“Ow!” Arabella cried through a swallow from her cup, meanwhile stabbing the earl with a scathing glance. “Mind your feet, my lord!”
“I beg your pardon?”
Suddenly Arabella’s demeanor softened. A dewy gaze replaced her unattractive scowl, and her rose petal lips parted in a gentle smile. “Have a care, my lord,” she purred. “Those heavy boots of yours are no match for my thin little dancing slippers.”
“But I didn’t—”
“No matter,” she interrupted him, laying a finger across his lips. She drained her cup, set it aside, and threaded her arm through his. “Come … let us walk in the courtyard awhile. The Dowager Lady Raintree’s gardens are lovely by moonlight…”
“I do not know why you worry,” Puck said as the pair strolled off. “You know happy endings are what I do best.”
Oberon’s jaw dropped, and his winged eyebrows lifted after their fashion. “It has worked,” he marveled, “and they never even made their wishes.”
“They did not have to,” Puck said, with a wink. “The blue moon knows the hearts of lovers, Oberon. You should know such. Just look at you and Tatiana … but that, old friend, is a reverie for another night. Come, our work is done here. Let us catch a ride on that magnificent moonbeam and return to the forest. I grow weary of London Town.”
“What of the rest of these?” Oberon said, glancing about.
Again Puck shrugged. “It’s quite hopeless,” he said flatly. “But take heart, only those who drank the claret are affected. Besides, the ton takes great pride and fiendish pleasure in on-dits over a juicy scandal, so I’m told. This night’s work should keep them busy until next Season. And mortals dare to deny the existence of the Fey. If they only knew…”
* * * *
It was cool and fragrant in the moonlit garden where Arabella and Nigel strolled arm in arm. Technically, they should not be out alone without a chaperon, but that couldn’t be helped. Arabella glanced over her shoulder at the chaos they’d left behind in the ballroom. Lady Marie Whalen, who should have been supervising them, was in the arms of Viscount Throckmorton, a man she loathed, and the Dowager Lady Raintree was making cow’s eyes at Thorpe, her butler. It was scandalous.
“What do you suppose was in that claret cup?” Arabella asked.
“I have no idea,” Nigel returned, “but I’m glad you chose the ratafia and I abstained, or you might have been strolling here with baldheaded Baron Rotchmont, and I might have been sneaking off with one of the Dowager’s serving maids instead of compromising you. You are compromised, you know, and you also know what that means. By morning, the on-dits over what has occurred tonight will be all over Town. There won’t be an untarnished reputation this side of the Thames. You will simply have to marry me, my lady.”
Hot blood rushed to Arabella’s temples for the second time in his presence. He was right, of course. Weddings took place for less every day. He had spoken the words in a lighthearted manner, but come the dawn, every guest at the Blue Moon Ball would be fair game at the mercy of the gossips. Judging from the goings on inside, her reputation would be in tatters from nothing more than being counted among their number.
She gazed up at him. His hair shone blue-black, like the feathers of a raven in the moonlight. He smelled clean, of leather and lime, of the cool night breeze, and wine drunk recently all laced with the musk of his own maleness. She drank him in deeply.
“So tell me about this dream you had,” she said coyly. “How did I fit into it? We hadn’t even met.”
Nigel stopped and turned her toward him. “Perhaps it would be best if I showed you,” he murmured, pulling her into a tender embrace.
The world stood still for Arabella then and she melted against him, as foxed by his kisses as a lord in his cups. How well their bodies fitted together, like two halves of a whole. He was aroused, and the bruising pressure of his hardness leaning heavily against her sent shock waves of searing heat to those mysterious places deep within her. She would have surrendered to that kiss alone if they were in a more secluded setting.
What was happening to her? Was it the ratafia, the mysterious blue moon, or both? Whatever the cause, it had to be something in the air to affect the entire gathering as it had done. And why did she still hear the plaintive strains of a flute, when he clearly did not, and the flautist was sprawled on the orchestra dais out cold? These were mysteries it was true, there was no denying it, or that her wish had been granted even though she hadn’t really made it except in her heart. Surely it was a coincidence … Wasn’t it?
“This is what I dreamed,” he murmured against her temple. His hot breath puffing against her moist skin sent the fingers of a chill racing up and down her spine. She shuddered, and he pulled her closer. “We had best go back,” he said, turning her toward the terrace doors.
Arabella dug in her heels. “I shan’t go back in there,” she said, craning her neck for a look inside as they drew near. Her breath caught. “I should like to go home,” she cried. “They’ve all run mad—my chaperon among them.”
Nigel laughed. How straight and white his teeth were, how deep and sensuous that throaty chuckle. “Even as you and I,” he said. “They say the moon brings madness. That notwithstanding, what say you, is there something to it—some truth to blue moon magic do you think?”
“Of course not … How could there be?” Arabella said. And she could have sworn she heard a spurt of giddy, disembodied laughter riding the flute music, as they strolled arm in arm toward the muse in the moonlight.
* * * *
If you’d like to read more of Puck’s and Oberon’s exploits, we invite you to read
Under a Faery Blue Moon
in Blue Moon Enchantment
Visit Dawn’s website at
www.dawnthompson.com
Where the Sea Meets Skye
Erin E. M. Hatton
A wave surged up the beach, mining the sand from beneath Celine’s feet and obliterating the footprints strung out behind her. She tightly gripped the strap of her camera, pulled the hood of her jacket closer. It was chilly at this time of day, but quiet. To her left, the sea rolled under a blanket of mist, turned pale gold by the rising sun. To her right, the land rose in a smooth sweep to a ridge of grandiose mountains. Behind her lay the sleeping town of Armadale, full of tourists not yet awake to board whale-watching boats and crawl over every inch of Armadale Castle. Before her stood a cluster of humped, slick slabs of Lewisian Gneiss, liberally strewn with kelp and barnacles.
She smelled them before she saw them, a fetid waft of digested fish and animal waste. Then one of the dark mounded shapes moved, and another, calling to each other with a sharp, hollow cough. The sound reminded Celine of Jake—he had teased her time and again, saying she laughed like a seal, sending her into helpless paroxysms to the delight of his friends. She was torn between laughter and tears now. But there had been tears enough, she decided.
She left the beach and climbed onto the rocks. Sighting a decent view, she brought the camera up to bring it into focus. In the quiet morning mist, Celine saw how people might mistake the seals for mermen and mermaids. Framed in her viewscreen, a lithe female poked head and shoulders from the water, dark eyes scanning the beach beneath thick lashes, dark head smooth and shiny as a woman’s wet hair.
Celine smiled. She’d read the legend in a travel brochure she’d picked up in Glasgow—fisherman walking the beach sees seal emerge from water, shed skin, and become a beautiful woman. Fisherman takes and hides seal skin. Woman is stranded on earth and forced to become fisherman’s wife. A cute, if weird, story. Celine pressed the button and waited for the picture to take.
It was a good picture. A pity she had no real use for it. School was over now-oh, how she had planned her celebration! A late-night party with friends-no more studying! And then off on a backpacking adventure in Europe with Jake. But the celebration hadn’t come off exactly as planned.
A week before graduation, the last of Celine’s long-hoped-for jo
b leads turned up empty. She’d held the phone in her hand for a long time after the call, listening absently to the drone of the dial tone. Marine biology—a passion, a dream—and the dream of half the country’s young population. The half with the brains and the connections, Celine thought miserably.
Graduation had seemed an empty formality after that. Four years down the toilet. Celine was already numb when Jake had taken her aside after the ceremony. His handsome face had been composed, sympathetic as he took her hands in his.
“I can see our lives heading in two different directions now. You didn’t think this would last forever, did you?”
Celine had stood stunned and frozen, woodenly accepting his parting kiss on her cheek. It was only afterward, when she saw him speeding past in his beat-up Volkswagen Scirocco with Lynette Ryan in the passenger seat, that she’d thought of any number of possible rejoinders.
You consummate jerk! Of course I thought this would last forever! What am I going to do with my plane ticket?
So instead of the late-night party and the backpacking adventure, Celine spent the night crying and flew alone to Scotland the next morning. She wouldn’t set foot near any of the ancient landmarks Jake, a history major, had scheduled into their trip. At the airport she’d scanned a wall of pamphlets and found the one now creased and stained in her pocket—the one with the seals on front. The Isle of Skye was a good place to find marine wildlife, so to Skye she had come.
She aimed the camera again and pressed the button, but the creature slipped into the water with a coy flick of her tail. The photo froze on the screen—a landscape of slick black rock and the barest corner of a tail. With a sigh, she deleted the picture, then stiffened as she accidentally called up one of the older pictures in her camera’s memory—one indelibly printed on her own.
Jake’s face confronted her, smiling, pressed close against Celine’s cheek in apparent devotion. Their mortarboards sat askew on their heads, faces flushed with jubilation. So much for the accuracy of a picture. Celine, all smiles for the camera had been depressed at the prospect of a jobless future. Jake, well, Celine knew now what—or rather, whom—he’d been thinking about.
Her fingers, cold and stiff from the sea spray, fumbled with the camera. She felt it slip from her grasp and tensed to catch it. Her hand caught it haphazardly before it dashed on the rocks, but her foot lost purchase on the slippery ground. This is really going to hurt, she thought with great clarity as she fell, cradling the camera against her stomach.
Just as she was about to make impact, a firm grip clamped around her arm and she was spun wildly around. The downward spiral continued, more slowly, and Celine found herself landing harmlessly on her bottom, looking up at a tall figure.
She shaded her eyes against the bright gold of the sun, which was starting to burn through the mist in great searing bolts of light. At first glance, Celine had the impression of large, very dark eyes in a pale face, black, sleek hair, with a neat goatee to match, a strong neck and sloping shoulders—she suddenly drew an uncanny comparison to the lithe animal she’d just photographed. Then she laughed at herself.
“Are ye all right, then?” a deep voice asked, and the face drew closer in concern. His hand hadn’t left her upper arm, though its grip had softened. She felt an electric tingle run up and down her arm. Uncomfortably, she realized it had been some time since she’d felt anything like it, even with Jake.
“Fine,” she said, struggling to her feet. “Nothing hurt but my pride … and my bum.” She rubbed her backside ruefully, and checked her camera for damage. Seeing the picture of herself and Jake, she hastily switched the camera off.
“The name’s Ronan Morrison,” he said, holding out a hand and flashing a charming smile. His voice was soft, with the guttural burr of a Scots accent. She looped the camera strap over her neck and took the proffered hand.
“Celine Terreau.” Once on her feet, she reluctantly slipped her hand away from his. He held her eyes captive for a moment longer, though, and she realized how fathomless his eyes were, like dark water on a moonless night. He was handsome—a straight nose and high cheekbones, a smooth brow, all dusted liberally with a faint spatter of freckles.
“You’re a tourist,” he said, less a question than a statement. “American?”
“Canadian,” she replied, then pointed at him, unable to resist, “English?”
Ronan snorted in derision, then laughed at the perceived joke. “Verra funny, that. English. Ye canna say that to just anyone around here,” he said, still smiling. “It was an honest mistake,” he added apologetically. “Ye sound American. Ye canna say I sound English.” He laughed in amusement.
“I’ll forget it if you will.” Celine tried to be smooth, although there was little hope for that after her spectacular fall. “What are you doing out here on the beach?” she asked, seeing with pleasure he was in no hurry to be on his way.
“I may as well ask ye the same question. I live here. Why aren’t ye on the tour boats with all the other tourists?”
“I wanted to see the seals at close range. I’ve done the tour boat thing a million times—well it seems that many. I’m a marine biologist.” She heard the unsaid word echoing in her mind—unemployed.
“Oh, so ye study the wee beasties, do ye?” Ronan nodded his head toward the dozen or so peacefully reclining specimens visible from where they stood.
“I’ve never actually seen the Scottish species before, but yes, at home, I do. Or, I did.”
“Oh,” he said softly. Celine felt his gaze, but pretended not to notice. It was nice, if a little strange, to enjoy the attention of a man again. The sky was fully alight now, though the sun itself was hidden by the mist. Ronan caught her attention on the sunrise.
“The ancients called this the sgarthanaich—a parting between night and day.” Ronan looked wistfully out to sea. Celine looked sharply at him and wondered fleetingly if he’d escaped from the local loony-bin. He glanced at her and smiled, as if reading her thoughts. “I’m what you might call an oral historian.”
“Oh, one of those,” she said pertly, recalling Jake and his penchant for random facts and important dates.
“You ken a historian, do ye?” he asked, smiling more widely. “Well, I’m nothing like your sort of historian. I remember things for the people—I keep them alive. I don’t mummify facts in books.” Ronan grimaced with distaste.
“Fair enough. So tell me about this ‘skaranah’.”
Ronan smiled, but didn’t laugh at her brave attempt at Gaelic pronunciation. “The sgarthanaich, as I said before, is a parting. It’s no just a parting between day and night, but a place where the Otherworld parts with this one. It might be better to say it’s a joining, too. Any time, or any place where one thing parts from another, it’s a place where the two join as well. Take the sea and the shore, for example. The beach is the place where the land ends and the sea begins, but it’s also the place where they meet.”
Celine nodded, feeling in spite of herself the power of his tale working over her.
“The ancients put great stock in joinings and partings. They knew that at such a place, at such a time, anything could happen.” Ronan fixed her with a deep, black stare and she involuntarily shivered.
“Anything? Do you mean the good kind of anything, or the bad?” she asked with nonchalant humour, though she earnestly wanted an honest answer.
“Either,” said Ronan, with a twinkle in his eye. “There, now, I’ve told ye something of myself. Now ye must tell me of the selkies.”
“The selkies? You mean those creatures that change from seals to people?”
“Dinnae take the merfolk lightly, lass,” he laughed. “But no, selkie is a word for seal, as well. Tell me of the seals.”
“Well, most of these are Grey seals—you can tell by the nose.” She tried not to sound self-important, but enjoyed being the expert for once. Jake hadn’t cared much—only hummed with affected interest when she volunteered information. “Some, like that one there,
” she pointed at a large male, “are Scottish Common seals. The Greys are more plentiful here, and we have them at home, too. There’ll be a lot of babies around this time of year. Hey, did you know you have over half the world’s population of Grey seals here in Scotland?”
“I do, aye,” he said, clearly brimming with amusement.
“Well, I guess you would, living here,” Celine said sheepishly.
“I ken more than that.” He nodded toward a nearby seal. “I ken that one—she lost her mate last winter. She’s been pining for him ever since.”
“That’s ridiculous. Seals don’t mate for life,” she said clinically.
“And that wee one,” Ronan continued, ignoring her comment as he pointed to a very new pup, still covered in fluffy white lanugo. “He was born yesterday and is taking his first swim. And that one—he’s the eldest seal on Skye and grandsire to at least a score of the selkies on this beach alone.”
“You couldn’t possibly know that.” She stared at Ronan in dumbfounded amazement. “Well, certainly he looks old, but there’s no way of testing his age, short of tracking him from birth.”
Ronan looked at her steadily. There was no trace of whimsy in his words, nor was he simple-minded. His dark eyes held a depth of wisdom she couldn’t plumb with all her book-knowledge.
“Dinnae dismiss what ye canna understand, Celine,” he said softly, with a voice like the mist that rolled over the sea in serpentine shreds. She found herself unable to look away, drawn to him by some irresistible force. A part of her rebelled-thought about the still-fresh pain of Jake’s betrayal. But when Ronan reached out and clasped her fingers in his cool, smooth hand, she didn’t pull away.
“I want to show you something,” he said into the magic of the silence, not breaking his gaze from hers. “Will ye come wi’ me?”
“Where?” she whispered, though her heart answered: Anywhere.
“There’s a place where the selkies go, where ye can understand them. Do ye want to … understand them?”
Blue Moon Magic Page 3
