Table of Contents
Excerpt
Praise for Jennifer Taylor
Echoes of the Moon
Copyright
Dedications
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Epilogue
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Through the buzzing in her ears,
a voice called to her from far away, low and resonant.
Strong arms cradled her, naked, and so warm. Her head lay against his chest, the hairs upon it tickling her ear. The muscles of his broad chest were hard and solid against her side, and so reassuring, rising and falling against her, encouraging her to suck in breath. But it was as if she sucked through a hollow reed.
“Bethan, you will be well soon. I’ll take care of you.”
He smelled of soap and earth. She clasped her arms tighter around his solid neck and closed her eyes. She’d not been held like this since childhood. He began to walk, carrying her as if she weighed no more than a kitten. Heat radiated from his chest, and his stomach muscles shifted and tensed as he headed toward the cottage.
She wheezed, then coughed.
“Don’t worry, Bethan. I know what to do.”
She nodded, her cheek rubbing against his chest, the curls there soft, yet pleasantly rough. His heart beat a reassuring rhythm against the uneven frantic beat of her heart.
“Georgie has the same problem. I’ve some herbs will help you. George!” he yelled. “Is there water left in the pot?”
“Aye, Da. What’s wrong with Mistress Bethan?”
“She’s having trouble breathing, much like you do.”
“Da always makes me feel better, Mistress Bethan.”
Protected. Safe.
Praise for Jennifer Taylor
MERCY OF THE MOON
“I really enjoyed reading Mercy of the Moon. Maggie and Ian are well rounded characters, and the plot is intriguing and well-paced. Looking for a unique paranormal? Check out Mercy of the Moon today.”
̴ Long and Short Reviews
~*~
Book One of the Rhythm of the Moon series, MERCY OF THE MOON, was 2nd place winner in the Historical Category of the 2013 Lone Star Writing Competition. It was published in 2014.
~**~
HEARTBEAT OF THE MOON
“Great read! The characters are so strong, and the plot is sharp and winding. You never lose interest. Ian’s quirks and Maggie’s stubbornness…make their love…more precious.”
~ Linda Tillis, historical author
~*~
Book Two of the Rhythm of the Moon series, HEARTBEAT OF THE MOON, was published in 2016.
Echoes of the Moon
by
Jennifer Taylor
Rhythm of the Moon Series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Echoes of the Moon
COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Jennifer Taylor
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Tea Rose Edition, 2017
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1760-1
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1761-8
Rhythm of the Moon Series
Published in the United States of America
Dedications
To Wayne:
You have my endless love and devotion.
There could be only you.
~*~
To my big sister, Suzanne:
Your big heart, loyalty, humor, and most of all,
love have saved me more than once. Thank you. “Feelings strong, words difficult.”
~*~
To my beloved mother Gloria,
who taught me the meaning of kindness and grace.
Chapter One
King’s Harbour, England 1736
Bethan Owen stood in the doorway of the Siren Inn, drawing dawn’s gray light around her like a cloak. She peered down the cobbled street at the English Channel, cool mist bathing her face and washing the sleep from her eyes. Patches of green churning sea sliced through the heavy fog, revealing a ribbon of pink and violet at the horizon. Her twin sister Elunid would be relieved when she awoke to see the sun in the sky, for every night at sunset she feared it would never return.
She sighed. If only her sister could break through the darkness like the sun. She straightened her shoulders, breathed in the fresh new day. She would draw strength from this moment of peace, for Elunid would require her utmost vigilance, and soon the inn would be bustling with customers. Who knew what new faces the tide would bring?
The squeak of wagon wheels on the next street over interrupted her reverie. Of course, who else would be working this time of day but Henry the night soil man and his son, George? Henry’s bass voice rumbled softly, making her ears tingle. Why did the accursed man have such an effect on her?
“The tide rolls in, the tide rolls out
And brings adventure with it.
Be it rowboat or frigate, or schooner
They’ve stories to tell, fine items to sell
And I wish they’d be getting here sooner.”
George joined in with his sweet tenor at a much higher volume.
“Too loud, Son. We mustn’t disturb the good people of King’s Harbour. They would not appreciate being awakened by the sound of their own shite hitting the barrel.”
George giggled. “Da!”
Henry laughed, and every bit of skin on Bethan’s body warmed in the cool air.
“Take a care, my boy. Lift with your legs. That’s right. Climb up now, you may take the reins. Do you know where to go next?”
“Yes, Da.”
She should go inside, have a peaceful cup of tea before Elunid awoke. Would her sister be defiant and fearful today? Or would she be like her old self, clever and funny with an intense artistic flair?
Instead she closed her eyes and leaned against the doorway, letting the man’s soft, yet curiously cultured words glide into her, unraveling the worry tangling her th
oughts like fishing rope.
“That’s it. Easy there. You’ll get more from this fine lady horse with a firm but gentle touch.”
Like Henry’s touch upon her arm, mindful of her safety as they’d searched for Elunid a few months ago. A most noxious odor wafted up the street, quashing the memory of his touch. The wagon appeared around the corner at the bottom of the street, and the two hopped out.
Henry grunted as they lifted the yoke into their shoulders, the barrel at the end. “Remember what the old bard said?”
“I don’t know. He said a lot of things.”
“Oh, it is excellent to have a giant’s strength, but it is tyrannous to use it like a giant.”
Bethan forgot the stench upon recognizing the words of William Shakespeare. Measure for Measure? How did a night soil man come to quote the immortal words of the bard? Most puzzling, and likely the reason she couldn’t get Henry out of her mind.
They soon returned to the wagon, and Henry watched George, a small smile on his face.
George scratched the horse behind the ears. “Good girl. I shall never hurt you.”
They made their way up the street, and the closer they got, the more repulsive the odor became. She covered her mouth with a handkerchief but couldn’t take her eyes away from his broad shoulders and wide back, looking strong enough to carry any burden. Even hers. He waved at her and strode up the street.
He walks like royalty, not as if he has the most disgusting job in town. She lowered the cloth as curiosity got the better of her.
He stopped a good twenty paces from her, took off his work gloves, and bowed. “I shan’t get too close, Mistress Bethan. Good morrow.” He had eyes the color of Lena’s best summer ale. “You’re up early.”
She nodded. “It’s peaceful this time of day, when the town is still asleep.”
“Except for us.” He grinned. He wore no hat, and his black hair curled around his face. “I enjoy my work for the same reason.”
“You enjoy your work?” Was the man mad?
He nodded, his eyes darkening from summer ale to stout. “Why should I not, despite the nature of it? It’s honest and important work.” He turned toward his son. “And a good trade for young George to learn.”
What a snob she was. “I didn’t mean to insult.”
He stepped forward, and she stepped back, rapping her elbow on the door frame. “Ouch!”
He rushed toward her. “Are you all right?”
His fingers on her arm were warm and reassuring as she closed her eyes and waited for the stars to disappear from her vision. Then she came to her senses and recoiled from him.
He backed away. “I’m sorry to have disturbed your reverie, Mistress Bethan.” Formal, cold.
Emptiness echoed in the pit of her stomach; she had offended him. Why should she care? Nevertheless, she watched him retreat down the hill toward his son. Such a mystery. She jumped at the touch of a slender hand on her shoulder.
“What are you looking at, Chwaer?”
She turned to Elunid. On days when her twin was lucid, it was like looking at herself in a mirror: dark blue eyes, winged brows below a widow’s peak, brown hair threaded with black.
“Ellie, what have you got all over yourself?”
Pale brown bits of something lay on her twin’s haphazardly tied apron, all the way up her crookedly laced bodice. They lay on her neck and bosom like bits of wheat against a snow-covered pasture.
“Even on your face!” Bethan lifted the corner of her neat apron and wiped Elunid’s face.
Her twin stood stock still during her ministrations. She watched the night man and his son work their way up the street. “Ah.”
It appeared Elunid would be lucid today, at least for now.
“What do you mean?” Bethan asked.
Elunid turned and met her gaze. “Yon shite gatherer. You fancy him; deny it not, Sister.”
“I do not fancy him. How could I possibly?”
“The better question is why would you not? Look at the way his haunches move as he walks. He would be the perfect model for Hephaestus, god of fire.”
Breathing slowly sometimes assisted Bethan with well-needed patience. “Come now, Elunid!”
She waggled her winged brows. “Are you on fire, Bethan?”
Her face grew warm. “I am not!”
Lena, the alewife and owner of the Siren Inn appeared, huffing and red-faced. With a work-worn hand, she shoved her white blonde hair out of her face. “Ach, there you are. I can’t turn my back for one minute.”
“What happened, Lena?” The moment Bethan feared had likely come to pass: Lena had decided they were too much of a burden.
Lena put her arm around Elunid, but she shrugged against the alewife’s touch.
“No, Liebchen, you will come with me.” Lena turned to Bethan. “I had her drying mugs, and she wandered off. Next thing I knew, she had her hands in the wort. Thank God it had cooled.”
Part of the beer-making process involved the boiling of hops and other grains. It was a grueling and sometimes dangerous endeavor. But it smelled wonderful.
“Elunid, why ever would you stick your hand in a pot of wort? We’re lucky you didn’t scald yourself.”
Elunid started and picked a bit of wheat off her bodice. She held it in front of her, turning it about in her hands. “It is the perfect color for the cross.”
“The cross?”
The corners of her mouth creased with irritation. She spoke slowly, as if to a simpleton. “The cross in the needlework the Holy Ones have commissioned—no—demanded I do for them. I cannot find the right color.”
“I’ll take you to buy thread later,” Bethan said.
Lena shook her head. “Bethan, what are you two doing out here so early?” She guided them in and shut the heavy door.
Elunid hummed a strange melancholy tune, raising the hairs on the back of Bethan’s neck.
“Poor child,” the alewife whispered.
“I’m sorry, Lena. You’ll soon grow tired of us, I fear.”
Lena clasped Bethan’s hands. “You’re freezing. And see you don’t worry about staying here. For I could not do without your help with the baby, the running of the inn, your…” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “Your friendship.”
Lena was prone to melancholy since the brutal death of her beloved husband Josef six months ago.
“Thank you, Lena. Why don’t you rest a bit?”
She sank into the chair. “I’ll put up my feet for just a moment, then I must get back to the wort before little Josef wakes up. I’ve made oyster stew and bread. You two are thin as waifs.”
She made to rise, but Bethan put a hand on her shoulder. “No, you rest. I’ll get it.”
“This is why I cannot do without you.” She sighed. “You spoil me.”
Bethan smiled as she fetched the bowls of stew and some freshly baked bread and set the meal before them. She wasted no time tucking into her own. How fortunate she and Elunid were; Lena’s excellent food made a person feel warm with the comfort of it.
Of course Elunid hadn’t touched hers. She obviously hadn’t slept well, with those half-moons of gray under her eyes, skin pale as moonflowers. Bethan put the spoon in her hand, put it to her mouth. “You must eat.”
“Will she not even eat the warm bread?”
Elunid opened her mouth, took two bites, and stared fixedly at the bowl. The bread lay untouched.
Bethan shook her head. “Only on rare occasions, for she thinks it is the Holy Communion, and it would be sacrilege to do so.”
“Can nothing be done for the poor girl?”
If there was, she didn’t know what it was. God knows she’d tried to find help for her. She picked up her spoon again. The stew caressed Bethan’s tongue with creaminess, and chunks of oyster burst a salty sea flavor into her mouth. How good to partake of something so delicious and forget the troubles of everyday life. She dunked the remainder of her bread in the cream and sighed with pleasure. “Lena, you must sh
ow me how to make this. It’s heaven.”
At the word, “heaven,” her twin’s head popped up, and she dropped the spoon. It clattered into the bowl and splashed soup on her bodice. “My work is not worthy for the angels yet. I’m not ready.” She stood and ripped the cap off her head.
“Sister, sit down. I was only talking about the soup, how delicious it was.”
Elunid sat back down, wary.
“Will you not eat a bit more?”
Elunid closed her eyes. “Eat equals fat, fat equals lazy, lazy cannot do the work for the Holy Ones.”
Lena gasped.
“Excellent,” Bethan said. “All the more for me then.”
With the keen hearing all mothers seem to possess, Lena tilted her head and listened. “Ah. The baby’s awake.” With a grunt she rose and hurried into her private apartment.
After finishing the last of the soup, Bethan filled the teapot with hot water from the ever-present pot of water hanging over the fire. She brought the teapot to the table, put the tea in it. Elunid watched with rapt attention as the tea steeped. She soon handed Elunid a cup. “There you go. Just the way you like it.”
Bethan had just settled down with her tea when a customer walked in. She rose, keeping one eye on Elunid.
The customer, a tall, well-built lad of around twenty, swept off a black slouch hat to reveal carrot red hair and a freckled face. He grinned. “Good morn to ye, mistress.”
Bethan nodded. “Good morning. What can I do for you?”
His blue eyes scanned her body up and down. “So many ways I could reply, lovey.”
She grimaced. Seemed like such a wholesome lad until he opened his mouth. “There’s oyster stew ready, and fresh bread right out of the oven.”
“Smells as delicious as you look.” He winked. “The name’s Freddy.”
Best to ignore his forwardness.
He flashed the same grin at Elunid, who didn’t bother to look up. She’d opened the teapot and spooned the tea leaves onto a linen napkin. Separating them with a spoon, she lined them up according to light and dark.
He stepped backward, eyes wide. “How is it I’m blessed with the beauty of not just one, but two? You are doubles.”
“Yes.” Bethan folded her arms. “Do you want to eat?”
In the few short months they’d been at Lena’s, she’d grown accustomed to dealing with the likes of this lad. When they’d lived at the lighthouse, she’d have been shocked at his behavior. Now it was just part of everyday life, and preferable to the isolation of the lighthouse, with only Mother and Elunid for company.
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