Masked by Moonlight

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Epilogue

Questions for Discussion

Acknowledgment

I was blessed to have loads of great help on this book, and any blame for historical errors you find should lay squarely on my own shoulders, not with any of my fine sources. Eileen Keremitsis lent tireless and creative help in general research and fact finding. Howard Mutz and Gena Egelston dug up hotel details, while the Golden Gate Hotel served as my home away from home in San Francisco. Andrew John Conway taught me to wield a whip and made valuable book recommendations. It’s a given that I’d be sunk without the ongoing support of my family, my agent Karen Solem, my editor Krista Stroever, and the wonderfully supportive ranks of Windy City RWA, Chicago North RWA, and the local and national branches of American Christian Fiction Writers. As always, the highest credit goes to my God, who continues to take me on the most amazing journey of all.

Chapter One

San Francisco

1890

Set up, turn, release.

The whip sliced cleanly through the night. Without the expected crack.

Matthew Covington pulled the whip behind him again, blowing out an exasperated breath. That’s twice you’ve missed. The moonlight and shadows should have eased his overwrought spirit. He checked the last few inches of the whip, making sure they were intact. He knew they would be. His own frayed concentration was at fault here, not his whip. Come now, man. Gather your wits. He rolled his shoulders and flexed his fingers around the hilt. Why still so tense? He’d doffed his collar and waistcoat. Fled that dark, fussy office where his duty to be the respectable guardian of the Covington family honor accosted him at every tight turn. Surely out here, in shirtsleeves, in the noisy darkness of unfamiliar San Francisco, Matthew could find the space he craved.

After a moment’s consideration, he put the whip down and flipped open the latch on a long wooden box at his feet. Moonlight caught the sword’s edge as he lifted it from the dark blue velvet. Whhhish. Matthew listened for the blade’s soothing whisper. Although a formidable opponent with any of his weapons, he cared little for combat. He was drawn to the marriage of tool and muscle, the form and stretch of putting the weapon through its courses. The exertion. The application of skill. Whoosh. Matthew’s whole body seemed to exhale as he sent the sword curving through the cool darkness.

He wasn’t satisfied. Fencing often eased his knotted shoulders, but he’d just had a long, excruciating day, and it simply wasn’t enough. Tonight, his tension needed the whip’s power more than the sword’s grace, and Matthew’s hand returned to the whip’s hilt seemingly on its own.

“I told you!” A sudden voice broke the quiet. Two figures burst into the end of the alley. Matthew froze, glad he’d replaced his white lawn shirt with a darker one as a last-minute precaution.

“It ain’t worth nothin’, I reckon,” one said.

“Lemme open it.” The larger man bumped his companion aside and reached into a small bag.

“I git half, remember.”

“You get a third. Aw, will you look at this?” The big one held up a handful of coins, obviously disappointed.

“You pick a runt to rob and expect to get gold? We ain’t gonna get anywhere if you keep—” A stack of boxes fell over as someone new ran into the alley.

Someone small.

“Gimme that back!” the thin voice panted. It was a boy—no more than ten years old, from the looks of him.

Matthew’s chest constricted. His fingers tightened around the whip. Covington, stay out of this. He backed up against the wall.

But not before taking a half-dozen silent steps toward the action.

“Aw, looky here, what followed us.” The pair flanked the boy, each man pushing up his sleeves.

Nothing needs saving, Covington. Certainly not by you.

“It’s mine. I want my money back!” The boy put up a pair of tiny, heroic fists.

Don’t don’t don’t don’t don’t…

The large man dangled the bag out of the boy’s reach, taunting him. “Life ain’t fair, runt. Better learn it now. Unlessen you’re in a hurry to meet your maker.”

“Give it to me!” The lad lunged at the smaller of the men, who caught him easily. Matthew glimpsed the glint of a blade against the boy’s throat.

How could he not?

Matthew took four huge strides, readying the whip as he went. Silently, staying in the building’s shadow, he lifted his arm. Set up. Turn. He sent the long arc of leather hissing through the air, to crack angrily half a foot to the right of the boy’s captor. The knife was too close to the lad’s throat to chance it, but the crack had the effect needed. As the burly man yelped and flinched, Matthew sent his whip out again, this time around the small bag.

He gave a precise yank, sending the purse sailing into the air to land a few feet in front of him.

“What the…?” The other man spun in Matthew’s direction, his own blade raised. At least the lad knew enough to bolt out of his captor’s grasp the second he flinched.

Matthew drew a breath to hiss something threatening when his brain cautioned him to stay silent. His British accent would give him away in a heartbeat. Or at least make him easier to identify. Instead, he sank as far into the shadow as he could and pulled the whip back a third time. This time it wrapped around the legs of the second man and pulled him down on top of his companion.

Why didn’t the boy run to safety? Matthew remembered the bag. He considered throwing it to the lad, but that would force him to step into the light again, and the men were already scrambling to their feet. When Matthew noticed the pair lacked guns or holsters—a rare but fortunate circumstance—he calmly drew the revolver from his side. The unmistakable click of the hammer stopped them cold. He let the silver tip of the gun catch the moonlight, and the pair promptly fled, disappearing around the corner.

Exhaling, Matthew holstered the gun and picked up the bag. The boy stood gaping at him with wide eyes. Matthew tossed the bag to the lad, who was too busy straining to see into the shadows to catch it.

There was a long pause. Matthew held his tongue, but finally nudged the purse with his foot.

“Oh. Uh-huh.” Still staring, the boy crouched down and groped for it.