Bound in Moonlight Read Online Free PDF Page A

hat with silken bows and ostrich feathers that I'd bought especially for my reunion with Hickley, when a subtle movement from within a carriage about five or six bays to the right caught my eye. It was a gleaming landau with a glass window on either side of the passenger section. Through the window facing me, I saw a young man in shirtsleeves with slightly mussed brown hair sitting with his head thrown back, eyes closed. I might have thought he was asleep, except that his chest was moving as if he were trying to catch his breath. He looked pained, and I thought, I've got to help him, but then he lifted his head and said something, looking down. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but I realized he wasn't alone. Perhaps, I thought, there was a woman lying with her head in his lap—those landaus were pretty roomy inside. (Do stop laughing, Rèmy, or I won't go on.)
    The young man threw his head back, grimacing. His back arched, and he shuddered for several long seconds before he slumped back down. By this time, I'd figured out that there was, indeed, a woman in there with him, and that she must have just brought him off by hand. (I said don't laugh!)
    He looked down again, heavy-lidded and smiling contentedly, and said something else. A blond head appeared.
    It was another young man.
    I stuck a hatpin into my finger.
    The blond man leaned forward for a kiss, then turned to sit back on the seat, which was when he saw me. He said something to his companion, who looked in my direction with wide-eyed panic.
    I mouthed, “I'm sorry,” as I stumbled from the car and fled from the carriage house, my car coat flapping behind me. I was about fifty yards down the gravel path when I heard a voice from behind me call out,
“Mademoiselle!”
    The brown-haired young man was jogging toward me, hurriedly shrugging on his coat.
    â€œI'm so sorry,” I said, backing up with my hands raised.
“Je suis désolée.”
    Hearing my accent, he said in breathless English, “You are
américaine
?”
    I nodded. “I'm Emily Townsend. I'm a friend of Mr. Archer's. He invited me here, but he's not here, but I know someone else who's here, and that's why I—”
    â€œPlease,
Mademoiselle,
” he said, putting a thankful end to my idiotic babbling. He struck me as so young and vulnerable, standing there hatless in the rain with his hair plastered to his forehead. “I beg you, what you saw . . .” He looked toward the carriage house, where the blond man stood just inside the first bay, watching us as he lit a cigarette.
    I said, “It's really none of my—”
    â€œIf my father were to find out . . .” he began. “He mustn't. Please, I beg you not to say anything to him—to anyone.”
    â€œWho is your father?” I asked.
    â€œHe is Émile Morel, Seigneur des Ombres. I am Claude Morel. If he knew . . .” He shook his head desolately, raindrops coursing down his face like tears.
    I said, “I won't tell him. I promise.”
    He nodded thoughtfully. “I believe you. You have a sapphire radiance about you.”
    â€œI've never even met your father,” I said. “I'm here at the invitation of Mr. Archer.”
    Looking alarmed, Claude said, “He mustn't find out either.”
    â€œKit wouldn't judge you.” There were two men who attended Mrs. Chalmers's salons, a
Harper's Weekly
editor and a playwright, who were known to be lovers. And there was a female poet who smoked a pipe and dressed in men's clothes. No one, including Kit, seemed to think anything of it, although I was probably the only one who hadn't realized that homosexuals expressed their love physically. It had simply never occurred to me that two people of the same sex might be moved to kiss, much less make love.
    â€œHe might not judge me, but he would have to tell my father, because if I don't provide an heir . . .” Claude pushed the wet hair out of his eyes.