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.
130 Christine
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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
132 Christine
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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.”
134 Christine
Blevins
Tom strode with purpose through the gates. Away from the