Blue Moon Magic

by Dawn Thompson

  Three pairs of eyes rose to the heavens. No one dared break the spell.

  * * * *

  Out of breath from running with the news, a page dashed in. “Men approach.”

  “Can ye tell if they are ours?” Agnes asked, elbowing Tory and Catherine aside.

  “Nay, about two score ten, mounted and moving fast. Not English.”

  Women and children alike ran from the keep as the call finally went through the fortress that their men were returning. Emotions ran high as they waited for everyone to ride under the portcullis, each woman seeking the face of her loved one. The warriors had their plaides wrapped around them as a mantle, the color of their hair obscured under the makeshift hoods of wool.

  Frantically, Agnes searched their countenances, failing to find Warwick. Hellsfire! She couldn’t spot Duncan or Grant either. Blast it all, where were they? She’d wanted to sit on Warwick to make him stay when he’d insisted on going to find and help their clansmen. Her arguments had fallen on deaf ears.

  Sitting atop their large stallions, the final riders moved under the murder holes and into the bailey. Grant, Duncan, Alex and … praise the saints, there was Warwick. Alex held a huddled form of a woman before him.

  They were safe! See if I dinnae kill him for pulling such a stunt. Likely scared ten years off my life. Bloody hell, things were much easier when I cared for no one. Didn’t have to watch and wait when some daft man went off to fight.

  Alex sat unmoving as Grant and Duncan lifted Morag down. Ian rushed forward to take her from them, then they helped Alex from the horse’s back.

  Tory flew into Grant’s arms, hugging him.

  “Have mercy, lass. You squeeze the breath from me.”

  With a trembling hand, she wiped tears from her eyes. Trying to regain control of her emotions, her sad eyes looked up at him and asked the question everyone feared to voice. “How many did we lose?”

  “Six.”

  Agnes stood rooted to the ground, watching her lady and Lady Catherine seek and find their men. Lightheaded. She feared if she moved she would faint. Everyone was covered with blood. Even Laird Grant! And what of Warwick? Did his plaide cover some horrible wound? Would he die before the night ended?

  If he does, I swear I will kill him myself!

  He slowly dismounted and came to her. She drank in the sight of him. Her eyes narrowed as she surveyed his body. He didn’t look like he had serious wounds. Yet everyone was covered in blood! So much blood. Surely the fool man must be injured, too.

  Removing the woolen hood from his head, Warwick’s eyes softened. “Are you going to stand and stare, auld woman, or are you going to welcome me back proper?”

  Agnes didn’t hesitate, didn’t care what her lord and lady thought. She flew into his arms. Wrapping hers around his neck, she kissed him full on the mouth. He held her tenderly, brushing his knuckles against her cheek to remove tears.

  “Shh, woman, I am safe.”

  Embarrassed at her unbridled reaction, Agnes buried her face in the hollow of his neck. Dear Lord, she’d never meant to love someone like this.

  He was alive. Nothing else mattered.

  * * * *

  Agnes saw Catherine wrap a final strip around Ian’s chest before moving toward Alex. “Let me tend your wounds while Lady Tory cares for your Morag. Do not fret, now, she is in good hands.”

  Raw emotion in his eyes, Alex adamantly refused. “Not until I know she will live. I feared she would not survive the ride. I held her … concerned that if I let go she would slip away.” He turned toward Morag’s still figure resting on the pallet, his eyes revealing something inside him would die along with the woman he loved if she didn’t pull through.

  “Without everyone’s help, Morag and I would be dead. And praise the saints, Warwick brought men to meet us. With so many injured, I doubt we would have made it back without his assistance.”

  “Och, I am getting too old for this,” Warwick stated aloud to no one in particular as he ignored Alex’s words and rushed into the room with the wounded to deliver hot water. Seeing his lady was busy helping the wounded, he ensured women were tearing clean cloths into binding strips.

  His eyes darted around the room in search of Agnes. “I am glad you are here to help, auld woman.”

  “And where else would I be when ye are daft enough to go off running around the countryside when ye should be remaining safe at home?” She smacked him on the arm, yet her eyes softened as she smiled. “Ye just like having me at yer side.”

  As Warwick moved toward the hearth, he softly mumbled, “Aye, that I do.”

  Though his tone was low, Agnes heard him. She turned away so no one would see the tears that glistened in her eyes. Why had the old fool said that? Why had he made her love him? She’d wanted no one. Had shut herself away from the world. She needed no one. Och, what a lie. She needed … him.

  Strengthening her resolve, she moved a cot beside Morag’s and ordered Alex, “Sit on that, young man, and remove yer plaide—now.”

  “I told Lady Catherine I would not—”

  “I know what ye said. Now I tell ye what ye shall do. If ye wish to care for this young woman after we tend her, ye will need yer strength. Letting yer wounds fester is daft. Now remove yer plaide or I will do it for ye.”

  From the other side of the room, Warwick shouted, “Best do it, lad. You will not win against my Agnes.”

  No, no one would win against the thorny old woman. Yet as prickly as her disposition often was, she made him happy—she’d laugh in his face if he admitted that to her.

  Wouldn’t she?

  * * * *

  As the evening grew long, Warwick sat slouched over a table. “Och, I needs must sleep, except I am too tired to stand.”

  Beside him, Agnes reached out to pat his hand. His weathered face was strained.

  “Go to bed, auld man.” She smiled into his eyes.

  “I shall if you come with me.” He fully expected her to bash him upside the head.

  Instead, she elbowed him in his side. “As if ye could—”

  “Nay, auld woman.” He laughed. “For once I could not. This time I only wish to sleep.” He faced her and met her eyes. “Although I would like to wake with you beside me.”

  Agnes said nothing, but squeezed his rough, wrinkled hand. Hands that were old and battered like the rest of him, yet hands she once told him made her feel young again. Made her feel things she’d never felt in her life. Hands that soothed and caressed, then edged her over the brink of passion.

  She rose and tried to help him to his feet. “Come along then and I shall tuck ye into bed like a wee bairnie.”

  Warwick laughed, placed his palms on the table and pushed himself to his feet. Finally standing, he brushed Agnes’ face with the tips of his fingers—barely a touch. A whisper of want. “Woman, you are beautiful—wrinkles and all.” Reaching for her hand, he cared not who observed them as they walked toward his room.

  Agnes grumbled all the way, but her eyes belied her words and glistened with affection. “The impression we must be giving everyone.”

  Warwick chuckled and held a hand to his chest. “Och, aye, two auld people heading to bed. I misdoubt there is a man here who does not believe we shall do aught except sleep. I imagine they are as tired as we.” He released her hand and slapped her bottom. “Now quit grumbling, auld woman, and let us sleep.”

  * * * *

  Stretched out on the bed, Warwick drew Agnes’ thin body toward his. He wanted her with him. Needed her close to drive away the vision of barely alive men trying to return home. His heart had lurched when he’d spotted their clansmen—wounded and weary. Once again they’d paid a toll with the loss of lives. He couldn’t do this anymore. Aching emptiness overtook him. So many years alone. He’d wanted a wife, a child—had never had either. He’d always placed loyalty to his clan before his needs. Now he wanted what he’d never had. A woman he loved beside him every night. Peace. Serenity. Tired of living an empty existence, he n
o longer wished to face each day alone. “I love you, auld woman,” he murmured into her ear.

  Her heart lurched and he felt it. She buried her face against the curve of his neck. “Shh, ye auld fool, sleep. Ye needs must rest.”

  Warwick pulled back, tired, but needing to settle this. “Woman, are you too stubborn to say the words I want to hear?”

  Agnes met his eyes, refused to speak.

  “On the journey home the moon was full. I thought of you, Agnes. Wanted to get home to you. I never had someone to come home to. Och, I had my friends, my clan, but never someone waiting for me.” He squeezed her bony shoulder. “I wanted you here when I got back—waiting for me. Want you here the rest of my life.”

  He watched her. She said naught, although her eyes brimmed with tears before one spilled over and rolled down her cheek.

  “I wished on it, woman. I wished—”

  She silenced him by placing two fingers on his lips.

  “Shh. Dinnae say it or ‘twill not come true.”

  He drew her close, buried his face in her hair. “Then say it. Say the words I want to hear. Need to hear.”

  Finally she sighed and laid her head on his chest. “Och, aye, ye great lummox, I love ye as well.”

  He felt her lips curl into a smile against his flesh. Before he dropped off to sleep, his arm draped across her waist. He chuckled. Well, one out of three wasn’t bad. He’d never have peace or serenity with this woman. More important, he had her love. Naught else mattered.

  Now he had the task of talking her into becoming his wife. He doubted fighting Longshanks could prove more daunting than winning the heart of his healer.

  * * * *

  From the top of the staircase Agnes saw Tory head to Drummond Castle’s chapel. Her husband stood talking with Warwick, who looked pale as a ghost. Raising up on her toes, Tory placed a kiss on Grant’s cheek before heading back up the stairs.

  “Are you as happy with your Highland rogue as I am with mine?” Tory had asked.

  Agnes knew a wide smile crossed her face. “Och, aye, my lady. I am well pleased with my own Highland rogue. I never thought to love another, had steeled my heart against it, yet the fool wore my defenses down.”

  As Agnes and Tory walked to the chapel, she added, “My Warwick’s a verra determined man when he wants to be.” She saw happiness in Tory’s soft smile. After that, she only had eyes for her future husband. Warwick stood outside the chapel door, blushing.

  Agnes moved beside him and he tenderly grasped her hand, holding it between both of his. How gentle, her warrior.

  The priest stepped forward to begin the ceremony. Agnes looked at those gathered and saw many clansmen standing near the chapel door. Undoubtedly they were here for Warwick, yet they were here for her, too. She’d avoided people all her life, thought she didn’t need them. Now she had a whole family, and she smiled at the thought.

  “Friends…” Joining Agnes’ and Warwick’s right hands, the priest covered them with a small cloth Tory had embroidered for the occasion.

  After they received the marriage blessing, the priest gave Warwick the kiss of peace. With a lump in her throat, Agnes smiled as Warwick leaned forward and passed the kiss on to her—his new bride.

  Agnes tried to keep tears from falling, but failed. Damnation, she was happy. Why was she crying?

  Fellow clansmen joined in the festivities in the Great Hall after the ceremony. Throughout the remainder of the eve, jugglers performed and people danced, ate, and sang. Still heavily laden with food, tables had been pushed to the side of the room, allowing people to feast throughout the night.

  Warwick refused to leave her side. He lightly caressed her cheek with his hand, ran his fingertips over the curve of her mouth, pressed his cheek to her hair.

  She turned and saw Lady Tory watching her and Warwick. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she smiled back at her lady. Had it not been for the lady of the keep, she and Warwick would never have met. Certainly never would have fallen in love.

  Would Warwick and she be as happy as her lord and lady? Somehow Agnes thought they would. They’d both been alone too long, and now they needed each other. Neither was whole without the other. Agnes hoped love shone in her eyes as she peered up at her husband. She wanted him to know how much he meant to her.

  She never would have believed events would end like this the first time Warwick fetched her to the castle. Then they’d locked horns with each other. Mayhap the Fates had been working then, too. After all, they’d been drawn to each other—sort of.

  “Dance with me, auld woman.” When the musicians started to play, Agnes gladly joined Warwick on what was now being used as a dance floor.

  “Thank you,” Warwick whispered to her, his lips nuzzling the edge of her ear.

  Trying to stay her tears of happiness, her eyes rose to meet his. “For what?”

  “For allowing me to find the other half of my heart.”

  * * * *

  If you enjoyed the exploits of Agnes and Warwick, we invite you to read more about them in

  Highland Wishes and

  Her Highland Rogue.

  Visit Leanne’s website at

  www.leanneburroughs.com

  In the Space of a Heartbeat

  by Keelia Greer

  Earth: 5046

  Melania Knight brushed her index finger over the sensor setting the weapon to kill mode. A girl could never be too careful. A sharp quiver rushed in her retracted fangs. Her breath caught. Something about this case wasn’t right.

  And her fangs were never wrong.

  Her work as an agent for the CGIA, the Central Galaxy Intelligence Authority, utilized her vampire abilities in cases involving Immortals. Most Immortals stayed in their own regions as inhabitants from the Otherworld realms did, but a few, like her, worked with mortals to protect all races.

  Intergalactic relations kept her constantly busy, leaving little time for a personal life. However, it did put her in contact with Trevor Kerrin on a frequent basis.

  Why did this mission have to bring her into contact with Trevor? The one who fulfilled her darker, wilder hungers with just a look. She braced herself for the inexplicable force that pulled her toward him each time they were together. Just keep their dealings purely on a business level and concentrate on the job. Nothing more, nothing less. What a lie. His presence left her breathless and expectant. No man had made her feel this way. Ever. Instinct and the quiver of her fangs warned they were about to become closer. The thought brought a rush of pleasure and anticipation—along with a hint of foreboding.

  She took a deep breath before she stepped out of the protective cloak of darkness and reluctantly slid her weapon into the hip holster. Sometimes being undercover really sucked. Pun intended.

  Her instincts screamed danger, yet nothing substantial appeared. Something powerful rode the wind and it taunted her.

  It was time to arrange her features into a cool, professional façade. Melania adjusted her sleek ivory thigh-length jacket, then walked through the gleaming portal of the Life Blood Corporation.

  Her mission was to protect Trevor Kerrin at any cost. His work was vital for the galaxy. Life Blood Corporation manufactured blood for the world’s inhabitants. Current rumors reported Life Blood scientists were experimenting with vital fluids of Otherworld life forms.

  Melania crept past the guard and into Trevor’s office. A quick glance of the perimeter showed the man enjoyed the finest of material possessions. The muted glow from an Irish crystal desk lamp highlighted exotic imports from across the galaxy on the desk and walls. The expensive nanotech-infrared PalmReader computing system made her jealous.

  Nothing could get in the way. She couldn’t fail. Earth and its colonies needed the plasma. Life Blood Corporation provided regular plasma but extras, like boosting the blood’s ability to prevent aging and disease, were only for the wealthy. Some things never change, no matter how far the calendar marched on.

  Melania sunk onto the soft leather seat
, propped her sleek red low-heeled boots on the desk and waited. At 23, she was still a slave to fashion. She adjusted the corset lacing on the back of her left boot and thought of the last government function she’d been assigned to guard Trevor. The sexual tension between them had been as red-hot as her boots. She wanted more time to dwell on her fascination with the man, but the door opened and the man in question stood there in his complete masculine glory.

  He stopped abruptly and his gaze collided with hers.

  “Surprise! Close the door and sit down. We need to talk.” Once he stepped inside, she waved to the elegant visitor’s chair and pulled out her gun.

  He shut the door and strolled in as if nothing was out of the ordinary. “A call would have been easier, Ms. Knight. The majority of my female companions have no need for weapons.”

  She narrowed her gaze and suppressed a snort. “You’re lucky I believe you’re innocent of involvement with the terrorist or you’d be dead.” How much did he know, and would he willingly give her the information she needed?

  He stood behind the proffered chair, his stance relaxed, but wary. Tension rippled off his aura in tight waves. She pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and watched his every move. Graceful, relaxed, confident. His silky black as night hair hung to his shoulders. Golden skin and an athletic body that shimmered with an undercurrent of danger hummed with unspoken promises. Heavens, he was her idea of a perfect mate. His Scottish accent glided into her ears like a lover’s caress.

  How could she sit here and think of Trevor that way? What was wrong with her? Focus on the job.

  Melania removed her feet from the desktop and slid the weapon into the holster. “Your life is in danger, Kerrin. Get whatever files you need and come with me.”

  “No.”

  She crossed her arms and gave him a hard stare. “My orders are to kill the terrorist that has infiltrated your company with or without your help.”

  Trevor’s eyes held a predatory gleam. “I’m surprised anyone has infiltrated my company. My employees are carefully screened.” He raised a brow at her. “And just how did you manage to get in?”