Allie Pleiter - Masked by Moonlight

Quite resourceful. Very noble, but a bit reckless.”

If God himself had asked Matthew how he would like to be remembered, those were very nearly the words Matthew would use. And here Georgia was using them about the Bandit—who was, and then was not, Matthew Covington. It was an oddly powerful sensation.

Made more so by what Matthew saw hiding behind Georgia’s eyes—an admiration for the recklessness that came close to affection for the dashing hero.

But the Bandit was reckless. Matthew Covington could not be. Dashing midnight bravery was a luxury for imaginary men, not Covingtons.

Still, he would do it again. To watch her talk of it with that look on her face. To know that she held a part of him—even an invented part—in such esteem. It was enough.

Enthusiastic but slightly untidy mother of two, Allie Pleiter writes both fiction and non-fiction. An avid knitter and non-reformed chocoholic, she spends her days writing books, drinking coffee, and finding new ways to avoid housework. Allie grew up in Connecticut, holds a BS in Speech from Northwestern University, and spent fifteen years in the field of professional fundraising. She lives with her husband, children and a Havanese dog named Bella in the suburbs of Chicago, Illinois.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For now we see in a mirror, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know fully even as also I was fully known. But now abideth faith, hope, love, these three; and the greatest of these is love.

—1 Corinthians 13:12–13

For Georgia

Dream big dreams, little one

Acknowledgment

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

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

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

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

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.

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.