Irish Moon

by Amber Scott

  Breanne pulled on the reins and leapt down after him. She glanced surreptitiously from the quiet looking cottage and back to Quinlan. Her mind worked at ways to move him to leave. A small, rebellious voice told her to go inside now when she had the chance. Slip in, it said, while he’s distracted. Get to the man before he comes to you.

  Breanne stood outside the door and took a single step backward. She just wanted to touch the wood, to feel the door, hold the knob. But, the irrational voice that whispered for her to find the man inside grew louder, more insistent.

  Quinlan walked further away as though entranced by something below the wall of rock and moss. He will follow if I go in, she argued to the voice. He will find the man, unless he has left the cottage as he did the cave. If not now, it shot back, when?

  Tonight. I will find a way to return tonight.

  “Did you say something?” Quinlan asked, facing her.

  Breanne pinched her lips and shook her head. She shrugged her shoulders. To her left, well within Quinlan’s view, she swore a shadow passed over the windowpane. Behind her, she released the cold metal.

  “We should head back,” Quinlan said, before she could, eyeing the sky.

  Before he finished, Breanne had mounted and urged her mare back the way they’d come. She bit down the impulse to glance back and make certain he followed. Drizzle began wetting both of their noses as they kicked their steeds and galloped home.

  Chapter Eight

  Ashlon stared at the final chunk of food in his hand menacingly. Rain thrashed the roof and walls around him and though he certainly felt grateful for shelter in the storm, he itched to be out of the small room, to finish things.

  He plunked the venison into his mouth and chewed slowly. His stomach would not be satisfied with the meager fill it had just received but had little choice. The barely legible letter he woke to concisely stated the danger he’d be avoiding by staying put.

  He wondered again as he chewed, who had penned the missive laid on his bundle of clothes. The angel or the heathen? He mostly hoped it was the heathen and that the angelic face he couldn’t get out of his mind was no more than illusion brought on by illness.

  For if she weren’t real, then neither was the inexcusable kiss. The last seven years of exile had taught him more about women than any of the preceding twenty-four, eight of those spent becoming a man among the Knights. Women were undeniably the lord’s creatures. They could lift you up or tear you down. Succor your soul or tempt it toward hell itself.

  He’d learned the lesson the hard way when a particularly beautiful and welcoming Spanish Duchess had taken him in shortly after James de Molay and so many others were captured. Spain could have remained a safe haven. From the beginning, both her estate and the Duchess herself gave safe harbor--until he’d offended her.

  Duquesa Maria Santiago, widowed and young, took Ashlon as her lover. The more time they spent in each other’s arms, the more possessive and manipulative she became and pressed for marriage. He refused. She exposed him and nearly caused his own capture.

  Thereafter, Ashlon took caution in all regard of the female gender. Of the many more who took him in, protected him, welcomed him in every way, he made clear that marriage would never be an option. The more deceptive ladies still tried, but by keeping his distance, Ashlon managed to avoid so insulting another.

  And Ashlon couldn’t see a way around the fact that he’d thoroughly kissed that angelic face and wanted to do far more. If she were in fact real as all of his sensibilities dictated, then that kiss risked more than he would allow himself to ponder. She could be married, spoken for, a maiden, all of which could be grievously insulted by his actions, fathers and husbands aside.

  His actions were a clear violation and despite the inclination to lay blame on the tonic she had fed him, he should have controlled himself. As soon as the storm let up, he would leave. It was his best option now that he was well and regaining strength.

  The room provided little entertainment. Rows of jars, mixing bowls, grinders, parchment. The only item of interest was a thick leather bound book found tucked in a corner and wrapped in red wool. The words inside were a language he did not understand. He assumed it to be Gaelic and though some words resembled familiar English ones, he didn’t presume any accuracy in defining them.

  It felt good to walk the room, however small a space it was, and to be clothed. His sword hung at his hip, though he felt a bit silly placing it there alone as he was. The familiar weight comforted him. He paced the short length, the scant light dimming as the day closed, and paged through the thick volume.

  Elaborate scrollwork graced the edge of each page and fascinated him. An intricate knotted design hid small birds, lions, dragons, all interconnected. The time and patience and love such artistry displayed impressed him. He felt tempted to keep the treasure if no one returned to the shelter. It might even be prudent to do so, could be used as a bargaining piece.

  But, the old man did not know of the missing cargo, he reminded himself. He’d seen it in his eyes. Honesty. Surprise.

  The room grew darker. Ashlon’s gut ached with hunger. His mind longed for diversion. He tried the door. It eased open a fraction and stopped, blocked by an obstruction. A crack of dim light helped little. Carefully, taking pains not to make overmuch noise, Ashlon pushed. A thud and a scrape felt loud as gunpowder blasts in the silence.

  The rain had stopped.

  Sunset glowed through the window and bathed the empty room in gold outside the door. He’d gained six inches, enough to reach an arm out to hold the stack of books on the narrow table and shove.

  Walking like a mouse, he felt drawn to the window. His body pulsed as he hazarded a look. Thick clouds covered the sky. They were gray and turning pink and gold as the sun sank into the dark water line. Birds chirped, the eaves dripped and the wonderful smell of clean earthiness saturated the air.

  As his pulse slowed and he drank in the beauty, a faint, low thunder sounded. Hoof beats. The sound was unmistakable. Swiftly, Ashlon returned to the small room and pulled the door closed. He couldn’t move the table well in his hurry and knocked several books to the floor in trying to. He hated running, hiding like a thief, a common criminal. In all the years of exile, he’d never been forced under beds, into closets or alleys. He’d found a balance between concealment and exposure.

  He held his sword ready. The hooves neared and stopped. The outer door slammed open. The table scraped, clattered. Ashlon’s heart slammed. The door he’d closed flew open as Ashlon raised the blade high then stilled.

  The angel had returned. Golden pink light shone behind her, illuminating her hair. Small gold orbs woven through her coiffure tinkled as she came abruptly short in front of him. Wide coppery brown eyes latched on the menacing figure his sword must have presented before lighting on him.

  “I’ve but a few minutes. If I linger longer, I’ll certainly lead men here,” she said and pulled his arm.

  “What men?” Ashlon said and retrieved his arm.

  “The men who will follow my trail, find you and either kill you directly or capture you. Quickly, collect your belongings. We must leave now.”

  She strode to the window, peered out and rounded back to him.

  “I demand to first see the man called Heremon. He has something that I will not leave without.”

  Her eyes narrowed, pain flashed in them. “Your request is denied. As you are likely already aware, he is dead, possibly killed by you. Tarry longer and those men I mentioned will assume exactly that.”

  Ashlon chose not to argue and had no belongings to gather. He took only the book without a second thought. All he owned, he now wore. Wordlessly, he followed her and her led horse into the thicket of woods.

  “Where do you lead me?” he asked.

  “To the cave you left. But, I warn you not to leave it again. Leastwise not until morning.” The orbs in her hair tinkled in rhythm with her hurried stride.

  The man was dead, killed, she had said and h
e saw the truth glittering in her eyes. Yet, he’d left Ashlon in the care of this ethereal lady.

  And he’d kissed her.

  The cave was well hidden and Ashlon saw the chance of his finding his way back to it on his own slim to none. He would be safer here and at least able to come and go. And though she treated him so curtly, she was helping him. He could not fathom a reason why she should though.

  “The man, Heremon, he sent you then?” he asked and bent to enter the cave. The book jabbed his stomach from its position under his shirt.

  She didn’t look at him. “I find ‘sent’ isn’t the best word but yes, I am responsible for your care which I can see by your color and energy you will no longer need.” Her eyes went over him.

  She exited and reentered with a bundle balanced on her hip.

  “How did he find me?”

  “You have no memory of it, then?” she said.

  “I rowed into the cove then awoke lying in that room,” he said, feeling as though she should already know this.

  “I canno’ know. He died before giving me specific instruction or detail regarding your arrival to his home. Here is food, ale. The storm has passed and I do not recommend a fire. The night should be mild and these coverings should keep you warm.” She plopped a bundle to the floor.

  Ashlon watched her move about, straightening, directing as she spoke.

  “Come morning, I will count you as well and free to go as you will.” With a flutter, she met his gaze. “I’ve mapped the area as best as I could. If you follow north and then the line of forest, you may reach Tir Conaill on foot in reasonable time. All roads meet where you will be welcomed.”

  Ashlon’s chest pinched. “’Tis not that I am ungrateful but, I must ask m’lady, why you have aided me so well?”

  She stared at him, her eyes went to his mouth then tore away. As though looking through him, she said, “Do not speak of these past days to any man if you wish to live.”

  He could see the refusal, did not need words to understand that she would not explain herself. And it made him all the more intrigued.

  She handed him a square piece of hide, the map she referred to inked onto it. “I must go.”

  She rushed past him and he followed, grasping her hand as she passed. He held her hand in his. Her gaze fell to it. He could see the fast rise and fall of her hard breathing. “What is your name? Where--how may I repay your kindnesses?” Her hand was small and soft in his.

  “You may repay them with your silence, good sir.” She pulled her hand from his and left, her eyes on the ground but her chin high.

  * * * *

  Breanne cursed the man. His questions and doubts had stolen precious minutes from her and now she was sure to be missed. More than missed. Caught. And not a single equitable explanation came to her panicked mind while she pushed her mare to the limits.

  The horse ran hard and fast, Breanne sitting low and tight in her saddle. Both breathed loud.

  He’d been dressed and aglow with better health and the sight of it had knocked her breath out of her. The innocence of sleep she’d witnessed was now hard to recall, replaced by the image of a warrior standing fierce and ready.

  And now she was free of the encumbrance. Those embattled green eyes would not beckon to her again. She slowed to a canter only when the keep and stables reached view. Coming in slow and at the rear proved successful. She dismounted in the inner bailey and neared the kitchen entrance.

  Danny waited there whistling and twiddling his fingers, thumbs jabbed into his tunic. He was the worst looking emissary she could imagine and wanted to kiss every last freckle on his face for it.

  “Any inquiries, my lord?” Breanne said with a formal bow.

  “Three m’lady,” Danny said. “The cat Finn asks where you’ve gone off to, the Lady Ula requests you filch a sweet scone for your trusted agent, and Quinlan Blake inquired thirdly.”

  “Finn is speaking now, is he?” she asked, only to ascertain if his reference was in fact part of the game.

  Danny winked. “He circled thrice and that always means ‘Where is my mistress?’”

  “I see,” she said and ushered him inside with her arm around his neck. She snaked her hand about a cooling scone, nearly dropping it when its heat almost scalded her, as they walked through.

  The loud and crude goings on of preparation provided them with an easy cover. Up the stairs, Breanne pressed Danny for more detail.

  “Your mum didn’t really ask where you were, and I may have stretched the truth a bit on that scone part there.” His mouth was half full with said scone. “Quinlan was the only person who did any asking. I told him like most all else ‘round, you’d be bathing for the evening meal. He punched me arm and left to the stables.”

  “The stables. Did he follow me then, Danny?”

  “If he did, it was on foot. Yours was the only horse leaving or entering, far as I spied.”

  “You’re the best,” she said and kissed his head. “Now I’d better be looking bathed soon or we’ll both be suspect.”

  He smiled, plopped the remaining scone into his mouth and hugged her waist. Down the stairs and out of sight, he left her. Breanne stared after him. Had she ever been so carefree or always guarded, even as a child? She shook her head and enclosed herself in her chamber to ready.

  As she sat before her mirror, unbraiding her hair, Finn slunk out from beneath her bed. “Is he for the worms yet?”

  “If you mean the knight we found at Heremon’s, no. He is well and of no consequence to either of us,” she said.

  “Fascinating. And when, pray tell did the stranger become a knight?” Finn’s tail swished her skirt.

  Breanne pursed her lips. Had she said knight? Well, of course the vision of him lifting his sword had led her to the assumption. And what could be wrong with that? Her belly quivered over the memory of seeing him, standing in shadow and the look on his face. He’d gone from intense to surprised so instantly. And the surprise that lit his features sent a thrill through her.

  She felt powerful.

  “I couldn’t say when as I hardly know the gentleman. And is notwithstanding since he needs no further aid.” Her voice sounded too pitchy by half as she spoke. Likely a consequence of her haste. She simply needed to compose herself.

  “You don’t need to thank me or tell me how correct I was. Both are understood.” Finn licked a paw and rubbed behind an ear. “Did he witness Heremon’s death?”

  Breanne rolled her eyes at Finn. He’d been ready to skin the man until she’d talked sense into him. And now he spoke of the whole affair casually, unaffected. The cat’s nerve and arrogance went beyond comprehension.

  “He said he didn’t and I believe him. He spoke as though Heremon lived, seemed put out by the tragedy.”

  “Were there very many mourners? Was Heremon well received?”

  Was that why he’d disappeared then? To avoid the burial and feast celebrating the renowned druid priest, the scholar, philosopher, and sound judge? A shame, to be sure. Attending the rite gave Breanne a feeling of finality and she came to peace with the changes she faced. She’d decided that the loss could only detract her to the extent she allowed.

  “Aye. Nearly all attended. Part of me wished he’d been sent off in the old way, into the sea, afire. But, Uncle Patrick spoke beautifully, incorporated as much of the old as he could. Clearly, he respected and knew Heremon well.”

  “The method matters not. Gone is gone, blessed or burned. Dead is dead.”

  “I suppose so,” she said.

  Breanne braided her hair, forgoing interweaving the gold ornamentation. Her cloak had remarkably protected her gown well enough that she needn’t change, saving her additional time.

  “Did you enjoy your binging and pillaging of the forest? Find any fairy mounds?”

  Finn blinked unperturbed by her sarcasm. “Sidhes lost their worth to me long before your reign over my fate, Breanne. And I doubt you hold any true interest in my activities.”

&nbs
p; Finished, Breanne faced him. “Finn, think it true or not, I have always taken my duty to you seriously. And, though I have no teacher, I have skill. I will free you.”

  He looked unconvinced but what else could she do or say? Empathy didn’t change the facts. Finn needed to return to the Otherworld, released from a centuries old curse, or die as he was, a mangy cat bullied by hounds and humans alike.

  “If you like, we may try again soon.”

  Finn’s ears pricked up. He tipped his chin to her. “When?”

  The single word held such emotion, Breanne’s heart panged. “Perhaps tonight? We canno’ leave the grounds but, we might try in here or—.”

  “Agreed. Now, don’t forget my wine.” He leapt to the bed, circled once and lay down. Breanne left him.

  She walked through the corridor feeling composed and in control. The shocks of the last few days’ events were fading. With the knight gone, Niall distracted by Heremon’s death and his wedding approaching, even facing a meal aside Quinlan seemed manageable. Her life felt to be back on course.

  She would focus on continuing her study independently, choose a husband and take command of her inheritance. As she walked to the main hall, she planned, and with each step, she felt more sure, more solid and capable than before.

  She would not lie down and be trounced on by life’s challenges. She joined Rose at the long table and piled her trencher full.

  “Might I join you Lady O’Donnell?”

  Breanne looked up. Gannon O’Shannon’s gentle blue eyes showed hope in them. She smiled warmly, ignored the catch in her throat and nodded. Gannon. She’d nearly forgotten about Gannon.

  “Good evening to you, Master O’Shannon,” Rose said. “How is the good lord treating you of late?”

  “Verra well, thank you. And please, call me Gannon. I’ve yet to feel grown enough for another title.”

  Gannon sat across from them. He was charming and easy on the eyes, she supposed, watching him glance from one woman’s face to another as he knifed chunks of meat. And, he was a scholar.