April Moon (17 page)

“My pistol,” he answered. “I dropped it when I fell—here it is, thank God.” He bent to retrieve his gun carefully from under a patch of gorse, and slid it into his belt. “Come on, then,” he told Jenny, holding out his hand.

Nodding, she rose from the damp grass. Overhead, the bright moon hovered on a velvety field sparkling with stars. But along the horizon, a faint blue-gray line already glowed.

“Dawn,” she murmured. She turned to Simon. “It’s nearly dawn! We have to get to the Tolbooth—”

“Aye.” Holding both her hand and the mare’s rope, he tugged them toward the nearby hawthorn copse.

“There’s no time to put Sweetheart back in her harness,” Jenny gasped. “And we’ve got to bring the Beauty to the sheriff—Simon, wait. Help me up—I’ll ride her.”

Without protest, Simon cupped his hands for her foot, and she vaulted onto the Connemara’s bare back. Pressing with her knees to keep her seat, she twisted her hands in the long, thick white mane. While Simon bolted into the hawthorn grove, she waited impatiently, the mare echoing her anxiousness by prancing and pawing, although accepting Jenny as her rider.

Simon rode out of the grove, mounted on the black stallion that he had left there earlier, and drew up beside her. His own horse shifted restively, sensing the urgency.

“Can you do this?” Simon asked.

“Aye,” Jenny answered, and leaned forward, legs and hands gripping tightly, to surge past him.

Simon followed her through the fading moonlight.

C
ANTERING BESIDE
Jenny, Simon soon glimpsed men running through the darkness along the cliff side. He shifted the reins to his left hand, ignoring the ache in his wounded arm, and rested his free hand on the butt of his pistol. With a glance at Jenny, he urged the stallion ahead of the Connemara.

“Who goes there?” A man emerged from behind a cluster of rocks. “Is it you, Lockhart?”

“Aye.” Seeing Bryson, Simon slowed his mount and turned, while Jenny followed, her horse a pale shadow on the dark moor.

As the revenue officer approached, Simon saw three dragoons with him. In the shadows beside an outcrop of rock, several other men walked under the guard of more uniformed dragoons.

“Where have you been?” Bryson complained as he came toward Simon.

“In the sea caves,” Simon answered. “Who’s that with you?”

“We caught the rascals who were parading over
the moor earlier,” Bryson said, gesturing toward the group, who approached with an escort of four dragoons holding bayonets.

“Uncle Felix!” Jenny said, turning to look.

“Aye, Felix Colvin and his band,” Bryson said. “They claim to be innocent of wrongdoing, but we caught them—”

“They’re not the men we want,” Simon said. “Let them go.”

“But they were leading a convoy of men and packhorses—”

“The rascals we want tonight are down in the sea caves, readying cargo to take out to a lugger in the firth. In fact,” Simon said, gesturing behind him, “if you post a few dragoons near that rocky hillock near the hawthorn copse, with guns at the ready, you’ll soon see rascals come up through the ground, and into your trap.”

“What?” Bryson said.

“I’ll explain later. And send some men down the cliffs to the sea caves, if you will, to nab some lads who are about to row out of there to meet a lugger out in the estuary.”

“What about Felix Colvin and his lads? We were taking them to the Tolbooth.”

“Oh, I’d wager they’d be glad to go after the rogues down in the caves—aye, Felix?” he asked, as Jenny’s kinsmen walked up in the company of the dragoons.

“Fetch MacSorley’s lads for ye? Och, aye,” Felix replied.

“They’re carrying a load of whisky stolen from Miss Colvin’s legitimate still, with plans to sell it off for a profit,” Simon said. “You might want to reclaim that for your niece.”

“We surely would,” Felix growled. He looked at Jenny. “What’s that horse you’ve got, lass? Looks familiar.” He frowned.

“This is the Beauty,” she said, smiling, as she patted the horse’s neck.

“The Beauty!” Felix gaped. “How could ye catch her?”

“She’s the very one Nicky saw earlier tonight,” Jenny said, as the Connemara sidestepped nervously. “And she’s anxious to bring good fortune to my father.” Smiling, she rounded away with the mare and urged the animal to a brisk canter over the moor.

“What the devil—” Bryson said.

“Has the lassie gone daft?” Felix asked. “What horse is that?”

“The magistrate’s horse,” Simon replied. “We found her in the caves—MacSorley had her all along, after stealing her weeks ago. That horse will bring very good luck indeed to Jock Colvin.”

“If ye get there in time, lad—the dawn is breaking,” Felix said, pointing toward the pink blush on
the horizon. “Hurry! D’ye think ye can catch that lassie?” He peered past Simon.

“Oh, I think so,” Simon drawled, as he turned his horse’s head to urge the stallion forward.

Jenny was not so easy to overtake this time, for the Connemara was swift and strong and desperate for a good run, but Simon rode with consummate skill and a light hand. Soon he drew the black stallion alongside the pale mare. Jenny glanced over at him, her hair and cloak whipping back, and she smiled, slowing so that their horses could keep pace.

“Greetings, Miss Colvin,” he said pleasantly.

“Sir Simon,” she said. “Will we have enough time to get there, do you think?” She glanced upward anxiously.

The wide bowl of the sky was still dark overhead, scattered with stars, and the full moon rode like a pearl on that sparkling field. Where the sky met the horizon, rosy pink light glowed.

“Sun and moon together,” he said, looking at the beautiful sight. “Surely that must be a good omen for us.”

“I hope so.” She frowned.

“We have time, Jenny love,” he said. “If you’re worried about your father, that fine horse will take you to him in a hurry.”

She slowed the horse and halted. A little surprised, Simon followed suit with the stallion, and
maneuvered close to Jenny’s horse, about to ask her what she needed.

Leaning toward him, Jenny kissed his lips, quick and tender. He slid his fingers deep into the silky thickness of her hair, renewed the kiss, and drew back.

“What was that for?” he asked. “I thought you were in a great rush.”

“I am,” she said. “I just want you to know how much I love you, Simon Lockhart, and how very grateful I am to you. And I wanted to ask if you were coming with me.” Twining her fingers into the horse’s long white mane, she watched him.

“I’ll be right beside you, love,” he said. “Always. I swear it.” He leaned down and kissed her again, embracing her in the circle of his arm. “And Jock Colvin will have to learn to live with that.”

She laughed, a silvery sound, and drew away, riding swift as the wind. Simon easily kept pace, smiling to himself, deeply glad to know that Jock’s life was about to begin anew.

And so was his own, for he had wooed Jenny Colvin after all, and in the span of one moonlit night.

Miranda Jarrett

Dear Reader,

There’s always been something special about a full moon. Whether worshiped as a goddess by ancient Egyptians, praised in verse by lovesick Elizabethan poets, or regarded as a gift of light by farmers hurrying to harvest a crop, a full moon glowing in the night sky is a powerful sight. Even jaded New Yorkers will slow down long enough to gaze up at a full moon as it rises majestically between the skyscrapers.

In “The Devil’s Own Moon,” the full moon becomes a kind of celestial matchmaker for two long-parted lovers determined to stay that way. While childhood friends Sophie and Harry first discovered the joy and passion of love in a moonlit stable, well-meaning parents conspired to separate them, and their very different lives keep them apart as adults. But years later another glorious full moon draws them together once again, and this time the power of love won’t be denied.

The idea for this anthology was concocted by several good friends sitting beneath a beautiful full moon in Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia, surely one of the most romantic spots in America. As you read these stories, I hope you can share some of the good times and laughter that inspired us on that moonstruck night.

Please look for my next full-length book,
The Passionate Princess,
coming this fall from Harlequin Historicals.

Happy reading, and happy spring!

For my dear friends and moon-maiden sisters,
Merline and Susan (and a special nod to Cathy!)
Who else could be more deserving?

London
April 17, 1803

L
ORD
H
ARRY
B
URTON
, the fifth earl of Atherwall, gazed from the window at White’s, and wondered restlessly how the devil he was going to pass one more interminable night in London.

The gray afternoon, still more winter than early spring, was already fading away into dusk, and over the rooftops and chimney pots an icy pale full moon was rising to stake its claim in the sky. A chilly wind licked through the streets and alleys, swirling dead leaves and old newspapers against the legs of the few hapless pedestrians. Most Londoners of his class would be perfectly happy to forgo any entertainment on such a night and so unfashionably early in the season, and spend the evening instead snug in their own elegant drawing rooms, warm and cozy before their smoky coal fires with brandy and hot China tea to keep away the rest of the chill.

But then the Earl of Atherwall had never behaved
like the rest of his class, and tonight would be no exception.

“Mark that plump little hussy down there on the pavement, Harry,” said his friend Lord Walter Ranford, standing at the window beside him. “Singing for her supper, I’d say.”

Harry lowered his gaze from the rising moon to the street below, where a young ballad singer was bravely continuing her trade despite the wind and cold. Her round face was ruddy from the chill and her body was swathed in so many layers of woolen scarves and shawls and petticoats that she resembled the sparrows in the park who fluffed their feathers to keep warm. The basket at her feet held only a handful of coins to show for her songs, and the few passersby on the street were too eager to reach their destinations to linger and listen. Yet still she sang, her head thrown back and her mittened hands clasped before her.

“I’ll wager a guinea that her voice is sweeter than that fat old cow we heard at the opera last night,” continued Walter, rhapsodizing over the girl with the same romantic eagerness that he showed toward most women. “With a face as sweet as that, how could she sing other than like an angel?”

“Only if the clouds of heaven are spun from ice,” said Harry idly. The girl was pretty enough, with an upturned nose and curly ginger hair, though
her tenuous life on street corners was already beginning to harden her face. No matter how Walter might idealize her, Harry was too realistic not to suspect that she’d likely be on another street practicing another trade later that night, making up the difference after the small day’s take from her singing alone. “If I take your wager, how do you propose to judge her voice?”

“I could have her brought inside,” said Walter, his enthusiasm bounding ahead of common sense. “She could sing for us as we dined, and we could judge her that way.”

“What, and risk spoiling my meal if her song isn’t as sweet as you want it to be?” said Harry. “No, better to judge from here, I think.”

“You’ll take my wager?” asked Walter with surprise, for Harry seldom accepted anything Walter proposed, especially where women were concerned.

“Oh, why not,” said Harry indulgently. Walter could be a bit of a fool, but at least he was a good-natured one, and besides, what else did Harry himself have to do for the next quarter hour or so? “Let’s test your fair angel’s talents.”

Without waiting for Walter to answer, he unlatched the sash and threw the window open, the curtains billowing inward with a gust of cold, gritty wind. Ignoring the indignant protests of the other gentlemen in the room, Harry leaned out the open window, his elbows on the sill and his dark hair
tossing around his forehead. The cold felt good on his face, sharp and
real
in a way that too few things did for him these days.

“Good day, sweetheart,” he called. “My friend here has wagered that you sing better than the celebrated Signora di Bellagranda.”

The girl turned her face toward them and grinned widely enough to show the gap where, young as she was, she’d already lost a tooth, or had it knocked out.

“G’day, m’lord,” she called cheerfully, assuming correctly that if Harry were leaning from the club’s window, he must be a nobleman. She dipped a curtsey, her patched skirts sweeping the pavement. “Do that be your friend beside you, th’ one what has most excellent taste in music?”

Eagerly Walter crowded in beside Harry. “I am that friend, dearie,” he declared. “Would you grace us with your favorite song?”

The girl tipped her head to one side. “Not for nothin’, I won’t, m’lord.”

“Win or lose, you’ll have the guinea that’s been wagered,” said Harry, and the girl’s eyes widened with awe. A guinea was likely more than she’d earn in a month of songs. “But you will have to sing, so we can judge.”

“Aye, m’lord, that I will.” She nodded, and cleared her throat self-consciously. “‘The Sorrow
ful History of the Highwayman Dick Turpin,’ m’lord, if you please.”

She closed her eyes, clasped her hands together again, and began. Her voice
was
good, clear and on key and easily rising over the sounds of the street. If she lacked the trills and frills that Signora di Bellagranda had acquired on the Continent, then that was not necessarily a bad thing to Harry’s ears.

Yet what truly captured his attention was neither the girl’s voice, nor her face, but the song itself. Each verse catalogued another step of the famous highwayman’s career, from humble beginnings to glory and love and finally, the inevitable capture, trial and trip to the gallows. The song couldn’t have been that old—there were people still living who could recall Turpin’s hanging—nor did it likely have much basis in fact, romanticizing the life of a common horse thief and highway robber. Yet in the girl’s robustly melancholy voice Harry could hear all the differences between the dash and adventure of Turpin’s day, and the dull constraints of his own modern times.

“I say, Atherwall,” whined one of the gentlemen in the overstuffed chairs behind him. “I’ve had about enough of that infernal arctic blast of yours. Shut that window directly, I say, before we all perish.”

“Oh, yes, we shall
all
perish,” declared Harry from the window, raising his voice so everyone
would hear him. “But it will be boredom that does us in, not some paltry April breeze. Blinding, blistering
boredom.
”

“That’s putting it a bit rough, Harry, isn’t it?” asked Walter uneasily. “Likely you’ve already heard enough of the girl’s song to judge her, anyway.”

“I’ve heard enough to judge her exactly as you say, and agree that her voice is far superior to the signora’s.” Harry reached into his pocket for a handful of coins. “Here, missy. You’ve more than defended England’s honor.”

“Thank’ee, m’lord, thank’ee!” The girl grinned and curtseyed, then swiftly gathered the coins Harry tossed down to her. He could hear her astonished gasp clear up at the window: he’d given her four times the guinea he’d promised. She curtsied one last time, then, while Harry still leaned out the window to watch, she scurried away with her new wealth before he might change his mind.

“She’s gone, Harry,” said Walter, shivering beside him. “Now you can shut this wretched window.”

“What, on such a balmy April evening?” Harry smiled back over his shoulder, pointedly keeping the window open. “It’s so fine, Walter, I’ve half a mind to go out riding.”

“Don’t be an ass,” said Walter crossly. “No
sane man would ride anywhere tonight if he didn’t have to.”

“I’ve never claimed to be sane, Walter,” said Harry easily. He slid the window closed and turned, folding his arms across his chest. “That girl’s song made me think, that is all.”

At once Walter’s expression turned wary, an expression Harry recognized readily enough. He was always making other people wary like this; it was something of a habit with him, albeit an unintentional one.

“What the devil are you plotting this time, Harry?” asked Walter uneasily. “Not another breakneck race to Edinburgh on hired nags, I trust, or driving a curricle blindfolded. No more shame to the good name of this club, yes?”

“Oh, certainly not.” Harry shrugged elaborately, well aware of how many of the others were now listening, too. No doubt the whispers were already starting, and the wagers in the betting book with them. He’d never set out to make his reputation as a daredevil, or to feed the scandal pages of the newspapers. All he’d wanted to do was test the limits of his own skill and resourcefulness, and test and try himself as well.

And if, in the process, he also recklessly courted danger, disaster and death, then so be it. It was no one else’s business but his own, and he simply didn’t care. He was unburdened with a wife, a fam
ily, a mistress or any other mortal who might genuinely care what became of him. The only two people who had brightened his life—his younger brother George and the only girl he’d truly loved—had long ago left it, and him, forever. He’d yet to see his thirtieth birthday, he was strong and reasonably handsome, rich beyond reason and titled beyond reproach, and yet there were far too many mornings when he stared up at the pleated canopy over his bed and wondered bleakly why fate had let him—
him
—wake to another day.

Walter cleared his throat self-consciously. “Then what’s this about, Harry? How exactly did that chit’s song set you to thinking? Damnation, but I hate it when you turn mysterious!”

Harry glanced past him, to the large looking glass that hung over one of the fireplaces. There the reflection of the rising full moon seemed to be a silver beacon to him, beckoning him to—to what?

“How long ago did Dick Turpin ride his famous Black Bess across Hounslow Heath, anyway?” he mused. “Our grandfather’s time, no more, yet how much has changed since those days!”

Walter snorted derisively. “What’s changed is that now a gentleman can travel in peace, not fearing for his life and pocket watch.”

“But consider the adventure that’s been lost!” said Harry with a sigh of regret. “What’s become of gallantry, I ask you? Those old gentleman of the
road knew how to steal a lady’s heart along with her locket, just as they could share the purse of some fat country squire with orphans and widows.”

“What’s become of them is that they’ve all been hanged,” said Walter. “Just like you will be if you try this.”

“One night, Walter,” coaxed Harry. “One ride, that is all. A black scarf and cloak, a brace of pistols and the darkest horse in my stable to be my own Black Bess. How can I let a moon such as this one go to waste?”

“You will if you value your life,” warned Walter earnestly. “Harry, these days every mail coach has a man with a blunderbuss on the box beside the driver, and they won’t pause to ask your name or leave before they shoot you dead.”

But Harry only smiled. “Who said I’d stop a mail coach? A private coach, one with a pretty lady inside—that’s more to my fancy.”

“A full moon’s no guarantee of anything, and neither is a pretty lady,” said Walter, shaking his head. “You, of all men, should know that.”

“And I, of all men, do not care.” Harry reached out to clap Walter heartily on the shoulder. “You must know by now what a perverse creature I am. The surest way to make me do anything is to tell me I can’t.”

“Of course you
can,
” said Walter with obvious frustration. “It’s just that you
shouldn’t.
”

“But I’m giving you a chance to win more than a guinea tonight, Walter,” said Harry easily. “I’m sure a good many of the gentlemen in this room will show more faith in my abilities, and be eager to place a few coins on my head to match yours. Being so certain that I’ll be scattered into oblivion by a blunderbuss, you’re bound to triple your money at the very least.”

“For God’s sake, Harry,” sputtered Walter. “I’ve no intention of betting against you, even when you insist—”

“Gentlemen,” announced Harry, sweeping his arm grandly before him, a showman as well as an earl. “Lord Ranford has challenged me to re-enact one of Dick Turpin’s famous rides across the heath this night.”

“The devil he has!” exclaimed another man with obvious delight. “What are the terms this time, Burton? How shall we know if you’ve done as you’ve said?”

“I’ll bring back my victim’s purse as proof,” promised Harry, “before I deposit it into the poor box, in true Robin Hood fashion, and if there’s a lady in the carriage I stop, I’ll capture her handkerchief as well. As for knowing beyond that—I cannot imagine that the return of a dashing highwayman will remain a secret for long in this city, can you?”

“Ten pounds says you’ll get away with it, Bur
ton,” declared another man. “No constable will ever catch you on those devil-bred horses you favor.”

“And I say you’ll be stopped before you start,” called someone else. “This is 1803, Burton, and thieves of that sort aren’t to be tolerated.”

“Address your opinions and wagers to Ranford,” said Harry with a farewell bow that encompassed the entire room. “I’ve much to do to prepare for tonight.”

He left in his wake both cheers of encouragement and mutters of disapproval, the way it usually was with him. Yet the excitement of what he planned raised his spirits, and the sharp evening air that struck his face as he stepped from the club’s door only increased his anticipation. No matter how unfashionable it was for a gentleman to walk anywhere in London, to Harry the distance between White’s and his own house in St. James’s Square seemed far too short to bother with the display of a carriage, and his stride was long and purposeful as he cut across the cobbled streets. The wind was dying with the day, yet still the first lamplighters were struggling with stray gusts as they tried to steady their ladders against the posts.

Looking once again up over the rooftops, Harry wondered why the lamplighters bothered. The full moon now glowed round in the sky like a disc of polished silver, nearly as bright as the golden sun
itself. A moon like this would cast shadows on the moor as if it were day instead of night, and briefly Harry questioned the wisdom of his plan. No highwayman could be properly mysterious in such conditions.

But perhaps being seen was not so very bad after all. A black-clad figure on a dark horse, washed in silvery light—what could be more daring and romantic than that? For him the best part would be the chase, racing through the night at a breakneck pace to ambush a solitary carriage. He intended to carry a brace of pistols for effect, and to defend himself if it came to that, but as for the capture, he hoped to be able to rely more on surprise and charm for success than on force and threats, especially if a lady were involved.