Kiss of the Moon

by Jackson, Lisa

  Anne had never been more frightened in her life. In truth, she wished she’d never met Sorcha, that she felt no obligation because of her brother, but she had no choice. What Darton had done to Hagan was horrid, and now, as she realized that all the rumors about her brother—the very rumors she’d denied—were true, she knew it was up to her to preserve her family’s honor.

  Darton’s kidnapping and rape of Leah were hideous, his plan to hang Bjorn just plain cruel. He could never be allowed to rule Erbyn. So, despite her fear, she was duty-bound to go through with her part of the bargain. Sorcha had told her what to do; it was just a matter of drinking the potion that she’d made from the roots and herbs she’d begged off the apothecary.

  The apothecary, John, hadn’t been pleased to give away his precious herbs, but he hated Darton and was loyal to Hagan. John’s son was one of Hagan’s soldiers who was still missing, and John would do anything to wrest the power of Erbyn from Darton. “These medicines are dangerous,” he’d warned Anne as he’d reluctantly handed her the vials. “I wish there was another way.”

  “There isn’t, John. This will work.”

  His spotted forehead had wrinkled over bushy gray eyebrows. “Be careful.”

  “I will,” she’d promised. Noting the worry in his old eyes, she’d tucked the vials into the folds of her tunic and turned toward the door.

  “God be with you, Lady Anne, and with Erbyn.”

  “And with you, John.”

  She’d hurried back to the castle and waited until dark. Now the time had come. With her heart thudding in fear, she prayed God to give her strength, lifted the cup to her lips, and drank the bitter liquid. Camphor and narcissus, jasmine, and herbs she couldn’t remember the names of, concocted into a horrid-tasting brew. Despite her urge to retch, she drank it all, gagged, but forced the vile concoction to stay in her stomach. Then she lay back on the bed, waiting … feeling her heart begin to slow and her breathing become heavy.

  There was a chance her hastily conceived plan would not work, and she worried that she would never live to see the dawn, but her life was now out of her hands. “God help me,” she whispered drowsily.

  Now she had to rely on the savior of Prydd.

  Sorcha paced the room and silently prayed that their plan would work; ’twas risky … too risky, and she worried that another death would be on her hands. “Please, Lord, help us,” she whispered as the breeze rolled softly through her window. She stared outside to the bailey, where darkness had settled over the castle. The clouds that had poured rain all day had disappeared and the moon was full, casting silver shadows along the landscape and reflecting in the puddles that had formed during the day’s showers.

  She flung herself on the bed, ignoring the cupboard where her wedding dress had been hung. If her plan did not work, she would marry Darton and the thought sat like a stone in her stomach. She tried to still the racing of her heart. She had to be patient and feign sleep. If the plan was to work, Darton must never realize that he’d been duped. Closing her eyes, she let out a slow breath and thought of Hagan. A wretched pain sliced to her soul. Was he dead? Had he been found by Darton’s men and slain at his command, or had he crawled off like a wounded animal to die in the forest, without food, without water, and burning from the fever of infection? Her fingers clutched the fur coverlet in a death grip. She’d never told him she loved him, hadn’t wanted to accept the truth herself, and yet she missed him horribly. Tears welled in her eyes and she sniffed as quietly as was possible.

  There was a chance, though a slim one, that he was alive, and she clung to that slight hope, thinking she might see him again. Telling herself she couldn’t fall victim to grief, that she had to be strong, she slapped away her horrid tears and swallowed against the sudden thickening of her throat.

  She tried to sleep, but her eyes refused to close. She lay stiffly on the bed, her ears straining at every creak of the rafters, or the shuffle of footsteps in the hall, or the quiet cough from a guard or a snort as a sentry tried to stay awake.

  Why hadn’t she been summoned? Had something gone wrong? Could Anne, even at this very moment, be lying on the brink of death? “Please, please, be with her,” she prayed, though fear made her lips tremble.

  The minutes slowly passed and the moon moved in the sky. This was wrong. It was too close to morning. The morning of the day she was to marry Darton. Her stomach churned. Oh, God, if Anne, too, had died … another death would be at her feet. For she was at fault. She shivered. Some had called her the savior of Prydd, and yet she felt at this moment like the very death of everyone who had known her.

  It must be time!

  She thought she would go mad with waiting when she heard the thud of hurried tread, the groan of the bar being removed from her door. Forcing her eyes shut, she kept her breathing even as the door was yanked open to bang against the corridor wall.

  With a start, she sat up and feigned surprise. Her gaze settled on Darton. “What’re you doing here?” she demanded as he entered. Sir Ralston, the cruel one, was at his side, and as they approached, she cowered to a far corner of the bed.

  “ ’Tis Anne,” Darton said in vexation.

  “What of your sister?”

  “She needs your help.”

  “My help?” Sorcha said, arching a brow as her pulse began to race. “How … ?”

  “Don’t ask questions, just get dressed and come with us.” Darton’s face was white with fury and impatience, and there was something else in his eyes, an evil suspicion that lingered just below the surface. “No matter what happens, we are to be married this day.”

  Sorcha watched as he and Ralston left her alone to dress, and her fingers fumbled as she placed the hated velvet dress over her head, then shoved her feet into her boots. With a prayer, she slid her dagger into the inside of one boot, where it pressed against her leg. “God be with us all,” she whispered as she shoved open the door and found Darton pacing the hallway. Ralston leaned insolently against the wall, propped by one shoulder, as if bored by the drama unfolding.

  Only a few of the sentries had been awakened, and Sorcha suspected that Darton had not wanted the entire castle to be disturbed, but he smiled wickedly when he noticed her gown of gold velvet.

  “What is wrong?” Sorcha asked, half-running to keep up with his long, angry strides.

  “Anne is near death, though I know not why,” he said tightly, and she was surprised to notice how much this seemed to bother him. She hadn’t thought him capable of caring for anyone but himself. “Lord Spader has asked for her hand, and he won’t be interested in a corpse.”

  So there was no love in his heart for his sister.

  “You must work your magic, Sorcha. Whatever ails my sister, you must bring her back to life!”

  “And if I fail?”

  His lips tightened. “Don’t.”

  They entered Anne’s chamber, and Sorcha had to repress the urge to gasp. The room was dark and cold as the winter rain. Anne lay pale as death upon the bed. Oh, Lord, she’d drunk too much, Sorcha thought as she dashed to the bedside and took Anne’s cool hand between her own. “Lady Anne! Wake up!” Anxiously she rubbed the insides of Anne’s white wrists and noticed in the flickering candlelight the way her veins webbed beneath her thin skin. “Lady Anne!” Sorcha flung herself to her knees. “ ’Tis I, Sorcha … Please, wake up.”

  Fear clawed at her heart. This had been a foolish plan, and now Anne, whose pulse beat so faintly, it could barely be felt, was dying. It was all her fault! No! No! No! She swallowed hard and, remembering that she should not know the truth as yet, turned worried eyes to Darton. “What happened?”

  Ona, the sparrowlike little maid, was standing near a stool in the corner and wringing her hands. “ ’Tis my blame,” she whispered, tears rolling down her pale cheeks. She coughed loudly. “The lady asked me to check on her as she’d felt ill, and … I fell asleep, and when I woke up, she was like this.” The pitch of her voice had lowered with each of her words, and she
could barely be heard.

  “Stop that sniveling!” Darton ordered, then turned his eyes upon Sorcha. “Do your magic, m’lady. Save my sister.”

  “I need …” Her words failed her for a second before her eyes met Darton’s. “Does not Bjorn have the necklace of knotted thread?”

  Darton threw a hand up in the air in exasperation. “I know not.”

  “I need the necklace.” When he hesitated, she added, “Without it I will not be able to save your sister … or her marriage …”

  Scowling, he motioned to the guard. “Bring me the prisoner.”

  Sorcha didn’t wait. She turned back to Anne’s still form and rubbed her hands. “Lady Anne, please hear me,” she pleaded, her heart hammering as sweat began to dot her brow. “Do not leave us.” She touched the pulse at Anne’s wrists and felt nothing, not a breath of life in her. “Anne, can you hear me?”

  Darton paced from the curtained bed to the hearth and back again. His boots shifted the rushes and rang on the stone floor, and candlelight flickered on his hard features.

  “Why is it so damned cold in here?” he growled, then noticed the fire, nearly dead, in the hearth. Only a few red embers glowed through a thick layer of ash. “Is this your fault?” he demanded of the maid.

  “Nay, the lady asked that the fire be not lit tonight,” Ona said, her voice trembling with fear. “Mayhap even then she had the fever.”

  “Fever?” Darton said under his breath.

  “Why else?”

  Darton’s eyes flew to the stand near the bed where the empty cup stood. As Sorcha chanted over Anne, he crossed the room, picked up the mazer, and sniffed at the contents.

  Sorcha’s muscles tightened in fear. Had she told Anne the wrong potion? She’d only been half listening when Isolde had told her how she’d caused the guard to sleep on the night Sorcha had fled Prydd. What if Darton suspected?

  “What’s this?” he asked, and Sorcha felt as if bands had been tightened around her chest.

  “Lady Anne wanted wine to help her sleep.”

  Damn Ona, why couldn’t she keep quiet! The tension in the room began to pulse, and from the corner of her eye, she watched Darton. His eyebrows drew together to form one long black line. Slowly he rimmed the cup with a finger and lifted the dregs from the mazer to his lips. His face contorted violently and he spat onto the rushes. “ ’Tis not wine she wanted but something in which to disguise some herbs.” His eyes slitted with a dangerous wrath. “What know you of this, Sorcha?”

  “Only that she is near death,” Sorcha replied as the guard returned and pushed Bjorn into the room. The stableboy half stumbled, nearly falling against the bed. His wrists were bound and he smelled of the rot of the dungeon.

  “Anne was in your chamber this night? Did she speak of trying to kill herself?”

  “Nay—she said not much.” Sorcha’s heart pumped loudly.

  “Take the damned necklace from him,” Darton ordered Sir Ralston, “and then stoke the fire. ’Tis as cold as a demon’s breath in here.” Suspiciously, he eyed Sorcha. “And when you’re finished with the fire, Ralston, fetch the priest. ’Tis time the Lady and I are married.”

  “But Anne—” Sorcha whispered.

  “ ’Twill matter not if she be alive or dead. Still we will wed. Now,” he added angrily, pinning the guard with a harsh stare, “get the damned necklace.”

  The guard reached around Bjorn’s neck, but the stableboy stepped away quickly, agile despite being bound.

  “Bloody bastard,” Ralston growled, “I’ll cut out yer black heart with my knife.” He reached for his dagger.

  Sorcha shot to her feet and placed a hand on Bjorn’s chest. She lifted her gaze to him, silently begging him to trust her, and wondered if he would. He was a prisoner, his very life threatened because he’d once before placed his trust in her. “Please, Bjorn,” she said softly. “We must help Lady Anne.” Bjorn’s strong jaw thrust forward and his lips flattened over his teeth. “ ’Twill be all right,” she murmured, though she doubted her own words. Mayhap Anne would die, Bjorn would be hung, and she would be forced to marry Darton. Oh, Hagan. Where are you, my love? Please be well.

  Reluctantly Bjorn bent his head, and Sorcha removed the string from his neck. She stared deep into his eyes, trying to reassure him, then turned back to Anne.

  “Take him back to the dungeon—” Darton said as Sorcha placed the magical necklace around Anne’s neck, but as the guard tried to push him out of the room, an alarm sounded throughout the keep.

  “What the devil?” Darton said.

  Footsteps thundered through the hallways. Men shouted and pounded on thick doors, waking everyone who had been sleeping. “Lord Darton! Lord Darton! Come quickly!” A breathless sentry, sword unsheathed, rushed into the room. His scabbard clattered against the doorway. “There is an army outside the castle! An army of more than a hundred men!”

  The wind rushed in through the open window, and voices, loud and anxious, shouts and cries, echoed through the bailey.

  “Hagan?” Darton asked, his voice a rasp.

  Hagan! Sorcha’s wretched heart soared for an instant—

  “Nay! ’Tis a baron from the North.”

  —then fell to earth, dashed against the sharp stones of truth. She nearly cried out in pain.

  “Who?” Darton demanded.

  “I know not, m’lord.”

  Oh, Hagan, would you were alive. Sorcha closed her mind to thoughts of Hagan or worries over the army standing on the other side of the thick stone walls of Erbyn. Taking both of Anne’s hands between her own, she squeezed her eyes shut tight. “Live, Lady Anne,” she whispered. “By all that is holy, arise … walk with us …”

  The noise of the castle seemed to mute. The air was suddenly cold and the silver ring pulsed warm against Sorcha’s finger. The serpent seemed to glow in the shadowed room and clouds covered the moon.

  With one hand Sorcha clutched the twigs in the necklace, and the ring turned hot. Her eyes closed and the room seemed to swim about her.

  “Whose army is it? Go find out,” Darton told Ralston and the sentry. As the men departed, he stayed in Anne’s room, unable to move, as if he were fascinated as he watched Sorcha work her magic. With a shriek the wind raced through the castle, rattling the stone walls and echoing against the timbers, but Sorcha barely heard. She felt the warmth of her blood leave her body to heat Anne’s as she prayed for Anne’s life.

  Slowly her eyes opened. The candles flickered and died, and still Sorcha’s chants were unbroken. Carried on the wind, voices from the bailey seeped into the room. Soldiers shouted, swords clanged, horses neighed, as Darton’s men made ready for battle. The acrid smell of war hung heavy on the air swirling within the dark chamber.

  Sorcha’s heart constricted. She gasped and swayed.

  Anne’s breath rushed out as if in a long sigh.

  Darton’s own heart nearly stopped. He couldn’t tear his gaze away as his sister’s eyes fluttered open and she retched. The miracle of life was restored by this small woman who would be his wife. He saw his future stretched out before him—golden, perfect, without a flaw. Yes, his bride would surely—

  Crack!

  Pain exploded in Darton’s leg. Bones splintered and his kneecap shattered. With a scream, he felt his legs wobble and fold. His head struck the floor with a thud, and as quickly as the vision of his life had entered his head, he was swallowed in a deep, black void.

  “Bloody son of a dog!” Bjorn, his face twisted in hatred, stood over the baron and shoved his boot onto Darton’s throat. “You sick bastard,” he snarled. “I swear I’ll kill you in your own castle and spit on your body.”

  “There is no time for that now.” Sorcha reached under the covers where Anne’s knife was hidden and sawed through the thick rope binding Bjorn’s wrists. Within seconds he’d yanked the frayed hemp off his arms, but never once did his boot move, and Darton’s face darkened with his lack of breath.

  “Do not kill him,” Sorcha war
ned, though she knew he deserved no better.

  “Why not?”

  Darton squirmed and Bjorn’s foot settled deeper at his throat. “Go ahead,” Bjorn said to the man who would have killed him. “I would love to send you to hell.”

  “No. He is our prisoner. As he kidnapped Leah, so shall we kidnap him.”

  Bjorn smiled at this little twist of irony and he hauled Darton to his feet. Darton screamed in pain.

  Anne roused, her low moan whispering through the chamber.

  “Come, you must wake.” Sorcha helped her to a sitting position, but she was still spinning from the effects of the potion she’d drunk, mumbled something, then sank back onto the bed as if she had no bones in her body.

  “We have no time for this, Anne. Wake up! We must free Leah now.”

  “Free Leah?” Marshall’s voice whispered through the room, and Sorcha stiffened. “I think not.”

  Turning, Sorcha saw the gaunt knight. He cast a look at Darton and his lip curled in disgust. “Fool,” he muttered, then glared at Bjorn, Sorcha, and Anne. “You may go with your sister, but I assure you that you will not free her. You see, you’re all my prisoners now, and I have an audience with Garrick of Abergwynn.”

  “Abergwynn?”

  “Aye—Baron Garrick is here now. Seeking shelter.” Marshall’s grin was evil.

  Ralston, who had returned, looked confused. “But what of the baron?” he asked, eyeing the groaning mass that was Darton.

  Marshall smiled wickedly. “Break his other leg, then kill him.”

  Eighteen

  ever before had the gates of Erbyn been closed to him. Now, as the wind keened across the heavens, Hagan glared up at the looming castle that had been his home all his life—a fortress impossible to scale. No battering ram could break through the gates, no catapult could throw stones large enough to pierce the thick curtain walls, and no ladder was long enough to reach the battlements. Laying siege was not an answer, for it would be months before the supplies ran out, and in that time Darton would have married Sorcha, taken her to his bed, and got her with child.