Kiss of the Moon

by Lisa Jackson

  At the outer gate his party was stopped, and he argued with a guard. Eventually he was allowed into the castle with two of his knights, though the guard wasn’t happy about the second man. But Tadd insisted and rode proudly into the inner bailey. A fat man with suspicious eyes and a belly that hung over his belt grudgingly took their horses to be fed and watered.

  The guard was a man without expression, and he led Tadd and his two men, Christian and Gower, into a great hall that was as grand as it was immense. Huge beams crossed beneath a ceiling that was high and coved, tapestries decorated the whitewashed walls, and the lord’s dais was two steps above the smooth stone floor. Sweet-smelling rushes had been scattered over the floor, and a huge fire crackled in the hearth.

  Servants scurried out of their way as they walked through a wide corridor and past a staircase toward the dais, where the cur Hagan … nay, Darton of Erbyn sat in a huge chair, looking for all the world as if he were the baron. Two were with him, a tall, gaunt-looking man and a shorter fellow with red hair and mean eyes. The hairs on the back of Tadd’s scalp lifted in warning, but he showed no trace of fear.

  “Welcome,” Darton said, rising. His hands were out-spread in a gesture of greeting and goodwill. “Come sit at the table. Have food and drink and find comfort.”

  A serving wench appeared carrying a tray laden with six mazers of wine and a basket of apples. She was a comely girl with big breasts that seemed about to spill out of the top of her tunic. “Lucy, give Sir Tadd whatever he requests,” Darton said warmly, and the girl, flashing large brown eyes in Tadd’s direction, smiled. Tadd’s loins tightened as he took a cup of the wine, stared at the deep cleft of the wench’s incredible bosom, and drank heartily. Oh, to bury his face in those warm, supple pillows. He watched Lucy retreat. Her hips were wide and swung as she walked, and he imagined himself mounting her. A big woman, she could endure much and might spend hours satisfying a man. His breeches were suddenly painfully tight and he had to force his gaze back to his host. He gritted his teeth and hoped his passion didn’t show.

  “You like her?” Darton asked, his eyes flashing as he picked up an apple, polished it on the end of his tunic, and tossed it in the air. “You may have her. I’ll arrange it.” He caught the apple deftly and took a bite. “Or … if you would prefer, there is Bliss … None sweeter, I assure you. Here, drink … and eat.” He motioned to all the soldiers.

  Tadd’s throat constricted and his mouth was dry with lust, but he forced his thoughts away from whoring for the moment and picked up a cup. “I am here about my sisters.” He took a long swallow, quenching his thirst. The others joined in.

  Darton smiled warmly. “I expected as much.”

  “Baron Hagan has promised their safe return along with payment for the trouble and grief I’ve suffered.” Importantly, Tadd plucked Hagan’s letter from his pouch and laid it on the table near Darton, who scanned the words and shook his head.

  Sighing, Darton said, “I’m afraid I have some disturbing news.”

  His sisters—were they dead? Already killed by Hagan’s men? Tadd’s muscles tightened and he was glad he still had his sword with him. “News?”

  “Hagan is missing. As are your sisters.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, don’t fret,” Darton said with a wave, as if swatting away a bothersome insect. “ ’Tis only a matter of time until all are found.” Setting his elbows on the table, he leaned closer to Tadd, as if to confide a great secret. “Sorcha and Leah decided to return to Prydd on their own and convinced a stableboy to turn traitor. Then they stole some valuable horses to accomplish their escape.” He clucked his tongue as if the plan were silly and foolish. “Hagan, of course, was incensed at their disobedience. He gathered together a few of his men, left me in charge of Erbyn, and took off after the traitors. We expect them back any time.”

  Traitors? “My sisters were not traitors. It sounds as if they were treated like prisoners.” Tadd was uneasy. He didn’t trust anyone from Erbyn, and this story seemed a convenient lie guaranteed to make him sweat. Well, he was worried, but he hid it well. “Leah was kidnapped,” he reminded his host, “brought here and held against her will.”

  Darton’s lips tightened a bit, but he didn’t argue.

  “Hagan admits to the deed.”

  “Yes, well—”

  “And Sorcha only came here to free her sister,” Tadd continued, smiling to himself as he defended the woman who had been the bane of his existence from the moment of her birth. “I will expect compensation.” Tadd decided to press his advantage. “But, of course, I should discuss this with Lord Hagan.”

  Darton’s smile froze. “I’ve spoken with Hagan about this and I know his plans. You will be compensated well, Sir Tadd, and as for your sisters, they will be provided for. Sir Marshall has offered to marry Lady Leah—” from the corner of his eye he saw Marshall stiffen, but if he was inclined to argue, he held his tongue “—and I myself will take Lady Sorcha as my bride. We will expect no dowries, of course, and in truth, I think Hagan will want to keep the peace.”

  “Three people were murdered during the kidnapping.”

  “A mistake. Those responsible have already been imprisoned,” Darton said, lying easily. Tadd was so easy to read—a mere boy. “Justice at Erbyn is swift.”

  “I lost two soldiers and a woman servant.”

  “For which you will be paid.”

  It was Tadd’s turn to inch closer. “I want a small fiefdom; a castle not far from Prydd.”

  Darton seemed to pale a bit, and Tadd felt a sense of satisfaction. From the moment he’d stepped into the great hall, he had felt manipulated, but now he had the upper hand.

  “Your father would demand this?” Darton said, recovering a bit.

  “My father is dead,” Tadd said firmly. He managed a thin smile and drank Hagan of Erbyn’s choice wine. Things were going better than he’d hoped because he’d finally understood Darton’s motives—oh, he’d hidden them well, but Darton of Erbyn was not the first man entranced by Sorcha. Nor was he the first man to ask for the hand of the savior of Prydd. ’Twas foolish. And to Tadd’s advantage. “I am now the Baron of Prydd, and my honor as well as the honor of both my sisters has been trampled upon, and the truce has been broken. For this I demand payment of the castle. ’Tis not too much to ask. Sir Darton, you will end up not only with peace, but my sister as well. Yea, you will be married to the savior of Prydd, and that’s truly what you want, is it not?”

  “ ’Tis time,” Hagan said, lifting her onto his destrier and climbing behind. Dawn had broken, and through the clawlike branches of the trees overhead, Sorcha saw the sky, dark and somber. Gray clouds with purple bellies rolled across the sun, threatening rain, causing the forest to close around them.

  With one arm wrapped possessively around her waist and the reins clenched tightly in his other hand, Hagan urged his horse forward along the seldom-used road. The white palfrey followed behind, content to stay with the stallion.

  Sorcha tried to ignore the heat of Hagan’s body and the intimate fit of her buttocks as they wedged against his thighs. She didn’t think about the strong band of his arm surrounding her just below her breasts, but as the horse cantered and she rubbed up against him, she felt her blood stir with desire and she was reminded of their lovemaking within the cracked walls of the old cottage.

  She told herself that her heart wasn’t involved, that though she was attracted to him, she hadn’t fallen for this man she suspected to be her enemy, but deep in her soul, she knew differently. Though she hated to admit the horrid fact, she was beginning to care about this dark baron and his gruff ways. She’d been fighting her feelings of love for days, and now, in the gray light of morning, she could no longer lie to herself. She loved him. ’Twas simple and foolish, but the truth. She could deny it to everyone else, but deep in the most secret recesses of her heart, she knew that she would never feel the same about another man.

  ’Twas a curse; just like the damned birthmark t
hat had gotten her into this mess in the first place. Yes, but had you not the birthmark, you would never have met Hagan.

  Her throat closed in upon itself, for she could not think of being without him.

  She should hate him. Hagan had left his castle to be guarded by his twin, and Darton had only wreaked havoc. ’Twas under Darton’s orders that Henry, Gwendolyn, and Keane had been killed, and Darton had kidnapped Leah and raped her. No matter how Sorcha’s wayward heart felt about Hagan, she could not forget the pain his brother had caused her family and Prydd.

  “We’ll be home soon now,” he whispered against her ear.

  Home. Erbyn was not her home. And yet she’d begun to feel at ease in the yellow stone walls of the great keep. The peasants and servants, once suspicious, had grown friendly, though some who had heard of her powers still viewed her with a wary eye. Her heart filled with anticipation of seeing the stone dragon of a castle standing proud on the ancient cliffs.

  The horse raced through the woods and the wind shifted, blowing cold against her face in an icy blast. The stallion’s black ears pricked forward, and Sorcha felt the slightest hesitation in his gait. The mare whinnied nervously, and when Sorcha looked over her shoulder, the palfrey stood nose to the wind, nostrils extended, and didn’t budge.

  “Hagan … ?” A premonition of dread slithered down her spine, and Hagan tensed, his fingers pulling back on the reins, his other hand reaching for his sword.

  Wind slowed to a trot.

  An arrow whistled through the air.

  Instinctively Hagan wrapped his body over hers.

  Thump!

  Hagan flinched, his body bracing against a burst of pain. “Christ Jesus!” he swore, yanking hard on the reins, forcing the beast to wheel.

  Oh, God, he’d been wounded! “Hagan—”

  “Run, you demon,” he cried, kicking the horse so desperately that the destrier took flight, his great legs stretching into a hard gallop, mud flying from beneath his heavy hooves. The air sang past them, cold and dry, blinding Sorcha as the bare trees flashed by.

  A horrid, blood-chilling whoop erupted from somewhere in the shadows. More arrows sizzled through the air, and the startled white mare galloped through the woods.

  Thwack! Hagan’s entire body convulsed, and she knew he’d been hit yet again.

  Where were they? The attackers—where were they hiding? Sorcha felt the rigidity leave Hagan’s body. He slumped against her. Please God, don’t let him die!

  “You must go on,” he said, his voice a wheeze, his breathing shallow and labored against her ear.

  He was leaving her? Not as long as she had a breath of life in her body. “No, Hagan—”

  “I cannot stay. ’Tis not safe for you—”

  “Hang on!” she insisted. What was he saying? That he was going to give up? She felt his body slipping off the horse and she clung to his arms, forcing them around her. “I will get you to Erbyn. The horse knows the way.”

  Another horrid whoop curdled the air.

  “Leave me now, Sorcha. I’ll stand and fight.”

  “Never!” She kicked Wind with all her strength.

  “For once in your life, woman, obey me!”

  “I can’t … Hagan …” Her eyes filled with tears and love, and she clung to him, unwilling to let him go, to let him die.

  “There is no other way.”

  “I’ll never leave you—”

  Thwack! A deadly arrow sizzled through the air and pierced Wind’s haunch. The horse reared and screamed, and Hagan slipped to the ground, leaving Sorcha to scrabble for the reins. She started to dismount, but her foot tangled in the long stirrup.

  “Ride to Erbyn. Get help!”

  “Nay!” she cried, desperate. She thought for a fleeting second of riding to Prydd, but the journey was much longer than to Erbyn, and she could not leave Hagan.

  Tossing his great head and whinnying in terror, Wind bolted. From the corner of her eye Sorcha saw Hagan crawl into the gloom of the forest. No! No! No! She couldn’t leave him! She had to return and save him. Only she had the power to heal, and for the first time in her life, she was grateful for the damned curse of her birthmark.

  She groped for the reins, but the terrified horse lunged forward, racing down the road. Trees and light flashed by, and Sorcha, determined to return for Hagan, gritted her teeth and clawed at the stallion’s neck, straining to reach the leather straps that flapped in the air and slapped against Wind’s lathered coat. His hoofbeats thundered through the forest, and with each stride he carried her farther away from Hagan.

  “Whoa!” she screamed, her lungs burning. “Damn you, stop!” She could barely breathe, but she couldn’t give up. Even now Hagan could be set upon by the outlaws, his blood staining the forest floor. Her throat was dry, her heart hammering with fear. With one hand she knotted her fingers in the animal’s thick mane and grabbed for the reins with her other. “Stop, you bloody beast. Stop!”

  The reins were just out of reach, slipping away each time she caught hold of a strap.

  Determined not to lose this battle for Hagan’s life, she lunged and her fingers captured one thin strip of leather. With all her might, she wound the rein through her fingers, feeling the leather cut into her skin as she pulled back with all the power in her shoulders. The horse nearly stumbled as he slowed and turned in a tight circle. “Now, you damned animal, we go back!” she commanded, though the horrid arrow still protruded from his rump. “Hiya!” She kicked him in the sides and started back.

  Hagan, oh, Hagan, hold on. I’m coming. Don’t give up, my love!

  He had to be safe! He had to! But pictures of him lying in a pool of blood tortured her mind as the stallion raced through the dead leaves and mud. He couldn’t be dead. Oh, God, what would she do without him? She sent up prayer after desperate prayer for his life. Her heart twisted as wind coursed through her hair and tears streamed from her eyes. So blind was she that she almost didn’t see them—a strong line of soldiers blocking her path.

  Tugging hard on the reins, she felt a moment of gladness, for she recognized these men—they were Hagan’s soldiers. “Thank God,” she whispered as Wind skidded to a stop near a rider on a bay stallion. “Oh, Sir Brady! You have to help me! Hagan’s been struck down by outlaws and he’s here, in the woods …”

  Brady grabbed the reins, stripping them from her frozen fingers. His smile was cold as the North Sea, and his eyes glinted with an evil light.

  Sorcha’s breath died in her lungs, and dread, that black monster, settled deep in her heart.

  “I have terrible news, m’lady,” Brady said as Sorcha’s heart pounded with the rhythm of doom.

  “No!” she screamed before the horrid words found her ears.

  Brady’s mouth pinched a bit. “I’m sorry, Lady Sorcha, but I fear Lord Hagan is dead.”

  Fifteen

  won’t believe it!” Sorcha regarded Darton with hate-filled eyes. The great hall was nearly deserted and felt dreary and dank without the revelry of Christmas, without the laughter of the peasants, without Hagan. She shivered and rubbed her arms, but her gaze never left Darton’s. “Hagan’s not dead! He can’t be!”

  “You saw him fall yourself,” Darton said with a smile that was meant to be kind but shredded Sorcha’s insides. He motioned quickly to Lucy. “Hot soup for the lady and a cup of the best wine. She’s had a long journey and needs—”

  “Nay!” Sorcha had no time for these comforts he offered. Each minute wasted precious seconds of Hagan’s life. “We must go back,” she insisted, restraining herself from lunging at Darton and shaking the very life from him. What was the matter with him? His own brother, his twin, was lying in the forest, his lifeblood seeping out of his body, and here Darton sat, in the baron’s chair, drinking wine and talking with his men, as if an attack on Hagan’s life happened each day.

  There was something amiss, but she wasn’t sure what. “Take me to him. Send his soldiers …”

  “I’m afraid you’re asking
the impossible,” Darton said, and she suddenly had a glimmer of the truth—that Darton, and not outlaws, was behind the attack. Her throat tightened in fear, for Darton was far more dangerous than unknown cutthroats.

  “Where are all of Hagan’s men?” she asked, her mouth feeling as dry as sand. “Sir Kennard and Sir Royce and Sir Winston … Where are they?”

  “They left with Hagan yesterday. No one’s seen them since.” Darton let out a long, unhappy sigh that Sorcha didn’t believe for an instant. “ ’Tis feared that they, too, were set upon, and none survived.”

  “This I cannot believe. So many strong knights—all perished?”

  “ ’Tis a tragedy,” Darton said with a sad lift of his eyebrows, though he seemed bored and flicked a bit of dirt from his blue tunic. “I’ve sent men looking for them, of course, but so far no one has been found. Ah, Lucy! You’re an angel.” Blushing, Lucy placed the cup of wine and bowl of soup on the table, but Sorcha ignored Darton’s offer. She was cold inside and numb all over. Hagan couldn’t be dead. She was sure of it. If he’d died, she would feel it. A part of her would have died with him. No! No! No!

  She didn’t trust Darton; never had. Today he was too calm. Too … satisfied and smug, as if he knew a dark secret he would share with no one.

  “What of Bjorn and Leah?”

  “The traitors?” He plucked an apple from the bowl on the table and slowly slid the blade of his dagger under the fruit’s red skin.

  “They were but following my plan,” she insisted. “If anyone is a traitor, ’tis I.”

  “That isn’t the question.” He sliced a bit of apple and carried it to his mouth with his blade. “Bjorn and Leah are thieves and traitors, and should they be found, will be treated as such.” He chewed the slice of apple slowly.

  “And me?” she asked, sensing that there was something more—something hideous that he’d left unsaid. Unspoken words hung like ghosts in the air.