Must Have Been the Moonlight

Far from home was the last place Brianna Donally ever imagined she'd find the one man she'd desire above all others. When Major Michael Fallon, the dangerously seductive British officer, rescues the bold beauty from certain doom, Brianna discovers a reckless passion she is unable to resist. But a fiercely independent Irish photographer could never make a proper bride for the grandson of a duke. And a bitter betrayal has locked love away from Michael's heart forever.

And yet ... Michael cannot disregard these sensuous stirrings. Could it be the moonlight that has bewitched him ... or the intoxicating scent and touch of this remarkable, infuriatingly "modern" woman? Scandal would be the least consequence of their consummated passion -- there would be perils as well. For Michael will never settle for anything less than a true, intense, and all-consuming love.

"Daring Adventure…an unforgettable romance" Elizabeth Boyle~USA Today Best selling author.

"A tantalizing emotionally packed story that seethes with sensuality."—Kathe Robin, RomaticTimes
Top Pick & Hero KISS award. Nominated for Best Adventure Romance 2004

"Must Have Been the Moonlight is a tale of intrigue and love with two wonderfully crafted characters. Melody Thomas' sophomore effort rates a solid recommended status." —Shirley Lyons, The Romance Reader

"Melody Thomas brings us a wonderful story of love found and second chances." —Debbie, A Romance Review

Major Michael Fallon squatted on his heels, his face dark with a beard, and squinted against the harsh glare of the Western Sahara. He found the object that had caught his eye when he’d crested the last dune- a dark flutter of silk on sunlight. Finding it now amid the loose clutter on sand--a wisp of cloth snagged on rock--he brought the veil to his nose. English roses and something else uniquely feminine touched his senses. Turning the cloth over in his hands, Michael held his attention on a steel-dust Arabian trailing its reins some distance away. Where was the second rider that he had been following?

Bending over the field glasses beside him, he adjusted the leather hood over the lenses to prevent the fading sunlight from reflecting off the glass. An ancient watchtower and stone wall, relegated back to the desert some centuries before, made a somber landmark against the indigo sky as nightfall lowered its sleepy eye over the terrain. He knew that a good riflescope would pick him off at this range if he stepped into the open.

He swore softly as he looked back at the white camel couched in the sand like some bored Sheba oblivious to the growing chill. He pulled out a tin of peppermints, slid one beneath his tongue, and again brought the veil to his nose before shoving it into his shirt.

Holding his carbine in one hand, his burnoose slapping at his boots, he remained on the backside of the dune and trailed the Arabian on foot through the growing darkness to the outer perimeter of the watchtower. Three days without sleep, or perhaps it was the beating seven Kharga slavers had given him last month, made him feel every muscle in his legs as he kept low to the ground.

Michael dropped to his haunches, his fist tightening around his rifle. He carried a brace of pistols across his chest and a knife in his other hand. Such ancient watchtowers had been built around springs. He didn’t see any livestock, but guessed they were corralled behind the tower against the rocks. One small heel print crossed the worn path almost at his feet. Shifting his weight, he raised his eyes to the rocks a heartbeat before he heard the click of a pistol behind him.

“The only reason you’re still alive,” the voice was decidedly feminine, “is because my rifle is out of bullets.”

Michael rose to his feet and turned slowly. His tagilmust hung loose and draped his shoulder. Each hand gripped a weapon. Their eyes met and, for a breathless heartbeat, they faced each other. He wasn’t sure how many people were present in the camp. Whatever he’d expected to find, it wasn’t a blue-eyed houri in the Saharan Desert holding a lethal-looking revolver on him.

Wearing a dark robe, half draped in moonlight, her body detailed against the flimsy cloth as she stood between two boulders. Her cheeks were pale and a wisp of dark hair had fallen from the wild braid down her back.

His gaze glinting with hard humor, Michael respected grit as much as he did the seven-inch barrel aimed at his chest. “That is fortunate for me, amîri,” he said impassively, raising his arms slightly in a gesture of submission.

His movement revealed the baggy white sirwal beneath his robes, trousers tucked in soft leather knee-high boots.

Her light-colored gaze held his. Those striking eyes had kept him from possibly killing her in the heartbeat that he’d stood. That and the fact that she’d spoken in English--and he’d answered in kind.

He didn’t hear movement behind him, only felt the stars explode in his head. Then he was falling, and his face hit the sand.

Brianna Donally could barely breathe as she held the field glasses to her eyes and scanned the desert, the sick feeling in her gut increasing with every moment. The white camel she’d been watching earlier had not moved from its solemn place in the sand. She would have to go out there. Yet, she knew there was someone else out there in the darkness. Somehow, despite all of her efforts, they’d been tracked. First by the pair this morning. Then by the man on the white camel.

She knew that one man lay on the desert floor because she’d put him there earlier that morning, and the man on the camel lay behind her.

Her sister-in-law slumped against the stone wall, her breath coming in quick heaves. They’d both been running.

“Do you think that I killed him, Brea?” Lady Alexandra removed the wide-brimmed beater hat from her head and dropped it onto the sand. A visible bruise marred her cheek. “We can’t just leave him to...to the scavengers. Like the other one.”

They had escaped two assassins. Closing her eyes, Brianna lowered her forehead against the stone wall. It was cold against her cheek. How long before those who had pillaged the caravan sent more people to hunt down the two Inglizi missies who had escaped the massacre? She would not allow Lady Alexandra’s compassion to intrude on her conscience. Nor was she going to expend her energies to bury murderers. Some things were better left alone.

Unlike Brianna, her sister-in-law wore a cotton shirtwaist, long-sleeved and collared jacket over a divided skirt. Her blouse and jacket were torn and spattered with blood. How much came from the wound on her mouth or shoulder, or from the soldier who’d been beside her when he was shot, Brianna didn’t know.

“If that man wished to be buried in accordance to his custom then he should not have attacked us, my lady.”

Blinking to clear her vision, Brianna forced herself to refocus. The moon was a scimitar in the sky, lying over the desert terrain like a half-lit lantern. Nothing moved in the pale stillness, the stark beauty made more terrifying by the absolute silence. They were vulnerable if they stepped out onto open ground. Surely, they would be just as dead if they did not.

“Lord, Brea,” Lady Alex whispered in the heavy stillness that surrounded them. “I think I’m going to be sick again.” She leaned her forehead against her knees and silently wept.

Brianna wrapped her sister-in-law tightly in her arms. “Me, too, my lady. But we have to remain strong.”

A gust of wind blew sand in her face. She’d never been anyone’s caretaker. It frightened her to think that the intrepid Lady Alexandra might need her when they’d both been strong for so long. That she might somehow fail this moment.

They’d added two pistols to their arsenal and a very ugly knife--what kind of man carried a lethal weapon of that size?--that she had no idea how to use. Their rifle broke when Alex hit the man. The rifle he’d carried, she could barely lift, which made it practically useless to her in defending off an attack from any distance.

She knew she should retrieve the camel. But Brianna was afraid to go out there--aye, frightened. Brianna Donally, legion activist for all manner of political anarchy, was afraid of the night.

How infinitesimal her problems in England had been, compared to now. How trivial, when everything in her life had come down to murdering another human being for survival.

Starvation was a very real possibility. They had no food. She didn’t know how to hunt in the desert. And the only water they’d found in days sat on a patch of land that wasn’t safe from intruders.

Brianna laid her palm across Lady Alex’s brow. “At least you have no fever.” She gave her sister-in-law the waterskin and helped her sip.

“Lord, I feel like I’m chewing on a barrel of sand.” Her eyes were in the shadow of her tangled hair. “I probably just killed a man. I should be thinking what it’s going to be like seeing him in hell.”

Brianna stood. “Then we’ll see him together, my lady. Along with all the other murderers who raided our caravan.” She hadn’t meant her voice to be so sharp. “You did what you had to do tonight because I didn’t pull the trigger.”

Brianna took one of the heavy pistols and walked behind the tower to check on the camel and the Arabian that followed them into camp. It was different shooting a rifle at two hundred yards in self-defense than it was standing ten feet away from a man. He should have been ugly for the kind of killer he was. Instead, his gaze had touched her with something akin to incredulity, something that went beyond the handsome darkness of his face--and she’d hesitated. Fringed in the darkest of lashes, his eyes had been almost silver in the twilight. His rich baritone voice cultured and his words spoken soundly in English. If not for Alex, the tall Bedouin would probably have slain her with that hideous knife he’d carried.

Her camel stirred at her approach. “How are you doing, beautiful?” Brianna whispered, rubbing her palm over its long brown nose. The beast growled and protested, but Brianna didn’t care. The camel was a notorious windbag. “At least we’ll no longer have to ride double. We have a horse now.”

She could not have imagined that she and Alex would have made it this far if not for the stout beast. For three days, they’d survived the insufferable heat. They’d found a pothole of an oasis among the scattered rocks where some long ago tribe had built a watchtower. Perhaps to guard their goats, though Brianna could only imagine what sustained the lot. A dozen date palms and spiny thorn bushes struggled for life like the rest of the oasis inhabitants.

They had to leave. Yet, Brianna knew very well that when they did, she and Alex would probably die. She had no idea how to find her brother’s camp.

Brianna looked over her shoulder. She should go back and make sure that the Bedouin was dead.

It had been at least fifteen minutes. He was tied. She’d wrapped the ropes around his arms and ankles herself. They could perhaps stay one day more to sleep and search for food.

Opening her fingers, Brianna stared down at the gun in her hand. His gun. The smooth ivory hilt made for a man’s bigger palm, did not fit hers. She thought of Captain Pritchards and all the others who had perished. The dark-eyed youth whom she had befriended. He had been the nephew of one of the caravan’s guides. And all the soldiers who had gone down in the volley of rifle fire. Those images had burned into her head, and she closed her eyes to dispel them.

“Where is my strength?” she whispered, her gaze falling on her heavy box camera still attached to the back of the three-pronged saddle. She’d come to this country with dreams of making something more of herself. “Where is some sign that after all of this, we’re not going to die out here? I’ll settle for a lightning bolt, Lord.”

Brianna shifted as she tightened the last strap on the saddle. A large lizard shot out of the rocks almost at her feet. Startled, she watched it waddle, tail flagging the air, toward the rocks on the other side of the narrow pool of water.

Taking a short cut to the rock wall, she sloshed through a leg of the fresh water pond seeking the crevices in the rock wall where the lizard was attempting to flee. If she couldn’t catch it with her hands then she’d use her bloody gun. Three lizards scampered out and scattered. Brianna grabbed the tail of the bigger one, more by luck than skill and, wrestled to keep hold of the squirming creature. She lost her gun. Tumbling into the waterhole, she held onto her prize with both her hands. Triumph yielded to an excited cry.

The lizard had stopped writhing. Staring at it, wondering what to do next, she sat in water up to her waist, her hair tangled in her face, and for a moment did not register the man standing at the edge of the pool.

His dark-booted foot propped on a rock, a rope dangled from fingers. His baggy trousers were tucked in soft leather knee-high boots. Heart pounding, she raised her gaze higher, past his thighs. His long hooded robe was all that moved on his body as she met the soft glitter of his silver eyes.

A hint of white flashed in the shadows. “Get up, amîri,” he said in a perfectly affected British accent. “Before I drag you out of there.”

She looked at the lizard in her hands, barely aware that a part of her decried letting it go. But she did.

Brianna dove backward in the water. Her hand wrapped around the pistol an instant before splashing heralded her capture. The man’s hand ruthlessly gripped her wrist. She cried out but he dunked her head. Hand over her mouth, he lifted her bodily out of the water, kicking and clawing at the arm that tightened around her waist. Her hair tangled around him like net. He slipped on the muddy incline then fell. He would have landed heavily on her had he not caught himself.

Her palm still gripping the pistol, she spat obscenities in Arabic. She called him a hâwi, snake charmer, and a barracuda.

In one furious movement, he flipped the little wildcat on her back and slid her beneath him, dragging her robe up to her hips. His thighs imprisoned her naked flanks; his hands held both of hers above her head.

“Drop it.” His voice deadly calm, he squeezed his hand over hers, in no mood to grant her clemency. “Or I will break your bloody wrist.”

Defiance flashed in her eyes. A reluctant smile tilted his mouth. Michael respected courage. But there was also the matter of why she’d tried to kill him, and what had happened to the rider on the steel-dust Arabian--and who the hell was she, anyway? He trusted her as far as he could chase her, which, at the moment, wouldn’t be far. His skull throbbed. Someone had hit him. And that someone was still about.

Conscious of her hot breath on his chin, he dropped his gaze to her mouth. Stretched over her the way he was, he could feel the softness of her breasts. She looked like a drowned squirrel, but her squirming, rounded body, that even the voluminous robes couldn’t conceal, felt purely female.

He made no effort to mask his reaction, one that she clearly recognized, for she stilled her wriggling. Her large eyes reflected the wild tempo of her heartbeat. “Go away and pretend you never found us. No one need know.” Her tongue touched her dried lips. “We haven’t eaten in days. We’ll probably die of hunger anyway.”

Michael yanked the gun away. His clothes were soaked. “Forget the lament. You’re bloody lethal.” Her wrists pinioned above her head, he frisked her thoroughly, including her backside and her legs. She tried to strike him. He yanked her to her feet.

At once, she shoved away from him and stumbled. Her hand came away with his blood, and he saw that she was finally afraid. She should be. The fact that he hadn’t been braced for the blow to his head had probably kept him from getting his brains splattered. “Aye, you cracked my skull. By all rights, any other man would have killed you. How many more of you are there?”

“Wrong answer”--he checked the load in the pistol, his pistol--“you’re on one camel. There must be only two of you.” He shoved her toward the camp. “Move--”

“Don’t...please.” She flung herself into his arms. Her body was warm beneath her wet robes. “You can be rich if you choose. I’m wealthy. My brother is wealthy. You don’t have to do this.”

He could only stare down at her tangled hair as she babbled in English about ransoms, her words tinged with an Irish accent so faint it could almost pass for cultured.

In the distance, his camel chose that moment to bellow: a sound that resembled a tortuous scream. Magnified by the emptiness of the desert, it ricocheted against the rocks.

Whatever courage the girl had momentarily lost reappeared ten-fold in its echo. He barely evaded her knee. Only because he’d felt her body tense. She sidestepped him, but he caught her easily in a few steps.

“Let go!” Her feet flailing air, she kicked wildly at his calves. He saw the shadow of a woman slumped against the far rock wall the same instant the terrier in his arms did. “Oh, please”--her fingers tried to pry him loose--“something has happened to her.”

There were tracks in the sand made by stout English boots, clearly female. No fire lit the clearing. He saw no packs, no food, nor any knapsack that might carry utensils, only one waterskin, all of which he glimpsed as he let go of the struggling woman in his arm.

The second woman was lying unconscious with her back to the wall, her pale cheek resting on her outstretched arm. She was also European. Her torn clothes bore the evidence of her flight these past days.

Watching as the dark-haired houri spoke to the woman, cradling the faintly blond head in her lap, he slowly approached.

What Englishman in Egypt didn’t know the aristocrat wife of the minister of public works? Though, Michael had been present once or twice at a function that included Sir Christopher Donally, not in the three years since his arrival in Egypt had he personally had an occasion to be introduced to his archeologist wife. Like most men, he had admired the lady from afar. From his sources in Cairo, he’d known that Donally’s sister had arrived in Egypt some months ago.

These two must have been on the caravan that had been due at Donally’s base camp.

Michael lifted his gaze--straight into the muzzle of another one of his own damn guns. He swore.

“I swear...I’ll shoot.” The hand holding the weapon shook. Lady Alexandra’s head rested protectively in her lap. “Go away and leave us alone.”

He could have attempted to take the gun--and might have been killed for the effort. Hunched on his calves, Michael stayed where he was. His burnoose folded around his knees, the tagilmust fell forward off his shoulder. He braced one elbow on his knee, and lay one hand across the other. “There was a second rider trailing you,” he kept his voice level. “I am not he. I am not your enemy, Miss Donally.”

Her breath caught at the sound of her name. “Don’t come near us. I mean it. How else would you know who we are if you’re not one of them.”

Donally’s sister hadn’t been in Egypt long enough to know who he was. She probably wouldn’t believe him anyway. Hell, he wasn’t exactly pristine in appearance. “Like your brother, I, too, work for the khedive,” he quietly said.

The muzzle wavered slightly, but now when their eyes held, he saw that she was confused. “Anyone c-could say that.” She started to shake in from shock the shock and her wet clothes. The gun was too heavy for her to hold steady. He patiently waited for exhaustion to overtake her.

“You speak perfect English,” her whisper had become strained. “Obviously you’ve l-lived abroad. That’s c-common.”

Her head held high, the dark tangled ebony of her hair framed her face. Michael felt tight and strange inside. She’d been through hell, and she still fought him like a tiger-cat. For a man who’d known little tenderness in his lifetime and who’d found only mystery in his emotions, he was deeply moved by her courage.

Unfortunately, it was a battle of wills that she would lose. But then the Irish always were tougher than they looked.

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