Blue Moon Magic

by Dawn Thompson

  She was the last woman in the world he’d want to get close to.

  Yet close he was. Her bottom was plastered to his manhood.

  She was so different than when he’d known her years before. He’d never decided if her disheveled state and dirty clothes were how she actually lived or if she used it as an act to keep people away. She’d certainly taken long enough to answer the door when they’d fetched her. From her appearance when she finally opened it, he wondered if she’d sprinkled ash over herself apurpose. After all, he’d seen the small wooden tub in the corner of her hut. Most people didn’t keep one inside if they didn’t bathe. And although her wrinkled face appeared weathered, her eyes were as strikingly clear as he remembered them from years before.

  Agnes wiggled, trying to get comfortable, bringing him back to the present. Surprising him, his manhood sprang to life. Damnation! ‘Twas the last thing he wanted. He merely wished to fetch this woman home and never see her again. Her bright blue eyes had taken his measure more than once while they’d been cloistered together in the lass’ room, and he hadn’t liked it one bit. Still, her gentleness with Tory touched him.

  How could one so crotchety be so tender with the young girl? She’d not been unpleasant when he’d known her as a youth. He’d always thought her bonny. Then she’d dropped out of sight.

  Despite himself, his mind wandered. Could she be as tender with me? Would she welcome me to her bosom and hold me there as she’d cared for the lass? Could she help ease the lonely nights I’ve had for so long?

  Gritting his teeth and trying to ignore the throbbing in his groin, he spurred his palfrey to speed away from Castle Drummond.

  * * * *

  Almost nine full moons later, a frustrated Grant turned and asked the women in the room, “Can you do what I ask or not?”

  Clearly scared beyond reason, they all shook their heads.

  Grant reflected upon the situation. He stared down at the backs of his hands. Saw them shake uncontrollably. He feared for Tory’s life. Wanted to howl at the moon in frustration.

  “My hands are too large, too calloused from wielding a sword. I might kill my lady wife just trying and I’ll not take that risk.” He turned to face Tory. “Nay! I will not allow it. Do you hear me, wife? I forbid you to die.”

  Unwilling to stand by helpless, he stormed from the room and down the stairs. He started to shout for his men, then realized most were already gathered near the bottom of the staircase.

  “Warwick,” he ordered, “take men and our fastest mounts. Fetch that auld crone. If she will not come willingly, throw her over a horse. I care not how you do it, just get her! Ride like your life depends on it.”

  Grant didn’t wait for Warwick’s assent before he turned and bolted back to his chamber. “My lady’s life does,” he murmured to himself.

  Warwick arrived at the small, secluded clearing surrounding Agnes’ hut. He’d ridden here frequently these many moons past to visit, yet had never summoned the courage to approach and talk with her. Coward that he was, he’d always left before she knew he was there.

  Disgusted with himself, he felt the fool. He was no longer a green youth, but a battle-hardened warrior, risking his life every time he followed Grant when called to protect his country from the English invader. He thought nothing of it. A man did what a man must.

  Only he couldn’t untwist a tongue tied in knots whenever he approached this glen. Even now he sat with a line of sweat trailing down his back. Bloody hell!

  This time he had an excuse to see her again. If only the reason for his coming wasn’t Lady Tory dying. They’d all heard the screams from the laird’s chambers. The women shrugged that was normal. Yet, as the screams continued, word spread through the castle the bairn was turned wrong. It did not bode well.

  Standing outside of Agnes’ hut, he was on edge. Would she come willingly or would he have to drag her all the way back to Castle Drummond like they’d had to do before? Och, she’d been one cantankerous woman. It was ridiculous, he admitted, only he wanted to be near her again. Wanted to hear her fuss at him. Wanted to gaze into those clear blue eyes and see if they cared.

  Wondering what it would take to have her look at him with something other than loathing, he dismounted and knocked on the wooden door.

  No answer. He knocked again.

  “Go away!”

  Warwick rolled his eyes. It was no less than he expected.

  “Open up, auld woman. Our lady has need of you.”

  “Silly man. ‘Tis naught but her woman’s time. She has the midwife. Ye have no need of me.”

  “Are you addled enough you think I came merely to see your lovely face?” he barked. “The Drummond wishes your help. He sent me to fetch you.”

  He heard grumbling behind the door. “Young Drummond always wants something.” Nevertheless, the door opened a crack. “What is wrong this time?”

  “Our lady’s babe has not yet come. She weakens. Laird Drummond bid me fetch you—tied and gagged if need be.”

  She opened the door wider, then walked back inside and began gathering herbs. “Sounds like the arrogant man.”

  Ill at ease, Warwick remained in the doorway.

  Agnes studied him over her shoulder. “Well, dinnae stand there like a lump of peat. Help me carry my things. Since ye are of no use in tellin’ me what is wrong, I dinnae know what I’ll have need of.”

  Warwick cleared his throat. “‘Tisna seemly for me to enter your house. There is no one—”

  “Och, dinnae be a lackwit, auld man. Ye worry about my reputation when everyone thinks me a witch?” She narrowed her eyes and turned to face him. “Or are ye still too scared to come near me?”

  Warwick stiffened. “You prattle nonsense. I am not afraid—”

  She arched a brow, then turned back to gather more herbs. “Are ye not? Then why have ye stood in the copse of trees outside my home all these moons past?”

  Warwick’s eyes widened. “I did not … I have not…” he blustered.

  “Aye, ye have. Did ye really think I dinnae know ye were there?”

  He cleared his throat. “If you knew, why did you not say something?”

  She walked toward him and shoved the large bundle she’d gathered at him. “Figured when ye wanted that romp in the hay bad enough ye would come forward.” Edging past him and out the door, she swatted his backside.

  “Come, auld man,” she teased as his eyebrows went up. “Dinnae be standing with yer mouth agape. We needs must go to the castle. Young Drummond told ye to fetch me.”

  When he still didn’t move, Agnes taunted, “So fetch me, ye big lout. I am yers for the taking.”

  Warwick nearly tripped over his feet at her wording as he joined her beside his mount. Damnation. The woman made him feel like an untried lad and he liked it not one bit. Even so, the vision those words conjured made his body tense with need. Och aye, some day he would take her all right—take her and have her moaning beneath him.

  Shaking off his thoughts, he mounted and reached down to pull her up in front of him. She’d won this round, except she’d see who prevailed in the match. No one made a fool of him. Certainly not some shriveled old woman. All right, so she really wasn’t shriveled, although he guessed her to be as old as he. A smile edged the corners of his mouth as he wrapped his arm around her narrow waist and drew her back against his chest, his fingertips lightly splaying over her belly until they brushed the underside of her breasts.

  He laughed when she swatted his hand away. It had been a long time since he’d bantered with a woman. Although wagtails weren’t overly fussy whom they bedded, most didn’t want an old man like him. Come hell or high water, he had every intention of matching this woman’s moves and calling her bluff. Och aye, he’d have her beneath him in his bed—and if he was lucky, on top of him, too. Riding him as hard as they now rode to reach the castle.

  Warwick rather hoped it was the latter.

  * * * *

  Agnes walked into the master chamb
er and judged the situation. “The bairn is turned wrong.”

  “Och, I know that, woman,” he yelled in exasperation, checking the impulse to shake her. “‘Tis why I had Warwick fetch you! I need you to turn the bairn.”

  Agnes’ eyes grew huge. “Ye want me to what?”

  “Turn my bairn.”

  “I dinnae think it can be done. I ne’er heard of it.”

  Grant surveyed Agnes’ surprised reaction. Clearly she thought he’d gone daft. Well, he hadn’t, and he’d not give up now. “She is your friend, auld woman. Probably the only one you have in this world. Do not let her die.”

  Agnes eyed him, then beckoned him outside the room. “Why do ye want the lassie to live? What if I just save yer bairn?”

  “Nay!” Grant paled. “Both must live.”

  “Why?”

  “Why, what? Why do you waste time asking questions when my lady’s life hangs by a thread?”

  “Give me a good reason why ye want her to live and mayhap I’ll try what ye ask.” Agnes met him eye-to-eye and didn’t flinch when he tried to stare her down. She noticed his brogue had deepened as his worry mounted.

  “Because I said so.” Grant stood straighter, towering over her.

  Agnes refused to budge and shook her head. “Not good enough.”

  After another scream resounded from inside his bedchamber, Grant’s gaze strayed to the bed. He stared at Agnes pleadingly, the true depth of his feelings reflected in his eyes.

  “Agnes, please! Do not let her die. I … I … need her.”

  That was all he could admit right now, only Agnes knew what he really meant. With a nod, she walked back into the room.

  * * * *

  After the birth, Grant had explained their Scottish christening practices to Tory.

  She’d insisted Agnes be returned to the castle. “She saved our lives and I want her to be the person who carries him to the ceremony. I owe her that honor.”

  Although dubious over her selection, Grant finally agreed. “Warwick, have someone fetch that auld crone to the castle.”

  To Grant’s surprise, Warwick volunteered to fetch her himself. He left before daybreak the next morn.

  Now he and Warwick walked about the keep a sennight after his son’s birth. “Och, Warwick, I hate I must leave so soon after the bairn’s birth. I received word Andrew deMoray desires a meeting with William Wallace. ‘Tis logical I should act as liaison since I am friend to both.”

  He smiled when he saw the priest riding his horse through the portcullis. The man was in time to hold the christening ceremony before his departure. He turned his eyes to meet Warwick’s. “I need you to watch over everything while I am gone. Do not allow my lady to do too much too soon.”

  Warwick said nothing, but arched his brow.

  Grant chuckled. “I know. ‘Twill be difficult to make her rest if she takes a mind to do something. I am glad I can be present for the bairn’s christening. The ceremony would have meant a lot to my mam had she lived. She wanted a grandchild so much. ‘Tis the reason I sent for the priest as soon as my lady’s woman’s pains began.”

  He faced the castle. “Think you the women are ready?”

  “With Agnes, naught is certain. She blubbered when told of our lady’s request. ‘Twas not the response I expected.”

  “Nor I. I thought the crotchety auld woman would refuse my lady wife’s offer. How like Tory to know a person’s heart better than I.”

  They walked inside and saw Agnes’ eyes open wide, as if in fear. She carefully held his bairn to her chest. Though seemingly overwhelmed at her lady’s request, Agnes qualified for the honor of carrying his child to his christening because she was unwed. She looked different now, too. Had taken pains with her appearance. He watched as her eyes met Warwick’s. Grant wondered if she’d done it for the ceremony or for his friend.

  “Are you scared, auld woman?” he asked as he climbed the stairs to where she stood on the landing. “Surely something as tiny as my bairn does not frighten you.”

  “Naught scares me,” she mumbled, yet drew the child closer to her body.

  He handed her a small parcel. “You know the routine, auld woman.”

  “Aye, I do. Ye have no need to remind me. I’ll present these offerings to the first man I meet on my way to the ceremony.”

  To his delight—and he thought hers—Warwick determinedly waited at the foot of the staircase. With proper formality he accepted the bread and cheese Agnes offered, holding her hand a tad longer than necessary.

  Grant had noticed Warwick staying near the woman during her infrequent visits to the castle. Now he pondered the two who stood much closer than was necessary. Do sparks simmer beneath the surface? Agnes wasn’t the woman he would have chosen for his friend, however, if she made him happy, he’d say nothing.

  And Warwick had been smiling a lot lately. Especially after extended trips away from the castle. At first, Grant wondered what Warwick did in the woods alone. Now he suspected the old man hadn’t been alone. Could he and Agnes…

  No, surely not!

  * * * *

  Soon after Grant returned home from his meeting with Wallace, the English king retaliated for The Bruce claiming the Scottish throne. His best friend, Duncan MacThomas had sent word his wife was inconsolable. Her best friend had been arrested by Longshanks’ troops.

  Now Drummond and MacThomas men rode hard as they threaded their way through the mountains, keeping to the mists after rescuing Catherine’s best friend, Morag. The Highland way. Use the fog as a shield against the English troops unfamiliar with the lay of the land. The men were exhausted, the mounts were hard-pressed. Still, they had to keep to the circular path back to Drummond land. What good would be gained after risking their lives and rescuing Morag from the horrible cage Edward the Longshanks imprisoned her in if the English followed them back to Drummond Castle?

  Warwick’s mind conjured an image of Agnes. Likely Lady Tory and she wore holes on the soles of their ghillies as they paced, frantic with worry. Lady Catherine too, he didn’t doubt, since she’d arrived at their keep when Duncan joined Grant for the rescue attempt. The poor lass had been beyond upset over her dearest friend’s capture.

  Warwick understood young Alex’s need to hold Morag. The lad had been smitten with her from the moment he’d met her. Had it been Agnes in a cage such as the ones Edward imprisoned the women closest to King Robert, he knew he would have been out of his mind with worry.

  As soon as Scotland received news of the capture, Tory insisted she and Grant ride posthaste to Castle MacThomas to console Catherine. How like his laird’s lady wife to worry about her friend.

  Morag’s fit of coughing returned him to the present. It pained Warwick to watch her body being wracked with spasm after spasm. Had the rescue party been too late to save her after all?

  “How fares she?” Duncan questioned his young companion.

  Alex’s hand trembled on the rein. “We must get her some place warm—soon.”

  “Hold fast, lad. We are almost there,” Grant reassured.

  They’d rescued the lass, but not without cost. They’d left dead on the bailey ground of Kinrose.

  From there it had been a running game of hound and hare.

  Grant looked about. “The way is clear to make the final run to Drummond Castle.”

  Warwick knew Lady Tory would kill them all if anything happened to her husband. And Agnes. Merciful saints. If anything happened to any of their clansmen, he didn’t doubt the old woman would cast a curse upon him. She’d tried so hard to keep him from spearheading a search. He’d immediately known something was wrong when the rescue party didn’t return in the timeframe he expected them.

  What? She would rather he remained safe and secure at the castle when his friends needed him? Rubbish. She’d just have to learn he was still a warrior first.

  * * * *

  Catherine paced Drummond Castle’s Great Hall, unable to stay still. Agnes approached and gently laid a hand on her ar
m. “Does the dream come again, lass? The one that has haunted ye since ye have been here?”

  Biting her lip, Catherine nodded. “Aye, the one of being in a place so dark daylight never seems to penetrate, of Duncan and some man locked in a battle to the death. Even now, that might be taking place while they try to rescue Morag. Curse Edward’s sorry hide for locking her in that cage. Someone should cage him and hang him from the outside of a castle. ‘Twould be fitting retribution.”

  Tory walked closer to her.

  Close to tears, Catherine said, “I desperately wanted Morag’s release from that horrid nightmare, but not if it means losing our men. This wait seems eternal.” She bit her upper lip. “And if anything happens to any of the men who left to rescue my friend, it will be my fault. They’d not be in harm’s way if not for me. I asked them to—”

  Agnes stepped closer and placed her arm around Catherine’s shoulders. “Shh. Come with me.”

  Both women eyed her speculatively, yet followed. Agnes stopped in the center courtyard and pointed to the moon.

  “Do ye see that?” She didn’t take her eyes from the large orb shimmering in the heavens.

  Catherine exhaled an impatient breath. “Agnes, we are not blind. ‘Tis naught but the moon. We’re worried about our husbands now. Why did you—”

  Agnes ignored her sarcasm and interrupted. “‘Tis the second time these two fortnights past the moon has been full.”

  Without turning, she heard Catherine head toward the door. It didn’t deter her.

  She spoke somewhat louder to stay Catherine’s steps. “‘Tis a healing moon. Can ye no’ feel its power?” For the first time since they’d stepped outside, she turned to Tory and Catherine. “‘Twill protect our men—guide them home safely. No’ all of them, mind, but most.”

  “That is non—”

  “Dinnae be telling me ‘tis nonsense, Lady Catherine,” Agnes snapped. She turned to Tory. “Ye feel it, dinnae ye?”

  Eyes brimming with tears, Tory nodded.

  “Aye, ‘tis rare for such to happen. As a child my grandmum called it a wishing moon.” Tory paused, then whispered, “Mayhap if we…”