Irish Moon

by Amber Scott

  But, without preamble, the sound stopped. It did not slow, or change or reverse. It vanished as though it had never occurred at all.

  The hairs on Ashlon’s neck stood up. Something was sorely amiss for a rider to thunder up the road and then disappear without a sound. No horse could come to a soundless stop, no rider could handle such a feat.

  Ashlon stood. The two steeds nickered and pulled for their heads. The black reared up, spooked by what, Ashlon could not tell. Ramsey stood, as well, and gestured that one of them should go look while the other kept to the horses.

  With a soothing pat below his black’s withers, Ashlon carefully walked into the open to peer down the dirt lane.

  No sign of another comer existed. No wafting dust, no trampled bush. He walked with his sword drawn and ready, should any hidden person spring upon him. But the farther he went, the more he worried he’d misheard.

  Some paces away from Ramsey, he scanned the road and wood for signs of movement or trafficking. When he saw none, he lowered his sword and headed back to his waiting horse.

  Ramsey still crouched and had rested his head against a tree trunk. He was making a poor guard with his eyes closed, looked ready to nap rather than keep watch over Ashlon’s back.

  Ashlon nudged the man’s form with his boot, ready to rebuke his laziness for the duration of their trip. But, the nudge did not wake the man, only moved him enough to cause him to slowly slide sideways and on the ground. It was the limp appearance that provoked Ashlon’s immediate alarm.

  Ramsey was not resting, he was unconscious. His body hit the wood floor with a thump. No blood, nor sound signed the cause of his injury, but Ashlon held no doubt that Ramsey had been accosted in the short space of separation.

  He spun about, sword ready to slice into any criminal in its path. Ashlon’s mind raced with possibilities. A papal assassin was his first most likely drawn conclusion but he didn’t discount the potential of a robber or other similar villain to come upon them.

  The horses grazed unperturbed. The air was unusually silent. Not even an insect’s buzz carried on the breeze. Something black flashed in the corner of Ashlon’s vision. He swung toward it, his breathing coming in hard gasps as rage and fear warred his pulse.

  He would not end this now, not in this fashion. He had come too far, had forgone too much to let another steal the chest now. If it fell into the Pope’s hands it would be more heretical than any act the Knights were accused of, for he would possess the floating head that he so wanted, had tortured innumerable men to ascertain the location and validity of.

  The Bloodstone inside of the chest was too valuable to allow the church to poison its meaning and use. He would die for it but death could only worsen its fate.

  Another flash of black and gray streamed past him. He followed with his blade but did not move from his spot next to the chest strapped to his horse. In a spur, he mounted his steed.

  He had no idea whether his friend lay breathing or dead and hated that he could not find out. But, he had to draw out the assailant and kill or be killed.

  Ashlon rode to the path, his stallion leaping to life as though sensing his rider’s urgency. Trained for war, the black bared his teeth and braced for battle unseen.

  The blur of black and gray stripes came so fast, Ashlon and his horse were knocked to the ground before his mind could register the assailant’s attack. The chest came upturned and loose, sliding down the black as it righted itself to stand.

  Ashlon did not make it to his feet. Suddenly his attacker was kneeling on top of him and a small blade threatened Ashlon’s throat. His eyes were an eerie shade of pale green. Something about the lanky form was familiar.

  Wordlessly, he took Ashlon’s sword from him. He turned the hilt over in one hand while pressing the knife against Ashlon’s Adam’s apple with the other.

  Ashlon struggled to conspire a tactic to regain control of the situation. His only hope seemed to be that the attacker would take the emerald encrusted sword as enough goods and leave the horse and chest.

  While his sword in the wrong hands was not good, without the chest its value was little. Ashlon pushed his abdomen against the weight of the man and breathed angrily, staring at him unwaveringly.

  The man’s eyes narrowed on him and his head tilted. He seemed to be measuring Ashlon up, unmindful of being out on the open road for incomers to witness.

  Then he turned his attention back to the sword hilt, the emeralds. Dread overwhelmed Ashlon’s senses. The man was eyeing the emeralds and then looked directly at the chest. Ashlon grasped for the sword, meaning to cut the attackers throat as his own might be, as well.

  But, the man was off of him and on the chest so fast Ashlon had to blink to focus. He got to his feet and lunged at the man, ready to use a rock as a weapon if he couldn’t retrieve either his sword or the small dagger.

  Equally swift, the man moved again and was down the road, kneeling before the chest, using Ashlon’s sword to open the chest. Ashlon screamed furiously, running for the man, knowing not what the man was or how he knew of the Bloodstone, seeing only his life’s meaning being stolen, a legacy of secrets and power being lifted up and examined in the sunlight.

  He reached the man, lifted the rock and, wailing like a bloodthirsty Viking of lore, brought down his crude weapon. It cracked into the chest, sending splinters to the dirt. The thief was gone.

  Ashlon glanced about, terror striking through him like a bell. The man was gone, as though he’d never been there at all, and he’d taken the Bloodstone.

  Ashlon fell to his knees and grabbed his sword. None knew of the key, Jacques had sworn to that, that it lay in the unusual encrusting of emeralds on the Toledo sword’s hilt. And whoever stole the Bloodstone, found the sword and chest useless, as they were, once the contents were gone.

  He had to get it back before the stone was used, or worse joined with any of its three brethren stones. The power and magic the stones held could easily be abused if the man could access them.

  Returning to Ramsey, Ashlon found him not dead but still unconscious. He shook him, needing his help in identifying who the attacker was and where he might have gone to. The sense of familiarity was stronger now. Perhaps Ramsey could help piece together the clues.

  After three hard shakes, Ramsey grunted and opened his eyes. “What happened?”

  “It’s what I would like to know. Did you see your attacker, Ramsey?” Ashlon asked in a rush. He helped his friend to his feet.

  Ramsey shook his head as though to clear it. “I must have gotten my brain knocked a bit loose. I remember you creeping off to the road and then….”

  “What?” Ashlon grabbed him by the shoulders both to steady and see him.

  Ramsey rubbed his head. “Well, it was the damnedest thing. You left and out of thin air, it seemed, a cat approached me. A large tomcat of sorts, the like you’d find kept on to catch mice.”

  Ashlon’s gut turned sour. But, he wouldn’t let the disbelief overcome the clear instinctual certainty his mind just reached.

  He’d seen enough in the last twenty-four hours to know his conclusion was at least possible. Which meant he needed to ride at double speed back the way he came. He must get back to Breanne.

  “Can you ride?”

  “Aye. I’ll need to take it slow, but I can sit a few hours more.”

  “I’m sorry, Ramsey. I must leave you here. I forswear I cannot explain now but will you follow and bring this chest with you? It may be a matter of ….”

  Ramsey held his hand up. “No explanation needed, Ashlon. Godspeed.”

  * * * *

  “I knew it,” Rose said. “I knew the very night he walked into the keep alongside my brother.” It had taken her some time to get the truth out when her friend demanded to know what had happened to her.

  Breanne wiped another tear away. “You did?” She’d sat crying at the foot of her bed for more’n an hour since Niall finally dismissed her, verdict in hand.

  “Aye, you’r
e a terrible liar, Bree, leastwise when it comes to me. I know you better than your own mother does, I’d wager.” Rose had been waiting outside her door on the same stool Niall had left behind.

  “And you’re not angry with me?”

  “Goodness no. Had a bit of fun with it, gushing over Ashlon Sinclair as I did, and figured you’d be telling me in your own time, as you always do.”

  Breanne almost didn’t want her best friend to go so easy on her. Her heart ached and her conscience was bruised. She didn’t deserve such understanding.

  “Let’s dry those tears now, Bree. There will be time aplenty to cry later, after the wedding. You don’t want to be puffy eyed and make people wonder if you’re against it.”

  Another round of sobs racked through her. “But, how can you not be furious with me? I’ve broken Quinlan’s heart.”

  Rose sat next to her on her bed. “Because you haven’t. Ashlon Sinclair has broken yours. Quinlan’s pride is a mite bullied, but you’ll be saving him from a worse fate.”

  She didn’t see how. Quinlan not only knew of her maidenly ruin, but he had befriended the man who had ruined it. Well, not ruin, taken but not ruined. What Ashlon had given her shouldn’t be treated as a soiled product of lust.

  “He must hate me. I gave in to a baser need and never once thought it would impact another’s fate aside from my own. In truth, I didn’t think it would impact mine either.”

  “Things like this have a way of rippling through other lives, Bree. Do you remember when Ryan and I handfasted? How many people were hurt in the course of our happiness?”

  Breanne sniffled. She tried to recall. “But, Rose, none were hurt by it.”

  Rose frowned and looked pensive. “Humph. Well, bad example. Well, look at it this way Breanne. It’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. And you might be happier in the end.”

  “How so?” An inkling of hope shimmered inside of her. Her heart leapt at the image of Ashlon riding back to her, alive and ready to begin his life.

  But that was not the angle Rose was taking. “I can speak for a marriage based on passion and primal urges. It is a rocky road to travel with ups and downs the like you’ve never known. It scares me to the bone sometimes, how much I need my Ryan. I’ve wished more’n once that I could love him a little less.” Rose’s eyes brimmed with emotion as they looked at her.

  Perhaps she was right. She could not love Ashlon after all. He was perfectly wrong for her. He was a warrior and would live the kind of life her father had. Mayhap she would be better off with a man who she would not fret about each night, wondering if he’d lived the day.

  “And,” Rose said. “What better person to wed than your best friend?”

  “Even if you betrayed that friendship?”

  “He’ll get over it, Bree.” Rose gave her a reassuring hug.

  “I can’t see how. He’s found a man he trusted has bedded the colleen he meant to handfast and now is forcibly held to his intention by his own chieftain.” The tears came hot down her cheeks but the sobs stayed at bay.

  “You’ll be saving him from Rhiannon’s lovely snare and in time, he’ll thank you for it,” Rose said with a firm nod and pat to Breanne’s knee.

  “I expect you’re right.” She wasn’t all that surprised when Rose had told her of Rhiannon’s intentions to steal Quinlan. If Ashlon had not left, Rhiannon might have won what with Breanne’s attention so easily distracted in his direction. But, Quinlan wouldn’t likely be happy for many years with such a conniver as Rose had discovered her to be.

  “Of course I’m right. You yourself said, Ashlon Sinclair will never set foot in Tir Conaill again.”

  It wasn’t that he wouldn’t. It was that he couldn’t. She’d made sure of that. By protecting him in getting the stone back to him, she’d prevented the mortal danger she’d seen in her foresight. And she didn’t doubt that Ashlon needed little impressing to stay away when he’d so resisted the friendships and welcome of the clan.

  The only one he seemed taken with, unguarded with, was Danny. She wondered if he told the boy goodbye.

  And she understood. He’d grown used to a solitary life after the Knight’s brotherhood’s dismantle. She had sensed it in him still that night as he kissed her and touched her as though she were a treasure. He feared what returning meant more than what not returning might.

  If she had months or years to wait, it might matter not. But, she did not. Niall had vowed that if Ashlon did not come back, or was drug back biting and hollering, Breanne would marry Quinlan.

  At least he was safe. Somehow, knowing Ashlon would live and be well gave her comfort despite the disastrous turn of events.

  The letter he wrote had been meant to comfort her, she could tell. Though it was a brief missive, the scroll of his writing was shaky and difficult to read. Breanne liked to think it showed how difficult it had been to write.

  He made no declarations of love, no false promise of hope that she might wait. He’d only thanked her and wished her absolute happiness in a long well lived life.

  The sweetness of it was what had caused the emotional downpour. It had been too much at the time, having just received notice that she was in fact betrothed to Quinlan, that the announcement would be made later that day and binding.

  Breanne held the parchment in her lap, her breathing settling down from the hiccups and sobs finally. She glanced at Rose and gave her a weak smile.

  She would make the best of it. She had to. Naught else could be realistically done about it. At worst she could leave in the night and go after the man her heart longed for, at best she could cast a spell and wish him back.

  Breanne almost laughed at the idea. A spell. If only it were so easy as that. She’d been in study for so long and in it held on to a romanticized notion of magick offering solace and control over tragedy and pain.

  She knew now that it complicated rather than bettered things. And what she thought magick was all those years had proved false. It was not a wish and a chant, it was a life-force and energy the like of which she still could not fully fathom.

  “Come, let us get you dressed then,” Rose said, squeezing her hand.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask, Rose, how the tonics have been to you,” Breanne said and wet a cloth for her face.

  Rose patted her belly and warmed Breanne’s heart with a beaming smile. “We’ve been right as rain, Bree, thanks to you.”

  Right as rain. Breanne rose, took the letter to her trunk and placed it inside the pages of her nearly empty Grimoire. Heremon’s lay beneath it, its aged cover making hers appear juvenile in comparison. She would not need these things for some time as she would soon be busy minding a home, trying to forge a new bond with Quinlan.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Breanne’s eyes were puffy but nothing so severe that a brief compress would not remedy. She busied herself as Rose prattled on about the babe in her belly and what it would be like to have a son.

  The wedding would begin within the hour and Breanne laid out the only gown she owned suitable for the occasion. It was a pale lavender silk, threaded through with silver and gray and white. The cape that attached at the shoulders was a deep shimmering gray, as well. Silver baubles in her hair and a plated silver and amethyst choker would complete the picture she hoped would make her mother proud, if that were possible after the morning’s events.

  She was nervous. Stomaching all the eyes that would be on her, all the whispers and conjecture that would buzz the hall throughout the ceremony, would be more difficult than any trial she’d yet faced.

  The tightly knit clan warranted few secrets’ survival among them. If most didn’t already know the sordid details of her actions and repercussions, they certainly would find out while her uncle spoke lifelong binding words of love, honor, and fidelity.

  Breanne’s cheeks burned just thinking of it and she tried hard to focus on Rose instead.

  “Ryan promised me to be home more with this one’s arrival. Ah,
but he said that with all my girls. I don’t know why it scares them so badly, being fathers. You would think it’d make them feel more the man rather than like scared little boys.” Rose pushed Breanne into the vanity stool and began weaving a coiffure, threading the tinkling baubles in as she spoke.

  Babies. No one seemed to mind enough to ask or speak of the possibility of a baby. She could only hope Ashlon had not given her one. Forcing Quinlan to raise another man’s child would be too much to ask her friend, honorable or not.

  Breanne ignored the warm quiver in her belly at the image of holding Ashlon’s baby. His dark curls, her brown eyes, a boy. A reminder of her one magickal night to last a lifetime. And Quinlan’s, a voice reminded her.

  Better to forget the possibility, to bury it along with all these feelings until the dust of so many changes settled.

  “Ah, there, but you look gorgeous, Breanne. Rhiannon will be seething with her jealousy all the more when you walk into that room.”

  Breanne smiled up at her friend. The dull ache in her lifted a smidge under the breeze of Rose’s effervescence.

  “It will be nice, don’t you think, to have an evening wedding,” Rose said, plucking at tendrils just so.

  “Aye, different and romantic, as well, though I’d have chosen a daylight hour were it up to me.”

  “I’m surprised it wasn’t put off until daylight tomorrow what with the final rushing that had to take place. It’s naught but chaos below. The ladies don’t know their fingers from their toes getting it all finally together.”

  A knock sounded on Breanne’s door. Danny poked his head through at their unison call to enter.

  “It’s time,” Danny said in a low voice. He didn’t look up to them and left as though the world were on his shoulders.

  “What is the source of his long face, do you think?” Rose said.

  “I couldn’t guess,” she said. But it was not true. She had a few estimations, one of which included Ashlon leaving Tir Conaill. Another might very well be hearing the sordid affair the clan’s collective tongue likely wagged about all morning long.