Kiss of the Moon

by Jackson, Lisa

  The castle was cold, the fires of the new day not yet lit, and Tadd thought of his warm bed and the wench, Mab, who was waiting for him there. He had no worry that she would flee as he’d secured her to the bed with leather straps. Aye, he’d much rather be next to her frightened warmth than in the dark listening to an old man whose ribs stuck out.

  “I come with grave news,” Bayard said, his voice a bare whisper. They were in the great hall, alone, as it was before dawn when Tadd had been roused from his bed. Only a few servants were about, getting ready for the day, though some of Tadd’s men were lying on the floor wrapped in their cloaks and snoring noisily or standing guard and trying not to doze off.

  The yule log had burned down to red embers, and only a few candles had been lit. In the darkness, Bayard’s face appeared nearly fleshless, little more than a bony skull. He coughed and his chest rattled. He was not long for this world, Tadd decided, but felt no pity for the loyal knight.

  “What is it?”

  Another horrid cough rattled through Bayard’s lungs, and Tadd curled his lip in disgust. “ ’Tis the lord, Baron Eaton,” Bayard rasped, and his lip quivered a bit. “He …he was killed in battle.”

  Tadd stopped fidgeting. What had the old soldier said? His father was dead? His heart began to beat crazily and he had to repress a smile. “What?”

  “ ’Twas a horrid battle and your father fought bravely, putting his life before the king’s, but—” Bayard’s voice cracked with the strain “—he took an arrow near the heart, and the wound was mortal.”

  Dear God, the old man was actually crying. Bayard’s eyes were filled with tears and he sniffed loudly before lapsing into a coughing fit that nearly tore out his lungs.

  “ ’Tis a shame, m’lord, and I’m sorry to bring you such bad tidings.”

  Tadd forced a frown and let out a long sigh that he hoped sounded riddled with grief. “ ’Tis not your fault, Bayard,” he said, his thoughts spinning ahead. With the old man dead, he was truly the baron of Prydd; the castle and lands were his. His! He wouldn’t have to worry about his father’s return; there would be no recriminations for anything he’d do. He could get rid of the lazy stable master, kill Isolde if he ever found her, and marry off his sisters! That thought pleased him immensely. Both Leah and Sorcha would be off to run their own castles, and there were barons who would be willing to pay for young women—old men who were widowed and would like a fresh flower, silky skin against their old, tired bodies. Men who wouldn’t demand dowries, but would pay for the honor of sleeping with such young, healthy wives.

  For years Tadd had dreamed of being lord. He dropped his head into his hand as if he could no longer bear to hold it by his own neck. “ ’Tis a tragedy,” he whispered gruffly, “but we will have to move forward.” Clearing his throat and blinking as if against tears of grief, he motioned to a guard near the stairs. “Take Sir Bayard to the kitchen. See that he’s fed and offered a bath and bed.” Forcing a sad smile to lips that wanted to curve in glee, he clapped Bayard hard on his thin shoulder. “Thank you for returning in haste. You will always have a place here, in my father’s castle.”

  The guard led Bayard away before Tadd let himself have the pleasure of a wicked grin. What good fortune! Now he was ruler of all of Prydd. As he climbed to his feet, another thought struck him: He could demand much from Hagan of Erbyn for the kidnapping of his sisters, and if either of the women had been hurt, the payment would be high. Perhaps a piece of the baron’s estate …a small castle or fiefdom. As soon as the revels were over, he would travel to Erbyn himself as the new baron of Prydd. He wanted to shout and scream and laugh his head off. All that he’d wanted was within his grasp! Racing up the stairs, he took the steps two at a time. Yes, things were going well.

  Tossing open the door to his chamber, he saw Mab, half-asleep on the fur coverlet, her wrists bound to the posts of the huge bed. In truth, she was a pretty wench despite the fact that her breasts were too small to satisfy him. Still they fit into his palm easily, and when he suckled from her teat, he felt a surge of desire like none other. Even now he grew hard at the sight of her. Aye, she was a hot little wench.

  As if she felt the air stir, she opened her eyes and stifled a short scream. Tadd closed the door with a thud, watching her jump a bit. Ah, he loved the fear etched across her face. Slowly he took off his tunic and hose, and she closed her eyes, resigned to her fate.

  “You are in for a treat, little one,” he said with a deep-throated chuckle that brought goose bumps to her flesh.

  Climbing onto the bed, he stood on his knees, towering above her, his member hard and wanting. “You are the first woman to lie with the new lord of Prydd.”

  “What?” she whispered, those beautiful brown eyes widening in horror as he caressed her breast and watched it pucker despite her obvious distaste for him.

  “My father is dead,” he said, his hand a little rougher. “Killed by a lucky Scot’s arrow. ’Tis a pity, is it not?”

  “No!”

  “ ’Tis true.”

  “I don’t believe it!”

  His grin was evil. “I am lord of all of Prydd now. My word is law.”

  “Merciful God,” she whispered, and all the life seemed to drain from her, for in Baron Eaton she knew a fair man, a kind man, a man who cared for his servants and the peasants who worked for him. In Tadd there would only be cruelty.

  With Sorcha and Leah gone, no one would stop him. She shuddered as he stroked the side of her face with his long finger. “Come, Mab,” he said, his eyes glowing with hot lust, “ ’tis time to please your lord.”

  Eleven

  ou want only one ’orse?” Roy hitched up his pants and attempted to hide his displeasure at Hagan’s request. One horse or ten, Roy didn’t like putting out the extra effort it would take to saddle and bridle the beast. Ever since Bjorn’s injury, Roy had been forced to work harder than usual, and Hagan had heard him grumbling to some of the other men.

  “Aye. For myself. ’Tis not a hunting party,” Hagan said before he turned back to the keep. In truth he was tired of the revels, the guests, the noise of the castle, and his thoughts had been gnawing at his brain all morning, ever since the pale winter sun broke through the clouds. He planned to go riding, and he’d been foolish enough to consider taking Sorcha with him, though he’d fought the urge just as he’d fought his wayward desires for over a week. His lust for her was something he had to control, but it entered his mind whenever he gazed at her and kept him awake long into the nights.

  Seeing her each day was beginning to affect his mind. He found himself staring at her during mass and looking forward to the meals, when she would be at his side. He made excuses to watch her, telling himself that it was just to make sure that she was doing as she was told, but in truth, it was because he couldn’t help watching her.

  She’d gotten into his blood, no doubt of that, and he’d woken up on more than one night with the ache between his legs so hard that he thought he might go mad. Even now, in broad daylight, he wanted her. But he would deny himself. Until he was certain the truce with Prydd was still intact.

  The truce worried him. His messenger, Frederick, should have returned days ago, and yet there was no word from Tadd, no sign of Frederick’s return. If Darton was telling the truth and Tadd was mounting an army, Erbyn could easily fall. True, Hagan had taken some precautions. The armorer was laboring over weapons and mail, the tanner had new saddles for the horses, the steward had been told to buy extra supplies in readiness should Hagan have to call his men to battle or, worse yet, should Erbyn be besieged.

  This morning the armorer had stacked crossbows and maces alongside polished swords. Several men were oiling the portcullis, and a wagon bearing sacks of milled wheat rolled into the bailey. Behind the wagon a peddler’s cart jangled with his wares. Near the fishpond, the son of the cook was chasing down geese while his mother waited with a hatchet near a bloodstained stump.

  “ ’Ere ye be,” Roy said, leading Hagan’s favo
rite mount, a sleek black destrier named Wind, into the yard. Roy, glad his task was over, managed a grin. “ ’E’s ready for a little run, methinks.”

  “Good.” Hagan swung into the saddle and caught movement out of the corner of his eye—a dark cloak billowing behind a small woman who hurried along the path leading to the stables. His gut tightened as he watched Sorcha.

  Her eyes were downcast and she clutched the hooded cloak about her, as if she were wearing a disguise. Rounding the corner of the stables, she saw the horse and rider and drew up short.

  “Oh! I, um, didn’t expect to find you …” Her cheeks darkened scarlet. “I—”

  “You were looking for Bjorn,” he guessed.

  “To see how he’s doing … and to check on my horse.” She tossed her head defiantly and her hood blew off. Untamed raven black hair caught in the breeze.

  She was lying. No doubt she was plotting with her lover. Hagan’s fingers curled over the reins. “Mayhap you would like to go riding.”

  She glanced up at him sharply, to see if he was playing with her, but she saw no mockery in his gaze. His jaw was set harshly and his lips were blade-thin, but it seemed as if his offer was genuine. Her silly heart skipped a beat.

  “I would love it, m’lord,” she said, her spirits soaring. She’d not ridden since her flight away from Prydd upon McBannon, and the thought of feeling the wind stream through her hair as a horse raced beneath her was too tempting to turn down. True, she’d come to the stables hoping to find Bjorn, to make him the offer of escape, but that could wait. Would it not be better to ride outside the castle gates, to see for herself the lay of the land, search the forests and hills and roads of Erbyn with her own eyes? She had traveled from Prydd on the main road, but if she and Leah and Bjorn were to escape, they would have to use other routes to avoid capture.

  Muttering under his breath, Roy lumbered back to the stables, and within a few minutes, he returned with McBannon. The powerful horse was tugging on the lead, prancing and snorting, trying to rear.

  Roy jerked hard on the reins, then danced quickly to escape a sharp kick. “Stop it,” he commanded the horse, then muttered, “Bloody devil.”

  Bjorn, who was able to do some of the lighter chores, appeared in the doorway, and when his gaze touched hers, Sorcha couldn’t help but smile. “You are healing well,” she said as she took the reins from Roy and the stable master gave McBannon wide berth.

  “Aye.” Bjorn returned her grin and touched the knotted string that still hung from his neck. “Some say I have you to thank.”

  Sorcha felt Hagan’s gaze heavy on her shoulders. “ ’Twas God’s will,” she said. “You should thank Him.”

  “I will,” Bjorn replied, but his blue-green eyes were filled with jest, and without words he told her he wasn’t a believer in the Christian God.

  “Get back to work,” Roy ordered, and Bjorn slanted the stable master a hard glance before turning and disappearing into the stables.

  “Let’s be off.” Hagan’s voice was hard.

  Sorcha needed no more urging; she climbed onto McBannon’s broad back and lifted the reins. The stallion’s dark ears pricked forward in anticipation. With mincing steps he followed Hagan’s steed to the gate. Nostrils flared, pulling at the bit, McBannon was anxious to stretch his legs.

  She managed to hold him into a light trot until they were through the gates, but then, with the black horse in the lead, McBannon took the bit between his teeth and stretched out, his long legs eating up the steamy earth, his muscles stretching and bunching in a smooth rhythm.

  Sorcha had the urge to laugh. She felt free and wild and lighthearted.

  “This way!” Hagan called over his shoulder as his own horse was running full out, galloping along the road until the path forked. Without hesitation, Hagan yanked on the reins and headed through the forest. Sorcha followed his lead, watching as the play of sunlight filtered through the leafless trees and pooled on the cold ground, causing mist to rise. The air was fresh and the forest silent except for the labored breathing of the horses and the occasional chirp of a winter bird.

  Hagan pulled on the reins and his horse slowed. McBannon, sweating and blowing hard, fought the bit but gradually fell into step beside Hagan’s charger.

  “Where are we going?” she finally asked as the road split yet again and Hagan turned north.

  “Someplace quiet.”

  “That could be anywhere.”

  “Aye, it matters not, as long as we are away from Erbyn.”

  “Tired of castle life already, m’lord?” she said, unable to keep the teasing lilt from her voice. “Ready for yet another battle?”

  “War is noisy as well,” he said, frowning. “And bloody. A waste.”

  She was surprised. “I thought men enjoyed the battle.”

  He offered her a half smile, one filled with a newfound wisdom. “Young men spoil for fights. They thirst for blood and lust for women.”

  “But you do not?” she asked, lifting a mocking dark brow, for she knew how lusty this man was.

  He snorted and shook his head. “I’ve seen enough bloodshed. Enough pain.”

  “Enough women?”

  His lips curved and his eyes glinted. “Women are trouble. Sometimes only one woman is more trouble than she is worth.”

  “But men—they are worth much?” she taunted as the horses continued to pull at their bits, anxious to run yet again.

  “Some are.”

  “As are some women,” she said, tossing her head and sighing while the wind tugged at her curls.

  “Aye, as are some women.” He lapsed into silence, and Sorcha did not disturb him. ’Twas enough to be free and unconfined by the castle walls. They rode for nearly an hour before he turned onto an overgrown path where the ferns and berry vines crept over the seldom-used trail. Wide enough for only a horse, the path wound deeper into the woods, through the leafless trees and into the gloom of the dank forest.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, but he didn’t answer, and she had to duck to avoid hitting a branch that hung over the trail. She watched his horse’s even gait and the way he swayed just a little in the saddle. His hips were flat, his shoulders broad, and his hair near black in the dark forest. He rode a horse well, and she sneaked a peak at his buttocks moving with the animal. His legs, tight against Wind, were long and muscular, and an unwanted heat settled somewhere in Sorcha’s belly. She felt her cheeks warm to crimson and forced herself to drag her gaze from his strong thighs. Instead she concentrated on the land, and wondered if this path would be a wise choice for escape—probably not since Hagan himself knew of it. She chewed her lip in vexation.

  Eventually the woods gave way to a clearing, a tiny meadow with a stream slashing through the trees. On the far shore was a stone house, long in ruin, with moss growing upon the chimney and the thatched roof having disappeared to show rotting rafters and walls that were beginning to crumble. Stones, once attached to the building, now littered the ground.

  “What place is this?” Sorcha asked as they crossed the stream and left their horses to pluck at the weak blades of grass that grew near the banks of the brook.

  “ ’Twas the home of a witch.” Hagan stared at the walls and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “You brought me here to frighten me?” she asked, thinking he was teasing her.

  “Nay.”

  “Then why?”

  He dismounted. “I know not. It seemed like the right thing to do.”

  “Tell me of her.” Sorcha climbed off McBannon.

  Hagan studied the ruins. “Her name was Tullia and she was born of noble blood, the daughter of a Welsh prince, or some such nonsense. She was related to Enit of Wenlock, who herself professed to know magic. Anyway, Tullia was banished by her father for the practice of witchcraft and she settled here years ago, becoming a medicine woman—one who seemed more comfortable in the isolation of the forest than with men and women. People, peasants and noblemen alike, came to her if they were ill,
or if they wanted to know the future, and she would help them.

  “My mother visited Tullia,” he said, finally turning to face Sorcha. His expression was thoughtful as he tugged off his gloves and rubbed one hand over the smooth stones of the walls that had yet to fall down.

  “She was ill?”

  “Barren,” Hagan replied. “She could give my father no heirs, and worried that she was not pleasing him, she went to great lengths to get with child. So she finally ended up here, at Tullia’s doorstep, with her lady in waiting sworn to secrecy. Tullia listened to her troubles and, for a few pieces of gold, gave her a potion, which my mother drank.”

  Sorcha was enthralled by the tale. “And your mother conceived.”

  “Aye. Ten months later she gave birth to twin boys. Heirs. My father was so pleased, he even gave up his other woman … well, at least for a while. But two boys were not enough for my father, he wanted more sons, and so my mother visited Tullia again. This time the cost for the herbs was more, but still my mother paid, and though she did not conceive, she went back yet again and insisted upon a stronger potion. By this time she knew my father was keeping another woman, and Mother was desperate to get with child.”

  “Did she?”

  “Oh, yes. Anne was born the next year, but the birth was complicated and infection set in. Mother died a horrid death within weeks after Anne’s birth.”

  Sorcha felt her throat grow hot. Her mother, too, had died young, during the birthing of Leah.

  Hagan’s forehead furrowed and his eyes darkened. “From Mother’s lady in waiting, my father found out about Tullia. He came here, accused her of killing his wife, and forced her to drink some of her own potions.”

  “Oh Lord,” Sorcha whispered, fearing the rest.

  “Aye, she, too, died, and no one has lived here since. My father ordered the cottage destroyed, but the soldiers who came to burn it and tear it down were set upon by outlaws and killed. Rumor had it that the forest was infested with ghosts and demons and that the spirit of the witch Tullia still walked between these old walls.”