Irish Moon

by Amber Scott

  Outside of the gate, she ran, skirts lifted, elbows high, down the narrow path she’d worn so well. The copse of pine and oak trees grew tall in the night sky as she sped there. Her eyes felt wet in the cold air, her nostrils icy.

  Once inside nature’s sanctuary, Breanne slowed to a fast walk. She cut through brush, leapt the small stream relying on instinct to feel her way back to the cave, back to him. Instead of tiring, her body zinged with anticipation. A hundred phrases tossed about in her head, tests of what she’d say. But none of them seemed the right words and the single prayer returned. Let him be there.

  She didn’t think about Erlene. She forgot her wish for Heremon. All she remembered was him, waiting, the heartbeat, the danger. Breanne stepped past an oak and slowed, the entrance in her view. She paused a moment, concealed in shadow to listen to the trees.

  Nothing. Not a twig’s snap nor a leave’s rustle sounded apart or amiss from the night’s soothing song. With a deep breath, she stepped into the moonlight, telling her heart to steady before it made a fool of her.

  She moved the foliage to allow room for her to pass and ducked inside. There he was, legs askance, sword ready to kill. Breanne stopped and met the shadow of his face, her heart tight and high.

  Ashlon lowered and sheathed his sword. She had come. He couldn’t believe it, had just given up to leave, and there she was glowing and panting and making his mind swim. He couldn’t speak for it, and stepped forward, his hand out to take hers.

  Breanne gasped, he stopped. He didn’t want to frighten her. He should reassure her, but couldn’t speak past the lump of emotion in his throat. She’d come.

  In the hours dragging by in wait, he’d realized just how stupid a request he’d made of her. To ask a lady to come to him in the dark of night, alone, on matters of life and death. Preposterous to think she could or would.

  Then he had damned himself for entrusting the note to the boy, eager and capable or not. He promised from that point forward to involve no other life in his quest, save his own. And that included hers. She was young and generous and on the verge of beginning a new, wedded life. He had no right to expect her help. He’d decided to find another way.

  Then she had arrived and now she stood, her breath calming, but her eyes revealing equal emotion, unmasked. He forced himself not to stare at the high valley of cleavage rising and falling, pressing against her gown with each inhale and exhale. Even without looking directly at them, they shone in the slit of light.

  “Thank you for coming, Lady Breanne.”

  “I had no choice.” Her voice shook and he thought her angry with him.

  “As did I. You are the only person I may turn to in a matter— .”

  “Of life and death, yes, as I read. What you do not realize, however, Sir Sinclair, is your tactic to ensure I take your note as grave, will prove true. Your life is in danger.”

  “Aye.”

  “Aye?” She gasped, searched his face. “And yet you stay? You are more fool than I credited you for.” She turned away.

  “Please, don’t leave.” He reached for her, but she stopped and faced him on her own.

  “I don’t intend to. Leastwise, not until you’ve left Tir Conaill. Mark my words, Sir Sinclair, someone means you harm. Heremon’s murder may not be your design, but I’ve no doubt now is related to your presence. Whoever poisoned him will come for you.”

  Ashlon saw now she was not angry, but impassioned, trying to convince him and shaken by it. This was not the reaction he’d anticipated. He’d thought to explain himself, calm her ire at his audacity in sending the note, then enlist her help with the text. Once deciphered, they could be on their separate ways. But she appeared genuinely afeared for his life.

  “I cannot depart Ireland or here until I’ve discovered where Heremon hid an item I traveled with when he found me.”

  “And I urge you to replace whatever you’ve lost at the nearest port’s market. If you stay, you will court your own demise.”

  “The item is irreplaceable and be not overmuch concerned with what I court. I am capable of protecting my own neck and have utmost experience in it.”

  She crossed her arms. “If you will not leave on your own, I will be forced to assist you. Do not doubt that I will report your connection to Heremon’s death if it means ridding your welcome here.”

  “It won’t. Lady Breanne, I asked you here to the same end you seek. I will leave, but cannot until my belonging is found. If you wish me gone, you can be key to my efficient departure. You can help me find what I require.”

  “I don’t see how. Heremon left me with little to no information beyond seeing you well. I know of no hidden belongings.” Her arms remained hugged to her and her words came more softly.

  Ashlon pulled the book from under his tunic, slowly so she would not think the movement suspect. “In the room you bade me remain while I healed, I found this. Immediately I sensed its importance, if not to me, to the man who saved me.”

  Breanne’s eyes landed on the book and widened. Her mouth fell open and her arms shot out to take it. He let her.

  “Thief,” she said, running a hand over the surface, turning it over. “You took this from him.”

  “Not from him, from his residence, yes. I felt compelled to keep it with me, with no ill intention. Were he alive, I swear to you, it would be returned with severe apology. But somewhere, somehow, when I found it, I….”

  “You lie.”

  “I do not lie. I did not feel I’d stolen.”

  Her eyes darted from his eyes to his mouth and back to the book. “Did you know Heremon was already dead then? Did you see something? What have you kept from me?”

  “Kept from you? I’ve hardly laid eyes on you to have kept anything from you. To all of your questions, I gave honest answers.”

  “Yet you take from a dead man, who died protecting you.” Her eyes were narrowed on him.

  Ashlon raked his hair and stepped forward. “I have no memory of his death, that I swear. I admit, though, that at no point did I feel wrong in taking this volume.” As he spoke, he realized the strange truth of his words. How had he not considered this before? Why had taking the book seemed a natural thing to do? “The tonic you ministered, could it have dulled my senses enough to remove guilt?”

  “No. It might create false happiness, a sense of the surreal, but does not prevent the opposite.” Her eyes were back on the book, her voice more calm. “Are you certain you saw, heard nothing? I found you outside, lying in brush. Could you have come there on your own, followed Heremon or someone else?” She hugged the book where her arms had been before.

  He wished he had a better answer, one that would diminish the desperate look in her eyes. He could not even go so far as to be able to place a sense of lapsed time to frame what memory he did have. Heremon’s kind eyes, the cloth soothing his brow, the bitter broth similar to that which she’d given him at some point later. “If I did, I am unable to recall.”

  She nodded, turned to the entrance. The tip of her plaited braid swished at her hips, their curve outlined in shadow and draping cloak. “Thank you for giving it to me. In exchange I will try to help you find your missing belonging.”

  “I thank you, Lady Breanne, but I did not, in fact, intend to give you the book.”

  She spun back around. The sky seemed lighter.

  “I meant to show you something in it, what I believe is a rendering of the item I lost.” He reached out for the book.

  Eyes tight on him, she released her hug of it and handed it over. Curiosity seemed to have won out over possessiveness. Ashlon smiled slightly. He paged to the one he sought and returned the book to her waiting hands.

  Breanne stepped out of the dark cave and into the growing light. Ashlon followed, half fearing she might try to leave with the book. He hated how much weight he’d placed on her translating the book and leading him to the chest. It made him feel vulnerable and worse, he also liked her there with him, near him.

  He refused t
o embroil her further, though. Once she had told him what information lay on those pages, he vowed to act independently heretofore. Ashlon rubbed the soreness from his eyes and blinked. Breanne read and slowly walked, knowing her way without looking. She headed toward the cottage.

  Ashlon followed quietly. He tamped down the urge to ask her what she read. Once she’d finished, he would ask her. Not before. She had no reason to help him now, or ever. Pushing her couldn’t behoove his situation or strengthen his position.

  Mid-stride, she paused, turned a crisp page, then continued onward. They were close to the cottage. Did she intend to go inside? The ocean rushed and roared against the frogs and crickets. She paused again, flipped and watched a page fall in dips down to the grass.

  She knelt to retrieve it, her cloak pooled around her, the hood falling from her hair. The moonlight bathed her in silvery light. Ashlon stopped next to her, ready to stoop down when she looked up. His gut tightened. The look of wonder shining in her gaze struck him and a small buzzing began in his veins.

  “What have you found?”

  She stood slowly, her eyes searching his. She placed the page to her heart. “He wrote this.” She closed her eyes and when they opened, wetness shined in them. “The day he died, he wrote this, to me.”

  Ashlon watched her struggle to remain composed, not sure what to say, knowing what he wanted to ask was not appropriately empathetic. He wanted to know about the drawing, about the chest that looked so similar to what he had lost. But that was self-serving and if she were to help him, he should focus on her.

  “The two of you were very close, then.”

  “I did not know we were. He was always kind to me, but never so much that I would guess to be foremost in his mind when death came to his door.”

  Ashlon did not point out to her that timing likely had much to do with whom he wrote to in his last hours. If only a man could be so blessed as to know when death was imminent and have time to write letters, visit loved ones, speak last words of devotion. Though Jacques had.

  The realization hit him. Ashlon breathed in to steady himself. Had Jacques known what lay ahead seven years ago? Did he know he’d be tortured, imprisoned, his reputation defiled only to be ultimately burned? Impossible. To have known, even suspected, and then follow destiny down that terrible road was the act of no sane man. And Jacques may have looked crazed that day, but he was by far the wisest man Ashlon had ever encountered before and since.

  Breanne read the letter again, smiling, but also frowning. Slowly, she shook her head. “I do believe you’ve just gotten much more than you bargained for, Sir Sinclair.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Heremon’s cottage door sat ajar. Breanne entered carefully with Ashlon behind her, sword drawn. She didn’t feel it necessary, but didn’t argue when the man unsheathed his silver blade and put his finger to his lips. When they found the dwelling empty and undisturbed, she almost gloated.

  If she wasn’t awake with anticipation, she certainly was with expectancy now. She couldn’t believe it. She actually held Heremon’s own Grimoire in her hands. The pages were soft and heavy, the binding smooth from years of oils. The work of decades, the secrets of nearly a millennia, all for her to behold and keep.

  Even more, he’d written her a letter. Her. Not Niall, not Finn, not some other Druid from another territory. Her. And in all its wonder and instruction, her denial collapsed. Since the day she’d come upon him in the wood she’d resisted his words, his death, and the truth.

  She could deny it no longer when it was literally spelled out for her. To think she’d almost not come to him first, by her own contempt and second, by her situation. She had no inkling the importance of the affair she’d done so much to shirk her role in. Now she did.

  Erlene could wake and call the whole keep to come find Breanne and she would not care. Coming here tonight and receiving these two things were worth any punishment. Well, save death.

  Breanne lit a candle, then a fire. Ashlon’s intent stare followed her to and fro and made her belly dance all the more giddily. He didn’t appreciate the depth of its seriousness. It was up to her to make him see.

  She sat before the hearth and indicated a seat for Ashlon. He still gripped the sword hilt and sat at the edge of the chair.

  “Does he write of the chest in the drawing, Lady Breanne?”

  She turned back to the page in question. She ran a hand over its silken surface.

  “Aye, he details the chest and its significance here.” She pointed to the words scrolling a frame around the picture. “You’ve come a much longer distance than I originally thought. When I found you….”

  “Does he offer a location?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes, he does. Here.” She offered him the letter.

  Ashlon took the parchment, but only returned it, shaking his head. “I do not understand the language.”

  “It matters not. You likely wouldn’t understand even if you spoke Gaelic. You see, the script tells a riddle.” She smiled at the paper.

  “Forgive my candor, Lady Breanne, but I must impress upon you to relay the riddle to me. I have wasted much time and cannot afford to continue to let the chest in that depiction remain hidden.”

  Breanne frowned. “I appreciate the seriousness of this very much, Sir Ashlon. You do not need to explain.”

  “Again, forgive me, but I need only for you to translate. You will then be free of my dependence, as you have demonstrated is your wish. I implore you to translate these words now so we both may return undiscovered.”

  “I will translate them, but you are wrong to believe our affiliation ends there.”

  “I fear it must.”

  “I fear it is not your decision. Discovering the chest’s location depends on us both.”

  Ashlon ran a hand through his black curls. “When I wrote to you stating this is a matter of life and death, I was not merely luring you forth. I dare not—will not—put you at risk.”

  “You do not put me at risk. Fate does.”

  He stood, sheathed his sword. Breanne’s stomach flipped. He did not look pleased, to say the least.

  “Will you read the letter aloud as well as the inscription surrounding the drawing?” He spoke through tight lips.

  “I will, but I assure you it will make little difference. And I must say I am surprised. I thought you sought my help and would therefore continue to appreciate it.”

  He held a hand out as though to stop her. “I will appreciate more than you will ever know. Please, simply read both items to me so we may leave.”

  He didn’t sound grateful. He sounded plain irritated. Almost as irritated as she’d been over these last few days with his constant presence in her home. But the grating feeling proved unwarranted. She should have known that ministering to his health was only part of her expected duties. Heremon must have intended more.

  Finn would have said this was obvious, that she always missed the obvious. Now was her chance to keep her eyes open, as well as her mind, and live up to the calling Heremon had trusted her worthy of. She took a cleansing breath.

  “My dearest Breanne, I pray this letter reaches you safely as I will not be here to ensure it does. I know not my killer or his weapon of choice, but be assured that I face both readily and without fear. Trust that he will expose his true self to you and prepare for it.

  “My death is not the reason for this letter, however. Life is. The lives of Tir Conaill, the lives of all of Ireland, are tied to your destiny and fulfilling it. A stranger has come to us and he holds the key to the future I refer to. You will know him when you see him by trusting your inner voice. He is on a journey of his own, which you must help him carry out. Your lives are inextricably linked and have been foretold of.

  “Protect him, Breanne. See his quest rewarded.”

  Breanne placed the letter back into the book and held it open in her lap. “These inscriptions are encoded to tell us where this chest lays.”

  “It is what I see
k.”

  “Although you seem certain it is what you lost, I should point out that this page is quite old. Should you look again to ensure that we don’t hunt the wrong object?”

  “How old is quite old?” Ashlon reached for the book.

  “Based on its placement within the pages in the center half, penned chronologically I would estimate a few decades. I will need to study the book further to ascertain a more exact timeframe.”

  “Impossible. I only arrived a fortnight ago, no more. You must be wrong.”

  “I’m not wrong,” Breanne said. “If you look for yourself you can see the aging variation within the pages themselves. Heremon began at each end and worked inward as is customary for a text of this kind.”

  “I see no difference.” Ashlon paged from the rear, to the front and reverse. He shook his head. “Perhaps he skipped about, or missed a page?”

  “He did not, but it makes little difference of when he drew it, so long as you can distinguish that it is the chest you seek and not, definitely not another.”

  “Have I not stated this fact?”

  “There is no need to get annoyed, Sir Sinclair—.”

  “Ashlon. Please, call me Ashlon. The knighthood you refer to leaves a bad taste and I prefer the informal whenever possible.”

  “As I said.” Breanne lifted her chin. “Becoming annoyed with me will do little to aid your task. I am only attempting to help.”

  “You may help….” He took a breath, eyes closed. “You may help by translating the bordering script. I am certain the drawing matches. Please.” His eyes locked to hers, his mouth set.

  She didn’t know why the look in his eyes burned her so badly, but she had the inclination to stand right up and leave him there. Ungrateful was the first of a few descriptors she could use for it. Breanne narrowed her eyes, but refused to break contact, despite how fast her heart trotted.