Kiss of the Moon

  He gritted his teeth and refused to think of his home. He’d spent too many years away and he felt comfortable with his life the way it was now—on the other side of the law. He’d been accused of harboring a rebel spirit, and it had served him well.

  Asides, before he could ever go back, he had a few more duties to perform as Wolf, the leader of his band of outlaws.

  He took off his gloves and tucked them into his belt as he cut through the forest to another road that was overgrown and seldom used. Though it was cold and damp, he was warm from his journey. He would have liked to ride to the next village and buy a cup of mead and find himself a woman, but he dared not. He had to return to his men, decide what to do about the messenger they held prisoner, and plot how the war between Prydd and Erbyn would benefit him.

  So caught up in his plans was he that he didn’t notice the old woman propped against the trunk of an oak until she shouted at him.

  “Wolf of Erbyn Forest, I know you!”

  His heart grew cold and he wheeled his horse to look at a crone with wrinkled skin and sunken eyes. Like a witch, she seemed, until he stared more closely and saw the spark of life in her faded eyes.

  “Who are you?”

  “Isolde of Prydd.” She stood slowly as if her joints ached.

  “I knew you would come today, I saw it in my vision, so I left the castle early, before you arrived. If I go back, Tadd will kill me.”

  He didn’t doubt it. “But how did you know my name or that I’d come this way?”

  “Sometimes I’m given the gift of sight. You’ve seen it before, have you not? Before you changed your name to that of the forest creature that you hold dear?”

  His mouth was suddenly dry as hot sand. She was a witch.

  “Do not fear me, for I need your help,” she said, her voice steady and sure as she picked up a bundle that lay at her feet. “ ’Tis your destiny, Wolf—outlaw and murderer, son of a man most noble—to take me to the savior of Prydd.”

  Nine

  orcha watched from her window. The men, armed with bows and arrows, were talking and laughing, their breaths fogging as they stood near their mounts in the bailey. The sun was barely up, and a slow mist crawled over the ground. The hunting party was anxious to be off.

  Sending up a prayer that Hagan would lead the party, Sorcha held her breath. It was time to set her plan into motion, and it would be safer for everyone if Hagan was out of the castle.

  Fidgeting, she drummed her fingers on the window ledge until she spied him, and her heart did a strange little flip. Dressed in an emerald-colored mantle and brown leggings, he waited as Bjorn led a sleek black destrier into the bailey.

  Hagan mounted, and the other men, some his soldiers, others his guests, climbed upon their horses. With a trumpeting of horns and the baying of dogs, the hunt was underway. Hagan tugged upon the reins, whirling his horse as he led the party out of the bailey. Hooves clattered and men shouted, the smell of the hunt heady in the air.

  Sorcha waited until Hagan disappeared through the gates, then reappeared far away, on a distant hill that was visible over the castle walls. His horse ran effortlessly up the grassy slope toward the edge of the woods.

  Oh, if only she could ride with him and feel the wind stream through her hair, feel the strength of a horse running through the woods, watch sunlight and shadow play upon Hagan’s face as he rode…Her heart stopped at the thought and she reminded herself that he was still her sworn enemy.

  She bit her lip as he, along with the men following behind, entered the gloom of the forest.

  She waited a few minutes, her heart pounding loudly in her chest. If Hagan ever got wind of her plans, he’d make her suffer, and yet she had no choice. Patience, though a virtue, wasn’t a part of her.

  Her plan was not foolproof, but it was the best she had. Because the tunic she’d worn to mass needed further alterations, she’d had to strip it off, hand it to Ona and Nin, and find something else for the rest of the morning.

  Now, hurrying to the wardrobe, she chose one of Anne’s castoffs, a tunic the color of ripe plums.

  She knew that she’d found in Bjorn the man who would become her accomplice. She could tell that he felt a vast hatred for all that was Erbyn and was only waiting until the right moment to flee. Hadn’t he nearly said so much himself? However, his anger, from what Sorcha had observed on her walks in the bailey, was not directed so much at Hagan, but at the stable master, Roy, a huge, pockmarked man who loved to belittle his charge.

  Yanking the tunic over her head, Sorcha smoothed the soft fabric over her hips. Hagan had never returned her daggers, and she felt naked without a weapon strapped to her belt. Curse the beast, why couldn’t he trust her?

  For the very reason that you’re planning to defy him and escape, using one of his trusted men to help you.

  Scowling, she tightened the belt. Just this morning she had learned from gossiping Nin that Bjorn considered himself some kind of prince, a direct descendant of a Viking king from the far North.

  “ ’E’s a bloody fool, ’e is,” Nin had told her as she’d braided Sorcha’s hair before mass this morning. “Believin’ ’is mother’s stories. She was a fool, that one was, all those silly dreams in her ’ead.” Nin stopped working and thought a moment. “Even claimed she was a princess, kidnapped by a German soldier, then raped and left for dead. Baron Hagan’s father, Lord Richard—God rest ’is soul—’e found her and brought her to Erbyn. Turned out she was the best seamstress ever. ’Tis her work ’angin’ in the great ’all above the lord’s bed. I’m tellin’ you, no princess would know how to work a needle the way that woman did. She was messed up in her ’ead, if you’re askin’ me. Got herself with child and came up with some story about a German soldier to make ’erself feel good. Probably her man just up and left ’er. No shame in that, I’m thinkin’, but Bjorn, he believes everything she said. Thinks ’e’s got noble blood runnin’ through ’is veins.” Nin tugged on an unruly handful of hair, smoothing out the curls.

  “Does Bjorn’s mother live here still?”

  “Naw.” Nin tied off the braid. “She died. When Bjorn was but a lad. Lord Richard kept him on out of the goodness of ’is heart, and the boy turned out to ’ave a way with the ’orses. Poor luck, that. Got ’im ’is job with old Roy.”

  Sorcha had listened to the gossip, learning about the man who she hoped would help her escape. She planned to offer him a reward for her safe return to Prydd not in money, but horseflesh, for Bjorn was taken with McBannon, and Sorcha felt no qualms about giving him Tadd’s destrier in return for her freedom. Tadd would be furious, of course, but she had always been able to turn the tide of her brother’s anger. ’Twould be a simple matter.

  Yes, Bjorn would be the most likely man to approach, she decided as she tossed the mantle over her head and pinned a gold brooch—another gift from Anne—at her throat. She needed Bjorn’s help to return to Prydd, and he needed her as he owned nothing and could scarcely leave the castle without anything of value.

  Sorcha had said nothing of her plans. She allowed everyone, except for Leah, to think that she’d accepted her fate. Even Hagan seemed to believe that she was content to wait until the messenger from Prydd returned. She tried to fall into the routine of Erbyn and pretended interest in the Christmas revels.

  For the past few days she’d spent much time in the castle, and though most eyes that were cast in her direction were hostile, she was no longer the center of attention. She was able to walk through the keep and grounds at her will, although she was forever watching for Hagan, wondering where he was and praying that she wouldn’t chance to stumble upon him. The delicious and shamefully wanton sensations he’d aroused deep within her were a bother. She didn’t want to think of him as a man; ’twas easier to consider him the enemy.

  This proved more difficult than she imagined. As the days passed, she felt her heart melting toward him. She’d caught glimpses of him dealing with his servants and the peasants who resided in the keep. Ex
cept for a few soldiers who seemed to distrust him, the residents of Erbyn seemed to want to please him. He was a fair lord, asked only that his men obey him, but he often showed a spark of humor or more than a passing kindness to the children and women of Erbyn. No one was mistreated, and no one said a word against Hagan, though when he was disobeyed, his temper could turn dark and deadly.

  More often than she would admit, she’d let her thoughts wander to him. His eyes were the color of a purest gold, and those gilded depths fascinated her. When he caught sight of her he scowled hard, his glare unforgiving … unless she glimpsed him from the corner of her eye, when he didn’t think she’d noticed him. Those few times his gaze was softer, full of smoky desire, warm with promise, and she felt her body tingle, though she wouldn’t even glance his way.

  Once, near the archery range, she’d come across him helping a squire learn how to restring a broken bow. He’d been so involved in instructing the boy that he hadn’t heard her footsteps, and when he’d finally looked up, his gaze had gotten lost in hers for a fleeting second. The breath had seemed to stop in her lungs. She’d hurried on, ignoring the sensation, but she’d felt as if she’d just run a great distance and couldn’t breathe regularly for long moments.

  Silly.

  Now, as she left her chamber and walked past the guards in the hall, she thought of the times that he’d touched his mouth to hers and the promise of passion that had caused her lips to throb and her heart to thud. Even now, just thinking of the kiss, she felt new, unwanted sensations that frightened her. Her body trembled at the memory, and a dark heat, liquid and warm, seemed to swirl deep in her most private parts. Never had she felt so wanton—so eager for more of his touch. Certainly never with Keane … Dear God, was she no better than a kitchen wench? Wanting a man she’d sworn was her enemy?

  Steadfastly pushing those wicked thoughts from her mind, she still couldn’t make herself hate him. Aside from the two times she’d been with him in his private chambers, he’d been kind enough to her and Leah. Though he’d refused to let them return to Prydd, he hadn’t treated them as prisoners.

  “When the revels are over,” he’d promised, just after supper the other night. “If we haven’t heard from my messenger by then, I’ll ride you and your sister to Prydd myself. Both Nichodemas and Rosemary agree that Leah’s recovering well and should be able to withstand a journey soon.”

  “How can I be sure that you’re not lying?” she’d asked, staring up at him.

  “You can’t be. Just as I can’t trust you, Sorcha,” he’d said on a sigh.

  “But—”

  “You have my word.”

  They had exchanged a dark, secret look, and though he’d said nothing more, she was certain that he, too, was remembering that she’d been in his room not once, but twice, since she’d arrived at Erbyn, and each time he’d come close to stealing her virginity; no, that wasn’t quite right. The last time she had nearly given it to him willingly.

  “You’re a goose, Sorcha,” she muttered under her breath as she stalked along the hallway.

  “M’lady?” a small guard asked, standing to attention. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Nay, ’tis only my idle tongue, Sir Winston.”

  This soldier was one of the few in Erbyn Sorcha trusted. Small of stature, with brown eyes too big for his face, he had always treated her with respect and fondness.

  “If I can be of help—”

  “I’ll let you know,” she said, hurrying past him toward Leah’s chamber.

  Since this was the first day of the celebration, Sorcha decided it was time to set her plan in motion. The messenger whom Hagan claimed to have sent to Prydd hadn’t yet returned, and she was beginning to worry that the man had lost his way, had been captured by Tadd, or, worse yet, had never existed at all. Hagan could have lied to her about the messenger, and she would have eagerly believed him.

  She had been at Erbyn nearly a week, and each day, when Hagan told her that there was no word from Prydd, her heart had settled a little deeper in her chest.

  When she’d heard that Hagan was leaving the castle to go hunting, she knew she couldn’t let this opportunity pass.

  With a soft knock, she pushed open the door to Leah’s room. Nellie, Leah’s serving girl, was bustling around the room, straightening the bed and kicking at the rushes while Leah was seated near the window, staring down at the bailey. Leah’s face was still pale and her hands were clasped in her lap and she looked startled when the door opened wide. Fear registered in her eyes until she recognized Sorcha.

  “Thank God it’s you,” she said, exhaling a long breath.

  “Who else would it be?” Sorcha asked.

  “Lord Darton, ’e came this mornin’,” Nellie said.

  “Has he been bothering you?”

  Leah’s smile was grim. “Nay, he was being kind, asking about my health, pretending that he cared.” Her lovely face turned into a mask of stone as if she remembered Darton’s cruelty to her. “I would gladly cut out his heart if I could.”

  “Hush!” Sorcha hissed.

  “I didn’t hear a thing,” Nellie said, removing an empty cup and, with a sly wink, slipping through the open door.

  “Be careful,” Sorcha warned. “Trust no one in this keep.”

  “Nellie can keep a secret.”

  “You think so?” Sorcha said, closing the door behind the serving woman. “My guess is that she tells everything to Lady Anne, as does Ona.”

  Leah lifted a shoulder. “I care not.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “What can they do to me that they have not already?” she asked, her eyes suddenly lifeless.

  Sorcha grabbed hold of her sister’s hand. “What did he do to you?” she whispered, and Leah shuddered as if an icy blast of winter wind had cut through her small body.

  “What did he not?”

  “Did he beat you?”

  “Nay.” Leah shook her head.

  “Touch you?”

  Tears sprang to her eyes.

  “Lie with you?” Sorcha asked gently, and Leah swallowed, tears drizzling down her cheeks.

  “He … He was angry when he discovered that his men had captured me. He wanted you. I thought he would leave me alone, but he was so … filled with wrath that he tore off my clothes and … and forced me …oh, God…There were other men nearby, for they met up with us in the forest, and then … though I was naked and he was fully dressed, he tied together his breeches and ordered me upon a horse.” She sniffed and touched her fingers to her eyes.

  Sorcha’s blood ran hot with fury. “The ride. ’Twas painful.”

  “Aye … but not the worst. Later, he brought me to that horrid room and left me there, coming and going, taking me whenever he was angry.”

  Sorcha’s heart twisted, for she imagined how brutal Darton could be.

  “I meant nothing more to him than an animal or a piece of meat. Though I would scream, he would …tell me to do the most vile …” Her stomach wrenched and she shook her head. “When I could stand it no longer, I stole the knife I was to eat with and, praying to God, cut at my veins. I wanted not to live.”

  Sorcha blinked back her own tears. “You will be avenged, sister. He will hurt you no more.”

  “He could not,” she said without inflection, and Sorcha realized that Darton had taken more than Leah’s virginity, he’d stolen her dignity as well.

  “I promise you, he will suffer,” Sorcha vowed, and Leah’s color came back a little. She had been recovering slowly, her appetite had increased, and she had even smiled once in a while, though she never left the chamber, certain that if she did, she would run into Darton. Her wrists were still bound, but her hands moved freely.

  “I only hope I am the one who will inflict his pain,” Leah said. She took the necklace of twigs from her neck. “I think I’ll need these no longer.”

  Sorcha stuffed the cord and sticks into the pouch hanging from her belt.

  “There ar
e many guests arriving,” Leah said, looking out the window.

  “Just like home.”

  “Aye.” Her voice quivered with sadness. “Have you time for a game?” she asked, and Sorcha, though she was anxious to find Bjorn, agreed, hoping to raise her sister’s sagging spirits.

  They often played dice, something her father frowned upon but Hagan encouraged. Outwardly he seemed to want to do anything to help Leah’s recovery. All her meals were sent to her room, and her clothes were the finest the seamstress could sew together.

  Sorcha sat near her sister on the window ledge. They passed the dice between them and talked, their voices muted by the rattling cup as Nellie returned with fresh linens.

  “Has there been news from Prydd?” Leah asked, her gaze wandering to the servant girl, who couldn’t help but overhear part of the conversation.

  “None yet.” Sorcha tossed out the dice. “Lord Hagan thinks ’twill not be much longer.”

  Their eyes met. “Good.”

  “Today I planned a walk in the bailey. Mayhap you could join me?”

  “I don’t think—” Leah caught the gleam in her sister’s eye. “You know I don’t like to leave this room.”

  “But you can’t stay here forever. Asides, there is much to see with the revels upon us. Come.” Sorcha scooped up the dice and left the cup on the sill. “ ’Tis not too cold today, and you needs see the rest of the castle.” She took her sister’s hand in hers and felt the tremor of fear in Leah’s touch.

  Leah paled, but walked to the wardrobe and, with Nellie’s unwelcome help, selected a gray wool mantle trimmed in squirrel fur. Sorcha guided her sister through the dark hallways and down the back stairs past Hagan’s room. Leah followed along, though she nearly jumped at her own shadow.

  Outside, Sorcha hurried along the path that led past the candlemaker’s hut through the gardens near the bakery. A chill wind swept through the grounds, but it was fresh and brought with it the scents of baked goods and spices as they walked along the paths through overgrown rosebushes and mulberry trees.