Kiss of the Moon

  The men growled and whispered among themselves, but their conversations stopped when Isolde stood slowly and walked closer, her weathered face seeming more lined and ghostlike in the shifting light from the flames. “I only want to get to Erbyn,” she said quietly as her gaze moved slowly from man to man. “I mean none of you harm.”

  “Humph!” Odell snorted as he stood and swaggered up to her. His face was crumpled into a disbelieving scowl. “Y’re just like all women, and when ye gets to the castle, you’ll be talkin’ to the maids, tellin’ tales about yer night with the outlaws. What we do, who we are, where we camp—”

  “Nay!” Isolde’s old eyes glittered. “Do not doubt me,” she said in a tone so low, the forest seemed to grow suddenly still. The wind died, the fire no longer crackled, and even the horses were silent, no longer restless.

  Odell gulped. His eyes narrowed on Isolde for a second, and he licked his cracked lips before falling back to his spot near the campfire and resting his buttocks on a large, flat rock where his knife lay. His grubby fingers surrounded the carved bone handle of his weapon, and he hastily made the sign of the cross over his chest.

  “Then she stays,” Wolf said, uneasy with the situation, but feeling that he could not let her out to wander the dark forest alone.

  “What do we do with ’im?” Odell asked, pointing his dirty blade at Frederick. “ ’E’s seen our camp, and we can’t very well just let ’im go, can we?”

  “You should have thought of that when you brought him here,” Wolf said, his body tired from a day’s journey, his mind weary of the arguing.

  “Aye, but then you wouldn’t know what was goin’ on between the ’ouses of Erbyn and Prydd, now, would ye?”

  Wolf saw the gleam in the older man’s eyes. “You’re right, Odell. ’Twas good that you brought him here. We’ll keep his horse and send him back home.”

  Frederick’s back stiffened. “Nay, my steed—”

  “Is now mine,” Wolf said decisively. He offered the messenger a cold smile, guaranteed to put fear into the hearts of many a brave man. “You’re lucky, Frederick, to be leaving with your life.”

  “ ’E’ll tell the baron about this camp, I’m warnin’ ya!” Odell shouted, not satisfied with Wolf’s reluctant praise. Cutting a strip of dry pigeon from a small bone with his dagger, he glowered at the prisoner.

  “By the time he gets to Erbyn, we’ll be gone.” Wolf leaned closer to the fire. “It matters not; the message was delivered to Tadd at Prydd.”

  “How can I trust you?” Frederick demanded angrily, though he was no longer shackled and he was drinking the outlaws’ mead and eating their sorry dinner.

  “You can’t.” Wolf grabbed the spit and tossed four small pigeons onto the stones. He left the stick in the ground, grabbed one of the birds, and tore off a chunk of seared flesh from the pigeon’s breast. “But I have no reason to lie.”

  “You have no right sticking your nose into the baron’s business.”

  With a lift of his shoulder, Wolf chewed the tough meat and glowered at the fire.

  “What care you?” Frederick demanded.

  “Old scores to settle.”

  “With Lord Hagan?”

  Wolf grinned and reached for the jug of mead. Hagan was a formidable foe, one he would have gladly challenged, but it wasn’t Erbyn with which he had a feud.

  No one knew of his plans. Odell thought him a common criminal, running from justice for killing a man or raping his wife. Jagger thought him a thief of the lowest order. Cormick believed that he was the son of a nobleman who was at odds with the king. The rest believed what they would.

  Wolf didn’t care.

  But he was interested in Sorcha, for the woman had power, more than she probably guessed. Wolf could use some of that power—as well as a lot of luck. However, the woman was Tadd’s sister and therefore a mortal enemy. He wondered if he would be able to hurt his old foe by stealing away his sister.

  “You will be free to leave in a few days,” he said to Frederick. Before he gave the soldier his freedom, Wolf wanted to learn more of Sorcha and the ties that bound her to her brother. He bit off another chunk of meat and stared at his prisoner. “If you prefer not to return to Erbyn you could throw in your lot with us.”

  “Nay!” Odell cried. “He is a prisoner—”

  One corner of Frederick’s lip lifted a little, as if the thought disgusted him. “Mayhap I will,” he said, but Wolf knew the man to be a traitor. Frederick’s eyes were dull, as if he was deliberately hiding his thoughts. No, he couldn’t be trusted.

  Well, fine. ’Twas just as well. Wolf leaned back upon the ground, propping himself up with an elbow. When it was time to set the Judas free, Frederick would be in for a surprise the like of which he had not witnessed in all his life.

  Sorcha had no choice but to wait. Her patience was wearing thin as each day the messenger didn’t return. The revels were full of merriment and laughter, but she only endured them, counting off the days until she could return to Prydd.

  Each day guests arrived at Erbyn. They were always tired and weary from their journey, but dressed in finery and always anxious for celebration. Several young women, in the company of their fathers and mothers, seemed interested in gaining the attention of Lord Hagan, and he spoke and laughed with them, danced with them and smiled down at them as he held them in his strong arms. They seemed to melt at his touch, nearly swooning if he favored them with a word.

  Sorcha told herself she didn’t care. Though her blood seemed to boil when she saw them together, she half convinced herself he could marry the whole lot of silly girls and she wouldn’t be bothered.

  She, too, danced and laughed, and surprised herself by sometimes forgetting that she was only waiting, biding her time, until she could return to Prydd. Though none of the men were as handsome as the lord, they were amusing, and more than one man had encouraged a smile from her lips.

  Erbyn was festive. Fresh rushes scented with chamomile and lavender had been strewn across the floor, and the whitewashed walls had been strung with mistletoe, ivy, and holly. A fire crackled over a huge yule log, and on the trestle table a large candle, with tallow dripping down the sides, the yule candle, was always lit, giving off a warm, soft glow.

  During the day, the gates of the castle were thrown open to peasants and noblemen alike, and there were people everywhere, laughing, talking, working.

  Each evening Hagan walked easily among his guests, sometimes with Sorcha, and he introduced her to neighboring noblemen and ladies. Often he stopped to laugh at a peasant’s bawdy joke or inquire about a newborn babe. He knew all the peasants and servants by name and seemed adored by most, though there were a few soldiers who, when he passed, cast him looks of pure hatred. Sorcha was sure of it. Though not a harsh word was spoken, there were silent currents in the air, secret glances and tight lips that bespoke of hostility.

  She told herself she was imagining the dark looks, that she was reading more into passing glances than was meant. Surely Hagan didn’t seem to notice.

  Food and ale were plentiful, and if the baron had worries, he usually hid them well. Only once in a while did Sorcha see his eyes shadow and his forehead wrinkle.

  As for her, the servants treated her with respect, though there was a new fear in their eyes. Many had witnessed the storm that had appeared as she revived Bjorn, and the gossip about her was running fast and wild through the castle, to servants, peasants, and guests.

  More than once she’d caught people openly staring at her, and one of the serving girls had crossed her bosom in fear as Sorcha had passed her in a corridor.

  ’Twas silly, really. Yes she knew that what had happened with Leah and Bjorn appeared unnatural, and she couldn’t explain the sudden rush of wind and rain that had appeared when she’d tended to them, but ’twas no miracle, only a chance of fate. She was convinced that Leah had responded to her voice, knowing deep in her near-death sleep that Sorcha had come to save her. As for Bjorn, his wounds were n
ot as serious as they first appeared, and he was young and strong. He would have survived without her.

  But she couldn’t explain the warmth of the serpent ring, which nearly glowed on her finger, nor did she understand the rising wind and storm.

  Not that it mattered. All that concerned her was that she received a new respect from those who lived in the castle. A few, including two serving girls, thought she was a daughter of the devil, but the rest seemed to think she was blessed.

  So let them. At least she no longer feared for her life, and the hatred she’d felt in more than one glance when she’d first arrived at Erbyn seemed to have vanished … or was well hidden.

  Even Lady Anne, at first distant and cold, had become friendly, oftentimes drawing Sorcha into conversation.

  Sorcha’s most worrisome concern was Darton. She was forced to talk to him, to pretend that she didn’t loathe him, and he, more than anyone in the castle, seemed convinced that she was magical, that she had some gift of healing. He’d drawn her into conversation twice at mealtimes and once after mass. Her skin had crawled during the conversations, which she’d kept short, and it was all she could do not to accuse him of trying to murder her sister. But she’d held her tongue, knowing that with Darton she would have to be careful. According to Isolde, he had planned on capturing her rather than Leah.

  Darton was hateful, but Hagan … oh, her feelings for Hagan were in such a jumble, she couldn’t think straight. He was the enemy, to be sure, but there was something about him, something powerful and male and commanding, that she found fascinating. Telling herself she was a silly goose, and silently condemning herself for any fantasies at all with the black-heart, she tried to keep her distance from him. But even in a castle the size of Erbyn, avoiding him proved impossible, and the foolish little catch in her heart when he gazed at her wasn’t easy to ignore.

  On the fifth night since the messenger had been dispatched, they were seated at the table and finishing a course of quince pie, perch, and little lost eggs. A nest of stag antlers rested before them, with long white candles affixed to the entwined branches of the horns. Hagan, as he drank wine, watched her over the rim of his cup. He had spoken very little to her since McBannon had trampled Bjorn and she’d used her “magic” to help the stableboy recover, but now he turned toward her. His eyes were still wary, but not unkind. For the first time he seemed amused by her.

  He jabbed a piece of fish with his knife. “You have not told me how you brought the storm upon us.”

  “I didn’t,” she said, unable to eat another bite. Leah was seated next to her, picking at her food as she shared a trencher with a lord from a neighboring castle, but she only nibbled at the tasty food and kept her eyes downcast, for Darton, too, was at the head table.

  “You did something,” he insisted, watching her intently.

  “I prayed for Bjorn’s health.”

  “As you did for your sister’s?”

  “Aye.” She took a sip of wine and managed a confident smile. “Truly, there was no magic involved.”

  “The servants believe that you called upon the spirits of the old ones.”

  “The servants believe what they want to believe.”

  Hagan salted his fish, but his eyes never left hers, and he waggled his knife at her. “The wind changed, as it did the night you …”

  “The night I brought Leah back to life; that’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it?” she asked.

  “That’s the way it appeared.”

  She offered him a smile that caused his heart to stop. Mysterious and coy, her eyes catching the reflection of a hundred candles, she had the nerve to laugh at him. A soft, tinkling sound that should have enraged him, but didn’t. She was dressed in a gown of blue silk with silver threads that sparkled in the candlelight. Her cheeks were the color of rose petals, and her lips a tiny pink bud. “Do I look like the Lord Christ Jesus?”

  He snorted a laugh and dropped his knife back to the table. “I hope not, or all of Christendom is in dire jeopardy.”

  Her eyes shined in merriment. “Well, m’lord, unless I’m greatly mistaken, He’s the only one who can raise the dead.”

  Darton, seated farther down the table, turned his head in her direction, and she felt a cold as bitter as the north wind sweep through her soul.

  “Something happened,” Hagan insisted. But he wasn’t demanding, and he held his wine cup loosely between his fingers, as if he half expected her to jest.

  “What you saw was God’s will,” she said, believing that God, either with the help of the old pagan gods or by His own hand, had saved Leah and Bjorn. She was but His vessel. She cleared her throat and shifted uncomfortably under the intensity of Hagan’s stare. “Have … have you heard from the messenger?”

  “Nay.” Hagan shook his head, and his eyebrows drew into a knot. He rested his elbows on the table and supported his chin in his big hands. “Frederick is a good man; I cannot understand why he has not yet returned unless he was delayed at Prydd.”

  “For the revels,” Sorcha guessed, though, from Hagan’s expression, she knew otherwise. Her throat was suddenly dry and she took a long gulp of wine.

  “Mayhap he was held captive by your brother,” Hagan suggested.

  “I don’t think—”

  “Would not Tadd want revenge?” He shoved aside their trencher. “I should have sent more men. ’Twas my mistake.”

  “Perhaps he’ll return on the morrow,” she said, though her heart was sinking quickly. She finished her cup of wine and felt a little dizzy, for she’d drunk more than was her custom. But the gaiety of the revels and the unsettling manner in which Hagan stared at her seemed to bring on her thirst.

  She wanted to return to Prydd, to take Leah back to safety, and yet a part of her was beginning to feel at home at Erbyn, and she would hate to leave Hagan … Oh, but that was foolish and disloyal. Prydd! You must remember Prydd! Yet when she stared up to Hagan’s chiseled features, she could not for the very life of her conjure up memories of her home.

  Hagan’s gaze lingered in hers, and her insides felt as if they had suddenly turned to jelly. He seemed about to ask her something when the minstrels in the gallery at the far end of the hall began to play a lively tune.

  “Come.” Hagan took her small hand. “ ’Tis time to dance,” he said, and though she wanted to back away, she was trapped. He was the lord of the castle, and to deny him would be unthinkable. Still, she felt awkward as the tables and benches were quickly cleared away and Hagan’s arms surrounded her.

  Others joined in, but she couldn’t stop the wash of embarrassment that climbed up her neck as they twirled around the floor. Even Leah joined in the celebration by dancing with a dark knight Sorcha didn’t recognize. Lady Anne was on the arm of a nobleman from Castle Hawarth, and Darton, his gait uneven, danced with a woman who was his guest and was easily one of the most beautiful women in the castle. Sorcha felt a jab of jealousy when the woman, in a shimmering gold tunic trimmed in fox, swirled by. Her face was flushed, her lips drawn into a smile, her eyes flashing merrily. Hagan, too, glanced her way, and Sorcha died a little, though she told herself it mattered not.

  But the strength of Hagan’s arms around her, the tickle of his warm breath against her neck, the touch of his body to hers, caused her head to spin. She couldn’t help but feel an inward joy to be dancing with him, and though she told herself she was being foolish, she let herself laugh and talk and pretend that she wasn’t a prisoner in an enemy castle. She swirled and let the music play upon her ears and leaned against this man who could be her enemy. He wore a white tunic with a rich brown surcoat trimmed in tooled leather and fastened with metal studs. His boots flashed as he danced, and he held her with a possessiveness that caused her senses to swim.

  If she let herself, she could lose her spirit to this strong man who held the power of her life and death in his hands.

  Only when she looked up to the top of the stairs and saw Bjorn, tired and drawn, holding on to a pillar for
support, was she reminded of her purpose. In Bjorn’s pale face she was reminded of others—Keane, Gwendolyn, and Henry. Her throat grew suddenly tight and she spied Leah, smiling and laughing and dancing with the unknown knight.

  What was she thinking? Her silly fantasies were deceiving her. She glanced up to the landing again, but Bjorn had disappeared.

  “He’ll be all right,” Hagan said, his voice without a trace of merriment.

  “Who?”

  “Bjorn. He’s well enough to walk, thanks to you, so he’ll be returning to his hut.”

  “Oh…good.”

  She glanced up at Hagan, whose eyes were thoughtful, his mouth thin and white as the music stopped for a second. “What is it that fascinates you about the stableboy?”

  “ ’Tis only his health—”

  “Would you do me the honor?” Darton flashed his white smile and bowed to Sorcha, expecting her to dance with him. Hagan’s grip on her tightened and the music began again.

  “She’s with me this night, brother,” Hagan said before Sorcha could reply.

  “You have not shared her.”

  Hagan’s mouth curved wickedly and the fingers around Sorcha’s waist gripped her hard. “You are right, Darton. As I said, this night she is with me. ’Tis my right. As lord.” Without another word, he swept Sorcha into the middle of the hall, and she settled into his arms again.

  “Darton has offered to marry you,” he said against her ear, and she nearly lost her breath.

  “Nay!” Darton? Marry Darton? Become his wife? Warm his bed? Her stomach rolled and she glared up at Hagan. “I would rather roast in hell for eternity than marry into the house of Erbyn.”

  Hagan’s eyes flashed and his nostrils flared slightly. “I know, you have more noble intentions. If ’twas up to you, you would marry the stableboy.”

  “I will marry whom I choose, Lord Hagan.” She tossed her hair defiantly. “Make no mistake.”

  “And what if I decree that you will marry my brother?”