Kiss of the Moon

by Jackson, Lisa

Darton eyed his brother over the rim of his cup and motioned to the page for more wine. Soon Hagan’s vessel was full again. “You’ve had a hard ride, Hagan,” Darton observed as Hagan took a long swallow. “Need you a woman?”

  Hagan’s mouth lifted at one side. “So now you’re in the business of whoring, are ye, brother?”

  Darton let out an ugly laugh. “There are many here that would please you, Hagan. Elfrida has magic in her hands, I swear.” He leaned closer to his brother. “And her mouth … sweet wonders, she can do.”

  “I need not a woman,” Hagan said, disgust surging through his blood. He finished his drink and felt the soreness in his muscles loosen a bit.

  “Then there’s Bliss, and aye, that she is. The smith’s daughter, she works in the kitchen.” Darton lifted a finger and stroked the side of his mouth. “She’ll play any game ye wish. She has the strength of a woman twice her size, yet loves to be mastered. She’s got spirit and fire and can handle a whip as well as—”

  “Did you not hear me?” Hagan said in a low voice.

  With a nod from Darton, the page refilled Hagan’s cup. As the boy retreated, Darton said, “Do not be too hasty, brother. Bliss … believe me, there is no woman like her in all of Erbyn. She’ll disguise herself, torment you, fight you like a tigress, then, once you’ve proven your strength, open her legs so willingly—”

  “Enough!” Hagan whispered harshly. He was sickened at the depths of his twin’s perversion.

  “But, brother—”

  Hagan grabbed the front of Darton’s tunic and hauled the shorter man to his feet. Darton’s cup spilled on the table, wine flowing between the thick boards to be lapped up quickly by the ever-vigilant dogs. “There will be no wenching, Darton, and if I hear that you’ve turned any of the serving maids into whores, you’ll have to answer to me!”

  Darton’s face lost color.

  Hagan slowly uncurled his fists, but his eyes were still dark with anger, his jaw set and tight. “We’ll talk on the morrow,” he said as he motioned to a page. “Have hot water brought to my chamber.”

  “Aye, m’lord.” The page hurried out of the hall with swift footsteps.

  “Talk of what?” Darton asked, but Hagan didn’t reply, just finished his wine and sent his brother a scathing look that was certain to curdle Darton’s blood.

  Sorcha’s ears strained in the darkness. She’d heard the sounds of feasting and revelry and even the sharp noises of an argument, but the words had not filtered up to her, and now the castle seemed asleep. Even the restless hounds who had paced near the kitchen hoping for scraps had settled down for the night.

  Though Erbyn was cold, nervous sweat collected over Sorcha’s forehead as she crept stealthily to her feet and eased through the partially opened door to the lord’s chamber. She’d heard him enter the room hours ago, stoke the fire, and command some poor servant to set a tub of hot water near the hearth. She’d imagined him washing his body, but knew he’d never scrape off enough dirt to cleanse his soul.

  In her hand she carried her dagger as she slid into the room and saw the bastard, rolled on one side, snoring softly, his dark hair falling over his face. In the firelight his skin seemed bronzed, his eyebrows thick and black, his nose more hawkish than she’d imagined. His lips, partially hidden, were thin, quite probably cruel, though, in truth, should she let her thoughts wander in so wanton a direction, she would have to admit that Darton was a far more handsome man than she’d heard. Dark, swirling hair covered a chest that was hard with lean muscles. He rolled over, and she stopped dead in her tracks, her heart beating as fast as a sparrow’s wings. He cleared his throat, mumbled something, and began to snore again. Sorcha quietly let out her breath and wiped the sweat forming on her lips.

  In the firelight, she viewed his backside, and a few old wounds were visible on his shoulders and back—or what she could see of it before it disappeared beneath a coverlet of black fur.

  Well, he might be handsome and strong, but he was about to meet his match, she told herself. Fortunately no dogs were curled at his feet, and she had but to stealthily cross the rushes to his bed, seize his hair, and place the wicked little blade of her knife at his throat. Darton was known to be a coward. He would certainly shrivel up and agree to her demands. But … oh, Lord, he was so large. She quickly made the sign of the cross over her breasts as she slowly inched across the room. Without making a sound, she prayed that all the saints would be with her.

  Just a few more steps.

  A quick movement.

  She caught her breath.

  He rolled over swiftly and his eyes flew open.

  Oh, God!

  She lunged at him. Her blade sliced downward. A callused hand wrapped over her wrist in a viselike grip that stopped her short. Shadowed, furious eyes assessed her harshly. “So this is what my brother meant when he spoke of games, eh, Bliss?”

  “ ’Tis not bliss you’ll see, but hell,” she hissed, struggling and kicking.

  To her horror, one side of his mouth lifted into a crooked smile—a grin of the very devil himself. He smelled freshly scrubbed, but the scent of wine was thick in the air. “No doubt.”

  “Free Leah!”

  “Free who?”

  “You black-souled bastard! Free her!” She aimed her foot at his leg, but he yanked hard and she fell atop him, her hair spilling from her cowl, her body stretched over the hard contours of his. “You bloody bastard, let me go!”

  “So you can kill me?”

  “Aye, if I have to.” Again his smile. Damn the man, had he no fear?

  Amusement flickered in eyes the color of purest gold. He released her wrist and stared up at her. She was suddenly aware of her breasts crushed against his chest, of the air that seemed to be lost in her lungs.

  “Then kill me, Bliss,” he said evenly as he curled rough fingers in her hair, “and be done with it.”

  Again she raised her knife. “You’re a fool, Sir Darton.”

  “Darton?” he repeated, his tongue a little thick. Was the wench crazy or had he heard wrong? He’d drunk too much wine, and his mind wasn’t as quick as usual. He told himself to be wary of Darton’s whores, but this one, this little wench, was a beauty, and try as he might, Hagan couldn’t deny a fascination with her. As he stared at her thin nose and arched eyebrows, he thought that he’d seen her somewhere, perhaps before he’d gone to war. In the half-light, dressed as a boy, she was beautiful and proud, her stubborn chin thrust forward defiantly, her blue eyes blazing as if she really could plunge the wicked blade of her dagger deep into his heart. A wild thing of beauty; no wonder Darton sang her praises so highly. She was warm and breathing hard, her legs sprawled across his in the most intimate of ways.

  His traitorous body responded. Aching muscles cried for the touch of a woman. His groin tightened and he became hard with her weight spread over his.

  “You think I jest?” she sputtered, setting the edge of her dagger to his throat. He didn’t flinch, though in moving, her breasts, flat, soft pillows, brushed over his chest. A want, hot and deep and murky, flowed through his blood.

  “I think you are here for another reason than to kill me.”

  “Aye, to free Leah. Do so and I will spare you.”

  “I don’t know who she is.”

  The blade was pressed tighter to his throat, and Hagan wondered just how far the wench would go before she gave up her silly game. Or was she truly half-mad, believing in the words that tumbled so easily off her sharp tongue? He felt no fear, though, only an unholy desire to turn her onto her back and mount her, to triumph over her challenge, to act on pure animal instinct and claim her in the most primal of ways.

  “You are holding my sister prisoner.”

  “Am I?” Both his hands moved upward to take her cheeks in his palms. Gently he shoved the hair away from her face. “You’re a strange one, Bliss. Beautiful, but odd.”

  “I have no patience for this.”

  “Nor I,” he replied, his arms suddenly surroundi
ng her. She tried to slice his wretched throat, but she was thrown off balance as he rolled over, pinning her beneath him. Long legs straddled her ribs, and his hands shackled her wrists to the bed. With maddening ease, he forced the knife from her hand, and as her dagger clattered to the floor and was buried in the rushes, he held her squirming beneath him. His crooked smile of satisfaction was firmly in place as he watched the way her breasts rose and fell, her miserable attempts to kick and claw and roll away from him.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen! How could she have been so careless? Gulping back fear, she realized that he was completely naked, and quivering inside, she tried to keep her eyes raised to his chest, but her gaze drifted downward to the shaft of his manhood, which protruded hard and thick.

  Her throat closed.

  “Now, let’s have no more talk about killing,” he said, sliding down her.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “What you came here for,” he said, leaving one of her hands free so that he could work the laces of her tunic.

  “No!” she cried, realizing that he meant to take her. “You can’t do this, you can’t!” she hissed, throwing all her weight into the useless task of trying to push him off her. She pounded at his shoulders, his ribs, wherever she could hit him, and the beast had the audacity to laugh and grab her hand, binding it with the other over her head as she writhed beneath him.

  “Come on, Bliss, Darton told me of you.”

  Darton! “But you are—” She knew her mistake instantly as she stared up at his visage. A strong face, intelligent deep-set eyes, muscles that were strident and lean. “Lord Hagan,” she said, her voice nearly failing her.

  His lips curved in amusement, as if she were a diverting toy. “Aye, and you’re Bliss, the wench sent to serve me.”

  “Nay!” she cried, struggling harder and watching as his eyes glinted in anticipation.

  “Then who be ye?”

  It was no use. She had to tell him the truth. To save herself. To save Leah. Only then would he stop this torturous game. Oh, Leah, I fear I have failed you. “I’m Sorcha.”

  “Sorcha?”

  “Of Prydd. I’ve come for my sister.”

  His muscles tensed and flexed. His eyes sharpened as if he remembered seeing the girl years before. He let out a harsh bark of laughter. “So you’re the savior of Prydd, are ye?” he teased, his voice low and rumbling, his lips twitching at her proclamation. In the firelight, with red and gold shadows playing upon his muscles, he looked like the very son of the devil. Sorcha’s lungs constricted as he studied her. With his free hand he trailed a finger along her jaw, shoving a wayward curl from her cheek. “Why, then, be ye here? At Erbyn?”

  Was he deaf? “I told you! For Leah. Darton’s captured my sister and brought her here, and I’ve come to ensure her safe return.”

  “By warming my bed?”

  “By killing you if needs be,” she said, breathing deeply. Nervous sweat collected on the small of her back. She knew Hagan to be a fairer man than his brother, but she also believed that he was a great warrior, a fearless fighter, a man who had no qualms about taking any woman in the kingdom and having his way with her. Through her rough clothing she felt his hard muscles, and as she looked up at his face, she saw the determined gleam in his golden eyes.

  “You had your chance for that,” he said, lowering his head to nuzzle her neck. She twisted away, then, to make her point, bit his cheek hard. With a yelp he drew back, never releasing her, his eyes flashing fire as a ring of teeth marks showed against his freshly shaved skin. “So that’s what you want,” he whispered hoarsely.

  “All I want is my sister freed! I knew not ’twas you in this chamber, Lord Hagan. I was told that Sir Darton would be resting here while you were off fighting the Scots.”

  He paused for a second, his dark brows drawing into a thick, harsh line. “You truly expected Darton?”

  “Aye!”

  “Did you not know that I had returned?”

  “How could I?”

  His eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. “You talk in circles, Savior,” he muttered, allowing his finger to dip lower along the neckline of her tunic. He hesitated just a second, looked into her eyes, and frowned.

  “I tell the truth. Ask Darton!”

  “Sorcha of Prydd is a child. I’ve met her once.”

  “Aye, years ago!” she cried. “I was in the minstrel’s balcony at the castle when you came for the truce!”

  He hesitated a second. “Everyone in Erbyn knows of that.”

  “Then call Darton!” she insisted.

  “And he will tell me of your sister’s fate.”

  “Aye.” But she knew it was a lie. If Hagan had returned and already spoken to his brother, why did Hagan not know of Leah? Because Darton had held the truth from him. Anxiety curdled her stomach. Leah might already be dead. She squirmed. “We must save her.”

  “You lie. And you call my brother here just to make sport of me.”

  “No!” What did it take to make him believe her?

  He dipped his head, his mouth finding hers, and Sorcha thought she might be sick.

  “Nay, Lord Hagan, do not—”

  But her words were silenced by the power of his lips moving sensually against her own. Hard and warm, they slanted over hers in a kiss that claimed and overpowered, that caused her mind to swim senselessly.

  She tried to turn away. “Please, I beg—”

  But his mouth found hers again, and his tongue, wet and slick, rimmed her lips and touched the edges of her teeth. “Beg, Bliss,” he whispered into her mouth.

  “You son of Lucifer!” she said, and she felt him tense, saw a gleam of sinewy muscles as he ripped her tunic from her body, stripping her of the dirty garment and baring her breasts to his dark eyes. His gaze settled on her necklace.

  “The devil, am I? Well, Sorcha—that is still your name, is it not…?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then perhaps you want to bargain with the devil?”

  Fear ripped down her spine. “Bargain?”

  To her horror, he lowered his head and touched the tip of his tongue to her nipple. Desire mingled with loathing but ran hot in her blood.

  “No!” she screamed, struggling.

  But the tongue continued its hot, wet assault, causing her nipple to stiffen and her back to arch against her wishes. Her mind was turned against him, but her body was a traitor, a heartless piece of flesh that began to tingle and heat as he ran his callused fingers down her side. He touched each of her ribs, before he held the weight of her breast in his palm while kissing the other dark-peaked globe.

  “You will die for this mistake,” she warned, her voice low and raspy. “My father will see to it.”

  “Your father is the silversmith, and he would be pleased to know that you pleasure me.”

  As she felt his tongue against her skin, she tried to think clearly, to find a way out of this mess. “You said a bargain.”

  “Would you not lie with me willingly for the safety of your sister?” he asked, eyeing her with an arrogance that bespoke of his authority.

  “You jest—”

  “Nay, Bliss—er, Sorcha,” he replied, obviously enjoying toying with her. “ ’Tis a simple request: your sister’s life for one night in my bed?”

  Heat burned up her neck.

  “You are already here,” he pointed out.

  “My virtue—”

  He snorted. “Ahh, Bliss. Methinks your virtue is no longer in question. You need not worry of that.”

  Why did he seem so amused? “ ’Tis not what you think,” she yelled in vexation.

  “Is it not?” he teased, gently running his hand lower, beneath the curve of her spine to cup one of her buttocks. His breathing was shallow and short as he said, “Tell me now, oh savior of all that is Prydd. What will it be? Your virtue or your sister’s life?”

  Four

  orcha had no choice. She could not let her sister die. “I will do anything to save Le
ah’s life,” Sorcha said, though she thought of the other dagger, the one still tucked in her boot—her only means of escape. Could she go through the disgrace of lying with this cur, or would she, when the time was right, shove her blade into his soulless heart?

  ’Twould be simple enough to kill him, and yet when she stared up at his rugged features, saw the firelight playing upon the rough planes of his face, she knew she could not take his life.

  “You are a strange one, Savior,” he whispered, fingering the tiny bundle of sticks that hung at her neck. “Very strange indeed.” His mouth found hers again. He kissed her, and she didn’t move, just lay waiting, hoping that she could somehow find a way out of his bed, but his fingers, already touching her buttocks, pushed down the clothing that was the only frail barrier between them. His feet worked on her boots, and with a sinking heart she felt the leather stripped from her foot and heard her dagger clatter to the floor.

  He glanced back and saw the useless weapon in the rushes. His smile was slow, “You are deadly, are you not?”

  “Not deadly enough,” she said, inching her chin up defiantly.

  “Ah, Bliss,” he whispered, and his lips found hers in a kiss that was hot and anxious and spoke of hundreds of lonely nights of battle without a woman, without warmth or comfort, without joy.

  Sorcha closed her eyes, refusing to gaze up at him, unable to look at his handsome face. With his free hand he rubbed her skin, touching her slowly, causing an unwanted heat to swirl in her blood.

  “Come, Bliss,” he murmured against her ear, and she tingled inside. “I’m anxious yet, but I can take all night if needs be.”

  Sorcha swallowed hard and her eyelids flickered open. Her gaze caught in the liquid gold of his, and she knew that he spoke the truth, that he was willing to give her the pleasure he expected in return.

  “Just get it over with,” she said, her throat catching.

  His teeth flashed white in the darkness before he turned his attention to her breasts and suckled again, as if he were a babe, grunting his pleasure, drawing a sweetness from her that she fought. She would go through with this ordeal, for Leah, but she would not enjoy it.

  Oh, but his lips and teeth. She heard a deep moan and realized it was from her own throat. He moved against her, touching her abdomen with his manhood while his fingers delved deeper and found the nest of curls at the apex of her legs.