Mercy of the Moon

by Jennifer Taylor

  Ian and Maggie made it back to the Siren Inn and soon had Sabine tucked into bed. Maggie was relieved to find her bleeding had abated completely and knew it was not from her ministrations alone. As she and Ian made their way home, she heard the holy nun’s words, and with thankfulness and joy, leaned against him as the words warmed her chilled skin.

  “All is well, and all manner of things will be well.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Once home, Ian sat Maggie upon the settee and gently removed her clothes. She could not control her shivering, and he soon had her drinking a strong cup of tea laced with brandy while he brought the bathtub in. The warm liquid soothed her throat and washed the horrid taste of Edward Carter from her mouth.

  She shivered less from cold and more from shock as the realization hit her full force. She would have died if not for Ian and Samuel. Ian moved quickly to and from the tub with hot water from the fire, but his eyes never left her for long.

  “We will bind up your arm after your bath. I will not lie to you, Maggie. It will swell and you will be in pain for a few weeks.”

  He held her head in his hands, kissed her forehead, hands and gazed at her. He helped her into the tub; she felt stiff and sore in every muscle and very weak.

  He rubbed a linen handkerchief with rose-perfumed soap. “Close your eyes and I will wash you, sweeting. I will put you to bed, and then I will tell you what happened to me, so you might know what you are up against, so you can make a choice.”

  Too tired to speak, she laid her head back and let Ian minister to her with profound gentleness. The hot water worked to soak the grime, fear, and the stench of Edward Carter’s hatred from her. Ian placed a lavender-scented cloth upon her swollen and battered face and washed her body with care, paying special attention to her legs and feet, massaging them gently. He dried her and bandaged her shoulder, put a nightgown on her.

  He helped her upstairs to bed and settled her with another cup of tea and some potato soup. Warm at last, she could not keep her eyes open. He lay down as well and gathered her in his arms, laid her head upon his chest. With the dawn light seeping in through the window, they slept.

  ****

  Maggie awoke much later, her heart beating heavily like Samuel’s hammer, and looked around, disoriented. Then she felt Ian’s arm around her, and at her movement he said, “How are you feeling?”

  She moaned upon shifting positions. “Oh, I am sore. I can only imagine how Sabine and Sarah must feel, weak as they were to begin with.”

  “Here, sit up and I will bring us some breakfast, with a bit of whisky in our tea.” He kissed her hand and went downstairs.

  They ate thick slices of bread and potato soup, and as she sipped the tea, he began. “Maggie, I am damaged.”

  There were hollows below his eyes as dark as the caves; his eyes were red and seemed old beyond the grave.

  “I am sorry I was not there to keep you safe. I was trying to protect you, Maggie, by leaving. For I would not willingly cause you pain and knew that I would, if I stayed.”

  “Ian.” She reached out a hand to touch him.

  He rose and paced across the room. “You must hear it all, so you can decide if this is the life you want. I would not want you to suffer, not for a moment, and look at what has already happened! It is because of my association with Edward Carter—Phillip White—that you were captured.”

  “Ian, I am fine.”

  “I would have you know, Maggie, how bad my affliction is.” He sat upon the bed and took her hands.

  She would give anything to take the anguish from his face. “It doesn’t matter. We will face your infirmity together. I want you here, to live with me and love me, to have your children.” To have his children, yes! The realization brought warmth to her face but was soon cooled by the agonized look on his.

  He sat beside her again. “Listen to me, Maggie. I am flawed, and I cannot control it. I have tried.” He put his head in his hands. “Oh God, I have tried.”

  “We are all flawed, Ian.”

  “No. My sleeplessness is only the beginning. I feel the change in my blood, the pulse of music beating through me that can’t be stilled. Every pore is alive, I feel...everything. My skin tingles with awareness; I see colors so bright, so acute. And I hear the music of life around me. When these...fits are upon me, the music comes crashing like a storm, and it is frightening. And so beautiful. I burn with the passion to write it down, record it, catch it and if only I can do that, the answer to life’s mysteries would be mine, and I feel a sense of wonder and desire so profound. If only I can capture it, everything would be as it should be.”

  He paused, squeezed her fingers, and exhaled shakily. “But then, I break inside, and the music becomes shards, broken pieces that pierce and destroy me, and I cannot control it, Maggie. Eventually, and I never know when, I come to myself again, with a sadness so profound, as if I am in a pit and cannot climb out.”

  “Oh, Ian.” She longed to touch him.

  “No treatments or potions, nor drink have helped me.”

  “Ian, it is all right. I am strong.”

  He lowered his head, and she strained to hear the rest.

  He then took her face in his hands, eyes searching hers. “Yesterday, when I knew my affliction was upon me, I thought I would go, so I would not subject you to it and cause you shame.”

  He told her of his unraveling and the time in gaol yesterday. She kissed him, to show the tenderness that hammered in her heart, with her eyes willed him to believe her. “You are mine, Ian. What you are...is. We will do what we must do to be together. I will care for you, you will care for me, and sometimes it will not be good. But I cannot live without you now, now that I know what it is to be alive. For you are life to me, you are my respite and my escape. I am not afraid of you or your affliction. For I love you and I will take the pain with the joy, whenever it comes.”

  His body loosened with relief, but he warned, “You do not realize. It will not be easy.”

  “When has life ever been easy?”

  He laid his forehead upon hers and caressed her hair. “Oh Maggie, I love you so.”

  Their bodies met in tenderness and passion, her fingers trailed over his face as if she could take from him every pain. She looked into his eyes and with her body urged him to know her acceptance of him. With her fingers she traced his pain and his strength. With labored breath and skin on fire, she begged him sink into her softness.

  Maggie kissed the hard plane of his chest and rubbed her breasts against his rough-haired chest, tasting him, settling herself upon his member and sighing as she took him in, feeling his hard strength and his fierceness and her tenderness turned fierce too and their cries blended with the power of possession. They lay entwined, his member throbbing within her, and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

  Later, he examined the swelling in her arm and administered a draught for pain. He told her of the old woman, this Ixchel, that she had taken him out and led him to her. He jumped from the bed.

  “What is wrong?”

  “She gave me something to drink, and it calmed me. I came to my senses, Maggie! And then I was able to save you. Oh merciful Jesus.”

  “I don’t understand,” she cried.

  He closed his eyes. “I was still so shattered then. I remember that she said, ‘recuerdo,’ which means, ‘remember’ in the language of New Spain. And she said, ‘litio.’”

  He clattered downstairs, two steps at a time. Moments later, he ran back up the stairs. “It is the chemical element, lithium. It can be found in mineral springs. We can find it. We will figure out a way to make this, Maggie.”

  She nodded, heart throbbing in her throat. Ixchel had given them a gift. They would find this lithium.

  “Mayhap,” he said, “I can take this, to alleviate my symptoms. Oh Maggie. She as much as told me it was possible. I know it. She said, ‘recuerdas’—‘remember.’”

  They touched each other again, in joy and hope for a future toge
ther.

  ****

  Later that afternoon, after a bit more sleep, they walked over to the Siren Inn to check on Sabine and found her sitting up in bed, spooning in soup with a shaky hand. Her eyes grew big. Maggie remembered her face looked quite a sight, despite Ian’s tender ministrations.

  Ian questioned Sabine. She nodded, blushed, and spoke.

  He interpreted. “She is feeling better and has not bled more than is normal after a birth. She said Lena has invited her to live with them, and she is moving into their quarters downstairs today. She will work for them when she is recovered.”

  Maggie smiled at her. “Someone is going to have to teach her the King’s English.”

  “Maybe Ruthie,” Ian said. “She seems to have a knack for it.”

  Lena brought the baby up for her to feed just then, and embraced Maggie. “Mein Gott! Your face looks horrible. I made strudel. Come down and have a slice and coffee, too.” She patted Ian’s cheek before she left.

  Maggie quickly examined the girl and was relieved to find the rather brutal treatment of her did not have lasting effects, although she would be sore for some time to come. She bent to kiss her forehead.

  A short time later they sat around the table with Lena and her husband, Josef. The hot coffee felt heavenly on her injured throat, and the apple pastry tasted delicious. Lena told them about the constable’s questioning of Edward Carter.

  “I heard it took a while to hear Carter’s full confession,” she said. “They could not understand him well, for his teeth had been pulled, every last one.”

  Maggie nodded. Henry. “No less than what he deserved.”

  “Someone rode to Hastings to question people. It is expected more evidence will have been gathered. He and the other bastard will be taken to London tomorrow, to await their sentences, probably hanging.”

  “What of Jonas?”

  “He is off to London as well. He could not confess fast enough,” Josef said.

  “God have mercy on their souls,” Ian said.

  Lena looked between Maggie and Ian, smiling and nodding. “It is as it should be, with the two of you.”

  Maggie nodded. “And it will be, no matter what befalls us.”

  She rose and wrapped a huge piece of strudel into a linen napkin. “Enjoy your strudel.” She laughed and winked. “And your knockwurst, too.”

  Shortly thereafter, she and Ian found Sarah and Samuel sitting at the table, his arm around her, and Ruthie rocking with the baby.

  Ruthie cried, “Aunt Maggie, your face! Does it hurt? I was so frightened when you and Mama disappeared.”

  Maggie kneeled stiffly and embraced her. “Ruthie, all is well. They have caught and will punish those men. We will always keep you safe, you and your sister.”

  “She’s right, my dear,” Sarah said.

  Maggie took a good look at Sarah now. She seemed herself again. They gazed at one another with understanding and awareness of what they had shared. She had her sister back in earnest.

  Samuel cleared his throat. “I trust that you are well, Maggie?”

  She nodded. “You have no cause for fear or doubt, Samuel.”

  Nevertheless, he gave Ian the gimlet eye.

  A bit later, Ian and Maggie left them to their peaceful reverie and fought the Channel wind to their home. The cold, moist air felt good on her sore face, and Ian’s arm around her shoulders shielded her against the night.

  They stood at their doorway and gazed at the moon over the tide.

  She laid her hand on the side of his face. “I was empty without you. You have delivered me into life, my Ian, as surely as I deliver life to the babes.”

  He smiled. “We will give each other life.”

  She pressed against him to feel his bright pulse beating and gave herself up to the pull of the moon and her heart’s desire.

  A word about the author...

  Jennifer Taylor spent her childhood running wild on an Idaho mountainside. Although she’s lived across the U.S., she’s still an Idahoan at heart and a notorious potato pusher. She has a degree in Human Services and has been a roofer, a hoofer, a computer data entry operator, and a stay-at-home mom.

  She’s dreamt of writing historical romances since reading Wuthering Heights at the tender age of twelve, and is now living her dream of writing love stories set in eighteenth-century England. She feverishly lobbies for the return of breeches and would love to see her husband of thirty-four years in a pair.

  Jennifer lives in rural Florida with her husband and enjoys the comings and goings of their three grown children and three grandchildren.

  She can be reached at:

  jenntaylor888@gmail.com

  Visit her website:

  www.jennifertaylorwrites.com

  Thank you for purchasing

  this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.