Heartbeat of the Moon

by Jennifer Taylor

“Maggie, I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

  “It is not your fault. I was tired and didn’t heed where I was going. God, Ian! The dead body.”

  “I am fairly certain who dug up the grave and put poor Nikolaus there, though I don’t have proof. But none of it matters right now.”

  She nodded, wincing.

  “I am sorry for leaving you for those long months, but I did it for us, to be whole for you.”

  “I know. Believe me, Ian. I will take you as you are, whole or otherwise. The rest we shall settle later.”

  He tucked her in.

  “Stay here with me, Ian. I don’t want to be alone.”

  “Of course.” He slipped into the sheets and put his arms around her.

  “I fell into darkness,” she murmured. “And you brought me out. I wish I could do the same for you.”

  “You do, Maggie, as much as a mortal can. My affliction is a powerful thing.”

  In the morning, she woke to a chorus of voices downstairs. It wasn’t long before the whole town had learned what had happened, and the good people of King’s Harbour brought food, drink, and a healthy dose of curiosity to the cottage.

  Martha, the baker’s wife, sat by Maggie’s bedside. “Did you hear? The constable and his men carried the body of Josef’s nephew into town. He was not a monster after all.”

  “That is what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Ian was right; she hurt all over today. Even raising her eyebrows made her face throb.

  “Who would do such a thing? Why hide a body?” Martha shook her head, jowls shaking.

  “Someone who would like to make Josef look bad,” Maggie said.

  Ian came up with a breakfast tray, fresh gingerbread compliments of Martha. “Enough ear wagging, ladies. And Maggie mine, don’t even consider getting out of bed today.” He scowled at her. “You must rest, for your body has taken a shock. My guess is you hurt all over.”

  She nodded.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck when you fell. You will likely feel worse tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I will brook no nonsense from you.” He kissed her forehead and smoothed the hair back from her face.

  She felt considerably better the next day, and even better the next. By the end of the week she hobbled around with the help of a cane. Their story was a popular topic of conversation in the town.

  “It is the stuff of romance, how the gallant and powerful Ian saved you.” He sat beside her on the divan.

  She’d just returned from a slow and ponderous journey to see her sister, and it had tired her out more than she anticipated.

  “I told you we should have taken the wagon home.”

  She poked him. “What happened to your hand?”

  “I don’t know. It’s nothing to be concerned about.”

  But it looked angry and swollen, and there was a little bite mark on his palm.

  “Oh, I remember now. One of those winged rats bit me in the cave tunnel.”

  She shuddered. The incessant clicking of the bats still invaded her dreams.

  Later that night, he rubbed it. “It is tingling in the most peculiar way.”

  “You need a poultice for it,” she said practically.

  “Don’t fret about it.” He picked up a purple and white rock from the mantelpiece, the size of a walnut. “This was enclosed in your hand when I brought you home.”

  “I found it in one of the bundles whilst I was foraging for food. It gave me an odd sort of comfort during the night, warming me a little in the cold.”

  ****

  The next morning, as he poured her tea, she noticed he poured it with his other hand.

  He saw her glance. “My hand is a bit sore, and still twitches. Did it yesterday, while I was pouring medicine for Widow Jenkins. Most embarrassing.”

  “I was not aware you had the ability to be embarrassed.”

  He didn’t look quite right. She felt his forehead. “Ian, you are fevered. You must rest.”

  “No, I am fine. I will take some willow bark, and all will be well. It is just a little ague. I will ignore it, like any self-respecting man.”

  “Like any stubborn man, you mean.”

  In the evening, a sense of unease fell like a shadow over her when she did not hear him play his music.

  Chapter Thirty

  She awoke the next morning, shocked to find him still abed. He lay with his hands over his chest, the wound from the bat bite red and angry. She laid her hand upon his head; he burned with fever. He started, opened his eyes. Green pools of emptiness stared back at her.

  For three days and nights, she ministered to him as he lay abed with fever. She tried everything in her power to bring it down, to no avail. She could only try to spoon broth into him, wash him down with cool cloths, and pray. The sight of him, unmoving and quiet, hollowed her out inside.

  But on the fourth morning when she climbed the stairs, he sat up in bed, pale, but cool to the touch.

  “I am ravenous,” he said. “Feed me, wench.”

  She blinked, then embraced him. “Thank God! My love, you were so sick. Nothing would break the fever. I thought you were going to…”

  With surprising strength, he pulled her down beside him. “I could not leave you, Maggie. My heart wouldn’t let me.”

  It was as if he’d never been ill, other than the injury on his hand, upon which she wrapped a poultice.

  Later that morning, reassured Ian was well again, Maggie limped her way over to check on Lena. Henry stood on a ladder and nodded at her as she entered. At first she did not see Bethan, who sat hunkered down at a corner table, a bowl of pottage with cream steaming in front of her. She gaped at Henry, her spoon in midair.

  Maggie’s stomach growled. It seemed the babe needed a second breakfast.

  Bethan started. “Oh. Good morning, Mistress Maggie. Sit down. I will fetch you a bowl.”

  Maggie nodded her thanks. Bethan certainly seemed at home. “Bethan, what brings you to the inn so early in the day?”

  “Adam arranged for us to live here now. Elunid frightened the children, and they did not have the space. I will help Lena and Sabine with the babes, and wait upon customers as needed.”

  Henry dropped the hammer, climbed down, and retrieved it. “Ladies.” He nodded and went out the door.

  Bethan avoided her eyes. How curious.

  “What of Elunid?”

  The young woman shrugged her slim shoulders. “Elunid is seldom…present. She can be absent anywhere.” She grinned. “I am hoping you will require my assistance with any deliveries in the future. I have never felt so alive, so at one with God before.” She blushed. “I must sound ridiculous.”

  Maggie touched Bethan’s arm. “No, I understand completely and would love to take you on as my apprentice when you are able.”

  Bethan hugged her. “Thank you!”

  It was not Maggie’s habit to pry, but indeed she was curious about the strange behavior of both Bethan and Henry, and she must admit it served as a distraction from her own troubles. Now was as good a time as any to find out.

  “Bethan, I sensed something awkward between you and Henry. Is everything okay? I only ask because I’ve noticed you seem to get along well together.”

  Bethan looked toward the door, opened her mouth, closed it again.

  “I understand it is hard to talk about these things. But sometimes it helps.”

  She wrung her hands, confusion clouding her eyes. “I saw him this morning.”

  “Yes? Saw him what?”

  “Shoveling shite.”

  “And?” What was the girl about?

  Bethan grasped Maggie’s hands. “Don’t you see? He shovels shite for a living. How can I…” She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them again. “How can I be enamored—of a man with such a lowly and dirty occupation?” She shuddered. “But mayhap I am.”

  It took every bit of willpower for Maggie not to laugh.

  “I’m enamored of him?” Bethan grew v
ery still.

  “You find him attractive.”

  “Yes.” The girl’s pupils grew huge. “Oh yes.”

  “You enjoy being with him.”

  “Very much so.”

  “Then tell me why you’ve become so awkward together.”

  Bethan folded her hands upon the table. “This morning I rose early. I stepped outside, and I saw him. Saw him emptying cesspools.”

  “And?”

  “And he greeted me. He greeted me, and I ignored him in the rudest manner possible, for his occupation disgusts me.”

  “So now he is hurt.”

  She nodded. “Maggie, what am I going to do?”

  Maggie patted her hand. “These things have a way of working out.”

  “He shovels shite for a living.” She wrinkled her nose.

  “Yes, I know. Eat your pottage, Bethan, for I suspect you’ll need your strength. I’ll fetch my own.”

  After she finished her victuals, Maggie checked on Lena.

  The new widow did as well as could be expected, thanks to her friends and the spiritual counsel of Vicar Andrews.

  Maggie examined Lena and the babe. “All is well. You must rest more.”

  Lena smiled, though it did not reach her eyes. “And you must go home and tend to your husband.”

  “Yes. He is feeling better, but he is not himself. I fear his affliction may be worsening, and the melancholy part of it is surfacing. He is irritable, touchy. And I can do nothing for him.”

  Lena patted her arm. “Perhaps he is just tired from his illness.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Her fears were confirmed during the night. His side of the bed lay empty. He walked about downstairs, but played no music.

  She came down. “Ian, what is wrong?”

  He shook his head, voice rough-edged with annoyance. “Go back to bed. I cannot sleep, as usual.”

  He had lost weight during his illness, his cheekbones stark against the light of a single candle.

  “Where is your instrument?” She laid her hand upon his neck. “Why do you not play your music?”

  He flinched. “It hurts my ears.” He spoke in a flat tone, as if it didn’t matter.

  “Hurts your ears?”

  “Did you not hear what I said?”

  She nodded. She must not be offended by his mood. Surely it was a result of his affliction. “I am sorry for it.”

  “I’d be better off if you would stop cosseting me and return to bed.”

  She drew back. She did not like this side of him, not at all.

  ****

  Ian snuffed out the candle and sat in the dark. Maggie’s steady breathing gave him a small measure of comfort. Her sleep would buy her time, a time to remember when her life was not filled with horror. For there was no mistaking his own diagnosis of hydrophobia. It was only a matter of time.

  Tonight he would indulge himself listening to her sleep sounds. Would comfort himself with the night’s rhythms: the beat of a drum from the Shipwreck Hotel, the clanging of a ship’s bell on the Channel, two lovers whispering at the top of the street. Perhaps his hearing was more keen because of the absence of his music. The melodies had left him, left his body, veins, and brain. His songs washed away with the tide, lost at sea.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The next day, Maggie awoke, expecting to hear the usual morning sounds of Ian preparing her tea, humming, whistling some cheerful morning tune. Then she remembered. How long would this change of Ian’s moods last? He could not help it. But perhaps he did not tell her the whole truth. Had he grown tired of this life, of her? Perhaps Lena was right, and he still recovered from the illness. To be sure, the wound from the bat remained red and swollen.

  She should be ashamed of herself, expecting to be waited on like a dainty duchess, like the songstress Charlotte. She shoved her needs aside. What could she do for him? For when she tried to help him, he pushed her away. She dressed and found the parlor and shoppe empty.

  She was having her tea and a plate of kippers when Ian arrived.

  He darted his eyes at her, then away. He raised his head again, nostrils flaring. “What in God’s name is that smell?”

  “What do you think?”

  He held his hand to his mouth and ran to the basin. “Get them out of here, Maggie.” And he vomited.

  What was she to do with him? She tried to hold a cool cloth to the back of his neck, but he pushed her away. Perhaps he’d had too much to drink last night. For his clothing and person was in great disarray, as if he’d hastily dressed.

  “I know not what to do for you, Ian.”

  “I’m sorry.” He slumped into the rocking chair. “I went to see the constable, and suggested he talk to Mrs. Stowe and Pete about the snatching of Nikolaus’ body, and how it ended up in the cave. I’m certain they distributed the poisonous pamphlets and would not be surprised if they mutilated the poor dog.”

  Would the light in his eyes ever return? She would give anything to see him smile.

  “Ian, something is wrong. Please tell me. Let me help you.”

  “There is nothing you can do.”

  “If you are having one of your bouts, you can tell me. I love you through it all, good and bad.”

  He laughed without humor. “Bouts? I fear it may be much more serious than that.”

  Perhaps he did not love her anymore.

  ****

  Later, after she had returned from visiting one of her mothers, Maggie picked up the purple and white stone she’d found in the cave and rubbed it, for it seemed to calm her when she was distressed. She could forget her troubles with Ian during a work-filled day. But she could not bear to return to the empty cottage, to the absence of Ian’s presence, whether he was there or not. Damn him for invading her heart, her body, and then leaving her empty. She poured herself a brandy, sank upon the divan, and fell asleep.

  She awoke with a start to Ian’s lips upon her neck.

  “There you are, my lovely!”

  “Lord, Ian. You gave me quite a scare.” Instead of his trademark insincere apology, he kneeled in front of her, placed his hands on each side of her face, and kissed her soundly. He undid her cap and threw it on the floor.

  “What has come over you?”

  “You, Maggie!” He grinned.

  She had so wanted to see his smile again, but how could he change his moods so quickly?

  He grabbed her hand and placed it over his engorged member.

  “Oh!”

  Out of all his cockstands, this was the most magnificent. She gulped.

  “You must relieve me of this agony, my love, and only you can satiate me.”

  “Only me?”

  “Do you doubt it?” His eyes burned into hers.

  “No,” she whispered. “I only want to understand you.”

  He carried her upstairs and undressed her with rough ardor, coaxed her onto the bed.

  “I’m sorry, my love. I have not the words to make you understand.”

  As he ministered to her with the tenderness of his fingers, and the sincere service of his body, she could think of nothing else but the warmth of her privities, the hard strength of his cock hot and stiff against her. She gasped as he thrust into her once, hard and fast. And then he withdrew slowly, inched himself into her again, and drew back until she begged him to come inside. He plunged his member deep into her center and stopped.

  She opened her eyes. “What is wrong?”

  He kissed her, his lips warm, supple. “I would offer you all the pleasure I can give you, Maggie. Do you feel the strength of my passion for you?”

  His cock slid into her passage slowly, encircled it, until the magnitude of his thick erection enflamed her. He drove deeper, her muscles squeezed around him, and his power swept through her. She cried out, pain upon pleasure.

  “Look at me, Maggie.”

  She barely heard him over the pounding of her heart, and the throbbing of his member within her, sending new tendrils of heat through her limb
s.

  “Maggie, never doubt my love for you. No matter what happens, you hold my heart captive.”

  She squeezed around him in response as he rode dominion over her. He came in crashing waves, cried out as if in agony, and lay still. A few minutes later, he put his arm under her neck, nestled his face in the hollow of her shoulder.

  He lay quietly, matched his breathing with hers. He did not hum or wriggle his feet. She thought perhaps he’d gone to sleep, but his cock rose to life again, and he pulled her on top of him.

  “Maggie, I must have you again.”

  Their gazes locked. Desperation swam in his green depths.

  “Ian, what is wrong? Please tell me. I don’t understand.”

  “Just love me.”

  “Yes.” She grasped his member and slid onto him, gasping. He filled her, body and soul, and she tumbled into weightless rapture.

  Again they lay quietly, and again, as soon as she’d caught her breath, his cock had regained its strength.

  He rose from the bed. “I am sorry. You must no doubt be tired of me by now. I cannot rid myself of this cockstand.”

  “I still want you, Ian.” She cleared her throat. “But I am sore.”

  “Each time you were so…ready for me.”

  She blushed. “Yes, I’m a wanton. I had no idea I would still love it, even during pregnancy.”

  He bounded downstairs and brought her some warm water with which to wash. “Let me help you.” He sat cross-legged, a warm cloth in his hands.

  “You’re dripping water on the bed.” She smiled. “No matter.”

  He cleaned her tenderly and thoroughly. She took the cloth from him, soaped his member, and ministered to him with her hands.

  “Thank you, my Maggie.” He pulled the covers to her neck. “You must nap. You are still recovering from your fall, and then had to take care of me.”

  “Will you not rest with me?” She knew the answer would be no from the way he paced the room.

  “No, I must move. Mayhap a long walk would help my little friend here settle down.” He looked down at his bulging breeches.

  Her limbs trembled with weakness from their activities. “I feel like a slattern, but I believe I could doze off.”

  “You must indulge yourself sometimes, Maggie. I will be back in time for tea.”