Blue Moon Magic

by Dawn Thompson

Finally registering he’d spoken, she strained to focus. “Pardon?”

  “I said my name is Roarke. Roarke Devlin.” Full sensual lips crooked into a faint smile as he put out his hand to shake. He frowned, perplexed. “Are you all right?”

  Ciara nodded, trying to force all thoughts back into their proper shoeboxes. She glanced to the beautiful hand, long, deft, the type found on a magician or a pianist, almost afraid to take it. Steeling herself, she slid her hand into his, then jerked when his warm fingers closed around hers. He held tight, not letting go.

  “Jittery?” he asked.

  Ciara shook her head, striving to dismiss her reaction. “Just static electricity and a little lightheaded—unnerved by … the storm.”

  Lightning flashed, flooding the car’s interior. His smile froze as he turned her arm to examine the inside. “Small wonder. Do you realize you’re bleeding?”

  She felt like she’d been slowly bleeding to death for seven years. What did it matter it was now literally? She shrugged. “It’s stopped … mostly.”

  “Maybe you should let me drive,” he suggested gently. “You look pale, like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Lightning flashed again and she stared into the very beautiful face of a stranger … and yet…

  “A ghost? I think I might welcome something as simple as a ghost.” She tried to grasp the fragile threads of reality. “Your name’s Roarke?”

  “Yes, Roarke Fraser Devlin. And you are—?”

  “Ciara McIain.”

  “Ciara.” Her name rolled off his lips with a hint of a brogue, spoken in awe as if it was magic. “Lovely name. Sounds Irish. With a name like Roarke Devlin, I should know.” He grinned.

  She struggled to make small talk. “Saint Ciara was an Irish nun who established a monastery at Kilkeary in the 7th century.”

  “But you’re Scottish, aren’t you? I hear the hint of the Highland burr in the odd word.”

  Ciara finally dragged her stare from him, pulled her hand back and put the car in gear. “Aye, I was born there, lived there with my grandfather part of each year. My mother just loved the name. Her mother was half-Irish.”

  “Whatever the motivation, it’s beautiful.”

  “You’re not from around here. I hear England in your voice, despite the Irish name and the faint brogue. Maybe around Colchester?” she guessed.

  He shifted sideways in the bucket seat to observe her. “Very good. I was born outside of Colchester. Irish father, English mother. I’m from around here now. I bought one-hundred acres across the river and just finished putting up a log cabin style lodge.”

  “So you’re the one.”

  “One what?”

  “You erect a beautiful home out in the middle of nowhere, you have to expect to be gossip fodder for miles around. Odd an Englishman would settle on the Kentucky River. The Palisades are awe-inspiring, but a little far out for jetsetter types. What made you choose to build way out here?”

  He shifted in the seat once more and looked straight ahead. From the corner of her eye, she noticed a small tic at the edge of his mouth, as if he suppressed a smile. “You might say I followed my heart.”

  “Your heart?”

  “Aye, I traveled the past few years, a lost soul, seeking … something. No place spoke to me, said this was where I belonged. I was in New York, walking down the street and saw this painting in an art gallery window, advertising a coming show. I stood there for the longest time, mesmerized by it. The painting was entitled, The Palisades. I went back and spoke to the artist when they held the show. He told me the painting was done one autumn while he was in Kentucky. I bought it, hangs over the fireplace in my home now. It was odd. I had never been to Kentucky, not even for the Derby—” He paused as if some stray thought distracted him. “Well, I was here for a spell, though I don’t recall much of my stay.”

  Ciara echoed, “Don’t recall?”

  “Long story.” He shrugged in dismissal. “As I stared at that painting, I knew in my heart this was where I was meant to be. So here I am.”

  Ciara swallowed hard. Where his heart wanted to be. In some ways she understood that. She could’ve moved far away, even considered it several times, knew it would likely be best to go somewhere new, then memories of Derek wouldn’t pop up around every corner. At first she stayed to be near him, wrapping herself in the cocoon of what had been. He didn’t feel so distant if she kept to the place where they had lived together, loved together. As she gradually returned to life, she contemplated selling the cottage and going back to Scotland, even took steps of listing it with the local realtor. In the end she couldn’t go through with it.

  Something kept her here. Her heart.

  The turn off for Camp Robson was just up ahead. There wasn’t much left of the old Civil War Camp since the state built the highway bypass forty years ago. Just the motel, the restaurant, gas station, small Post Office, the souvenir shop/general store—that hadn’t sold a souvenir in the last four decades—and J.C. Penny, a lawyer-realtor. Poor man could have avoided all the teasing by using John Calhoun Penny, but he seemed to enjoy the ribbing.

  “Do you want me to stop in at Camp Robson or drive you to your home?” She flinched as lightning cracked overhead, the immediate sound of the thunder deafening. “It’s the river. It attracts the storms.”

  “Stop at the garage. I hate leaving the ‘rari out there. I fear coming back and finding it stripped or stolen.”

  She slowed and took the turn, following the steep winding road down the hillside. The tiny village appeared closed for the night. J.C.‘s offices were dark and the restaurant was shut tight. Her TR-6 hummed its low-throttle noise as she swung into the semi-circular parking lot. In the lights’ sweep she saw a white paper taped to the inside of the door and scrawled in a shaky hand: Me and J.C.‘s gone fishing until Monday—Mac.

  Roarke chuckled. “Scratch Plan A. If you don’t mind, could you please take me home? I’ll thank you by giving you a tour of my lodge and make you a cup of hot chocolate.”

  She shifted the Triumph into gear and rolled past the long motel that bore a striking resemblance to the one in the movie Psycho. Two cars were out front, but they belong to Mac. She couldn’t recall anyone ever staying there, except for Anita Johnston’s and Talbot Manning’s Wednesday after lunch ‘meeting’.

  Once, this had been the main highway, with traffic so heavy it’d been dangerous to walk alongside it. As she stared at Maude’s Souvenir and Things, the closed restaurant and motel that no one ever used, it struck Ciara how this place seemed suspended in time. All the buildings were well maintained, picture perfect. Only no one ever came anymore. The sleepy river village was caught in a bubble in time.

  Just like the last seven years of her life.

  As they started up the steep hill, the winds grew wilder. Trees swayed and bowed as jagged streaks of lights popped and sizzled about them. As the car came around the curve at the top of the hill, a bolt of lightning slammed into the huge water maple tree, splitting it in half in a shower of sparks that rained down on the hood of the car. Half of the centuries old tree crashed down across the road blocking it.

  “Close call.” Roarke laughed, stating the obvious.

  Ciara sat shaking. “One way to put it.”

  He glanced back at the tiny village behind them. “Hmm, I guess we can break into the restaurant—or the Bates Motel.”

  “Twelve cabins—” she started, only to have him finish.

  “—twelve vacancies.” He looked at the antebellum house on the far hill. Please tell me Mac and J.C don’t have a Mother Penny stashed away in the root cellar.”

  “She died back in the ‘60s.”

  He chuckled. “Mrs. Bates wasn’t exactly kicking, if you know what I mean.”

  She sighed, the hand of Fate on her shoulder. “There’s another option.”

  “Oh?”

  She pointed to the narrow road, which led up the other side of the hill. “You can come home with me.”

  *
* * *

  Ciara was silent as she turned into her drive and followed it to the small cottage. What made her suggest to Roarke Devlin that he come home with her? A complete stranger. Was she mad? Maybe the rays of the Blue Moon had done something to her brain as she’d slept on the grave. Yes, the only logical alternative. However, logic had gone out the window the first time she looked into his pale green eyes.

  “I could’ve walked home, you know.” Roarke’s words broke her mental ruminations, almost reading her second thoughts.

  Lightning crackled again and the rain, that couldn’t possibly come down any heavier, did just that. She glanced up at the roof, listening to the hammering. “Oh yeah, nine miles in this?”

  He nodded acceptance, then leaned close to reach between the seats to get his duffle. Pulling back, his expression held awareness of her reaction to him. A seriousness flooded the luminous eyes. “I would never hurt you, Ciara MacIain.”

  The rain seemed to pause as they stared at each other. Maybe the world stopped turning. Spellbound by Roarke Devlin, Ciara forgot to breathe as her heart thudded in an almost forgotten rhythm.

  His hand opened the car door, the sound snapping the spell. “We better run for it while this torrent is slowing. Thunder’s off in the distance, saying another cell is headed our way.”

  Watching him push out of the seat, she sat for a moment to relish the lingering heat from his very male body. She mechanically pulled the keys from the ignition and gathered her purse to follow him.

  Lightning flashed before they reached the porch, and in the white-blue brilliance, she stopped dead in her tracks, feeling as if someone had a hold of her heart and was squeezing it. Her senses were thrown for a loop. Ignoring the black hair, from the neck down his shape, how his muscles moved, was like watching Derek. Deja Vu slammed into her, every nerve screaming as desire crested, a wall of fire in her blood.

  Not good. This was Roarke Devlin, not her lost love. Still, her mind cast back to the Blue Moon and her half-spoken wish. A wish to live again. How Roarke had been at the exact spot where Derek died—nearly to the minute—and in a shiny red sports car. Her heart nearly pulled a Charlie-horse as she watched his broad shoulders, the lithe torso, buns of steel moving in the faded jeans in a gait that had her feeling she saw in stereo—the memory of Derek, clouding and now mixing with Roarke.

  Roarke.

  He turned and waited as she shakily mounted the five stairs. Her footsteps sounded hollow on the plank porch and her hand trembled as she tried to separate the house key from the others on the ring. Blocking the images crowding her mind, she concentrated on getting that blasted key in the lock.

  Roarke leaned near, his hand closing over hers to halt the quaking. She sucked in a sharp breath, as his heat, his scent rolled over her, through her. It awakened a hunger deep in the pit of her belly that was frightening.

  His crooked finger slid under her chin and lifted it, forcing her to meet those haunting eyes. “If you’re scared of me, I can leave. Are you scared of me, Ciara MacIain?”

  “No … yes … it’s just … an odd night. There’s a Blue Moon tonight, you know. Folklore says if you wish on a Blue Moon, the wish will come true.” She closed her eyes feeling an utter dope for rattling on about a ridiculous belief. “Silly, huh?”

  “Perhaps. Perchance the Blue Moon was what called me. I was out driving, then suddenly I had to take Old Post Road. Don’t even know how I ended up that far out.” He paused, frowning out into the darkness. “There’s a cemetery out there … isn’t there?”

  She nodded, tears clogging her voice.

  “I can’t explain. I just knew I had to go there.” He shrugged. “Not sure what I expected to find waiting. Destiny, I suppose. I just followed my heart. Silver lining, eh? We finally met.”

  Finally? She wanted to ask what he meant, but Roarke inclined toward her, so close his breath caressed her face. Ciara fought the compulsion to lean into his body, to fling herself against him. Embrace that radiant heat that could warm her soul seven years cold.

  Awe reflected in the crystalline depths, the green eyes slowly traced her countenance. His free hand seemed to lift of its own volition, the trembling fingers gently cupped the side of her face as his thumb stroked the curve of her cheek.

  Emotions rose in her, so strong they swamped her mind, her soul. Swallowing the knot in her throat, she closed her eyes against tears threatening to spill.

  The Venetian blinds covering the glass door rattled as a cat pushed up under them and waved his paw, meowing loudly.

  The magical, precious bond, that breathless instant in time, was shattered.

  Roarke’s hand dropped as he chuckled. “Someone wants to be fed, if I know cats.” He tapped on the glass as he worked the lock. “Hey, puss, puss…”

  “You have a cat?”

  “No, actually I never had one.”

  Ciara found the statement odd, contradictory. The train of thought was lost as she reached just inside to flip on the lights. The switch clicked in the stillness. Nothing happened. “Oh, bugger.”

  Roarke sniggered at her outburst, but followed her inside the silent house, bumping into her when she stopped abruptly.

  “Um, maybe you should stay put. I’m not the neatest person. My tennis shoes are around … somewhere. I wouldn’t want you to trip. I’ll fetch you some dry clothes so you can change out of your wet ones. I forgot to get batteries for the torch last week, so I’ll light a candle.”

  “Candlelight is more romantic.” Roarke’s deep voice sent a chill up her spine.

  She whipped around. In the darkness, he was nothing more than a shadow. A frisson racked her body as she stared at him. The timbre of his softly spoken words … it almost sounded like Derek. Ciara gave herself a mental shake, once more wondering if she really hadn’t wandered into a Twilight Zone episode.

  “Stay here,” she croaked inanely.

  Kicking out of her shoes, she padded barefoot through the dark house, heading to her bedroom. Candles were kept in the nightstand, used to losing power as the river often drew the storms. Making her way to the cherry table, she slid the drawer open and pulled out the long taper. Flicking the lighter, she set the flame to the wick, its pale yellow glow instantly holding at bay the long shadows. Sticking it in the small brass holder, she went to the walk-in closet. At the back, she pulled out the bottom drawer and paused.

  Derek’s things.

  She’d kept some items, not able to bring herself to give away all his belongings. A lot she’d donated to Goodwill, knowing he’d like his clothing helped someone less fortunate. Only she couldn’t give away everything. It would’ve been letting go completely. She set aside a couple pair of jeans, shirts and sweaters, almost as if … she swallowed the sadness … almost as if he’d come back for them one day.

  Her hand hesitated as she pulled out the black jeans and black oxford shirt. They’d fit Roarke. Their builds were too much alike not to go on like a glove. Sucking in resolve, she lifted the clothing from the deep drawer, picked up the candlestick and headed back down the hall into the living room.

  A warm glow filled the room as Roarke knelt before the creekstone fireplace, feeding the catching fire twigs. They popped and crackled as the flames hungrily licked at the dry wood.

  He was so handsome. Droplets of rain clung to the blue-black curls as firelight caressed the strong jaw, the sensual mouth. Ireland was stamped on his countenance. A warrior poet from ages past conjured by a wish on a Blue Moon.

  Ciara watched as the fuzzy grey cat bumped against Roarke’s thigh, purring so loud she heard it half a room away. Silly beast had never loved anyone but Derek. He disdainfully tolerated her because she fed him, let her blubber tears against his shaggy fur because he wanted to sleep under the duvet with her. At best, Sinnjinn treated her like a child he took care of, bossing her around, telling her when it was time to go to bed, time to awaken, and reminding they needed to be fed.

  Oh, he had loved Derek. The critter had been mad f
or him and had licked his skin like the man tasted as good as catnip. Since Derek’s death he refused to have anything to do with any human that came to the house. He would run and hide under the bed until company was gone. Now, he rubbed against Roarke like a long lost friend.

  Roarke replaced the spark guard, then chuckled as the mangy cat started slurping his wrist. Ciara’s heart pounded. She fought vertigo as she watched the long, beautiful fingers scratch the kitty’s chin.

  He smiled at the cat’s antics, then stroked his head. “Hey, Sinnjinn, careful with that rough tongue. You’re about to lick my skin off.”

  The room swayed about Ciara as she took two steps toward the man and cat. “You … you called him Sinnjinn.” The words sounded like an accusation. Well, wasn’t it? How did he know the cat’s name?

  Green eyes locked with hers, wielding a power that ripped into her soul, yet she couldn’t read his emotions. Long, black lashes swept downward, veiling his thoughts as his fingers searched the thick hair around the cat’s neck until he uncovered the silver collar. Rotating it a half turn, he showed the metal plate with Sinnjinn’s name.

  She stood stunned—not believing him. The collar had been hidden deep in the fuzzy cat’s fur. He had to root it out. He couldn’t have seen the cat’s name by chance. Only there was no other way for him to know. She observed as the cat went back to washing Roarke’s wrist.

  Rising, he reached out his hand. “For me?”

  She nodded and released the clothes, her eyes scrutinizing him with a wariness she couldn’t quite fathom.

  “Your husband’s?”

  A normal question under the circumstances. Only why did she have the feeling he already knew the answer? He was going through some pantomime. A shiver ran up her spine.

  “No. My fiancé. He died seven years ago.” Tonight, almost to the minute when I picked you up, she wanted to add, but left the words unsaid. Not wanting to say anything else, she suggested, “You can change down the hall. Then I’ll toss your clothes into the dryer.”

  The pale eyes scrutinized her with an intensity almost feline. “Fate moves in mysterious ways, eh, Ciara MacIain?”