Midwife of the Blue Ridge (19 page)

sures, scowling John

Springer braced his fiddle against his chest, set his foot tapping,

and joined in on “The Blue Ribbon Reel.”

Maggie linked hands with handsome Jamie Raeburn and the

pair skipped between the two rows of dancers, stopping at center

to meet another couple. Both couples disengaged and executed

an intricate fi gure-eight maneuver. The pairs joined hands once

again to foot it back and fall into their original places.

Tom loitered off to the side in the shadows of the stockade

wall, his back pressed against its rough timber. Eyes a-squint, he

swallowed back an overwhelming urge to smash his fist into Ja-

mie Raeburn’s smiling face.

Goddamn it, but isn’t she lovely
. . . Laughing and clapping

with her hair all a-towsie and her tawny skin slick with perspira-

tion, Maggie was by far the most beautiful girl at the gather-

all—probably the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.

Goddamn it!
Tom banged a fist to the wall. Up to this day,

he’d considered Raeburn a friend, but as he watched Maggie

twirling under Jamie’s arm, Tom wanted nothing more than to

pound the man into the dirt. Then he would take Maggie in his

128 Christine

Blevins

arms and they would spin around and around and around, until

everyone and everything faded into a whirling blur.

I mucked it up . . .

“A good lass,” Seth called her. Tom snorted. He surely had no

experience wooing one of those. How stiff, how absolutely fright-

ened she’d been when he pulled her into his arms up on the

ridge—shoving a hand between her legs as if she were no better

than a two-shilling whore—he groaned to think of it.
Came at

her like buck in rut
. . . Tom could almost hear his father’s voice

in his head.
That’s what comes of living lax . . . too long away

from family and proper society.
At the very least, Tom fi gured,

he owed Maggie an apology.

The music ended with a whoop. Jamie tucked Maggie’s arm

under his and they sauntered to the smithy, where Ada Buchanan

was busy pulling pints for a thirsty crowd. Raeburn abandoned

Maggie and elbowed into the fray.

Tom pushed off the wall and rushed to catch her alone. She

looked up to see him approach and he winced to see her happy

exuberance devolve into wary apprehension. He swept the hat

from his head. “Maggie, might I have a word with thee?”

Her jaw tensed. She nodded.

“It’s like this.” Tom drew a deep breath. “I truly regret the

way I treated thee and I beg pardon.”

Her features seemed to soften a bit and she met his eye direct.

“Ye were quite rough, na?”

“Well . . .” Tom combed fingers back through his hair. “I

know it’s no excuse, but I was a bit worse for the drink . . .” He

shifted from foot to foot, accordion-crunching his felt hat be-

tween his hands. “I just hope you can find it in your heart to

forgive me, is all.”

The light returned to Maggie’s eye and she smiled a little.

“Look at ye—hat in hand no less. Och, yer such a gowk.” She

sent him back a step with a two-handed shove.

He fit his hat onto his head and plowed onward. “While I’m

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
129

not much for dancing, maybe the next time the fellas strike up a

tune, maybe you and me . . . maybe we could give it a go?”

Maggie tipped her head and her smile widened. “Aye—

maybe.”

The knot in Tom’s chest loosened, and just as he relaxed enough

to manage a reciprocal smile, Bess Hawkins rushed up in a swish

of panniered brocade. Slipperier than a naked Iroquois, Bess

wormed her way between them and clamped on to Tom’s arm.

“Tom Roberts! I swan! Where have you been hiding?”

In a blink of the eye, each woman took the mea sure of the

other, and Tom found himself caught in the massive wave of

malevolent spite crashing between them. He struggled to extri-

cate his arm from Bess’s grip in a gentlemanly fashion and blath-

ered introductions. “Ah . . . Maggie Duncan—Bess Hawkins.”

“Aye,” Maggie said, cocking her chin up a notch. “
Mrs.

Hawkins and I are well acquainted, na?”

“Martin’s bondgirl . . .” Bess tossed a nod. “I didn’t even no-

tice her standing there.” She tightened her grip, clinging to Tom’s

arm tighter than a tick to a running hound.

Maggie stepped back, folded her arms, and gave Tom a look

that reminded him so much of his mother, it was all he could do

to keep from squirming.

“Old friends, are ye?” she asked.

“Old friends? Naw . . . naw . . . I wouldn’t say that.” Tom

shook his head and struggled to free his arm from Bess’s iron

grip. “Her husband, Bert—Bert and I have hunted together . . .”

“How you talk!” Bess gave him a bump with her hip. “Why, we

go way back. Recall two summers ago? Up there on Stone Man?”

Maggie’s face puddinged and she looked as if her bread had

just fallen buttered side down into the dirt. Before Tom could ut-

ter another word, she gathered her skirts and barreled past him,

joining up with Jamie Raeburn emerging from the crowd bearing

a pair of pints. Tom slumped a bit to see Maggie reward Jamie

with a soft kiss on the lips.

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“Indentured.” Bess sneered, triumphant. “Beggars, thieves,

cutthroats, and whores—the lot of ’em.” John Springer began to

tune his fiddle and Bess squealed, tugging Tom toward the dance

fl oor.

Tom dug in his heels and none too gently pried her fi ngers

from his arm. “Leave off, Bess. You know damn well I’m not one

for dancing.” He folded his arms across his chest, looking over

Bess’s head to see Maggie and Jamie line up for the next reel. The

musicians struck up a tune and the dance began.

Undaunted, Bess wound an arm about Tom’s waist. “Truth

is,” she purred, resting her head against his shoulder, “I’d rather

not waste time dancing.” She dallied coy fingers along the hem of

his breechclout.

It had been a long time since Tom had enjoyed the company of

a willing woman, and here was Bess Hawkins—a toothsome

piece—ready to oblige in exchange for a coin or two. He cast a

fleeting glance to Maggie, having a grand time dancing with Ja-

mie Raeburn, and allowed Bess to draw him deep into the shad-

ows. She coaxed an expert hand inside his breechclout and

cupped his parts. Tom heaved a sigh, closed his eyes, and leaned

back against the wall to enjoy her ministrations.

But rather than pleasure, Tom found himself plagued by an on-

slaught of conscience.
A married woman,
he thought as Bess nuz-

zled his neck.
Another man’s wife.
Tom slipped his hands around

her slender waist and buried his nose in her neck, which smelled of

elder fl ower.
Bert ought know better than to leave his wife unat-

tended
.
Poor Bert
. . . Tom pulled away. “This is wrong, Bess.”

“Um- hmm,” she moaned, pressing forward, plump breasts

crushed against his chest, her hand still tangled within his clout.

“We are ever so wicked, aren’t we?”

“I mean it, Bess.” Tom tried to wheedle out from her embrace.

“Bert’s a friend of mine . . . and this ain’t right.” She grabbed his

hand and placed it upon her breast.

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
131

Tom forced his arms to his sides, fists clenched. “I’m not going

to do this.”

Her warm palm inside his breechclout elicited a response quite

contrary to his protestations. Firming her grip, she went up on

tiptoe and whispered husky in his ear, “Ahh, but your man here

begs to differ.”

“Stop it—”

She continued to ignore his sudden fit of morality, heedless

fingers working magic between his legs, her tongue and teeth

nuzzling and nipping his neck. Fearful he was approaching the

point of no return, Tom gritted his teeth. “I mean it.” He grasped

her rough by the upper arms and pushed her hard, causing her to

stumble back a few paces. “I said STOP.” Tom slumped back

against the wall and drew a deep breath.

The music squealed to a rollicking finish, drawing a burst of

applause. Tom could see Maggie in the torchlight, laughing and

clapping, calling for another tune.

Stunned, Bess rubbed her arms. “What in the world has got-

ten into you?”

“It just ain’t right.” He tugged at the flap of his slack clout to

fi t it tight. “Bert being a friend of mine and all . . .”

“Fine time for you to develop a creed,” Bess snapped, shaking

out her skirts and smoothing the fabric.

“Sorry—you’ll have t’ find another dance partner.”

He left Bess behind and slunk away. Avoiding the crowd of

dancers surrounding the smithy, he sank down onto a tree

stump—elbow to knee, chin to fi st—absolutely flummoxed as to

how and why he had spurned the favors of a beautiful, willing

woman.

Bess wasted no time pining. She slithered off to prowl through

the crowd. In no time at all, she latched onto Willie the elder,

coiling around his arm like a copperhead ready to strike.

Alistair Buchanan came Tom’s way, a tankard clenched in

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each hamhock fist. “No loss there, lad,” the old Scotsman said,

following Tom’s gaze. “Th’ woman’s a viper—her ear ever tuned

to the amount of silver jangling in a man’s pocket. I pity poor

Bert. He hasna a clue.”

Alistair handed Tom a pint and situated himself on the stump.

At sixty years, the man cut an impressive figure dressed in his

highlander finery. His kilt, patterned in red-and-black tartan, was

gathered at one shoulder with a striking circular brooch—a silver

dragon devouring its own tail. A badger-skin pouch, beady-eyed

head intact, hung centered from his waist, and a soft, blue wool

cap adorned with two slender pheasant feathers crowned his un-

ruly silver hair.

Tom tipped his tankard to his benefactor and slugged down a

healthy draught. “Compliments, Buchanan. Your missus brews

the finest ale this side of the Rogue’s Road.”

“I dinna ken how she does it—lacking barley and hops, my

woman works a miracle with maize and molasses. Tae th’ wee

wifi e!”

“To th’ wifi e!”

Tom was happy for the company. The two men sat in silence,

sipping ale and watching couples pair up for the next dance.

“Martin’s bondgirl—” Alistair ventured with pheasant feath-

ers bobbing. “Now, there’s a bonnie lass—ye fancy her, na?”

Tom studied the inside of his cup. “Sure I fancy her, as do at

least twenty other fellas.”

“Aye, yiv th’ right of it. Every man and his brother would like

to dock a boat in that harbor—all the more reason t’ not sit idle.

G’won and ask her for a dance. Thirty silver pieces entitles ye t’

one dance at least.”

Tom shook his head, staring at his feet. “Dancing is not a tal-

ent within my compass.”

“Pish. G’won . . .”

“I’m a product of a guarded education—music and dancing

strictly proscribed.”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
133

“Hmmph, Quakers.” Buchanan shot Tom an elbow to the

ribs. “Tell me this—what’s stoppin’ ye from taking th’ lass intae

th’ shadows for a kiss and cuddle?”

Tom picked up a stick and began scratching a series of chevrons

into the hard-packed dirt at his feet. “Truth is, I’ve gormed it all

up, Alistair. When it comes t’ women—nice women anyway—I’m

as caw-handed and cork- brained as any pimply boy.”

“Truth is, all the while ye sit here like the butcher’s dog, snif-

fin’ but not eating the meat, yon Raeburn blazes a trail beneath

yer lassie’s skirt.”

Tom took a sip from his tankard. Peering over the rim, he

watched Jamie Raeburn settle his hand at the small of Maggie’s

back and steer her away from the yammering group of dancers.

Old Alistair slammed his tankard down with a thunk and gave

Tom a two-handed shove that sent him topsy-turvy, arse end into

the dirt. The Scotsman loomed over Tom.

“Raeburn’s naught but a prissy, pindling

Englishman—he

couldna wrest a tattie from a baby. Chase the poacher off and

stake a claim.”

Jamie Raeburn bent his golden head to Maggie’s and whis-

pered into her ear.

Tom sat in the dirt, jaw clenched. “Stake a claim, you say . . .”

“Fight for your lass. Show her how much ye care.” Alistair of-

fered him a hand up.

Slicker than a peeled onion, Raeburn twined an arm about

Maggie’s waist and steered her beyond bright torchlight, through

the gates, into the dark.

Alistair continued to devil. “I’m tellin’ ye true, Tommy—

feather into the bastard.”

“Feather into him . . .” Tom repeated, grinding a clenched fi st

in his palm.

“That’s it. Sharp’s the word, and quick’s the motion.” The old

man brooked a solid stance, fiercely jabbing at empty air. “One

clean blow to the belly and the lass is yourn.”

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Tom strode with purpose through the gates. Away from the