Moontide Embrace (Historical Romance) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One: Betrayal

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Part Two: A Woman’s Conquest

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Moontide Embrace

  by

  Constance O'Banyon

  Copyright © 1987 by Constance O'Banyon

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  DEDICATION

  This is for you, Karen and Gerald Gee. How far we have traveled together—how many unforgettable memories we shared. Amid tears and laughter we faced our growing years and survived only because we had each other. I would do it all again if I had the two of you beside me.

  In loving memory of David Joe Gee. You touched our lives so briefly, but left an imprint that will endure. I believe we are better, and more tolerant, for having known you.

  To my friend, Phil Cease, from the Great American Shoe Store. Thank you for your wonderful sense of humor that allowed me to make a pirate out of you.

  Moon Tide

  Moon Tide rising impels frothy waves upon the shore.

  Cannons break the silence like the thunder of

  impending war.

  You tantalized and seduced my love, oh deceiving

  devil moon.

  In your golden light of splendor you hide the

  promise of forthcoming doom.

  The canvas spread to catch the wind as my love sails

  to sea.

  Moon Tide you are triumphant, for he loves duty

  more than me.

  Constance O'Banyon

  Part One

  Betrayal

  1

  Outside Boston Harbor, 1811

  A heavy fog hung in the air, making it impossible to see more than fifty feet ahead. With her captain at the helm, the Winged Victory was running smoothly over the choppy sea. She was a twenty-eight-gun frigate with a long keel that produced a finer line than that of most frigates, and made her ride lower in the water. Her undercut hull was built for swiftness, adding several knots to her speed. Her three masts supported yards of white canvas that now billowed in the wind.

  Judah Slaughter, her captain, stared through the fog. A worried frown creased his brow, and he wondered how much longer he would be able to keep the Winged Victory afloat. There was precious little money coming from the coastal trade. His cargo from Boston to South Carolina was usually furniture and household goods. The return cargo was always raw material—cotton, timber, or sugar cane. After paying the crew's wages, there was hardly enough money left to buy supplies for the next voyage.

  The first mate, Philippe Cease, a man of medium height, with soft blue eyes and a ready smile, made his way up the quarterdeck. Approaching his young captain, he stopped at his side, and both men stared into the fog, trying to catch the first sight of the Boston shoreline.

  Judah Slaughter stood with his legs widespread, while the wind ruffled his golden, shoulder-length hair. His white linen shirt, with its crisscrossed ties, was open at the throat revealing the golden hair on his broad chest. Judah was a handsome rogue. His face was deeply tanned; his turquoise blue eyes were penetrating and seeking, almost overwhelming to any person he chose to intimidate.

  Philippe knew his young captain was a powerful force that invoked confidence from the crewmembers of the Winged Victory. Without question they followed his orders to a man.

  Judah caught the smile that curved the rough plane of his first mate's face. "Is it visions of gold that hold your attention, my friend, or were you thinking that you are only hours away from home?"

  "Neither. I was just thinking that there are very few men who have a gut feeling for the sea, even fewer who have a deep kinship with it —men who use the seven seas to their best advantage, and feel the slapping of the waves in some innermost part of their brains. In all my life I have known only three men who had that God-given ability. Your papa was one of them, and you are another."

  Judah smiled at the compliment. "Who was the third?"

  Philippe grinned, and his blue eyes danced. "With all due modesty, I must admit it is none other than I." A teasing light sparkled in his eyes. "And to think my mother wanted me to be a cobbler, and make shoes. Had I followed her advice, I would have missed sailing with your father and yourself, and some of the greatest adventures of my life."

  Judah felt proud that Philippe should compare him to his father, for Philippe had stood by him when he was nothing more than a young, floundering youth learning to be a man. Judah had never known his own father, who had died when Judah was but an infant. It was Philippe who had served his father, taking the young Slaughter under his wing and teaching him about the sea.

  "With you, I am reminded of your papa. When you issue an order, you never raise your voice in anger, yet your men would follow you into hell. Your papa would be proud of you."

  The Winged Victory had always been a privately owned vessel. It had once belonged to Judah's father—it now belonged to Judah. Daniel Slaughter had won many sea battles when he had used the ship in the Revolutionary War. He had sailed her as a privateer, to help the American cause, and he had been a hero, decorated for bravery by President Washington himself.

  But he had been killed in a sea battle involving the Barbary pirates. That fact burned in Judah's heart. He hoped one day to face those pirates and gain some amount of satisfaction.

  At Judah's mother's request, Philippe had taken over the Winged Victory, and had enlisted her in trade for several years. But very little money had come from the venture. The ship had fallen on hard times, and was placed in dry dock until Judah was old enough to take her out and make her seaworthy again.

  Judah looked at his first mate. "I have learned much from you, Philippe. You took a half-grown lad, and made a sea captain out of him. Do not think I am not aware of the times you stood at my side, quietly showing me the right way to carry out a deed. Most of what I am, I owe to you, my friend."

  Philippe clapped Judah on the back in a rare show of affection. Always when the crew was about, Philippe treated his captain with professional respect. "I owe it to your papa to look after you, so I stood in his place and taught you the things he would want you to know. I guess you could say I borrowed the joy that would have been his in watching you develop into a fine captain." Philippe's eyes danced with mischief. "Of course, I never got around to teaching you about women . . . but I believe you were born knowing about them."

  Judah laughed. "Not so, my friend. I find myself in a quandary where the fair sex are concerned. I admit to being at a loss when it comes to having an intelligent conversation with them. Besides my mother, I find very few who have a serious thought in their heads."

  "Wh
at about your pretty songbird, Adriane Pierce?"

  "Adriane does not have to be intelligent. She has other attributes to her credit."

  "Such as?"

  Judah smiled. "She has a lovely voice."

  "Ah, yes, I have heard her sing. She does indeed have a lovely voice," Philippe agreed.

  Judah thought of Adriane. He had met her one night when he'd attended one of her performances at the Blue Rose Theater in Boston. Her face was lovely, and her voice sweet. He had been surprised when she had allowed him to call on her, and his puzzlement had deepened when she'd begun to favor him over older, wealthier men. She had now been his mistress for two years.

  The watchman broke into his thoughts, yelling down from the crow's-nest. "Land ho! Boston Harbor dead ahead."

  Judah knew these waters as well as any man, knew where to look for sand bars and shallows. Bringing the Winged Victory about so her sails caught the billowing wind, he headed her nose into the horizon and homeport.

  A heady wind dipped out of the angry, gray sky and slammed frothy waves against the Winged Victory, which was riding high in the channel since her cargo had been unloaded and placed in warehouses along India Wharf.

  Judah, draped in a black cape, turned his face to the wind, tasting the salty mist that wet his lips. His turquoise blue eyes moved past the channel, choked with sailing vessels, to the shops, the numerous inns, and the brick warehouses that cluttered the waterfront.

  Since Boston was located on a peninsula, the city was almost like an island, and it was quickly becoming a major harbor, in spite of the fact that many American ships were being challenged by British, as well as the French fleets. Rumblings of war were in the air. America was waiting, holding her breath. She had enemies— powerful enemies. Aside from the English and French that tormented the American shipping trade, there were the Barbary pirates to contend with. The pirates controlled the Mediterranean, and demanded tribute from any vessel within her waters. It did not matter that a peace treaty had been signed between America and the Barbary States in 1805. For several years now the Pasha of Tripoli had renewed his piratic attacks, taking American ships and enslaving both the passengers and crew, sometimes even women and children.

  Judah knew in his heart that one day he would do battle with the Barbary pirates, and avenge his father's death. His most fervent wish was that he might stand face-to-face with Abdul Ismar, the man who had struck his father down.

  The dark mood left Judah and a smile curved his lips as he caught sight of a lone carriage rattling down India Street, the horses straining against the wind. After being at sea for the last month, he welcomed the thought of a few hours of pleasure with Adriane.

  Judah waved to his crew and, with a chuckle, charged each of them not to waste their first night ashore on the pleasure of women and demon rum.

  Adriane poured wine into the delicate glass, then handed it to Judah. Her heart was beating wildly as he lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip, his eyes moving down her body. Even though she was five years his senior, she found him to be the most exciting man she had ever known.

  He reached out and pulled her onto his lap, and she melted against him, trying to analyze her feelings. Why did Judah Slaughter have the ability to turn her bones to molten lava? She had known many men who desired her. What was so special about him?

  He twisted a red curl around his finger and gently pulled her face closer to his. Shivers of delight raced through her as his lips touched her mouth. "Can you stay long?" she questioned breathlessly.

  "No. Just the night."

  Disappointment clouded her eyes. "But why? I have missed you. I had hoped we could — "

  His mouth covered hers to silence her. When she was breathless from his kiss, he raised his head and smiled down at her. "We must make the best of the time we have," he whispered.

  Still hurt that he was not going to spend more time with her, Adriane drew back. "Why can you not stay a day or two?"

  "My mother has sent word that she wants to see me. I must leave early in the morning."

  "Will you be back before you sail again?"

  He toyed with the bow on her gown. "I don't know."

  Adriane sighed heavily and laid her head against his broad chest. She had realized long ago that she would never hold the smallest part of Judah's heart. She would have to be content with the knowledge that, at the moment, he desired her. She was wise enough to realize his craving for her would wane in time, and she would have to let him go. Already she could read discontent in his eyes.

  As his lips moved down her arched neck, Adriane ran her fingers through his golden hair. She must not think of tomorrow and the agony of parting from Judah. Tonight he belonged to her, and her alone.

  Judah called to his mother as she waited on the steps of her modest, red brick house, and Gabrielle Slaughter's eyes softened when they rested on her son's handsome face. Joy sung in her heart as he strode toward her, his black boots clicking on the cobblestone walkway.

  When he reached her side, Judah picked her up and hugged her tightly. "You are looking wonderful as always. I believe you live life in reverse and grow younger with the passing of time, Mother," he said, placing her on her feet and beaming down at her.

  A soft smile curved Gabrielle's lips, but her eyes were clouded. "Welcome home, my son," she said with a heavy French accent. "You always know what to say to make me feel good about myself."

  Judah did not miss the troubled expression on her face as she led him into the sitting room. "Is anything the matter?" he asked. Like his father before him, Judah spoke with a definite Boston accent.

  "We will speak of it later," Gabrielle responded as Nelda came in carrying a tea tray. The maid beamed a welcome to Judah. "I made your favorite butter cake," she announced proudly.

  "You spoil me, Nelda."

  The white-haired maid giggled. "I suspect all women spoil you, Master Judah," she declared.

  When Nelda departed, Judah's attention returned to his mother. Even though the bloom of youth was no longer on her cheeks, and the curls that softly farmed out across her forehead were sprinkled with gray, she was still a lovely woman. There was an elegance about her, an air of superior breeding. She came from a proud old French family which had settled in New Orleans over a hundred years earlier.

  Gabrielle motioned for Judah to sit beside her near the warm fireplace. After pouring him a cup of steaming tea and placing a plate of cakes within his reach, she met his inquiring glance. "What is your news, Mother? Are you troubled about something? You are not ill, are you?"

  Soft firelight fell on Gabrielle's face, disguising the worried frown that curved her lips downward as she watched his face expectantly. "I have received a letter from my father. He has asked that I come to Bend of the River Plantation and bring you with me. He says he is . . . ill, but that it is not of a serious nature. Can you imagine the joy that filled my heart when I read his letter asking me to come home after all these years?"

  Judah looked at her through lowered lashes. "I find it strange that you would be enthusiastic about the prospects of visiting your father when for so long he has turned his back on you. I, for one, have no intention of going to New Orleans to see a man who has, until now, ignored my existence."

  Linking her arm through Judah's, Gabrielle Slaughter snuggled closer to him for warmth. "I know it is difficult for you to understand a man like my father. He is proud and stubborn." She smiled. "Sometimes you remind me of him."

  Judah stared at the fire, lost in thought. His grandfather lived on a plantation outside New Orleans, and according to his mother, ruled it with an iron fist. "Philippe tells me I am much like my own father," he said with feeling. "I have no desire to emulate a man who has so cruelly turned my mother away from his door."

  Gabrielle's eyes took on a wistful look. "It is a pity that your father didn't live to see what a fine son he had in you." Her eyes misted. "He would have been so proud of you today."

  Judah clasped her cold hand in hi
s. Even though her husband had been dead for many years, Gabrielle still mourned his passing. Daniel Slaughter had not been a wealthy man, since he had enlisted the Winged Victory in the defense of his country, rather than turning to piracy as many other American ship-owners had. All he had to leave his wife and son was his good name, the modest Tudor cottage, a small income from property left to him by his father, and of course the Winged Victory.

  "Will you come with me, Judah? Will you visit my father at Bend of the River?"

  Judah picked up the wool coverlet that was folded over the back of the settee, and placed it across his mother's lap. "Have you asked yourself why my grandfather would issue an invitation to you after all these years? You will never make me believe he is sorry for how he treated you in the past and wants to make amends." His eyes showed the skepticism he was feeling.

  Gabrielle studied her son's face, trying to see him through the eyes of the many young ladies who flirted outrageously with him. To people who did not know him, Judah might appear somewhat arrogant and overconfident. To Gabrielle, he had always been a loving and dutiful son.

  There had been many lonely days for Gabrielle since Daniel had been killed. She sighed, remembering the lonely nights she had lain awake aching for her husband. All the medals, the letters of praise from a grateful country had brought little solace to her widow's bed. The one bright spot in her life had been her son. Judah had the same blond handsomeness as her dead husband, but his deep turquoise eyes came from Gabrielle's own father.

  Yes, she thought, there had been difficult times in the past, but she had stubbornly persevered for her son's sake. Judah was a son any mother would be proud of. His manners were polished, and he was a handsome rogue— this he had also inherited from his father.

  Her hand moved up to brush against his cheek. "I know how much it will wound your pride to take me to Bend of the River, but it would mean so much to me to have you with me."