of the quiet little neighborhood where Col
onel Baker lived and into traffic. It was mid-morning, the busiest time of the day. Sunlight gleamed off white walls. The air was still fresh and the city alive with noise. He kept beside her as they rode down the avenue, and Brianna realized that they were headed toward the waterfront.

Michael shut the door and leaned against the portal as Brianna made a slow turn in the room. Her skirts rustled with her movement. She removed her hat and then gloves, one finger at a time. He said nothing, simply watched her languid movements, the expression in her eyes. Dark curls fell in windswept confusion down her slim back.

“This place is beautiful.” She ran her a finger along the bamboo mural on the wall.

Dust floated in the pale streamers of light, stirred to life by the invisible current of Brianna’s passing. When he’d bought the houseboat some time ago, he had not inquired as to its décor. Nor did he care. But now he was glad for the pleasant surroundings.

He watched Brianna move to the adjoining doorway. Sunlight filtered through the blinds and laid a crisscross pattern on the wooden floor. He could see the corner of the bed and a plush yellow chair from where he stood. He reached behind him and clicked the lock.

The noise drew Brianna around.

If his intent wasn’t clear in his eyes, all she needed to do was look lower and find it pressed against his trousers. He’d already unbuttoned the jacket of his uniform.

“This is a
dahabeeyah
,” she said as he pushed off the door with a restlessness that was foreign to him. “I hear the crew outside. Are we going to sail?”

Her heart was racing. He could see it in the rise and fall of her breasts, hear it in the waver of her voice.

“I promise to have us back before late afternoon.”

“Is this place yours?”

Without touching her, he leaned his palms against the wall and caged her between his arms. “Does it matter?”

“Then I’m not the first woman you’ve brought here?”

He looked down at the top of her dark head. “My lack of celibacy was never a point of supposition.”

“No. I suppose it wasn’t.”

“I haven’t any tea prepared,” he said, so close that he could smell her essence. “Though, if you want some—”

She raised her face and met his gaze. “I didn’t come here thinking that you were going to serve me tea, Major.”

“Michael.”

He bent his head and touched his mouth to hers. He wanted to hear his name on her lips.

Just once, he wanted her to say his name.

He was dimly conscious of movement beneath his feet as the
dahabeeyah
cast off from shore. She tasted of fine coffee. Her cool hands rose to cup his jaw, and she deepened the kiss, drawing him into her arms. Her tongue met then thrust against his, seeking, exploring, burning. He might have pulled away to reassert control but he was drawn by the sheer power of her pull. His hands left the wall and tightened against her waist, pulling her hard against him.

He would hold himself back no more.

Slanting his head, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her to the depths of her soul.

Or maybe it was his own.

She was soft and warm, and vibrantly alive. Little-Miss-Spoiled-For-Life-With-One-Kiss was a damn fine kisser, and he found that he wanted to be inside her.

He pulled away to breathe. Her lashes fluttered open. Her face was flushed, her mouth wet, her crystalline blue gaze bright in the pale light. “When was the last time you had your menses?” he asked.

“What?” she blinked. “I…”

He laid his hand beneath her chin and tilted her face. He’d rarely seen her blush and was surprised that she did so now. “There are ways to prevent conception, but nothing is perfect.”

“I should start in a few days. I—” She reached her hand
into her skirts. “I’ve also thought of that.” Pulling out a velvet pouch, she walked past him into the saloon—the front room where she’d set her gloves and hat. “I’m unsure how these work. I mean, it was explained, but not entirely. They are worn by the man.” Her eyes lifted to his. “By you, on your…it prevents conception. So I’ve been told.”

“Indeed.”

He watched her nervousness with amusement, amazed. He had an idea what she had in that little bag of hers, and wasn’t even going to ask where she’d secured French
lettres
.

Brianna tipped the contents of the bag beside her gloves. When he remained leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, she turned inquiringly.

“Do you think they’ll fit?” he asked, as amused by her optimistic outlook of his stamina as he was by her one-size-fits-all reasoning.

He wouldn’t be able to fit into one of those. She probably had no idea the affront that she’d just paid him.

She looked back at the pile. “No one said anything about size.”

He approached her and turned her into his arms, setting out to relieve her of her clothes. His hands went to the buttons on her demure jacket. It cinched her waist and accentuated her curves. “I have my own.” He put his mouth against her neck. “Not as many as you brought, but enough for today.”

Her tongue darted out from between her lips. “Major, I—”

“Brianna.” He leaned his hands against the bar at her back. “Why won’t you call me by my—”

“You taste like peppermint.” Rising on her feet, she wrapped her arms around him. “I don’t want to talk anymore. I want to be seduced.”

He slid his thumb across her bottom lip. Her pull palpable, he was conscious of the primal need to claim her, of his own seduction. His eyes remained on hers. With the callused pads of his fingers, he unbuttoned her blouse and freed her
breasts into his hands. Her corset had shoved them high. She was beautifully formed, nature’s perfection against his hands. A slight shiver went over her when he touched her.

He watched her slumberous eyes close, felt the raw hunger swell inside, then bent his head and took her mouth. Her body arched against him. His hands kneaded her breasts, stripped away her jacket, spread across her back, to finally fist into her hair. He savored her taste, the small groan she made, the feel of her body in his arms. She was like warm velvet, soft and responsive to his touch. Her nipples, hard and tight, pressed against his chest. She’d scraped his jacket away, and lowering his arms behind him, he let it drop to the floor beside hers. Her blouse followed. He unhooked her stays. She balanced on the balls of her feet, leaning into his body as her mouth returned to his over and over again, seizing more than his senses. He was physically drowning.

The
dahabeeyah
could sink, and he would not know it. Somehow they reached the adjoining door. Her riding skirt and petticoat slid to her feet with a
swoosh
. Followed by her drawers. He stepped over the discarded clothes and they tumbled onto the bed. The ropes groaned. The frame cracked. Her eyes flew open with a helpless gasp and she panted brokenly.