“Screw work,” Blake said with a cavalier wink. “I’ve got a family that needs my time.”
A year ago, Justine would have been scandalized by this attitude, but pregnancy had changed the rhythm of the Macdonald home. It was amazing how much time Blake now took to just be with her. Justine once had been convinced he would burn water while trying to boil it, but Blake learned a few tricks while she had had that morning sickness and couldn’t even look at food.
Justine got no further in her thinking than that before the first contraction took her to her knees. Her water broke, the sight of it spreading across her sparkling floor nearly giving her a heart attack.
But it was Blake who remembered everything from pre-natal class. “Okay,” he said with easy assurance. He gripped her chin and winked at her again, his manner easing Justine’s panic. “Don’t freak out on me. Remember, this is what we’ve got to do next.”
And Justine was very, very glad she had married a practical man.
*
Too many hours later, Justine lay in the maternity ward of the hospital cuddling her very red, very new son. She still couldn’t get over how absolutely perfect he was, the tininess of his fingers and toes, eyelashes and fingernails.
“Hi. Ready for company?”
Justine smiled to find Blake loitering in the doorway. He’d been great, right beside her the whole way through. “You don’t fool me,” she teased. “You came to see your son.”
“Well…”
The baby squirmed and cried, and they exchanged a glance.
“He knows you’re here,” Justine accused.
Blake grinned unrepentantly. “It’s a guy thing.”
He came closer and eyed the baby, Justine’s wonder echoed in his expression. “It’s really amazing, isn’t it?” he whispered with awe as the baby settled against Justine again.
“Yeah, it is.” Their gazes met and held over the child’s bald little head and Justine felt her tears well.
They had a child, and it was because Morgan had made it possible. Morgan had given them an important lesson on making time for each other, a lesson that Justine was never going to forget.
She wished they had learned to appreciate the magic of what was between them a little sooner. Silently, she thanked her sister for giving them this gift before it was too late.
Blake’s next words made it clear that his thoughts must have turned in a similar direction. “Hey, I had this idea.” Something in his tone warned Justine that this was important.
“About what?”
“Naming the baby.” Blake’s gaze locked with Justine’s. He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and his expression was somber. “Let’s call him Morgan.”
Justine’s tears rose unexpectedly, she was so surprised by the suggestion. Yet, at the same time, it was so apt that she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before.
“Oh, Blake, that’s a great idea!” Justine reached up and gave Blake a sound kiss. “You’re a wonderful man, you know that?”
“So I’ve heard,” he said and tweaked her nose. “And that’s a good thing, too, or I’d never be able to hold onto a wonderful woman like you.”
They smiled into each other’s eyes for a long warm moment, then Morgan let out another cry of protest.
Blake winked. “See? Competition at every turn. I’m not the only one who wants you.”
Justine rocked the baby and cooed to him, feeling like she was less than instinctive mother material. Blake, though, seemed impressed. Morgan’s eyes opened blearily and they already seemed to be a little less blue than they had been just a few hours ago.
His eyes would be green, Justine knew with sudden certainty.
Morgan.
“Hello, Morgan,” she murmured and tickled his chin. He gurgled and nuzzled against her breast, his mouth working hungrily. “One day, I’m going to tell you all about the auntie you’ve been named for,” she whispered.
And in that moment, Justine suddenly remembered her last promise to Morgan. She bent and gently kissed her son’s temple, wondering if Morgan was simultaneously pressing a similar kiss to Caillen’s brow, somewhere across the eons.
That was how she would think of it, she decided. She and Morgan were living their lives in parallel, day for day. Justine would mark Morgan’s babies’ birth years on the calendar - she could figure it out - and celebrate each one’s arrival as though it had just occurred.
And when her Morgan passed each threshold in his life - lost a tooth, took his first step, smiled his first smile - Justine would know that Morgan and Alasdair were watching Caillen do exactly the same.
Justine smiled and cuddled her baby close under Blake’s indulgent eye, knowing she had more than one precious treasure to hold within her heart.
And so, she knew, did Morgan.
Auntie Gillian would be proud.
*
Author’s Note
Edinburgh Castle was retrieved for Robert the Bruce in March 1314, but the assault was led by Bruce’s nephew, Thomas Randolph, not the fictional Alasdair MacAulay. Interestingly, the daring route was suggested by one William Francis, who had used it while stationed in the keep to make discreet jaunts into town for his romantic liaisons.
Robert the Bruce died - after uniting Scotland beneath his hand - in 1329 in Cardross above the Clyde at fifty-five years of age. Ironically, he died before word of a papal bull pronouncing the legitimacy of his kingship could reach him. That kingship, so arduously won, would not continue smoothly in his absence and ultimately, Scotland would surrender to England’s rule once more.
There are many wonderful stories surrounding Robert the Bruce - including that of the spider - though it is uncertain how many of them are true. One of my favorites is Robert the Bruce’s reputed final request - which was for his heart to be taken to Jerusalem and buried near the Holy Sepulchre.
Sir James Douglas took the heart as pledged, but got no further than Granada (in modern Spain), where he was killed in battle with the Moors. Bruce’s heart was purportedly returned to Scotland by another knight, still in its lead casket, and buried beneath Melrose Abbey. Recently, a lead casket matching the description has been discovered in the abbey and early tests indicate that it likely contains an embalmed heart.
All of Alasdair’s stories are truly Scottish folk tales or ballads. Many of these were collected by Francis James Child in his 19th century volume The English and Scottish Popular Ballads.
The story of Thomas Rhymer is included here with some anglicization of its Scots dialect. The actual Thomas of Erceldoune (also known as True Thomas, or Thomas Learmont - c. 1220-97) was a poet who claimed to have been captured by the fairy queen and released with the gift of prophecy.
Erceldoune is now called Earlston and is in the Eildon Hills southeast of Edinburgh, coincidentally quite close to Melrose Abbey. The Eildon Hills are also considered by many to be where King Arthur and his knights lie in an enchanted slumber, waiting to be awakened by the summons from a magical horn.
The Stone of Scone remained in Westminster Abbey from the time of Edward Plantagenet’s seizure in 1296, with the exception of a brief interval in the 1960’s when the stone was captured by Scottish nationalists. In 1996, it was returned to Scotland by the British government. Interestingly enough, although the stone is reputed to have been brought from Tara in Ireland by the Picts, some seven centuries before Edward’s plunder, geologists maintain that the stone is red sandstone, and quarried near Scone.
The Scottish regalia have a long and colorful history - including being ‘found’ by Sir Walter Scott in the nineteenth century - but are much as is described here. They are on permanent display in Edinburgh Castle - and the scepter still does have a crystal mounted in it!
Finally, the quest for Scottish independence was sought long before and continued long after Robert the Bruce. As I finished this book - in September 1997 - the Scottish people had just voted strongly in favor of establishing a Scottish National Legislature once more.
It appears that Robert the Bruce’s dream of independence - and that of countless other Scots - will come to fruition before the turn of the millennia.
Perhaps this time, his legacy will endure.
*
The Moonstone
North England 1395 – Falsely accused of witchcraft, ever-optimistic Viviane is sure the truth will set her free. But when her execution is imminent, only a wish on an unusual moonstone pendant bequeathed by her father offers any solace. Thinking it harmless, and sympathetic to her plight, the knight escorting her to the execution grants her request – and is shocked when Viviane disappears.
Salt Spring Island, British Columbia, 1999 – Suddenly Viviane finds herself in a wondrous realm she believes is the legendary Avalon. Befriended by some rather eccentric locals, she quickly finds the warmhearted island community happily compatible with her sunny disposition. But the hand of justice soon reaches across time and space to bring her back. The hand, however, belongs to the same handsome knight responsible for her freedom. And soon this powerful man, devoted to upholding the law, finds himself caught between duty and a far more powerful emotion…
*
Praise for The Moonstone
“Claire Cross has such an amazing talent! Her characters are vivid, her plots exciting and her books a delight!”
The Literary Times
“Claire Cross is a fabulous word weaver, threading a clever tale that continues to surprise and enchant with its humor and freshness. The Moonstone is endearingly romantic and delightfully hilarious. A thoroughly enjoyable read.”
WCRG on AOL
“From the magical imagination of Claire Cross comes another enchanting fantasy.”
Rendezvous
“Twists and turns abound in this bewitching story of magical love. Ms. Cross infuses her delightful tale with vivid characters, a nasty villain, exciting love scenes and wicked humor…Bravo!”
The Old Book Barn Gazette
“Are you hungry for a marvelous book? Well, look no further than The Moonstone by Claire Cross. Writing with wit, pathos, and charm, Ms. Cross opens the door to enchantment and invites us to sit down and partake of a feast…Delightful, delicious and delectable!”
Under the Covers
“The Moonstone has everything a romance reader could desire, including, of course, a heartwarming finish.”
Stephanie’s Peppermint Pages
“In The Moonstone, Ms. Cross demonstrates her elegant flair for drawing the reader into characters and story.”
Romantic Times
*
The Moonstone
by
Claire Delacroix
This book was originally published under the pseudonym Claire Cross. This re-release has had only minor corrections from the original published edition.
Copyright 1999, 2011 Claire Delacroix, Inc.
All Rights Reserved.
Cover by Kim Killion.
Smashwords Edition
Without limiting the rights under copyright preserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are 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.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
*
The Moonstone
by
Claire Delacroix
* * *
Chapter One
North Britain - September 1390
Sir Niall of Malloy was not in a good mood.
’Twas the kind of rainy winter morning that made his knee ache in memory of a battle wound he would prefer to forget. His belly growled in mighty protest of the fact that he had not had even the time the break his fast before he had been summoned. ’Twas only made worse by the reason why he had been summoned so early this morn.
Because Niall sorely disliked executing prisoners.
He particularly disliked executing women prisoners.
But that was precisely what he had to do this morn. At least, he had to go to down to that miserable pit of a dungeon and accompany some poor misbegotten soul to her demise. There were finer ways for a man to start his day, Niall was certain.
Indeed, ’twas in moments like these that he found the employ of the archbishop particularly onerous. Of late, there were just too many days beginning like this one. Niall had a difficult time believing that the hearts of so many men and women in this corner of the land were rotted with evil.
Indeed, he was heartily skeptical that witchcraft had any truth to it at all. As much as he hated to even consider such a traitorous thought, Niall believed his patron was dead wrong. Sorcery was the stuff of tall tales alone.
Yet ’twas the plain truth that a scarred old warrior like himself had few other options for earning his keep. Niall was not more than eight and twenty, though his soul felt shriveled beyond all since his injury.
How he missed being in command of his own fate!
Those days, however, were gone for good. The cold in the nether regions of the castle brought the ache in his knee to a bellow, which was fitting enough for his circumstance. Niall limped along the old stone corridor grumpily, hating that he was no less fettered than the many prisoners moaning within their damp cells.
’Twas no consolation that the old hag who was to die was likely more uncomfortable than he. Niall’s heart twisted in a most unsoldierly fashion at the task before him.
One bad fall and he had gotten soft.
Niall could not have said why he felt particularly troubled by the women condemned by the archbishop’s court to die, for he was quite certain that he had been completely spared his comrades’ weakness for the fair sex. Either that, or his trying sister had cured him of any such inclinations.
Women were, after all, a powerful amount of trouble.
Niall growled and crumpled the parchment beneath his tabard, a telling reminder of that truth if ever there was one. ’Twas a letter he had received this very morn from Majella and his mood soured yet more at the recollection of its contents.
One would think after seven children, Majella would have the wits to know how she had come by them. Or to at least consider the unholy cost of supporting them before she parted her thighs once more.
But thinking had naught to do with the life of his sister. It never had. She was a creature of passion and impulse, though so warm and charming that even Niall could forgive her many sins. Twice widowed, Majella and her brood would be virtually penniless - were it not for her brother’s consistent support.
’Twas a support he felt he owed Majella’s children, for there were no others forming a line to fulfill the duty. And ’twas not the fault of the children that they had no father.
’Twas also a support that depended upon Niall continuing to do the archbishop’s will. Even when he did not agree with it. He ground his teeth and did not trouble to hide his foul mood when he entered the guard’s antechamber.
“Number seven,” Odo declared without even glancing up from his ledger. The half-eaten round of bread resting beside Odo’s book prompted Niall’s innards to complain once more at their neglect.
Perhaps after this deed was done…
But Niall knew he would have no taste for a meal by the time he had looked into the eyes of a condemned woman. Sooner begun, sooner finished, he reminded himself. Niall retrieved the appropriate church
key and stalked down the hall.
“Oho, and mind yourself, Niall.” Odo called after him, with a cheer that was far from welcome. “Do not be letting our witch cast a spell upon you! The archbishop intends to watch this one twitch in the wind himself.”
Niall grimaced at the choice of some folk in entertainment as he made his way down the fitfully lit corridor. Scrawny hands reached through grated openings in the cell doors, voices called in supplication. He swore he could hear the rats scuttling across the floor, and somewhere in the distance, something vile dripped with sickening regularity.
How Niall loathed this place.
How he loathed being dispatched to the dark for even a moment. He expected that most of these troubled souls did not even understand what they had done amiss, nor even how much time had passed since they stepped into these clammy shadows.
Niall suspected that few of them cared any longer.
He turned the key in the heavy lock upon the door of the seventh cell with purpose, anxious to return to the sunlight. He would not think upon the numbers here who would never feel that warmth again. He would not feel guilty that he did not share their fate.
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