Kiss of the Moon

by Lisa Jackson

  “I come from Erbyn. I know not Prydd.”

  “Yes, but there must be plenty of gossip. Come. Drink some wine and tell me all you know.”

  Isolde carried a trencher of mutton into Sorcha’s room. “’Ere ya go, m’lady,” she said, making sure the guard did not get a peek into the chamber. As he was instructed, the sentry bolted the door, for Tadd was certain Sorcha would escape and cause him great misery.

  Inside the room, Isolde worked fast, keeping up a steady stream of conversation with herself, mimicking Sorcha’s voice as best she could, for the guard would only hear muted sounds from the door. She kindled the fire, ate the mutton herself, drank from the pail, and relieved herself in the other bucket. Oh, if only Sorcha would return quickly, for soon Tadd would become suspicious. If not for his interest in drink and women, he probably would have discovered Sorcha’s deceit before this.

  She made sure the window was open, so that the breeze could enter the room and toss whatever was about to make noise, then she said a quick prayer and picked up the remains of her last meal so that the guard would think that Sorcha had been nibbling at Cook’s food.

  “Good day, m’lady,” she said, knocking on the door for the guard and slipping through as soon as the bar was lifted.

  “Still not feeling well?” the dullard of a sentry asked.

  “Aye, she’s still in her bed. Resting. But I think she’s on the mend.”

  The guard smiled, and Isolde was thankful that Sir Geoffrey was a trusting soul not known for his wits.

  “Leah!” Sorcha could hardly believe her eyes as, with a moan, Leah stirred, her lids opened, and she stared up at her sister.

  “Praise the Lord,” Rosemary said.

  “Or the devil,” Nellie muttered under her breath.

  Sorcha didn’t care what the simple woman thought. It was enough to know that her sister was going to survive. For three long days she’d kept her vigil, sitting for hours at Leah’s side, waiting for word from the messenger, and plotting their means of escape if Tadd refused Hagan’s terms and started a war.

  She was worried, for she’d seen the armorer and his sons working from daybreak until long into the night, cleaning and preparing weapons and mail. The stableboys, too, had been grooming the horses and repairing broken saddles and bridles.

  Soldiers eagerly practiced against the quintain or spent hours shooting arrows at targets, and troops from other castles seemed to be amassing. Aye, there was more than the spirit of the Christmas revels in the air, there was the smell of war.

  “Sorcha?” Leah’s voice was faint and raspy, barely more than a whisper. “What? Where?” Her confused gaze traveled over the room. “I’ve had such horrible dreams …” Her voice left her as her gaze settled on Nellie. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “We’re at Erbyn.”

  “Yes. But not for long.”

  Leah’s green eyes filled with sudden tears and terror shook her voice. “Oh, please, you don’t know …”

  “Shh. ’Twill be all right.”

  Leah tried to scramble to a sitting position, winced in pain, and noticed for the first time the strips of linen binding her wrists. She let out a pitiful moan, then clamped a hand over her mouth, as if she was afraid of being overheard. “Darton?” she whispered, her eyes like mirrors.

  “He’s here, but not allowed in this chamber. Lord Hagan has returned.”

  Leah didn’t seem relieved. She clutched Sorcha’s hand with cold fingers and amazing strength. “Do not let him near me, Sorcha.”

  “Worry not.”

  “Oh, but you do not know!” Leah’s voice was desperate, her pretty face lined with strain.

  Sorcha held her sister’s hands between her own, and a great joy filled her heart. Leah was alive. She’d survived. She leaned close to her sister and kept her voice low. “Worry not, Leah,” she said with more conviction than she felt, “for our days here are numbered. I have found a way to escape.”

  Eight

  ying on her bed, listening hard, Sorcha heard the changing of the guard. She knew from talk in the castle that it was well past midnight when the soldiers changed posts. Ears straining, she heard a few words of greeting, then, holding her breath, listened as they walked past her door. One guard was posted at each end of the hallway, but she guessed, from the sounds she’d heard within the castle every night, that there was a little time when they both talked at the head of the stairs, and now, because of the Christmas revels, they’d drunk more mead and wine than they should and would soon be dozing at their posts.

  She slid into the black hooded cloak that she’d inherited from Lady Anne, then soundlessly made her way to the door. It was not locked, as Hagan had insisted she was a guest, and she’d spent most of the evening greasing the hinges with the mutton fat she’d sneaked from the table.

  Without a sound she opened the door, and then, spying the guards with their backs to the hallway, she hurried noiselessly in the other direction to the back stairs past Hagan’s chamber. It was dark; she felt the rough wall with her fingers as all along the hallway the rushlights had burned down to soft red embers.

  She held her breath as she passed Hagan’s door and slipped down the stairs, careful not to fall. The kitchen was empty, but a dog guarded the back door. She couldn’t see the hound, but heard him growl ominously.

  He was joined by another with an even lower and more threatening rumble of his throat.

  “Now, now, boys,” she whispered, hearing the hounds start to get to their feet. “See what I’ve got for you.” She tossed the scraps of the mutton fat to the animals, who snarled and fought for the prize as she opened the back door and felt the cold breath of winter against her face.

  Only thin light from the moon sifted through high clouds, but Sorcha had spent her days committing the features of the dark bailey to her memory. Without hesitation, she dashed along a muddy path that wound past the cobbler’s hut and the closed doorway of the candlemaker.

  Hens clucked anxiously as she passed their coop, and farther away, the lowing of a cow filled the night, but Sorcha didn’t hesitate. The stables weren’t far now, and she gathered her skirts and ran through the shadows, certain the soldiers at their posts on the battlements couldn’t see her.

  Upon the wind the acrid smells of urine, leather and sweat, dung and horseflesh, combined to meet her hungry nostrils. She found the stable door and sent up a quiet prayer that she wouldn’t be discovered. With a groan the door opened and Sorcha slipped into the dark interior, unaware that Hagan, restless from a night filled with dreams of her warming his bed, had walked out of the keep himself and was standing near the well, watching as she dashed furtively within the walls of the inner bailey. He followed Sorcha’s path and decided she was more trouble than he needed.

  Yet he was fascinated and he wondered what he would do when he caught up with her. Grab her roughly and toss her back into her room and bar the door, or yank her to him and kiss her until the passion that roared through his blood disappeared?

  “There you are,” Sorcha whispered as she saw McBannon tethered near the doorway. She would recognize the stallion anywhere, even in the stables illuminated only by the frail light from the windows. Other horses had snorted at being awakened, but McBannon nickered softly, guiding her with his voice.

  “Miss me, did you?” Though the horse was Tadd’s, Sorcha had befriended the animal when he was only a colt hiding behind the flanks of his mother. She’d offered sugar, apples, and kind words to the long-legged animal and had ridden him often until Tadd had declared the destrier to be his.

  Though he was Tadd’s favorite mount, the horse had never forgotten Sorcha. “Look what I brought.” She withdrew a piece of apple from her pouch and felt the velvet softness of McBannon’s lips whisper upon her outstretched palm. “Are they taking care of you well?”

  “Aye, m’lady, the best of care,” a deep male voice asserted.

  Sorcha visibly jumped and McBannon snorted, twisting against his tether.

  “He�
��s a fine horse, he is,” the voice, unfamiliar to her ears, continued. “Lord Hagan fancies the animal.”

  “Who—who are you?”

  There was a long pause, and though she stared into darkness from where the voice had boomed, she heard nothing, saw nothing. Her skin prickled with fear. Finally she heard a rustling of straw and a tall, lanky man appeared at McBannon’s flank. In the darkness, she couldn’t recognize him.

  “I work here,” he finally said.

  “You’re …” What was that unfamiliar name? “Ben?”

  “Bjorn.”

  “The stableboy?”

  Again the hesitation, and she sensed an anger, burning deep and hot, radiating from him. “For now.”

  “You don’t plan to stay at Erbyn?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I will tell no one of your plans.”

  “I have no plans,” he said quickly. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I… I couldn’t sleep. I needed to take a walk.”

  “You weren’t planning to steal the horse?” he asked, suspicion and something else—pleasure perhaps?—ringing in his voice.

  “Nay!”

  “Good, because ’tis impossible to leave this castle at night. Guards are posted and the portcullis is down.” He moved, shifting a little, and Sorcha felt a second of fear. She turned, hoping to face him, not wanting him to have the advantage of being at her back.

  “You think I intended to leave,” she said, hoping that her plans weren’t so visible to others.

  “I know you want out. I can see it in your eyes. You have only not made good your escape because of your sister.”

  “You don’t know anything about me.”

  A second’s pause, then a sigh laced with disappointment. “So you, too, consider me a simpleton, a stableboy who’s half-witted and can do nothing more than scoop horse dung and spread straw?” he said, and within his voice she heard a sudden tone of nobility, as if the job he’d been given were far beneath him.

  “Nay, but—”

  “I know that you sneaked into Erbyn, Lady Sorcha,” he said, his voice coming from yet another direction. “It is said that you lied your way past the guards and the cook, then tried to kill the lord.”

  “If I had wanted to kill him, he would be dead.” She whirled, trying to keep up with him as he moved in the darkness. He was quick and silent, and she could barely see.

  “I also heard that you brought your sister back from death. This … I find hard to believe.” He paused, and when he spoke again, he was so close to her, she could feel the heat of his body next to hers. “If you do plan to escape, m’lady,” he said so quietly, she barely heard the words, “ ’twould be best if you spoke with me. I can help you—”

  The door creaked and he stopped speaking altogether. His hand clamped over her arm and he attempted to pull her away from McBannon, but he was too late. Hagan’s voice cut through the quiet. “What the devil are you doing here, Sorcha?” he demanded, and Sorcha shriveled inside. She held her breath. “ ’Tis no use to hide; I saw you enter and heard you speaking with someone.”

  Oh, Lord, no! How could he have seen her? Her heart pounded so loudly, she was certain he could hear it.

  “ ’Tis me, m’lord,” Bjorn said suddenly, the hand around her arm tight.

  “No—” she cried, but he clamped his hand across her mouth.

  “Come forward. Outside.”

  Bjorn pressed her back against the wall, silently telling her to remain hidden. “Be still,” he whispered against the shell of her ear. “I am used to his punishments.” He left suddenly, following Hagan, and Sorcha drew in a long, shaky breath. True, it would be less suspicious if Hagan didn’t find her, but he’d already seen her enter the stables, and she couldn’t let Bjorn take the brunt of the baron’s wrath.

  Squaring her shoulders, she followed Bjorn. At the door-way, he turned and hissed, “Stay,” but she didn’t heed his command.

  They both ventured out of the darkness of the stables, and their eyes adjusted to the weak light cast by a shadowed moon.

  Hagan struck fear in her heart. Taller than Bjorn and much broader, he seemed to tower over the stableboy. In the dim light she could barely make out his features, but they were hard and set, his anger visible in his stance. “What kind of treachery goes on here?” he demanded.

  “I could not sleep,” Sorcha said.

  “So you sneaked past the guards and ended up here.”

  “Aye, to see about McBannon.”

  “In the middle of the night?” he said with a disbelieving sneer. “Why not wait until morn?”

  “As I said, I couldn’t sleep and needed to get some fresh air.”

  “Did you tell the guards?”

  “I bothered no one.”

  “Had you plans to leave?”

  “As you pointed out, m’lord, ’tis the middle of the night. I doubt the tower guard would let me pass.”

  “You’ve done it before,” he said, deep, angry grooves surrounding his mouth. “And you—stableboy, what of you?”

  “He was guarding the steed,” Sorcha said before Bjorn could answer.

  “I sleep in the stables and heard her enter.”

  “And what did you tell her?”

  “To go back to the keep,” Sorcha answered again, too quickly.

  “The boy has a tongue, does he not? Let him speak for himself.” Hagan didn’t bother to hide his irritation.

  Bjorn stiffened, his eyes slitting in hatred. “ ’Tis as the lady says. I told her I would look after her horse and that ’twould be best if she returned to her chamber.”

  Hagan looked from one to the other and finally grabbed Sorcha by the arm. “Make sure no one disturbs the animals,” he said to Bjorn. “I’ll see to it that the stable master knows what happened.”

  Pulling hard on Sorcha’s elbow, he started back to the keep. His blood was on fire, his pulse thundering in his brain. Did she think he was stupid enough to believe her lie? She’d either been plotting her escape or she’d taken a fancy to the handsome stableboy. Either way, ’twas trouble. In truth, he’d rather think she was trying to find a means to leave Erbyn, but he doubted she would risk escape while her sister was still ill. No, but if not for the horse, then why? For the boy. They’d been speaking in whispers when he’d thrown open the stable door, and Hagan felt jealousy course through his blood.

  How could he have been so blind? Bjorn was handsome and had a way with horses as well as women. Many a young maid had dallied near the stables, hoping to draw his attention. Rumor had it that he claimed a birthright to nobility or royalty from the heathens of the North, but until now, Hagan had thought the gossip just the idle dreams of a poor stableboy.

  But Sorcha had gone to him in the middle of the night, risking her very life to be with him. Hagan’s teeth ground together and his fingers tightened over the muscles of her arm.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded as she trotted beside him.

  “Taking you back where you belong. ’Tis not safe for you to be out here at dark.”

  “Have you no faith in your men-at-arms?”

  “Aye, I’ve faith enough. Faith that some of them have had too much to drink and would find a woman alone fair game.”

  “No one saw me.”

  “I saw you. The stableboy saw you. But that’s what you wanted, was it not?”

  “What?” she asked as he opened the back door and forced her up the stone steps to the upper floor.

  “Don’t bother lying to me,” he growled as she stumbled upon the stairs. “You and he have either plotted together for your escape or you’ve become lovers.”

  “Lovers?” she repeated, her voice low. Was he jesting? He thought she and the stableboy had fallen in love. The thought nearly made her laugh, but she held her tongue. If Hagan believed that she and Bjorn had met to be together, he would be less suspicious of her true plans. “ ’Tis only been a few days, m’lord. What think you of me—that I be no bett
er than a common wench?”

  He didn’t say a word, but his lips compressed into a thin, angry line.

  “Trust you no one?”

  “Certainly not a woman who tries to kill me in my sleep.”

  “I don’t even know the stableboy,” she said, but didn’t sound convincing.

  “Don’t you now? Yet you were alone with him in the dark, defied my orders and sneaked out of your chamber to meet him.” He kicked open the door to his room and threw her inside. Embers from the fire reflected bloodred in the angles of his face, and the smell of burning wood singed the air.

  Sorcha nearly lost her footing, but turned, intent on running out of the room, when he closed the door firmly and turned the key. “Now, savior of all that is Prydd,” he said, advancing upon her with even, sure strides. “You had best be telling me what it is you were doing with the stableboy.”

  “I told you—”

  “Liar! From the moment you set foot in this castle, you have lied and argued and bargained for your release. You tricked the guards and the cook and tried to thrust a knife into my ribs.” She’d inched backward, her heart thundering as he closed in on her, and finally her back was pressed hard against the smooth stones of the wall. “And now, when I find you with the stableboy and hear you whispering, you tell me that you hardly know him.” His face was fierce, his eyes slits. “You’ve made a fool of me and a mockery of this castle, and now you think that I should believe that you were only restless, unable to sleep, and you just happened to meet Bjorn as if you were on a summer stroll through the gardens.”

  “That’s the way it was.”

  “You would lie to save him, just as you would have slept with me to protect your sister?”

  She tried to slap him, but he was quick. Years of training had prepared him and he caught her wrist and curved it backward, catching her arm around her back.

  “I’ve tried to trust you, Sorcha. I’ve treated you as my guest, and for that you’ve betrayed me.”