Blue Moon Magic

by Dawn Thompson

“Hey, ladies, what’s taking so long? Not getting cold feet, are we?”

  “We’re making ourselves beautiful, that’s what,” came Grandma’s crabby reply. “Now, scat!”

  Robert flashed an arresting smile, one fit for a cheesy politician at election time. “Grandma, my dearest, you cannot improve on what nature has perfected. You are a vision of loveliness in that flowing, pink gown. Why, if I weren’t already spoken for, I might ask if I could court you properly.”

  Paloma snorted. Grandma shot him a look. “Yeah, right. Like anyone could imagine a young ‘un like you with an old hen like me.”

  Robert winked. “Any man would be a fool not to see what an absolute gem you are.” He wagged a finger at her. “You’re lucky I’m not a few years older. I’d be chasing you around the settee in the parlor.”

  Grandma waved her hand at him and giggled like a school girl. “Just like always, Robert Monroe. Full of crap, you are.”

  He ambled into the room, then leaned on his cane for support and removed his top hat. “Seriously, ladies, we need to get this party started. Already there are a hundred people melting in folding chairs on the front lawn.” His gaze swung to Paloma. “Besides” he added with a wiggle of his brows, “the sooner we get married the sooner we can commence with the honeymoon.”

  Paloma laughed. “You’ve already had your honeymoon, mister. Many times over. Now it’s time for the old ball and chain.”

  Robert placed his hat over his heart. “And for you, my queen, I shall wear that ball and chain proudly each day for the rest of my life.”

  Paloma noticed tears had gathered in Grandma Bikini’s eyes.

  “Grandma?”

  Grandma turned her face away and daubed the corner of a lace hanky to her cheeks. “Oh, stop lookin’ at me like that, you two. Can’t I be happy?”

  Tears filled Paloma’s eyes too, as she looked at Robert. Without Grandma, she would have never known of Robert’s return. She would have never had a second chance at happiness with the only man she’d ever loved.

  “Well, that’s enough of that nonsense.” Grandma shoved the handkerchief into her purse and took Paloma’s hand. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s get you married before you start showin’ for Pete’s sake.”

  Paloma froze. Robert did too. Grandma gave a weak smile. “Oops. That wasn’t suppose to slip out.”

  A silly grin spread across Robert’s face. “Grandma, are you telling us we’re going to have a baby?”

  Grandma pulled her best poker face, but Paloma saw through it. Perhaps this explained her malaise of late and her aversion to certain foods.

  “Why, I’m not sayin’ anything of the sort. Now come on, you two. We have a wedding to get to. Besides,” she said, giving Paloma a wink, “I’m dyin’ to get a nip of my special champagne wedding punch.”

  * * * *

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  The Healer

  by Leanne Burroughs

  Aggravated at being dragged to the castle, Agnes spat into the rushes to show her disdain as she was pushed into the laird’s solar.

  Grant Drummond, Laird of Clan Drummond, turned at her approach. “You came.”

  “As if the louts that fetched me gave me aught choice! This one,” she said, hooking a thumb at the large man who’d dragged her through the night, “pulled me right out of my house, he did. Threw me over his shoulder like I was naught but a sack of wheat.”

  She turned and narrowed her eyes at the second man beside her. “And that one—Warwick—did naught to stop him.”

  Grant arched a brow.

  “You said fetch her,” the Norse-looking man answered with a shrug, “and she dinnae wish to come.”

  Warwick nodded his affirmation and stepped forward. “You know she rarely accommodates anyone’s wishes.”

  Turning from his men, Grant directed her attention to the woman lying in his bed. “I believe this woman has been poisoned by someone in my keep. I fetched you here to purge it from her.”

  Agnes eyed the pale, young woman. “This the English?”

  Grant nodded.

  Agnes snorted with contempt, but approached the bed and peered at the young woman lying there. She turned and quirked a brow at Grant.

  “And ye want her saved?”

  Grant again nodded, his face appearing stupefied.

  “Dinnae be looking at me like a lack-wit. ‘Tisna a daft question. Why not let her die? From what I hear, ‘tis what everyone wants. ‘Tis clearly what the person who poisoned her wants.”

  Grant tenderly brushed his hand over the top of Tory’s head. Agnes doubted he even knew he did it. “My reasons are none of your business, auld woman, and I shall find and punish whoever did this.”

  “Why did ye take her prisoner? Ye went to attack her da for killing yer da at Berwick, not to take a prisoner. Drummonds never take prisoners.”

  “I want her alive. ‘Tis all you needs must know.”

  Agnes studied him anew. Her laird’s countenance revealed far more than he probably wanted it to. She chuckled and reached inside her shift, pulling out a small bag she’d attached to her corded belt. As she selected herbs from it and ground them together in a bowl, she ordered, “Fetch hot water.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Grant turn to Warwick and nod. Saying nothing, the elderly man turned and left the room.

  Agnes was glad he left. He’d been a thorn in her side from the moment he’d arrived at her hut. Although older, he appeared as good as he had when they were younger. Truth be told, even better. Although weathered with age, he’d turned into a bonny, braw man. She wanted nothing to do with him.

  When he returned with steaming water, he held out the container. She didn’t move. With an exasperated sound, he raised a brow and elbowed her aside to place it on a nearby washstand. Glad she’d piqued his frustration, she turned and dropped a handful of crushed herbs into the hot water before approaching the unconscious woman in the young laird’s bed.

  Agnes held the tankard of the foul smelling liquid to the woman’s lips and tipped the cup, letting the mixture trickle down her throat. It would take a goodly amount to purge her system.

  “Give her naught that will make her worse, auld woman. You will not like the outcome if you do.” A threatening look clouded Grant’s eyes.

  Without a word of acknowledgement, Agnes ignored everyone as she continued to pour the foul tasting liquid down the lass’ throat. Within a short span of time the young woman groaned in pain, rolled over and emptied her stomach.

  Sniffing and inspecting the upheaved contents of the English woman’s stomach, Agnes straightened with satisfaction and pushed hair from her eyes. “Leave us,” she ordered those still in the room.

  “I am going nowhere,” and “Not bloody likely,” Warwick and Grant said in unison.

  Grant crossed his arms as his eyes set with determination.

  She graced Warwick with a look of disdain, but barely spared Drummond a glance. “Suit yerself.”

  Once more, she poured the foul smelling liquid down his prisoner’s throat. As expected, it came right back up. Despite the woman’s feeble protests, Agnes continued giving her the potion, permitting the poor lass to purge until dry heaves wracked her body.

  She turned to assess Warwick, who’d stubbornly remained in the room. From remembrances of years prior, she deemed him slightly older than her. Only memories meant little to her, bringing naught but pain. She wanted him out of the room. His presence disconcerted her. She didn’t understand why.

  “His lairdship says his dog may be poisoned as well,” she told Warwick. She crushed additional herbs together before handing him a small bowl. “Take this and try to feed it to the pet if it still lives.”

  His eyes assessed her before he finally turned and sought approval from Drummond, then left the room. She viewed the play of muscles in his shoulders as he reached for the door.

  Warwick. A fine specimen of a man for his age
if she said so herself. She’d seen him throughout the years—had avoided him like the plague. She’d never make the mistake of getting hurt again.

  She removed the lass’ clothes and cooled her heated body with water from the nearby ewer and basin while the laird stood watch.

  “Can you do naught for her pain?” Grant sounded worried.

  “I imagine her belly pains her,” she said in matter-of-fact tones. “Someone in yer keep has a mighty hatred to poison her thusly.” She stroked her chin in contemplation. “Hmmm … a warmed stone might help.” She cocked a thumb over her shoulder. “We could heat one in yon hearth and place it on her belly. The warmth should ease the miseries, but ‘twill be difficult to keep there. If she thrashes about, ‘twill be knocked off.”

  “Warm the rock, auld woman. We shall keep it there.”

  Agnes arched her brow. Men knew so little!

  A short while later Grant heaved a sigh of resignation and headed to the door to open it. Agnes raised a hand to hide the smile she couldn’t stop. She’d been correct—just as she’d known she would be. The flat stone didn’t stay in place.

  “Fetch Warwick,” Grant ordered the posted guard.

  Agnes observed as he returned to the bed and gathered the fragile woman in his arms and carried her to the chair before the hearth. The arrogant man was clearly ill-at-ease under her watchful eye as he cradled the lass in his lap, placed the warm stone on her belly and held it there.

  Soon, Warwick returned. He ignored her as he bent to speak softly with Grant. She felt aggravated by half that she had to be near him again. “If ye’re going to remain in the room, make yerself useful.” She held out a newly warmed stone. When he didn’t move, she wanted to kick him in his well-formed posterior. “Dinnae be a lackwit, auld man. Swap this stone for the one that’s cooled on her belly.”

  They continued swapping stones throughout the night and Agnes didn’t like it when his hand accidentally brushed against hers when he reached for warmed stones. It seemed his eyes tracked her every movement. Behind hooded lids she did the same to him.

  Watching the corded muscles on his arms as he tended the fire in the hearth, she second-guessed why she stayed alone in her home in the woods when such bonny men were in the castle. Not that she cared, of course. She had no intention of letting a lowly male like the one kneeling before the hearth draw her attention now.

  After all, no man had ever been interested in her. Hadn’t she learned that the hard way when Iain McClellan captured her heart then crushed it beneath his ghillie brogues?

  ‘Twas a mooncalf’s dream to think he loved me. All he wanted was my innocence. And fool that I was, I gave it away easily enough. Even though a score and ten years later, she remembered the pain she’d felt when he laughed in her face. And all she’d asked was when they’d be wed. Her eyes narrowed at the memory. I vowed then no man would ever hurt me again and I’ll no’ let some handsome grey-haired fool turn my head now and break my heart. ‘Tis best I stay away from people like I have … but oh, the lonely nights.

  When a sturdy arm brushed against hers, jerking her thoughts back to the present, Agnes had to convince herself she meant that, even as she watched the way the muscles in Warwick’s back flexed under his shirt as he stoked the flames.

  Agnes felt an unexpected surge of warmth flicker and ignite within her, the likes of which she’d thought were dead.

  * * * *

  Over the next sennight, Agnes fussed around her chieftain’s supposed captive. She bathed Tory’s skin with mint water in an effort to break her fever and witnessed the tenderness the young man showed when he thought no one noticed. Whenever he left the room, he always returned with the same question, “How does the lass now?”

  Prisoner, my foot, Agnes thought wryly.

  Blinking her eyes several times, Tory awoke. Disoriented, she sat up slowly and gazed around the room. “W … who are you?”

  “Name’s Agnes.”

  “Why are you here?” she asked, her voice raspy.

  “Ye been sick. They dragged me here to help.”

  “Sounds like something The Drummond would do. Are you new here? I do not remember seeing you before.”

  “Because I dinnae fancy it here and most folks dinnae want me near.” A mischievous smile tugged at the corner of Agnes’ mouth. She hitched a thumb over her shoulder at the man sitting in the corner. “Even put a watchdog on me, they did.” Her voice laced with amusement as she whispered, “They think me a witch.”

  Tory’s eyes widened. Agnes watched them shift between her and the man making a show of ignoring her.

  “Are you?” Disbelief edged Tory’s voice.

  Agnes released a mocking snort.

  “I did not think so.” The woman gave Agnes a penetrating look, then placed her hand atop hers.

  Agnes peered down at her own weathered hand, then shot Victoria a fleeting look.

  “You know a great deal about the healing arts, though.”

  A non-committal grunt proved the only response Victoria received.

  * * * *

  Bone tired, Agnes ached and fought to keep her eyes open. She’d slept little, caring for the lass day and night. What few moments of sleep she stole found visions of a certain man daring to enter her dreams. Quite befuddling.

  She prepared to leave Drummond’s abode. “I cannae wait to return to the solitude of my hut. Glad I am to be away from here. Too many people hovering about for my liking.”

  Well, in truth only one. Her eyes darted from Tory to Warwick. The old codger’s gentleness disconcerted her. She didn’t understand it. The man was a warrior, yet he cared for the lass. Acted almost like a father. And he’d been tolerable. Well all right, more than tolerable around her. When he wasn’t glowering at her, which he probably did in response to her growling at him, he’d brought her food or mead.

  The bloody man had even brought her some wild flowers one day! When he started blushing, he’d stammered they were for Tory, and since he had more than enough she might as well take a few, too! Before she could tell him exactly what he could do with his flowers, he broke off part of the stem on one of the flowers and gently placed it above her ear, anchoring it in her hair.

  She’d stood like a fish with its mouth open, too shocked to say a word. Then he’d walked away and closed the door lightly behind him.

  Being in the castle hadn’t been as bad as she feared—except for the bath her laird and his bloody accomplice had made her take.

  And now the big lout stood meddling into her business again. She tried to pack up and leave and he gleefully sat and regaled to the young woman the tale of the bath The Drummond had forced her to take.

  “Ye should have heard her blethering away as our laird had pails of water fetched into the room,” Warwick said as he turned to watch her pack. “‘I’ll no do it’, she told Grant.” His high pitched voice mimicked her words from that day.

  The lass’ eyes lit with joy as she listened to the old fool.

  Agnes wanted to scratch his eyes out!

  “And then Grant tells her, ‘Aye, you will. You are filthy and you stink. I shall no’ have you around my prisoner in that state’.”

  Clearly enjoying the telling of the events, Warwick switched back to his version of her voice. “‘My state was fine when ye dragged me from my home.’”

  “‘I had no choice then. I needed help. Now the worse is past, and ‘tis time you were clean. I am certain there’s a woman beneath that dirt.’” He snickered. “Then Grant pulled her toward the tub.”

  He smiled as he glanced at Tory. Agnes was surprised at the peace she saw in his eyes as he guarded the lass—almost as if he spoke to his own daughter.

  Agnes cleared her throat, causing Warwick to face her although he spoke to Tory. “Aye, lass, you should have seen her face when Laird Grant said, ‘Either you agree to bathe on your own, or my friend and I shall help with your ablutions’.”

  “Bloody barstard,” Agnes mumbled beneath her breath.
<
br />   “Dinnae be questioning my birthright, auld woman.” He straightened and chuckled as he headed to the door. “Finish getting your things together. Thought you said you wanted to return home.” Before he closed the door, he winked at her.

  How dare he!

  Agnes sighed as she gathered her remaining herbs into her small pouch. Leave it to the big lummox to share the tale with the lass. The man was too cocky by half.

  Agnes couldn’t wait to leave. She wished to be home. The dense forest surrounding her home provided the quiet she preferred to the constant noise of the castle. She’d been away too long and looked forward to the peacefulness her home afforded.

  She approached her charge one final time and leaned forward to gaze into her bright brown eyes, taking her true measure. An aura of mystery surrounded the lassie.

  Agnes felt it.

  She patted Tory’s cheek and chuckled. “Young Drummond thinks I used magic on ye to make ye better. I think ye are the one who holds the magic and has our chieftain spellbound.”

  Tory started to protest, but Agnes raised a hand to cut her off. “Nay, dinnae naysay to the likes of me. These eyes see far more than people think. I dinnae sit alone with ye day in and day out, ye know. The young chieftain sat with ye every day, and when he couldnae be here himself, he left that auld buzzard to watch me and to protect ye.”

  She peered over her shoulder at Warwick and ignored the smirk he shot back. It would almost make it worth living inside this bloody keep to see this play itself out. She had no doubt things would prove interesting in the sennights ahead.

  * * * *

  After the nooning meal, Warwick took Agnes’ hand in his and pulled her toward his horse. He saw she wondered why he’d volunteered to see her safely home, but bit her tongue rather than ask.

  She certainly appeared different. The bath and clean clothes had done wonders. Spine rigid she sat in front of him with her hair clean, plaited in a braid and slung over her shoulder.

  He wondered how it would feel to loosen the braid and run his hands through the heavy fall of her brown hair, heavily sprinkled with silver.

  Warwick exhaled a sigh and rolled his eyes heavenward. Where had that bit of lunacy come from?