Kiss of the Moon

by Lisa Jackson

  Bargain. The word held new meaning for Hagan, but he held his tongue. Anne guessed enough as it was. “Should you not be supervising the feast?” he asked. “We have many guests arriving.”

  “Aye, but I have avoided the kitchen. The cook is fit to be tied. Because she was tricked by the little savior, she feels as if everyone is laughing at her. Oh, her mood is foul, Hagan. She has already boxed the ears of two boys who didn’t tend properly to the kitchen fires, and gave a tongue lashing to a scullery maid so fierce that the girl ran out of the keep in tears.” Anne sighed. “The steward is in a black mood because the wardrober has lost some valuable spices, and the wardrober insists they were stolen. Last week we ran out of salt, but fortunately a peddler came by. The gutters overflowed just before the revels, and the buttery roof is falling in. You should have stayed with Edward to fight the damned Scots,” she said. “ ’Twould have been easier and mayhaps safer.”

  “Amen,” Hagan muttered under his breath.

  Anne, her mission in telling him the problems of the castle accomplished, started out of the room.

  “Wait. Send a seamstress and some of your clothes to Sorcha’s chamber.”

  “My clothes?” Anne asked, her eyebrows lifting with new interest.

  “Aye. They will have to be altered, but—”

  A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Why not some of the servants’ tunics? Surely there is someone her size—”

  “I will not have her wear russets when she can dress in silk.”

  Anne’s eyes danced with a merry light. “You dress your little savior like a princess rather than the traitor she is.”

  “She is a lady,” he said, as if that ended the subject, but Anne’s gaze darkened with interest.

  “Aye, but she came here to kill you.” Anne’s smile turned curious. “What happened in this chamber, Hagan, that you would treat a traitor like royalty, hmmm?”

  “She is a guest.”

  “Oh, my mistake.” Anne made a great show of crossing the room and warming her palms on the fire, but her eyes never left the bed. “I thought she was the chosen one—ruler of all Wales—and that was why she took it upon herself to kill you.”

  “She came to free her sister,” he growled, tired of his sister’s teasing.

  Anne laughed at her brother’s vexation. “Am I to send some clothes to Leah’s chamber as well?”

  “Aye.”

  “What are you going to do with those women—the patient and the savior?” she asked.

  Hagan reached for his sword. “I wish I knew.”

  “Please, m’lady, be still,” the tiny seamstress said, keeping her eyes averted as she pinched another tuck in the scarlet tunic.

  Sorcha frowned as she stared at the stack of gowns, bliauts, and tunics that had already been marked for altering: more clothes than she owned. Why would Hagan insist she have such a large wardrobe? The answer was clear. He intended to keep her here, and though she would be a prisoner, he would treat her as if she were a guest.

  Her fists clenched in silent rebellion. She wanted to shove the poor girl away from her and run out of the castle. Her horse was still hidden in the forest … but she was guarded every second, and if she were to escape, she knew, she would have to trick the guards and deceive Hagan.

  Her spirit warmed at the thought of playing Hagan of Erbyn for a fool. ’Twould serve him right.

  “Now, please, m’lady, turn round,” the girl suggested, and Sorcha did as she was bid. She wondered what Hagan had in store for her. First there had been the bath with that twit of a maid, and now this seamstress. “If you could hold your hair up so,” the girl said, lifting Sorcha’s curls off her neck. Sorcha complied, inwardly seething.

  “Almost done …” A needle pricked the back of Sorcha’s neck, and the seamstress gasped.

  “What the devil?”

  “Mother Mary preserve us! Sweet Jesus!” Stumbling backward, the girl dropped her sewing basket and fumbled with her fingers, making a hasty sign of the cross over her bosom.

  Sorcha was shocked for a moment before she realized the wide-eyed maid had seen her birthmark. Without finishing her task, the girl ran from the room, scurrying away from Sorcha as if she were the very daughter of Satan.

  So more than silly Ona had heard the prophecy. Some of the servants probably believed in the old tale. Good. This could work to her advantage when she tried to escape with Leah.

  With each hour she was away from Prydd, the chances increased that Tadd would discover that she and his prized horse were missing. As Isolde had foreseen, she’d been foolish taking the most fleet horse in the stables, her brother’s favorite mount. Had she stolen her own palfrey or an old jennet, mayhaps the stable master would not have noticed.

  In her haste, she’d made a vast error in judgment, not considering the fact that she might be caught. She’d only contemplated the need for a strong horse that could travel great distances carrying two people. McBannon was strong and fast, the best in the stables. Sorcha had stolen him to insure that she and Leah returned to Prydd swiftly.

  Her insides felt like jelly when she considered Tadd’s wrath. Coward that he was, he could certainly take out his fury on poor old Isolde, who, for as long as Sorcha could remember, had done nothing but care for her.

  Chewing on her lower lip and plotting her escape, she stared out the window to the grounds below. Erbyn was nearly inescapable. Surrounded by a great wall, the bailey was complete with pond, well, stables, barns, and various sheds for the baker, candlemaker, carpenters, tanners, and other peasants. She could see part of the gardens, now dreary and covered with old weeds in the winter rain.

  Guests arrived through the open gate, as she had, but the soldiers greeted each wagon and horseman more carefully than before. A hunter arrived with several pheasants, quail, and a large boar. The dead pig had been lashed to poles and was being dragged toward the kitchen.

  Erbyn was larger than Prydd, but castle life was much the same. Carpenters were shoring up the roof of the stables, and the armorer, under his covered porch, was polishing shields and helmets in sacks of bran. Swords and crossbow bolts were cleaned as well, and Sorcha’s heart turned cold as she gazed at the weapons that could be used against the people of Prydd. The truce that had been observed for years was always feeble at best, and now that both daughters of Eaton were imprisoned, there would surely be war. Because of Darton’s ambitions.

  Damn him and damn his brother. Hagan, if he were indeed a ruler, could surely have controlled his twin.

  As if she’d conjured up the very devil himself, she saw Hagan, limping slightly, as he strode along the well-worn paths of the bailey. He stopped and talked with the carpenters, congratulated the hunter on his kill, and even paused to speak to a small boy who was catching eels in the pond. The people he spoke with smiled up at him and there was no fear on their faces, not like the servants at Prydd, who rarely dared speak with Tadd. When they had, their expressions had always been brittle, like old candle wax, and their smiles were forced. But not so with this ruler of Erbyn.

  Her gaze narrowed on Hagan. He was a handsome devil, she’d give him that, but his good looks did not atone for his arrogance and pride. His hair, so brown as to be mistaken for black, gleamed in the pale winter light, and his angular features looked as if they’d been hewn from stone. Hollow cheeks from months at war, skin weathered by the elements, thick, dark eyebrows, a nose shaped like a hawk’s beak, and eyes the color of liquid gold.

  She should have killed him when she had the chance, she thought, though a small part of her knew that she could never have taken his life. That piece of knowledge bothered her sorely, and she realized that heretofore she’d believed part of the myth of her birth, that she was the savior of her people. How foolish! How could she save a castle when she couldn’t even slit the throat of a sworn enemy?

  Maybe her mission was to heal rather than kill, for surely something magical had happened in Leah’s room last night. She twirled the serp
ent ring around her finger and considered her plight. Though she’d saved her sister, she’d failed all of Prydd by letting herself be captured. Mayhap the old rumors surrounding the mark on the back of her neck were as false as Father William had preached they were. Oftentimes at mass the chaplain had pointed out the frailties of his congregation, noted that their beliefs in God were not strong. Father William had stared openly at Sorcha when he’d begged the congregation to give up their pagan rites and blasphemous ways. She’d sat in her pew, her back stiff, her cheeks burning, as she’d endured the condemning weight of every-one’s gaze sliding in her direction.

  Father William despised her; he made no effort to hide his feelings, and Sorcha had often worried of his dissatisfaction. She’d once confided her concerns to Isolde.

  “Ahh, don’t be bothered by that jackass,” Isolde had remarked.

  “But he hates me.”

  “Nay, child, he fears you.”

  “Why?”

  Isolde’s weathered face had wrinkled into a smug smile and her eyes had gleamed with devilment. “Because he doesn’t understand you and the power you’ve been given. He’s afraid that the mark on your neck, the kiss of the moon, is the work of his God, or worse yet, the work of the gods of the old ones—the gods he denies.”

  “But he says he believes not in the story and calls it the idle thoughts of gossiping old women.”

  “Aye, but he will not let the prophecy die, will he? Time after time, he brings it up himself, and there is fear in his faded eyes. Believe you me. You have challenged his own faith, and that frightens him.”

  Sorcha had always taken comfort in Isolde’s words, and a part of her wished to be the true savior of Prydd. But now, imprisoned by a man she hated, she realized that she wasn’t much different from any other captive.

  She eyed the ring surrounding her finger. The only difference was that there might be people, servants, merchants, guards, and even part of the baron’s family, who believed in the old tale. Hadn’t silly Ona thought her magical? The seamstress had fled in terror at the sight of her birthmark. Those people would fear her. There was a chance that she would be able to convince them that she was picked by the gods and therefore sacred. Mayhap they could be persuaded to help her. Curse it all. If only she’d taken the time to learn some of Isolde’s spells; if only she’d paid attention to the runes that the old woman drew in the sand. But no. She’d been much too practical to study the old ways.

  What had Isolde said? Listen to your heart; the magic will be with you. Hadn’t magic happened last night?

  Hearing excited shouts, she forced her eyes away from Hagan and the hunter to see a peasant man leading a horse—Tadd’s destrier—through the gates.

  Her heart dropped like a stone as she stared at the stallion, who reared and pulled at the bit and was lathered in sweat. Hagan walked over to the peasant. “Oh, McBannon,” she whispered.

  Fists planted firmly on his hips, Hagan studied the animal carefully. The charger whistled shrilly, pulling away, but Hagan wasn’t afraid. He dodged a swift kick. Running experienced hands over McBannon’s mud-spattered hide, he cast a glance to the castle and the very window of Sorcha’s room. For an instant their gazes locked, and Sorcha felt the warm air in her lungs turn to crystals of ice. Fury radiated from Hagan and he muttered something to the peasant, who put his shoulders into the task of leading the balking stallion to the stables. Sorcha didn’t move, and again she was rewarded with a glance that could cut through steel.

  Again the bay tried to bolt, and Hagan barked an order to a lanky blond stableboy who said some soft words and calmed Tadd’s stallion. The boy led the horse toward the stables, and Sorcha smiled to herself in the knowledge that at least McBannon was with her and, if needs be, could soon provide means for escape.

  Somehow she would have to convince Hagan that she had accepted her fate, make him trust her so that she could have some freedom within the castle walls. So that she could visit Leah.

  It had been easy to sneak into Erbyn. Surely stealing away—even with Leah wounded—would prove less a task. Now that she had the stallion, escape was possible … She rubbed her hands together thoughtfully and wished Hagan hadn’t taken her daggers from her. Aside from a fleet horse, she needed a sharp weapon, a lot of courage, and twice as much luck. Still, the towering walls of Erbyn weren’t invincible, and Sorcha would find a way to break free. Or die trying.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! The knock at the door was so loud, Sorcha jumped from her seat at the window. The door swung open before she’d recovered, and Hagan entered. “’Tis time for dinner. Come.”

  She expected to see fury in his eyes as he held the door for her, but his face was a mask without emotion, his stare penetrating but unreadable.

  She did as she was bid, for only if she lured him into believing that she was obedient would she gain his trust, which was very important were she to succeed in escaping. Linking her arm through his, she had a momentary vision of lying with him in his bed, their bodies entwined and naked, sweat glistening on his skin.

  She swallowed hard. A deep flush warmed her cheeks.

  Hagan took her elbow and guided her down the stairs that curved into the great hall. Tables and benches had been placed facing the baron’s table. Servants and commoners gathered together. There was much laughter and gossip, and the spirit of Christmas was in the air.

  As Sorcha descended the stairs, a hush rolled over the crowd and every pair of eyes turned in her direction. She held her head aloft, her chin raised, as they walked through the throng.

  “That’s the one,” she heard whispered. “ ’Tis said she’s got magic in her fingers—saved her sister’s life, she did.”

  “That little mite of a thing?” Disbelief and a cackle of nervous laughter.

  “Aye … they claim she’s got the bloody kiss of the moon printed on her backside.”

  “The savior of Prydd is a girl?” Heartier laughter. “Well, I’ll be buggered.”

  “I’d give me right eye to have a look-see at that mark.”

  “On her rump, ye say?”

  “Aye.” A snort not unlike a boar rutting. “Maybe me left eye, as well.”

  Sorcha’s back stiffened and she wished by all that was holy that she had her little knife in her fingers. She felt the hot gazes upon her, heard the whispers and laughter, and wondered how she’d get through the meal.

  They sat at the head table, she at Hagan’s side, her head held high despite the curious stares cast her way. On Hagan’s other side was a tall, stately woman with brown eyes and a long, slim nose. Hagan’s sister, no doubt, the owner of the clothes she was wearing.

  “My sister, Lady Anne,” Hagan introduced. “Lady Sorcha of Prydd.”

  “So the savior of Prydd is our guest,” Anne said as she lifted one elegant eyebrow. “The whole castle is speaking of you. I’ve heard you’ve been busy.”

  “That I have, Lady Anne, and now all I want is for my sister and myself to be set free to go back to Prydd.” Mayhap Hagan’s sister wouldn’t turn a deaf ear on her request.

  Hagan sent her a warning glare.

  “ ’Tis not much to ask,” Sorcha insisted.

  Lifting a shoulder, Anne agreed. “I see no reason why you can’t—”

  “When your sister is well enough to travel,” Hagan interrupted, pinning Sorcha with his angry glare, “I will return with you myself.” Sorcha could hardly believe her ears. Her spirits soared for an instant. Mayhap Hagan was not the beast she believed him to be. “However, we first must hear from your brother. I’ve sent a messenger telling him that you are here and that we want peace.”

  Her elation gave way to despair. Knowing Tadd as she did, she was certain that he would use Leah’s kidnapping and her capture to his advantage. He would demand payment of some kind—retribution for the slaying of Gwendolyn, Henry, and Keane. Her heart twisted when she thought of Keane and how he had wanted to marry her. She hadn’t loved him and suspected he was more in love with her wretched birthmark an
d the stories that surrounded it than he was in love with her, but he hadn’t deserved to die.

  A thick lump filled her throat and she glanced at Hagan, handsome and proud, baron of all that was Erbyn, a cruel and arrogant ruler.

  Yet her traitorous heart already had found a soft spot for him, and though she experienced more than a little shame when she remembered how she’d nearly given herself to him, she still felt a spark of desire, a betraying want that coursed through her blood. Shameless desire she’d never felt with Keane.

  Startled by the turn of her thoughts, she glanced up and found him staring at her, as intently as a hawk searching the ground for mice. For a horrible second she wondered if he could sense her thoughts.

  “I’ll keep you from your sister no longer,” he said, his voice so low that the hounds beneath the table growled. “After dinner, you may see her.” For a second, kindness touched his features and he didn’t seem so threatening.

  Pages brought bowls to wash their fingers and linen cloths to wipe them clean. Another page carefully filled the wine cups. From the hallway near the kitchen, a trumpet blared, announcing the first course of boiled mutton and spiced sauce. Ada, the cook, sending Sorcha a blistering glare, carried a huge platter of the mutton while other servants brought in more food: huge dishes filled with brawn and pike, pheasants and custard. Though her stomach rumbled, Sorcha could barely eat.

  She forced a bite of jellied eggs and pretended not to feel the interested gazes cast in her direction.

  Two gray dogs lay behind Hagan, their great heads resting on their paws, their yellow eyes watching each piece of meat in hopes that a tasty morsel would drop into the rushes.

  She heard snatches of several conversations and learned that outlaws infested the forest surrounding the castle. “Two guests have already been attacked and robbed,” Anne told her brother around a mouthful of pike. “Word has it that to the east, a group of Osric McBrayne’s soldiers were beaten and their horses stolen. The men were more embarrassed than hurt, but McBrayne is ready to go to war.”

  “No doubt he blames Garrick of Abergwynn,” Hagan said, knowing of the age-old feud between the powerful barons.