Kiss of the Moon

by Jackson, Lisa

  But he wasn’t listening. His lips crashed down upon hers. With fierce possession, he kissed her. She tried to push away, but couldn’t, and though she willed herself to kick him, he pinned her with his larger, stronger body. His thigh muscles pressed against hers, and his mouth, hard and eager, slid easily over hers.

  She felt her bones begin to melt, as if they were as soft as candle wax, and when his tongue pushed against her teeth, her jaw unlocked to allow him entry. With brutal strokes, he touched and teased, his tongue flicking against the roof of her mouth, and thrusting against her own.

  She heard a moan and realized it came from her own throat as he lifted his head to stare down in her eyes. “So what be you, Sorcha? Lady or wench?”

  “I’m not—”

  He kissed her again, his lips hard and supple, his tongue slick and wet as it mated anxiously with hers. She felt a tingle that centered deep in her insides. One of his rough hands moved forward to capture the weight of her breast. “Ahh, that’s right. You’re neither, are ye? Not a lady. Nor a wench. Just the damned savior of Prydd.”

  “Please …” she whispered as he tore open her cloak and found the strings of her tunic. “Do not …”

  His fingers scraped her flesh, and she dragged in a sharp breath. Somewhere deep within her, a murky cloud of desire began to swell. Her blood turned to liquid fire and his lips sought hers again.

  Though she knew she should fight him, beat against his chest, she couldn’t, and the lust that invaded her body was a living, breathing being that was all-consuming. She wanted more of him and didn’t stop his hands from dipping into her chemise and touching her skin.

  Her nipple tightened and her suddenly aching breast filled his palm. He teased the dark point with his fingers, and again the beast of desire rolled hot within her, causing her bones to soften.

  “Aye, Sorcha, you feel it, too,” he said, holding her against him, breathing across her neck as he slid her cloak from her shoulders and pushed the sleeve of her tunic down her arm. He kissed her neck as he shoved her chemise away from her skin and bared one breast to the firelight. “ ’Tis beautiful you are, and treacherous,” he murmured, stroking her and kissing her bare skin.

  Her flesh tingled, and as he drew her to her knees, she couldn’t stop him. He wound his fingers in the tumble of her hair and kissed her with a passion that made the earth shift beneath her. She couldn’t think, couldn’t catch her breath, and losing all will, gave herself up to the passion that burned bright in her soul.

  Slowly he dragged his lips from hers, tracing the slope of her jaw and the length of her neck with his tongue. He rimmed the circle of bones at the base of her throat, his tongue dipping into that soft recess to play with her pulse. Sorcha made a low sound that came from the back of her throat, and her body turned, anxious to know more. Still he slid down her body, kissing her flesh as he lowered his head to her breast. She groaned, a deep primal sound that came from her very being. His tongue tickled and laved as he teased her nipple, then drew his lips around the puckering point.

  She cradled his head against her, her back arching to meet his mouth. Though her mind denied him, her body acted of its own accord, shaming her in its wanton display.

  He kissed her again and his hand moved lower to cup her buttocks and rub across her lower back. In her mind’s eye she shivered as she saw herself, acting like a shameless whore, anxious for the feel of his skin against hers.

  Somewhere in the distance she heard the hoot of an owl and she forced herself to grab the shreds of her dignity.

  “Nay,” she whispered, grabbing his wrist with her fingers. “Hagan, please, not here. Not like this.” She turned pleading eyes up to his.

  His jaw was clenched tight, and tiny dots of sweat broke out on his skin. Staring down at her, he hesitated, but his hard expression slowly vanished, and instead of arguing, he gathered her into his arms and buried his face in her neck. For a second she thought that he had ignored her request, that he still intended to claim her, but he didn’t move. Instead a shudder ripped through him as he regained control and continued to hold her close.

  Shoving the hair off her shoulder, he traced her birthmark with his finger. “What are you, Sorcha? Woman or witch?”

  “Woman,” she said, her breath still shaking in her lungs, her voice a mere whisper.

  “Yet still you bewitch men. None, it seems, is free from your spells.”

  “That’s daft,” she said as he moved away from her but stared at her bare skin as if savoring every second. She covered her breast with fumbling fingers, and he clamped his hand over hers. Then, before he placed her cloak around her, he leaned forward and took her nipple into his mouth one last time. Her heart raced unevenly as he suckled and rimmed the nipple with the tip of his tongue. “Sweet are you, but dangerous,” he finally said as he lifted his head and covered her nakedness with the rough black wool of her cloak.

  “Dangerous?” she repeated, shame heating her cheeks.

  “You can turn a man’s thinking round.” Without further explanation, he stood and refused to offer her his hand. “Come, then; if you know what’s good for you, you’ll hurry back to your room before I change my mind. I’ll take you there.”

  “I know where to find—”

  He placed a finger to her lips. “Aye, but I trust you not. Should I let you go, you might not return to your chamber.”

  “Where would I go?”

  “Back to Bjorn?” he suggested with a cruel twist of his mouth.

  She couldn’t believe her ears. “Nay, I swear—”

  “Come, Sorcha,” he said tightly, the passion in his eyes replaced with distrust. Again taking hold of her elbow, he opened the door and shoved her down the hall past a guard who was dozing, but scrambled to his feet as he heard their footsteps.

  “Halt!”

  “ ’Tis only I,” Hagan said as he kept walking furiously. “See that you don’t sleep the rest of your shift.”

  “I was just … As you wish.”

  “And see that this one does not wander around the castle at night. If needs be, post a man at her door.”

  Sorcha yanked her arm free. “You bastard.”

  “Not me, m’love,” he mocked. “ ’Tis your other lover, the stableboy, who is the bastard.” He kicked open her door, and she breezed past him, certain that no part of her touched him. The door slammed shut behind her, and she kicked at the bed in vexation. Horrible, horrible beast! He thought little enough of her to nearly bed her, then accuse her of lying with someone else.

  But when you asked him to stop, he did. He did not force himself on you.

  She flung herself across the bed and cursed her luck that Hagan had returned before she’d freed her sister. She would have had an easier time dealing with Darton, for he was a man she could hate without a trace of guilt.

  But Hagan was different; hateful one instant, loving the next. She never knew what to do or think around him. She wanted to detest him, to spit on his soul, to betray him and his castle, and yet there was something in him that called out to a very dark and forbidden part of her spirit.

  She closed her eyes and refused to think that she could care for him; no, she would rather think of escaping the thick walls of Erbyn.

  Tadd kicked at the gray cat who was lying in a patch of sunlight and thereby blocking the doorway of the kitchen. “Miserable, lazy puss,” he muttered as the cat, with a startled cry, scrambled out of the castle and scurried from harm’s way.

  “Be careful, Lord Tadd,” Mab, the cook’s helper, said, then nearly bit her tongue when Tadd stabbed her with a look as vile as a serpent’s glare. “I mean, er, beggin’ yer pardon, m’lord, but the cat, she helps keep the rats from the flour and grain.”

  “Does she now?” Tadd said, advancing on the silly kitchen wench who would dare defy him.

  “Go out and pluck the feathers from those geese, Mab,” Lynn, the cook, ordered quickly. He was a short, wiry man with a shiny bald pate and lips that didn’t quite cover
his prominent teeth. “ ’Tis nearly time to start roasting.”

  “Wait a minute.” Tadd took hold of the wench’s arm and squeezed hard enough to bruise her white skin. His gaze slid down her front to her small breasts, nearly hidden in the folds of her old tunic. He curled his lips in disgust. “I thought mayhaps I’d want you to warm my bed, but you’ve no bosom, have ya, lass? Nay, you’re flat as the cook here, and I like women who don’t look like boys.”

  Mab gasped, but didn’t say another word. She turned her head away, but not before he felt the satisfaction of seeing fat tears glisten in her eyes. Served her right for upbraiding him. His fingers gripped her forearm even tighter and he shook her a bit, just enough to show her he could do anything he wanted with her. “Mayhaps I’ll strap two pillows over your chest and pretend that you’ve got what I want while I’m bedding you.”

  “Nay, Lord Tadd, please …” Her lower lip trembled in pain and fear, and he felt his member begin to swell. The thought of taking her, mayhap coloring her small breasts with sheep fat and rouge to display them and abase her further, pleased him. Perhaps one of his guests would like to join in the fun. Old Osric McBrayne enjoyed slight women. Surely he would have a go at this skinny wench.

  “Be ye a virgin, girl?” he asked.

  “She needs be plucking the geese,” the cook said, his bald pate wrinkled in worry.

  “But tonight I will send for you,” Tadd said, running one hand over the tiny mounds that were her breasts and watching as a tear slid down her cheek. “Mayhap all these need are a little more attention, eh? Perhaps then they’ll grow big and soft and you’ll finally be a true woman, able to satisfy a man.”

  She swallowed back a sob, but her skin turned the color of flour. Tadd was pleased. Aye, he’d have her tonight and let one of his men or one of his guests join in the fun of deflowering her if she was a virgin and mounting her as others watched. Just the thought of it caused a swelling between his legs and spit to gather in his mouth. He tweaked her breast through her tunic, and she cried out in fear and shame. Aye, ’twould be fun. He didn’t know if he could wait. Why not have her this afternoon?

  As soon as he released her, the girl scampered out of the room, dashing the tears from her eyes.

  “She is young,” the cook said as he cut the head off a salmon and slit its silver belly. Entrails slid onto the table.

  “I like ’em young. You can have the old dried-up women, Lynn. I’ll take a fresh girl any day.”

  Lynn scowled at his work, gutting the fish quickly and tossing the entrails into a pail.

  Tadd started into the keep when he heard the porter shout. Turning, expecting to greet a neighboring nobleman, maybe Osric McBrayne, Tadd walked through the kitchen and outside, where the winter sun was trying vainly to warm the cold, wet ground. The porter was talking to a tall, straight-shouldered soldier astride a sleek gray courser.

  “… as I said, I must speak with the lord of the castle.”

  The guard caught Tadd’s eye. “This man claims to be a messenger from Erbyn, but would not let me bring you the baron’s letter.”

  “Nay, I am to deliver it personally.” The soldier slid from his stallion and walked to Tadd with long, even strides. He stood taller than Tadd by nearly two inches and somehow gained an advantage in that, staring down his nose imperiously. “You are the baron here?”

  “Aye,” Tadd said without a qualm. While his father was away, he’d inherited all the power of a baron. “Tadd of Prydd,” he said, surprised at the messenger’s tone. His shoulders were wide, eyes a cutting shade of blue. His face had probably once been considered handsome, but had been altered slightly; his nose was not straight and one dark eyebrow was split, as if cleaved by a sword earlier in his life. For a second Tadd thought he recognized the soldier, but the feeling passed quickly. “What news do you bring?”

  The messenger stared at Tadd’s crimson mantle and shiny boots for a second, then, with a slight smirk, seemed to decide that Tadd was who he claimed to be and reached into his leather pouch. “This is word from Hagan at Erbyn.”

  “Hagan?” Tadd whispered. “I thought he was at war and Darton was …”

  Did a sense of satisfaction steal over the messenger’s face?

  Tadd stiffened slightly, his jaw tight as he took the scroll and, in his hurry, didn’t notice the altering of the wax seal. He unwound the parchment, read it slowly, and turned a shade of red to match his mantle. “This is a lie!” he finally said, his voice a low growl.

  “No lie.”

  “One sister is missing, aye, that much I’ll admit, but the other is locked in her room …” His voice faded as he thought about Sorcha’s long silence, which was in direct contrast to her sharp tongue. Then there was the matter of McBannon; few could ride the beast, but Sorcha had trained the destrier from a colt. A new, cold fear clamped its claws around Tadd’s soul, and he knew that he’d been betrayed.

  “You, messenger, are to stay here,” he told the tall soldier. Lips flattening in anger, his mantle billowing after him, he stalked back to the keep and took the steps two at a time. He threw open the door and knew with a chilling certainty that he’d been played for a fool.

  “Curse and rot her,” he muttered. Coming upon one of his men, he grabbed the fellow by the throat. “Bring me the old hag, Isolde, at once,” he growled.

  “Aye, m’lord!”

  He dropped the man and swept up the stairs in a blind fury. How could he have trusted the old woman? How? His boots rang on the stones, and at the door to Sorcha’s room he found the listless guard, leaning against the wall, his head nodding forward.

  “Open the door!” Tadd demanded.

  “Aye, m’lord!”

  The key jangled loudly and the bar was lifted. The door flew open to bang against the wall of the hallway, but the room was empty, though a half-eaten trencher of brawn sat upon a stool and there was refuse in the pail. But no one was within the chamber.

  “Bloody Christ, why didn’t you tell me she was missing?” Tadd yelled as he stepped into the room only to whirl on the lazy guard.

  “I knew not—”

  “You were guarding an empty room, you fool!” Tadd slapped the man so hard, his head spun. “Where is the old woman?”

  The man touched his cheek. “I know not.”

  “Did she not bring up the morning meal?”

  “Nay …” Again he was slapped, so hard the sound echoed from the rafters.

  “Fool! Why wasn’t I told?” Then, not waiting for an answer, Tadd drew his sword. “I want every soldier in this castle to search for Isolde. She alone knows of Sorcha. She’s lied to me, tricked me, and betrayed me, and she’ll pay. As for that messenger from Erbyn, lock him in the dungeon with Robert the traitor!” Spinning on his heel, he ran down the hallway, intent on finding the hag and cutting out her tongue if she dared lie to him again.

  Wolf saw the commotion and knew there was serious trouble afoot. From the way men were scrambling, reaching for their weapons, shouting, and laying blame on one another, Wolf was certain Tadd was in a rage. No doubt Hagan of Erbyn’s letter had proved distressing.

  “Isolde! Find Isolde!” one man said as he came up to the porter. “We’re to bring the old woman to the lord and throw this one in the dungeon with Robert.”

  “I am but a messenger,” Wolf argued, pleased that Hagan’s missive had destroyed Tadd’s peace.

  “Aye, but the messenger of evil.” The porter lunged at him, but Wolf reached up his sleeve and grabbed the knife he had hidden there. Sidestepping the porter’s blade, he jabbed his would-be attacker quickly, sending the man howling and clutching his side as he fell to the ground. Blood pooled on the wet blades of grass.

  Spinning, Wolf leaped upon the courser, yanked the reins from a surprised page’s hands, and whirled the stallion toward the gate. With a quick kick to the ribs, the horse broke into a gallop.

  “Stop him!” the porter yelled. “Close the gate!”

  “What? Oh!” The boy at the
portcullis worked the ropes to the gears, but Wolf spurred the fleet horse through the opening just before the heavy grate fell into place. Several men in the outer bailey stood in his way, but as he tucked low against the courser’s neck and showed no fear in running them over, they dodged out of the way and scrabbled for their useless weapons.

  Arrows whizzed past his head.

  “Run, you miserable beast,” Wolf cried as the horse raced through the outer gate and across the bridge, his hooves thundering as people screamed and scattered, dropping onions and silver and sacks of grain. Wolf felt the thrill of deceit course through his blood; he enjoyed besting Tadd, his old enemy. He’d waited long for this moment, and seeing Tadd again brought back all the old hatred.

  Tadd of Prydd had slit his eyebrow years ago, and now ’twas time to pay the bastard back.

  His heart pounding with revenge, Wolf guided the courser ever forward, along the road that curved through the woods. He followed the muddy path for nearly a mile before suddenly yanking on the reins and turning in to the dense woods, where he could hide in the shadows.

  From the road came the sound of his doom. Horses’ hooves thundered. Wolf peered through the bracken as men, wearing the crest of Prydd, rode by, shouting and cursing as they passed in a flurry of flashing hooves and mud-splattered hides.

  His smile curved into a wicked grin. He knew he was out of danger. Breathing hard, he rode deeper into the thicket of oak and pine and stopped only when he was well out of the way of Tadd’s wrath.

  So the rumors had proved true. Erbyn and Prydd would soon be at war. All because of some woman who claimed to be the savior of Prydd. Good. The time was right. Wolf did not doubt Sorcha’s powers; he’d seen too much in his life to convince him otherwise.

  Long ago he’d been the son of a nobleman, groomed to someday have his own barony if not for his older brother. He’d seen much in the way of magic and sorcery then and didn’t doubt that Sorcha of Prydd might have been blessed with the “sight,” as he’d heard it called so many years ago.

  He gritted his teeth and refused to think of his home. He’d spent too many years away and he felt comfortable with his life the way it was now—on the other side of the law. He’d been accused of harboring a rebel spirit, and it had served him well.