I didn’t answer right away.
“Are you still unsure?”
“Maybe.”
“Not a problem.”
I was confused. “What are you getting at?”
“I’m going to be tied up with a pretty big case. Why don’t you take a vacation and go cool off somewhere and think about us,” he suggested.
I realized it wasn’t fair for me to go on indefinitely as we were. Either I wanted to marry him or not. Absence made the heart grow fonder, didn’t it? I kissed him goodbye and took a flight back to Lake Flint. I hadn’t been there in years. The change of scenery would do me good.
I closed the book I’d tried to read and stared out the window. My mind drifted back to that last magical summer I’d spent with Michael. I’d accepted the fact a long time ago that I’d never see him again. And yet, I knew I’d never truly gotten over him any more than I’d forgotten him. So many times during the passing years I thought of him and often wondered where he was and if he’d thought of me. Perhaps going back now I’d be able to close that chapter of my life and be able to marry Josh.
At the airport I rented a car and drove to the lake. I was lucky to get a cabin for the week. As I drove toward the resort, I noticed changes along the highway. There were more restaurants and strip malls, leaving hardly any open land. The signs of progress, I mused. I rounded the lake. It looked smaller than I’d remembered. The cabins looked older and could’ve used a fresh coat of paint. Children were playing on the swings at the small playground and several seasonal fishermen were fishing from small boats. In my mind’s eye, I saw myself riding bikes with Michael around the lake.
Stop it! I scolded myself. I came to think about Josh, not Michael. I went to my cabin and unpacked my things. I could almost hear my parents moving about in the other room. Tears welled in my eyes. I still missed them. I blinked away the tears and left the cabin to get something to eat. The manager of the restaurant had gotten older. He still reminded me of Vincent Price, but not in a creepy way. I was surprised when he remembered me.
I had a grilled cheese sandwich and coffee and read a local newspaper. Families came in for a bite and I wondered if the kids knew how lucky they were to have a family. One thing I’d learned the last several years was life is so very precious. It’s the one commodity you can’t replace. I finished my sandwich and returned to the cabin. It had been an early flight and I was exhausted.
After dinner, I strolled to the lake and leaned against the railing—the wishing railing. It was a beautiful night. The sky was blanketed with twinkling stars, reminding me of the times my father and I would wish on a star together. I realized as the full moon rose in the sky that it was a blue one. Dad had insisted all wishes made on a Blue Moon were special and always came true. Even though I no longer believed it, I decided to make a wish anyway. I’d intended to wish that Josh and I would have a long and happy marriage, but instead of saying Josh, I said Michael. I laughed at my own Freudian slip.
Suddenly from behind me a voice said, “I’d never forgotten that laugh.”
My heart began to beat in triple time as I turned to face the man whose infectious smile I’d never forgotten, either.
“Michael?”
“You’re more beautiful than I remembered,” he said moving closer.
“Am I really seeing you, or have I conjured you up?” I asked.
He chuckled. “I’m really here, Nadine. I knew if I waited long enough, you’d return, too.”
Tears welled in my eyes as I touched his face. He took my hand and brought it to his lips.
“I couldn’t reach you during that year and thought I’d see you in the summer...” he began.
As the tears slipped from my eyes, he kissed each and every one of them.
“My parents were killed and I lost your phone number. I’m so sorry.”
“You’re here now. Nothing else matters,” he said as he kissed my trembling lips.
When we broke apart, all I could manage to say was, “Oh, Michael, Michael...” before his lips recaptured mine, once more. “I never thought I’d ever see you again,” I whispered. “I can’t believe you’re actually here with me now.”
“I love you, Nadine. I always have and I always will. This time, I’m not letting you get away.”
Michael scooped me up into his arms and carried me into his cabin. We made sweet love and like magic, the years and distance melted away as we were transported back to the golden summer we first met.
I now knew what was missing from the relationship I’d had with Josh. It was the fire and passion I found with Michael. I also knew I would return to Phoenix with a different answer from the one he expected. I didn’t want to hurt him, but my life belonged in New York with Michael. It had been ordained. After all, wishes made under the magic of a Blue Moon always came true.
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Devil in Spurs
Deborah MacGillivray
The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding―Riding―
~ Alfred Noyes
Desdein Deshaunt’s spurs dug into the horse’s side, goading the animal onward. Faster. Faster. Devil take him, he abhorred running fine-blooded horseflesh until foam lathered its neck. Grimacing, he swallowed the crumbs of conscience. Warrior’s Heart was a mount worthy of royalty, only fate left him no choice. This night he must push his steed to the very limit.
His brother’s life depended upon it.
He leaned forward in the saddle, willing the magnificent black stallion to sprout wings and fly through the pitch-black night. With rising dread, he glanced up at the moon, his heart slamming against his ribs when he saw how high it sat in the sky.
A Blue Moon.
Folklore said if one wished upon a Blue Moon an enchantment would be granted. He stopped believing in hocus-pocus parlor-magic back before he left Eaton and went to live with grand-mère in France. Even so, circumstances warranted desperate measures.
When man needed help, he called upon God. When no answer came, he turned to the Devil. Desdein knew his soul was black as the stallion he rode, that he cared little about anything in life these past years. But he did care for Jeremy. He’d see him set free―or die trying. If he could just rescue his brother, there was a ship setting sail at dawn, bound for the Americas.
He’d give his life’s blood to see Jeremy safely onboard.
Make a wish? If he had one wish, he prayed to catch the coach up ahead before it reached Kildorne Manor.
If he’d ridden hard on the heels of Lady Ashlyn Findlater, this night’s work would have been a simple matter. Forced to hide his real identity, he played the ton buffoon, so all eyes had been upon him at the small country ball. His quick departure would’ve raised eyebrows.
Quite absurdly, he was in great demand these days. His rapier wit, droll humor and deadly lampooning of those about him saw Desdein at the top of all invitation lists for fêtes of the nobility. One didn’t dare give the cut direct to the Marquis de Fournier. Though the title was real, it was worthless, coming through his grand-mère, who never had any blunt. Less since they escaped the Reign of Terror.
Being a ton fop was just another mask he used to move through life these days.
By day, he was a gentleman horse breeder, but each night he donned the plumed apparel of a ton peacock and became the rapier-wit Marquis de Fournier at the most lavish balls of English nobility. Men feared him. Women wanted him. There wasn’t a female—married or virgin—who’d deny him―except for Ashlyn Findlater.
Her image shimmered in his mind, the dark blonde hair, the huge grey eyes that always seemed to hold a sadness few bothered to notice. He dismissed the vision, though those eyes lingered, haunting him. They had drifted into his dreams more than once these past weeks.
The Mad Marquis they called him. What no one knew, under the moon’s pale rays he was a highwayman. They whispered in dread he was the D
evil in Spurs and the sobriquet stuck.
He hadn’t taken to the roads for enjoyment or gain. His path was one of vengeance, pure and simple. Twenty years ago, the Earl Whitmore and Viscount Kildorne had robbed his father of nearly all in a game of Whist―so they said―then killed him in a duel to make certain no claims of malfeasance could be lodged. Desdein swore upon his father’s grave he’d one day crush the bastards. After Father’s death, Mother slipped into decline, gave up on living until she, too, lay in the cold grave. At sixteen, Desdein had been left with a worthless French title and much younger brother to see into manhood.
Since their return from France, everything had been rubbing along nicely. He robbed from the rich―men who stole from and killed his father. Gave to the poor—the very poor―he and his brother. That is until Jeremy—drunk as a lord and too cocky by half—decided to take a hand in poking Kildorne. The lackwit rashly followed the viscount home last night and stopped his carriage, pretending he was the Devil in Spurs. Unaware there were men in the coach with Kildorne, he suddenly found himself arrested for misdeeds his older brother had committed.
Kildorne, now the magistrate for the area, pledged he’d send Jeremy to Newgate come morn to be hanged. He swore it was because of the robberies, but Desdein feared the viscount somehow had discovered Jeremy was John Deshaunt’s son. Desdein’s only hope was to save Jeremy, by hook or by crook, and get him on the ship by dawn. Then he’d deal with Whitmore and Kildorne. In his own time and on a ground of his choosing.
Masquerading as the Marquis de Fournier, neither man had any idea he was Desdein Deshaunt, the son of the man they’d murdered nearly twenty years ago. A man set upon revenge.
The key to stopping Kildorne rode ahead in an elegant black coach with gold trim. Nothing but the best for the daughter of Edward Findlater, Viscount Kildorne. He grimaced as his mount failed to overtake the swift vehicle.
Lady Ashlyn Findlater was a riddle. He’d spotted her lurking around the edge of ballrooms, watching him these past weeks. The sly country mouse unnerved him, made him think she saw through his foppish mask. Her witchy grey eyes seemed to see past the façade he conjured. It was demme unfashionable for a woman―especially one firmly on the shelf and never had a season―to show she had a mind. Clearly, Lady Ashlyn needed a husband to take her in hand, keep her fat with babes and living in the country away from this nest of noble vipers.
A strange knot formed in his belly at the image of Ashlyn Findlater carrying a child. Another man’s child. His groin bucked, saying the harridan had appeal. That startled him. He’d never warmed for a healthy lass before. Oddly, his blood buzzed from this unexpected bit of nonsense. Gritting his jaw, he dismissed her image from his mind.
The horse’s neck inched forward as he spotted the coach up ahead through the trees, the light of the moon shining down upon it. He smiled. He doubted the Blue Moon could grant wishes, but it sure made hunting his prey easier. Reining up, he decided to cut through the wood and come out ahead of the Findlater party before they crossed Ravens Creek Bridge.
Perfect spot to stop them.
He matched the speed of the carriage, then finally pulled just ahead. Warrior’s Heart vaulted the ancient stone wall, then clattered across the creek and emerged at the middle of the road, blocking the bridge’s entrance.
He reined the stallion in the centre, turned and walked him slowly forward. His free hand skimmed over his pistols, at ready, but figured there would be little call for them. He noticed as Lady Ashlyn and her aunt decamped the Clevengers’ route that there were no outriders for protection, just the spindly old coachman. Damn fool Kildorne obviously didn’t take good care of his beautiful daughter.
It only made his night’s work easier. He cocked his pistol and leveled it at the balding driver as the coach rattled around the bend.
***
Ashlyn leaned out the coach window, ignoring Aunt Dora tugging on her gown, trying to haul her back inside. Words on the proper deportment for a lady of her station went in one ear and out the other.
“You hang out the window like some Irish boghopper,” Dora railed, giving the gown another stiff yank. “Damn your father, leaving your entry into society until this late date.”
“Do stop, Auntie,” she chided playfully. “You are Irish. You should not insult the land of your birth or its people.”
“Aye, sure Irish, I am. And a boghopper, too. So I know perfectly well how they act. Like you are now.”
Ashlyn smiled. “There is a Blue Moon out tonight and it’s beautiful.”
Her aunt sat back on the cushion with a resigned thud. “I despair. You shall never learn the value of proper deportment.”
Ashlyn didn’t want to hurt her aunt’s feelings. Aunt Dora tried hard to help her fit in. Only, she was so tired of being told what was proper—and especially what was not. Life was dreadfully dull. She hadn’t been welcomed by the ton’s cliques. Hated corsets. Refused to play their frivolous games or hide her intelligence, however unfashionable that might be.
She cringed. Her father clearly had her on the marriage mart, ‘for sale’ to the highest bidder. It was beyond understanding why they didn’t just line up the eligible females and trot them around the room, let men check their teeth like they did horses at Tattersalls. Ashlyn felt out-of-step. At twenty-six, she was too old for a season. Father insisted he was trying to make things up to her. She didn’t believe him. Once he got it through his maggoty brain she wasn’t what men wanted for a titled wife, she figured he’d ship her back to Chattam Lane Hall. Well, she wouldn’t mind. She was good at managing, making do on damn little―money or emotions. She accepted she was a bluestocking, not the proper rave, not an incomparable. Not even an original.
She was poor Ashlyn. No one ever wanted her.
Father had schooled her tonight on whom to favor, which titled sons would be a suitable match. Stuff and nonsense. The jugheaded man actually talked of the Duke of Devonfield as being a good catch. She didn’t want a Duke for a husband. Nor an Earl or a Marquis. Father deemed the Marquis de Fournier his choice above all others. Her sire was impressed with the power the man wielded, the connections that would come with having him for a son-in-law.
Haunting lavender eyes flashed before her mind. Especially not a Mad Marquis. He’d never want her. Even if he did, she’d shoot him before the week was out. The supercilious sop. She’d seen him look down his nose at her as if he sniffed something odious. She wasn’t sure why that hurt. She laughed at the ton and their foolish airs, but for some reason, the King of the Buffoons’ disdain pierced her self-worth as none other. At odd instances, when those pale lilac eyes met hers, she felt a bond, a connection, like he, too, harbored scorn for the shallow people around them. Then he’d arch a brow, lift his quizzing glass haughtily and look down that aristocratic nose at her. It was all she could do to keep from kicking him in the seat of his satin-clad arse!
Oh, what she wouldn’t give for a dashing warrior to sweep her off her feet. Maybe ravish her, too, though she wasn’t entirely sure what ravishing involved. She knew Aunt Dora fanned herself with her hanky when the word was spoken, so surely it couldn’t be all bad.
“Whatever is happening?” Dora’s curiosity was aroused as why they’d slowed to a crawl.
“I cannot see. I popped out the wrong side.”
She started to scootch back in, but the Blue Moon peeked out from the clouds, capturing her enrapt attention. It was huge! And it was beautiful and blue. Most Blue Moons were really white, but this one was a true blue. Her maid said on the night of a Blue Moon charms could be cast and enchantments woven. The huge, luminous ball surely called faeries out to dance.
“Oh, I wish something wonderful would happen to me. If not something wonderful, may I please be ravished just once before I am too old to enjoy it!”
“Ashlyn, you shameless hussy!” her aunt hissed.
The carriage rolled to a standstill, but she couldn’t see anything other than the back of the driver’s bald head. Sh
e heard John Coachman—whose real name was Horace—talking to someone, but the words were low, murmured. Curiosity biting, she pushed inside, intent on finding out what was occurring, when the opposite door swung open and a man leaned in.
He motioned with his gun. “You, Lady Ashlyn, come with me.”
“Ashlyn is my charge. I guard her with my life,” Aunt Dora declared in thespian fashion. Her mouth formed an O as the muzzle of a pistol pressed to her nose. Almost going cross-eyed, she tried to stare down the barrel.
“I take it you see my point, Madam.”
Dora blinked in umbrage. “No, I see your gun, sir. This is nothing short of rude.”
Ashlyn wondered if all Blue Moon wishes were granted so promptly. Could one make more than one wish?
Patting her aunt’s arm to reassure her, Ashlyn took measure of the man on the other end of the gun. She had only the moonlight to distinguish by, just enough to make her think she wanted to see more.
His hair was dark, midnight under the moon’s glow. A swatch of black material covered his eyes and nose, holes cut for them, and was fastened at the back of his head. Dressed in black and in the heavy black cape, he was little more than a phantom.
A phantom with a sensual voice that sent a shiver up Ashlyn’s spine.
“I have no coinage, no valuables, you despicable varmint. I shan’t give you my wedding ring. ‘Tis all I have left of my poor George.” Dora sniffed, then waved her kerchief in dismissal. “So off with you. We have nothing for your likes.”
Ashlyn rolled her eyes. ‘Uncle George’ only existed in her aunt’s imagination. She hated being an old maid and thought it better to have a dashing husband who died fighting for Wellington in Spain. In true widowly fashion, she spent her time pining away, for no man would ever measure up to her saintly George.
“Madam, I sorrow for your loss, but I am not here to rob you, especially not of anything as cherished as your wedding ring.”
Blue Moon Enchantment (Once In A Blue Moon Series) Page 20
