(Thunder on the Moor, Book 3)
By Andrea Matthews
With Will and Maggie’s wedding just a week away, the last thing they need to stumble upon is Johnnie Hetherington’s dead body tied to a tree, especially one that’s so close to their cottage. Recognizing it as a sure sign that Johnnie has betrayed the family once too often, Sergeant Richie Carnaby gathers Will and his family together for questioning, though it seems obvious only a fool would kill a man on his own land. Then who did murder the rogue, and why?
Feeling confident it wasn’t any of the Fosters, Richie allows Will and Maggie’s wedding to proceed, but the couple has barely exchanged vows when the Armstrongs attack in force. Geordie is determined to rescue his niece from the clutches of Will Foster, whether she wants to go or not. And if he happens to make her a widow in the process, so be it. Will senses the danger and implores Dylan to get Maggie away to safety, no matter where — or when — that may be.
Though Maggie protests, Will assures her he will follow as soon as he is able. Yet how can that be possible when Dylan whisks her back to the twentieth century? Sharing her fears about Will, and unable to forget his own love, Annie, Dylan attempts to return to the past one last time despite his growing concerns over the disintegrating amulet stone. But will he make it in time to rescue Will, or will the villainous Ian Rutherford, who has already killed in cold blood once, win the ultimate battle and see Will and Maggie separated forever?
Excerpt
The hall was full of Will’s family and friends, but as the day progressed, a heaviness settled on Maggie’s heart. Only Dylan was there for her. How she wished her kin could have been there as well, especially Connie or her Uncle Andy. Even Geordie would have been a welcome sight. She imagined what it would have been like if there had been no feud, if her father and Uncle Eddie were still alive. It truly would have been one big, happy family. The kind she’d dreamed of as a child.
Will was busy serving his guests and the musicians had started a lively reel, so Maggie slipped outside into the cooling evening air. She breathed in deeply, the earthy scent of falling leaves underlined with the subtle aroma of pine bringing with it the memory of her father, and an overwhelming sense of loss engulfed her.
Scurrying down the steps, she stole around the side of the peel, prepared to have a quiet cry for herself, when out of the corner of her eye she spotted her cousin Connie slipping amongst the shadows of the barmekin. At first, Maggie thought it was a mirage of some sort, brought on by her current state of melancholy, but then she caught another glimpse of the girl, ducking behind the stables.
Maggie’s heart leapt at the thought of seeing her cousin again. After shooting a quick glance up the peel tower forestairs to make sure no one was watching, she darted across the barmekin yard but stopped short when a sobering thought occurred to her. What if her family had indeed come, not to celebrate her nuptials, but to take her back to Scotand . . . and Ian.
A chill ran down her spine, her heart pounding against the tight-fitting bodice of her gown. Scanning the yard for any unusual movement, she inched her way back to the safety of the peel. If she screamed, would anybody even hear her? She was just passing Graham’s cottage when she heard a faint whisper and Connie poked her head out of the shadows.
“Maggie, ’tis me, yer cousin, I’ve come to wish ye well.”
Maggie peered into the darkness, listening carefully for the sound of shuffling feet or the clink of cold, hard steel, but all she could see was her cousin’s terrified expression.
Reaching out, she took the girl’s hands.
“Connie, come inside, please. I’m so glad you came.”
“Nae, Maggie,” Connie said, her voice infused with a deep sadness, “I canna.”
“But why?” Maggie said. “No one will harm you. I’ll make sure of that. Besides, Will’s family doesn’t blame you for what your kin did.”
“They were yer kin once too, Cousin.”
“And they chose to sentence an innocent man to death on the word of another.”
“Has yer love for that scoundrel blinded ye so ye canna see the truth?”
“And what truth is that?”
“Will killed yer father, during a foray, ’tis true, but still the guilt is nae less his.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “Why won’t anyone believe me? It was Ian who killed my father . . . in cold blood.”
“Nae, Maggie! Those are Bonnie Will’s words, and his kiss has poisoned yer heart.”
Maggie’s temper flared. “No! Those are Ian’s words!”
A look of annoyance crossed Connie’s face. “Ye already told me what Ian said, and while his words werena kind, they were hardly an admission of guilt.”
Though Maggie longed to say he had confessed just that, she couldn’t lie to her cousin. “Well, no, not exactly, but that’s what he meant.”
“What he meant?” Connie shook her head, a look of pity in her eyes. “Or what ye wanted him to mean, Cousin? Oh, Maggie, come home and beg me father’s forgiveness. Me uncle’s outside waiting for me. He’ll understand. Will’s a dandy all right, and he bewitched ye with his smile. Ye didna ken what it was ye were doing. Deliver Will to their hands, and all will be forgiven.”
“Will is my husband,” Maggie said, her tone turning cold, “and I would no more betray him than I would myself.”
“Ach, it winna matter a whit anyway. Da’s sent word to the bishop to have it all annulled.”
“He what!” Maggie clenched her fists, trying not to take her anger out on her cousin. “On what grounds?”
Connie reached out, touching Maggie’s arm. “’Tis for the best, Cousin. That priest ye had wed ye was defrocked, and Will has nae proof ye made any other vows. He didna even give ye a wed.”
Maggie cursed herself for not paying more attention when her father talked archaeology. “What’s a wed?”
“A token of sorts to show the vows were made in earnest, usually a ring or such.”
“But he did.” She held out her hand to reveal her grandmother’s ring.
Connie gave a tut and shook her head. “D’ye think me a fool? Will didna give ye that. ’Tis our granddame’s ring. We all ken she gave it ye, so it proves noucht.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. As I’m already carrying Will’s child, there’ll be no doubt that our union was consummated.”
“D’ye mean to bring shame upon yerself and the bairn?” Connie scowled at her. “Ye’re fortunate Ian is willing to claim it as his own, and since ye were already betrothed to Ian, no one will be the wiser or care two pence about yer handfast to Will.”
Maggie fought to keep her voice low. “I was never betrothed to Ian. Nothing had been agreed to, no pledges made. But Will and I did exchange marital vows on the church steps this morning, before a fully ordained priest and with plenty of witnesses this time, wed and all.” She gave a nod to punctuate her triumphant revelation.
“This morn! But the wedding’s not to take place till the Sunday.”
Maggie shrugged. “Father Michael has to be in Bewcastle tomorrow, so we got married today instead. Why does that matter?”
Someone whistled from outside the wall, and both girls looked toward the sound before Connie spoke again. “I have to go, Maggie. I just came to wish ye well and to give ye these few things. I hoped to give them to ye afore the wedding, but . . .” She opened a small sack and took out some money wrapped in a linen handkerchief as well as a delicately embroidered tablecloth and what looked like matching napkins.
“Uncle Andy says this money was yer da’s, and as such ’tis rightfully yers. Besides, he winna see a niece of his marrit without a proper dowry.”
Maggie took the money, a tear trickling down her cheek, but when Connie handed her the tablecloth, it turned into a flood of emotion that neither girl could control.
“Me mother helped Auntie Marion and I finish it just last night. We want ye to have it, Maggie, to mind us by.”
“I’ll never forget you, Connie . . . or Uncle Andy. Won’t he come to talk to me, just for a moment?”
“He’s risking enough already, Cousin, coming to ye like this. If me father ever kent he gave ye that money . . . As far as most of the family’s concerned, ye dinna deserve a pence of it. Ye forfeited it when ye betrayed yer surname. Me uncle could be hangit himself just for bringing me here.”
“I know.” Maggie sobbed softly. “Tell my uncle I bear him no malice, for in him I learned the true meaning of honor.”
“And he bears ye none, but his heart’s breaking all the same. Ye were like a daughter to him.”
“Then twice I’ve lost a father.”
Connie wiped away the tears, her lips curving into a warm, understanding smile. “Aye, ye have that, Cousin, but I must go now. God bless ye and keep ye, Maggie
Armstrong, for I fear our paths winna cross again.”
This novel is available to read with #KindleUnlimited subscription.
Andrea Matthews is the pseudonym for Inez Foster, a historian and librarian who loves to read and write and search around for her roots, genealogical speaking. She has a BA in History and an MLS in Library Science, and enjoys the research almost as much as she does writing the story. In fact, many of her ideas come to her while doing casual research or digging into her family history. She is the author of the Thunder on the Moor series set on the 16th century Anglo-Scottish Border, and the Cross of Ciaran series, where a fifteen hundred year old Celt finds himself in the twentieth century. Andrea is a member of the Romance Writers of America, Long Island Romance Writers, and the Historical Novel Society.
Social Media Links:
Thank you so much for hosting the blog tour for Shake Loose the Border.
ReplyDeleteAll the best,
Mary Anne
The Coffee Pot Book Club