Kiss of the Moon

by Jackson, Lisa

  Sorcha’s heart ripped a little further as she placed the knotted red strands over Hagan’s head and let the twigs settle on his chest. “You will not die, my love,” she said, though her voice trembled as she touched his chin gently, her fingers brushing the coarse stubble of his beard. “I cannot live without you.”

  His gaze, so bleary, centered on her, and he struggled with words before he gave up a rattling breath and closed his eyes. Disbelieving, she felt the life draining out of him. As surely as sand slipped through the hourglass, Hagan was leaving this world. “Please, God, if ever you have listened to me,” she whispered, “spare this man, this warrior. Dear Jesus, please …” She kissed his crown tenderly and fought back the sobs that racked her body and tore at her soul. “Hagan, can you hear me? You must live …” Her fingers wrapped around his, and she closed her eyes, chanting, praying, hoping that he would be strong enough to turn back the hand of death.

  She felt the eyes of a hundred soldiers turned toward her. The air went suddenly still and cold, and somewhere in the distance the wind began to rise. “Come, love,” she whispered, coiling her fingers around the tiny sticks of the necklace.

  The serpent ring began to pulse, and heat encircled her finger. “I’ve waited for you. Don’t leave me now.”

  Behind her eyelids she saw the flash of eerie light, and thunder rumbled through the heavens. She shuddered as rain began to pour. “Please, please,” she whispered, her voice breaking with raw emotion. “Hear me, Hagan. I love you. I’ll always love you. Come back to me …”

  He didn’t move, but the ring pulsed hot and Sorcha felt a shudder rip through her body.

  He coughed, then was still.

  “Come, Sorcha …” Garrick’s voice was firm, and Anne began to sob.

  The strength ebbed from her as she felt her arms being pried from around his neck, her heart breaking a hundred times over. What cruelty was this—that she should find him alive only to watch him die?

  Inside she, too, gave up life and hardly noticed that Bjorn lifted her from her feet. Though he was wounded he carried her into the keep, to Hagan’s room, where the lord was laid upon his bed. Sorcha was beside herself, and though both Anne and Leah tried to force her from his chamber, she stayed at his side, as long as even the tiniest breath of life was in his lungs.

  Holding his hand in hers, she kept her vigil throughout the day and into the night, refusing food and sleep, never failing to touch him, to talk to him, to beg him to come back to her.

  The gossip of the castle was spoken around her, and bits and pieces scattered through her mind. Anne, as Lady of Erbyn, gave Bjorn his freedom, and Leah planned to leave with the man she loved. There was still talk of Bjorn being of royal birth, and he was determined to discover his birthright.

  Tadd was dead, struck so by Ware, who, once his mission was accomplished, disappeared. Garrick of Abergwynn was furious with his brother and planned to have him hunted down like a dog, but Anne absolved Ware of his crimes.

  But Sorcha paid no attention. She cared not for what the others would do. She stayed with Hagan until Isolde crept into the shadowed room.

  “ ’Tis no use,” Isolde said, touching Sorcha’s shoulder. “He’s dying.”

  “Where there is life, there is hope. Is that not what you once told me?”

  “But, child …”

  “I will not give up,” Sorcha proclaimed, and she eyed the sticks around Hagan’s neck. They seemed so small and useless. His chest barely moved, and though his wound was beginning to heal it was as if his soul had lost its way and he had no reason to live.

  “Child—”

  “Damn it all! Hagan, do not leave me!” she yelled, her voice raspy and desperate. “I love you.” With all the strength in her hands, she grasped the damned red cord from his neck and yanked it hard, tearing the threads, the knots unraveling, the twigs falling apart. With a fury born of lost hope, she flung the useless necklace into the fire. Sparks sputtered upward, and the flames crackled in hungry anticipation.

  The tears she’d fought so valiantly against welled in her eyes, and as she leaned over him for one last time, she whispered, “I love you. I have always loved you and I vow to you that I will love you forever.” Heart in her throat, she placed her lips over his and kissed him goodbye.

  He was gone to her. Lost forever.

  As she lifted her head, she felt Isolde’s old fingers clutch her arm. “Come, child. ’Tis over.”

  “Aye,” she whispered but could not tear herself away. Somewhere outside the castle the wind rose, sighing loudly through the trees, rushing across the battlements.

  Hagan’s eyelids moved.

  Sorcha stood stock-still. ’Twas only her imagination, but—

  One of his long fingers stretched upward, and she felt a gladness soar in her heart. “He lives,” she cried, hardly daring to believe the truth.

  Blinking hard, Hagan opened his golden eyes to stare up at her as if he’d been in a dream.

  “Hagan!” she whispered, tears of gladness raining from her eyes as she threw her arms around him. He let out a low sound, somewhere between a cough and a laugh.

  “Wha—what is this?” he asked in a voice that sounded as if it were made of gravel.

  “I thought I’d lost you—”

  “Never,” he vowed, lifting one arm to surround her and draw her close. Though he winced with pain, he would not release her. “Did you doubt your own powers?”

  “What powers?”

  “You are truly a savior,” he whispered, his fingers coiling in the strands of her hair. “And I love you.”

  The words, spoken so softly, echoed in her heart.

  “Do not leave me, Hagan,” she cried, sobbing against him.

  “Never, my love.” He pulled her head to his and kissed her with a desperation that ripped through her heart to her very soul.

  Sorcha stared at the gown she was to wear. Soft white with gold threads for her wedding. Isolde’s smile was tired. “I lived to see this day, m’lady,” she said, “that you will marry the man you love.”

  Sorcha slithered into the soft silk and pulled her hair from the neck. “Without you, Hagan may not have lived. I owe you much, Isolde.”

  The old woman shook her head. “There are things I have not told you, m’lady,” she said, “about your birth.”

  “I’ve heard the story—”

  A bony hand reached out and covered hers. “Then you know that Eaton was not your father.”

  Sorcha blinked hard. “Nay—”

  “ ’Tis true. That is why the prophecy was fulfilled. You have the blood of the great Llywelyn running through your veins—”

  “No!”

  “Would it be so bad?” Isolde asked.

  “Father—”

  “Eaton loved you. As his own. He never knew. But were it not for your heritage, this”—she lifted Sorcha’s thick hair and touched the back of her neck—“would have meant naught. You’re a true daughter of Llywelyn, and as such, you were destined to save Prydd.”

  “Is that what I did?” Sorcha asked.

  “Aye.”

  ’Twas true, Leah would now be the Lady of the castle while Sorcha stayed here, at Erbyn, to marry Hagan. Leah would wait for Bjorn, hoping that he would someday find the truth to his own birth. Tadd’s reign of cruelty had been short-lived.

  “Come now, ’tis time,” Isolde insisted as she tucked a wayward strand of Sorcha’s hair behind her ear.

  Sorcha gathered her gown and walked through the corridors of the castle she’d called home. Hagan was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. He still walked stiffly; his wounds had healed but still pained him. But as he gazed up at her, he smiled.

  Her throat filled, and tears threatened her eyes as she hurried to him and he wrapped his arms around her.

  The priest cleared his throat, but Hagan ignored him and pressed his anxious lips to those of his bride. The ceremony be damned, right now all he wanted to do was embrace the woman who had been
his tormentor, his prisoner, his lover, and, at the very last, his savior.

  “Come,” Father Thomas said.

  “You are sure of this?” Hagan asked.

  “Oh, yeah, m’lord,” she replied with a saucy smile. She brought his hand to her flat stomach. “Think you not that your child deserves a name?”

  His intake of breath was swift. “My child?”

  “Aye,” she whispered, laughing as she tossed her wild hair off her shoulders. “Born during a tempest, with hair the color of a raven’s wing …”

  “Come, we have no time for this now,” he growled into her ear. “And if I remember, we still have a bargain that you’ve not yet paid.”

  “A bargain?”

  “Struck long ago,” he said with a wicked grin. “Now, priest, make haste. ’Tis time for this one to become the Lady of Erbyn as well as the savior of Prydd.”

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