Masked by Moonlight. Allie Pleiter

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      “It seems to me,” Georgia said, “that we are dealing with a most extraordinary fellow.

      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.

      ALLIE PLEITER

      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.

      Allie Pleiter

      Masked by Moonlight

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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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

      Contents

      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

      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