Jamming the knife into his belt, he used the shortened bridle rope, the mane, the strength of his knees and sheer instinctive skill to control her as she bucked and whirled about.
“Jenny!” he called, as the horse kicked out, knocking over another man who began to rise to his feet. “Jenny!” He glanced over his shoulder, then turned the horse’s head.
Dashing into the corridor, skirting two men who lay dazed or unconscious on the ground, Jenny ran the few feet toward the horse. Whistling, cajoling, pulling with the headrope so that the horse was forced to circle and could no longer buck, Simon calmed the horse enough so that it stood, breathing heavily.
Leaning to stretching out his right arm, Simon beckoned urgently to Jenny. She ran toward him, leaping upward as he grasped her forearm and pulled. A moment later she was seated astride the horse’s flanks behind Simon, holding on to his waist as he turned the horse again.
Leaning forward, he urged the Connemara down the corridor. Iron shoes echoing loudly against the rock, breath bellowing, the horse plunged into the darkness.
Jenny clung to Simon, bent low with him. Glancing back, she saw some of the men get to their feet and begin pounding after them in pursuit, their shouts reverberating from the walls.
As Simon guided the horse around the crazy turns in the maze of tunnels, Jenny kept her head low, as he did, too, for the ceiling heights varied from one channel through the rock to the next. As they turned down the short stem toward the landward exit, Simon turned to look at her.
“The door,” he said. “You’ll have to open it.” He slowed the horse, which stomped and snorted. While Simon soothed the Beauty with a stroking hand and a calm voice, he gave Jenny support as she slid from her perch, feet smacking on stone.
Stumbling to her knees, she rose and ran for the end of the tunnel and the ramp of rock that led upward to the stone that blocked the exit. Behind her, Simon brought the horse closer, dismounted and walked the animal the rest of the way.
Hearing shouts and stomping feet as MacSorley’s men came down the tunnel in pursuit, Jenny tugged on the iron ring embedded in the stone door. She threw her weight back until the stone yielded and swung inward on its hinges.
Pushing it wide, she felt cool, fresh air and glimpsed moonlight above layers of earth and grass. The ramp in the tunnel continued past the stone slab to the level of the moor. The exit opened out of the side of a hillock amid a heavy cluster of boulders, screened by bracken and grasses.
She stepped aside to allow Simon to pass as he tugged the Connemara forward with the rope. Suddenly the animal snorted, sensing fresh outside air, and tried to barrel past Simon to escape. Holding the lead to avoid losing the horse once it got outside, Simon managed to climb out first, then turned to coax the horse through. Avoiding the dangerous hooves and the powerful flanks, Jenny helped guide the horse from behind.
Little cajoling was needed, for the Connemara gave a desperate neigh and clambered out quickly, if awkwardly, soon planting its four feet on soft turf, lifting its head to whicker in clear relief for a moment.
While the horse grazed a little, Simon reached down to help Jenny scramble outside. She fell to her knees in cool, dewy grass, then looked up. Bathed in moonlight, the moor seemed a magical, wondrous place. Jenny glanced around, feeling as if she had never seen it before, or saw it with new vision.
Then, through the opened hole slanted into rock and earth, she heard the angry roars of men pounding along the tunnel. Simon dove for the slab and pulled on its iron handle, groaning with the effort as he yanked it closed on its hinges. Just as the smugglers streamed toward the door, he slammed it into place. Their shouts were suddenly muffled and then silenced.
Simon grabbed a nearby rock and jammed it through the handle for a makeshift lock. “That will hold them, but only for a bit,” he said. “Now where is that—” He turned where he stood, looking at the ground, walking in a circle around the concealed entrance.
“What are you searching for?”
“My pistol,” he answered. “I dropped it when I fell—here it is, thank God.” He bent to retrieve his gun carefully from under a patch of gorse, and slid it into his belt. “Come on, then,” he told Jenny, holding out his hand.
Nodding, she rose from the damp grass. Overhead, the bright moon hovered on a velvety field sparkling with stars. But along the horizon, a faint blue-gray line already glowed.
“Dawn,” she murmured. She turned to Simon. “It’s nearly dawn! We have to get to the Tolbooth—”
“Aye.” Holding both her hand and the mare’s rope, he tugged them toward the nearby hawthorn copse.
“There’s no time to put Sweetheart back in her harness,” Jenny gasped. “And we’ve got to bring the Beauty to the sheriff—Simon, wait. Help me up—I’ll ride her.”
Without protest, Simon cupped his hands for her foot, and she vaulted onto the Connemara’s bare back. Pressing with her knees to keep her seat, she twisted her hands in the long, thick white mane. While Simon bolted into the hawthorn grove, she waited impatiently, the mare echoing her anxiousness by prancing and pawing, although accepting Jenny as her rider.
Simon rode out of the grove, mounted on the black stallion that he had left there earlier, and drew up beside her. His own horse shifted restively, sensing the urgency.
“Can you do this?” Simon asked.
“Aye,” Jenny answered, and leaned forward, legs and hands gripping tightly, to surge past him.
Simon followed her through the fading moonlight.
CHAPTER TEN
CANTERING BESIDE Jenny, Simon soon glimpsed men running through the darkness along the cliff side. He shifted the reins to his left hand, ignoring the ache in his wounded arm, and rested his free hand on the butt of his pistol. With a glance at Jenny, he urged the stallion ahead of the Connemara.
“Who goes there?” A man emerged from behind a cluster of rocks. “Is it you, Lockhart?”
“Aye.” Seeing Bryson, Simon slowed his mount and turned, while Jenny followed, her horse a pale shadow on the dark moor.
As the revenue officer approached, Simon saw three dragoons with him. In the shadows beside an outcrop of rock, several other men walked under the guard of more uniformed dragoons.
“Where have you been?” Bryson complained as he came toward Simon.
“In the sea caves,” Simon answered. “Who’s that with you?”
“We caught the rascals who were parading over the moor earlier,” Bryson said, gesturing toward the group, who approached with an escort of four dragoons holding bayonets.
“Uncle Felix!” Jenny said, turning to look.
“Aye, Felix Colvin and his band,” Bryson said. “They claim to be innocent of wrongdoing, but we caught them—”
“They’re not the men we want,” Simon said. “Let them go.”
“But they were leading a convoy of men and packhorses—”
“The rascals we want tonight are down in the sea caves, readying cargo to take out to a lugger in the firth. In fact,” Simon said, gesturing behind him, “if you post a few dragoons near that rocky hillock near the hawthorn copse, with guns at the ready, you’ll soon see rascals come up through the ground, and into your trap.”
“What?” Bryson said.
“I’ll explain later. And send some men down the cliffs to the sea caves, if you will, to nab some lads who are about to row out of there to meet a lugger out in the estuary.”
“What about Felix Colvin and his lads? We were taking them to the Tolbooth.”
“Oh, I’d wager they’d be glad to go after the rogues down in the caves—aye, Felix?” he asked, as Jenny’s kinsmen walked up in the company of the dragoons.
“Fetch MacSorley’s lads for ye? Och, aye,” Felix replied.
“They’re carrying a load of whisky stolen from Miss Colvin’s legitimate still, with plans to sell it off for a profit,” Simon said. “You might want to reclaim that for your niece.”
“We surely would,” Felix growled. He looke
d at Jenny. “What’s that horse you’ve got, lass? Looks familiar.” He frowned.
“This is the Beauty,” she said, smiling, as she patted the horse’s neck.
“The Beauty!” Felix gaped. “How could ye catch her?”
“She’s the very one Nicky saw earlier tonight,” Jenny said, as the Connemara sidestepped nervously. “And she’s anxious to bring good fortune to my father.” Smiling, she rounded away with the mare and urged the animal to a brisk canter over the moor.
“What the devil—” Bryson said.
“Has the lassie gone daft?” Felix asked. “What horse is that?”
“The magistrate’s horse,” Simon replied. “We found her in the caves—MacSorley had her all along, after stealing her weeks ago. That horse will bring very good luck indeed to Jock Colvin.”
“If ye get there in time, lad—the dawn is breaking,” Felix said, pointing toward the pink blush on the horizon. “Hurry! D’ye think ye can catch that lassie?” He peered past Simon.
“Oh, I think so,” Simon drawled, as he turned his horse’s head to urge the stallion forward.
Jenny was not so easy to overtake this time, for the Connemara was swift and strong and desperate for a good run, but Simon rode with consummate skill and a light hand. Soon he drew the black stallion alongside the pale mare. Jenny glanced over at him, her hair and cloak whipping back, and she smiled, slowing so that their horses could keep pace.
“Greetings, Miss Colvin,” he said pleasantly.
“Sir Simon,” she said. “Will we have enough time to get there, do you think?” She glanced upward anxiously.
The wide bowl of the sky was still dark overhead, scattered with stars, and the full moon rode like a pearl on that sparkling field. Where the sky met the horizon, rosy pink light glowed.
“Sun and moon together,” he said, looking at the beautiful sight. “Surely that must be a good omen for us.”
“I hope so.” She frowned.
“We have time, Jenny love,” he said. “If you’re worried about your father, that fine horse will take you to him in a hurry.”
She slowed the horse and halted. A little surprised, Simon followed suit with the stallion, and maneuvered close to Jenny’s horse, about to ask her what she needed.
Leaning toward him, Jenny kissed his lips, quick and tender. He slid his fingers deep into the silky thickness of her hair, renewed the kiss, and drew back.
“What was that for?” he asked. “I thought you were in a great rush.”
“I am,” she said. “I just want you to know how much I love you, Simon Lockhart, and how very grateful I am to you. And I wanted to ask if you were coming with me.” Twining her fingers into the horse’s long white mane, she watched him.
“I’ll be right beside you, love,” he said. “Always. I swear it.” He leaned down and kissed her again, embracing her in the circle of his arm. “And Jock Colvin will have to learn to live with that.”
She laughed, a silvery sound, and drew away, riding swift as the wind. Simon easily kept pace, smiling to himself, deeply glad to know that Jock’s life was about to begin anew.
And so was his own, for he had wooed Jenny Colvin after all, and in the span of one moonlit night.
THE DEVIL’S OWN MOON
Miranda Jarrett
Dear Reader,
There’s always been something special about a full moon. Whether worshiped as a goddess by ancient Egyptians, praised in verse by lovesick Elizabethan poets, or regarded as a gift of light by farmers hurrying to harvest a crop, a full moon glowing in the night sky is a powerful sight. Even jaded New Yorkers will slow down long enough to gaze up at a full moon as it rises majestically between the skyscrapers.
In “The Devil’s Own Moon,” the full moon becomes a kind of celestial matchmaker for two long-parted lovers determined to stay that way. While childhood friends Sophie and Harry first discovered the joy and passion of love in a moonlit stable, well-meaning parents conspired to separate them, and their very different lives keep them apart as adults. But years later another glorious full moon draws them together once again, and this time the power of love won’t be denied.
The idea for this anthology was concocted by several good friends sitting beneath a beautiful full moon in Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia, surely one of the most romantic spots in America. As you read these stories, I hope you can share some of the good times and laughter that inspired us on that moonstruck night.
Please look for my next full-length book, The Passionate Princess, coming this fall from Harlequin Historicals.
Happy reading, and happy spring!
For my dear friends and moon-maiden sisters,
Merline and Susan (and a special nod to Cathy!)
Who else could be more deserving?
CHAPTER ONE
London
April 17, 1803
LORD HARRY BURTON, the fifth earl of Atherwall, gazed from the window at White’s, and wondered restlessly how the devil he was going to pass one more interminable night in London.
The gray afternoon, still more winter than early spring, was already fading away into dusk, and over the rooftops and chimney pots an icy pale full moon was rising to stake its claim in the sky. A chilly wind licked through the streets and alleys, swirling dead leaves and old newspapers against the legs of the few hapless pedestrians. Most Londoners of his class would be perfectly happy to forgo any entertainment on such a night and so unfashionably early in the season, and spend the evening instead snug in their own elegant drawing rooms, warm and cozy before their smoky coal fires with brandy and hot China tea to keep away the rest of the chill.
But then the Earl of Atherwall had never behaved like the rest of his class, and tonight would be no exception.
“Mark that plump little hussy down there on the pavement, Harry,” said his friend Lord Walter Ranford, standing at the window beside him. “Singing for her supper, I’d say.”
Harry lowered his gaze from the rising moon to the street below, where a young ballad singer was bravely continuing her trade despite the wind and cold. Her round face was ruddy from the chill and her body was swathed in so many layers of woolen scarves and shawls and petticoats that she resembled the sparrows in the park who fluffed their feathers to keep warm. The basket at her feet held only a handful of coins to show for her songs, and the few passersby on the street were too eager to reach their destinations to linger and listen. Yet still she sang, her head thrown back and her mittened hands clasped before her.
“I’ll wager a guinea that her voice is sweeter than that fat old cow we heard at the opera last night,” continued Walter, rhapsodizing over the girl with the same romantic eagerness that he showed toward most women. “With a face as sweet as that, how could she sing other than like an angel?”
“Only if the clouds of heaven are spun from ice,” said Harry idly. The girl was pretty enough, with an upturned nose and curly ginger hair, though her tenuous life on street corners was already beginning to harden her face. No matter how Walter might idealize her, Harry was too realistic not to suspect that she’d likely be on another street practicing another trade later that night, making up the difference after the small day’s take from her singing alone. “If I take your wager, how do you propose to judge her voice?”
“I could have her brought inside,” said Walter, his enthusiasm bounding ahead of common sense. “She could sing for us as we dined, and we could judge her that way.”
“What, and risk spoiling my meal if her song isn’t as sweet as you want it to be?” said Harry. “No, better to judge from here, I think.”
“You’ll take my wager?” asked Walter with surprise, for Harry seldom accepted anything Walter proposed, especially where women were concerned.
“Oh, why not,” said Harry indulgently. Walter could be a bit of a fool, but at least he was a good-natured one, and besides, what else did Harry himself have to do for the next quarter hour or so? “Let’s test your fair angel’s talents.”
&
nbsp; Without waiting for Walter to answer, he unlatched the sash and threw the window open, the curtains billowing inward with a gust of cold, gritty wind. Ignoring the indignant protests of the other gentlemen in the room, Harry leaned out the open window, his elbows on the sill and his dark hair tossing around his forehead. The cold felt good on his face, sharp and real in a way that too few things did for him these days.
“Good day, sweetheart,” he called. “My friend here has wagered that you sing better than the celebrated Signora di Bellagranda.”
The girl turned her face toward them and grinned widely enough to show the gap where, young as she was, she’d already lost a tooth, or had it knocked out.
“G’day, m’lord,” she called cheerfully, assuming correctly that if Harry were leaning from the club’s window, he must be a nobleman. She dipped a curtsey, her patched skirts sweeping the pavement. “Do that be your friend beside you, th’ one what has most excellent taste in music?”
Eagerly Walter crowded in beside Harry. “I am that friend, dearie,” he declared. “Would you grace us with your favorite song?”
The girl tipped her head to one side. “Not for nothin’, I won’t, m’lord.”
“Win or lose, you’ll have the guinea that’s been wagered,” said Harry, and the girl’s eyes widened with awe. A guinea was likely more than she’d earn in a month of songs. “But you will have to sing, so we can judge.”
“Aye, m’lord, that I will.” She nodded, and cleared her throat self-consciously. “‘The Sorrowful History of the Highwayman Dick Turpin,’ m’lord, if you please.”
She closed her eyes, clasped her hands together again, and began. Her voice was good, clear and on key and easily rising over the sounds of the street. If she lacked the trills and frills that Signora di Bellagranda had acquired on the Continent, then that was not necessarily a bad thing to Harry’s ears.
April Moon Page 16
