Moonlight Lover
Authors: Marie Ferrarella
The Women's Contemporary Originals from Marie Ferrarella
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental. All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Copyright © 2015 Marie Ferrarella
Cover images from Shutterstock.com
Moonlight Lover
by
Marie Ferrarella
Chapter One
She was going to kill him. Saints preserve her, if he was alive and well and not beset somewhere this very moment by some gang of heathen, cutthroat Redcoats, she was going to kill him.
Slowly. Inch by torturous inch.
An inch, Rachel promised her absent older brother vehemently, for every moment she had spent pacing about this creaking, uneven wooden floor, waiting and watching for some sign of his return.
"Damn your eyes, Riley Sean O'Roarke, how could you be doing this to me?" she demanded of the emptiness.
Rachel O'Roarke sighed angrily, helplessly, as she pulled her dark green shawl more tightly around her narrow sturdy shoulders in a vain attempt to seal in a minute amount of warmth. She couldn't seem to get warm tonight. Worry kept her cold.
She moved closer to the stone hearth, seeking to drive the chill away from her bones and from her heart. The flickering light from the fire cast eerie shadows upon her faded white nightshirt. It only helped to intensify her feeling of loneliness.
The flames were diminishing and shortly she would be in danger of being cast entirely into the darkness. Normally, the dark did not bother her. Tonight it was a different matter. Tonight she was worried. It wasn't Riley's habit to stay out so late or so long.
There was a little left of the cord that he had stacked by the fireplace. Rachel picked up a piece of wood and fed it into the fire. She watched as bright long, yellow tongues licked the piece hungrily, devouring it a little at a time.
Rachel ran a hand through her tousled flame-red hair and let out a little angry huff.
Where are you
?
She knew it wouldn't do a bit of good to carry on and worry like this. Years ago she had learned that what would be would be whether she worried or not. But Riley was the only family she had left, and she was protective of him despite the fact that he was older by five years.
"Doesn't have enough sense to come out of the rain," she murmured to the smoky gray cat Riley had presented to her as a birthday present more than a year ago. Rachel had named her Mab after the fairy queen, and was more than half convinced that the fabled capricious spirit lived on within the four-footed creature. The cat was cunning, self-serving and whimsical.
Mab was stretched out before the hearth, instinctively occupying the best seat in the small wooden frame house. The animal scarcely gave her mistress a glance when she spoke.
A small laugh escaped her lips as Rachel folded herself up and sat, legs tucked up against her, on the floor next to the cat. She stared into the fire and lightly wove her fingers along the soft fur, stroking Mab as if the very action could somehow bring her a measure of comfort.
Mab purred her approval.
Rachel looked down at the cat. "If I know that scalawag brother of mine, he's probably stretched out somewhere too, just like the likes of you." Rachel shook her head, withdrawing her hand. She laced her fingers together about her legs. "There's too much spirit in him, Mab. Too much of it bursting in his soul. And he doesn't know when to keep quiet. When that sort of spirit mixes with the liquid kind, it's a bad combination to be sure for getting yourself into trouble."
Riley had a tendency to be outspoken. And, as the new owner and editor of the Virginia Gazette, he had a perfect forum for making his opinions known. They were not always popular.
Rachel rocked slowly, like a child trying to comfort herself against the dark. "Yes, stretched out he is, helpless with drink, that's the way of it."
For a moment, the sound of her own voice gave her a small bit of solace. But then Rachel sighed as she rested her chin on her knees, staring into the flames before her once again, her convictions flagging.
"If only I could be sure."
Her voice seemed to echo within the tiny, three-room house made suddenly large by Riley's absence. And the very shadows in the corners of the room mocked her.
"Come home, Riley," she whispered to the folds of her nightshirt. "Please come home."
###
The noise within Sam's Tavern had reached a constant level and had remained there for the hour that he had been within the boisterous establishment. It was hard for a man, St. John Lawrence mused, to even hear himself think. Not that Sam's Tavern was a place where lofty thinkers converged in the fall of 1782.
Sin-Jin moved aside to let two brawling men resolve their differences without his body intervening in their argument. He slid his tankard of ale further down the rough-hewed bar. Thinkers, Sin-Jin knew, be they loyalists or rebels, sought secret places to exchange their ideas and plans of attack. One never knew who was listening. Or why. That was how heroes and martyrs were born.
A smile creased his generous mouth as he thought his philosophy through. Born and died, he amended. But that was their problem. He had had his share of this war and was out of it as far as he was concerned. He had no intention of dying for any cause for a good long while. He was far too occupied with the business of living to take a chance on dying. That was something he had foolishly risked before, not out of zeal but out of duty.
His duty now, he thought, was to himself and to his friends. The devil take the rest of it for all he cared. He'd find a way to enjoy this life he had despite the black hands that fate insisted on dealing to him.
Eventually, he promised himself, he would win the pot. It was but a matter of time as long as he remained in the game.
Sin-Jin stared down at his tankard of ale. He knew that he had imbibed far more than he was accustomed to, but he felt he was entitled to it. At least for tonight.
Sin-Jin raised the tankard to his lips. His eyes were focused, though unseeing, on the far end of the crowded room. He was vaguely aware that the brawling men had taken their fight to that end and a table was overturned.
At least it was only a table and not a life.
Not like his.
He would have been married five years today, Sin-Jin thought, attempting to banish the sharp point of sorrow from his breast. It refused to leave. Instead, it imbedded itself like a needle being plied by a tailor through muslin. Five years if Savannah had not succumbed to influenza two years ago. And the child she had carried, his child, the child who had died along with her, would have been nigh onto that age as well.
Two long years. Time had crawled by and somehow eluded him.
He took a long sip of the bitter brew and longed for sweet oblivion, just for a small while. Sin-Jin wasn't a man who bemoaned his fate or sought freedom of mind within his cups, but tonight, as he had passed the tavern on his way home, he had felt particularly melancholy. Tonight, as the stars blanketed the sky like a twinkling web spun from silver, he had felt particularly alone.
So he had come to the tavern to hear voices of good cheer and seek liquid amnesia.
Sam's barmaids had done their best to relieve Sin-Jin of his mood and his purse. But while he had joked and flirted with the girls, he had had no desire to slip away with any of them to one of the small rooms above the tavern. Gratifications of the body were not what he sought, and they wouldn't provide him with the escape that he wished for either. Morning would come after a night between the sheets and memory would return, bringing with it regret—and a lighter purse.
That was far more serious a consequence than he would have liked it to be.
Times during this war of rebellious independence were hard, and a man had to be careful of his money. Sin-Jin knew he had people depending on him for their very lives in an entirely different way these days than when he had been a lieutenant with His Majesty's Army. He had a tobacco plantation to run and employees to pay.
The very thought of his new life brought an ironic smile to his lips. He, the master of a tobacco plantation. Not only that, but an innovator of the times. It was hard to believe of himself, he who had always sought the easy way out. He had caused a stir within the thriving Virginia county where he lived. No sooner had Morgan McKinley, now his former father-in-law, presented Sin-Jin with a number of slaves in a generous show of thanks than Sin-Jin had given the men their freedom. The dark-skinned men worked for him now for pay, and gladly. Experience and the war had taught Sin-Jin to be a fair and kind-hearted employer who shared the fruits of labor with his workers.
Experience had also taught him to watch his back at all times.
He knew that there were those who felt he was undermining Virginia society by freeing his slaves. Others, such as George Washington and Thomas Jefferson, applauded Sin-Jin's actions as progressive and in keeping with their own changing philosophies.
But philosophies, right or wrong, scarcely helped to pay the tax collectors, Sin-Jin mused as he looked into his deflated money pouch. The money he had alloted himself for this diversion was all but gone. There were only two coins left. This would be the last ale he'd have tonight, and perhaps that was a good thing, he decided. He didn't want to risk falling off his horse and waking in a thicket on the morrow.
Someone stumbled against Sin-Jin, jarring his arm. The dark brew sloshed within the gray tankard like a rough, restless sea, threatening to splash up over the rim. Resting the tankard quickly on the bar, Sin-Jin turned to see who had fallen against him. He was in time to steady the slight-built man who appeared ready to slide down the length of his body.
"Hey, careful now, friend." Sin-Jin laughed. The man exhaled and a pungent cloud of alcohol hovered between them, potent enough to fog the minds of any three men.
With a flare for the dramatic, the man righted himself until he was leaning against Sin-Jin at a slight angle. "Many thanks, good neighbor."
The man smiled broadly. His thin dark brown moustache grew even thinner as it spread with the smile. He had the innocent look of a child about him, though he was deeply entrenched within the stupor that alcohol had created for him.
Sin-Jin looked at him, amused. "Can you stand?"
"Aye," the man said with more feeling than he was capable of employing. He swayed as he turned to look at the barmaid who was just behind him. Stretching, he draped a heavy arm about her shoulders. "But with help I can stand even better."
He winked at Sin-Jin, his silly grin deepening. Sin-Jin took an instant liking to the man.
Still leaning on the girl, the man's attention shifted to the immediate area of the bar. His expression sobered a degree, like a child realizing that he had possibly done something wrong.
"Have I caused you to lose a little of your precious liquid libation?" With a shaky hand he indicated the tankard.
Sin-Jin shook his head. "No matter. It was tasting a little bitter."
Releasing the barmaid, the man used his hand to draw Sin-Jin's tankard closer to him, as if nearness would transfer the right of possession to him. He stroked the side of the metal container with the same reverence he might have used caressing the cheek of a beautiful woman.
