Kiss of the Moon

  But that was before Darton had become a murderer and declared himself baron.

  Splashing through the puddles, she realized that all the stories she’d heard about him had been true. She had turned a blind eye and a deaf ear in his direction whenever there had been gossip. More often than not she’d chosen to ignore the rumors that had swarmed around him. There had always been gossip—about his taste in women and his sexual pleasures that had bordered on the perverse or his farsighted ambitions—but she’d been stalwart in her belief that the treacherous stories had been grossly exaggerated, that this was her brother, for God’s sake, and he would never, never do anything so ruthless and wicked as plot the murder of Hagan.

  Her stomach wrenched painfully.

  Now it appeared as if he’d ordered their own brother slain!

  “Oh, Hagan,” she whispered, staring at the ground as tears ran from her eyes, “forgive me.” She had been a fool where Darton had been concerned, and her elder brother had probably paid for her foolishness with his life.

  Biting her lip, she vowed that she would never make the same mistake twice. Now that she knew the depths to which Darton had sunk, she’d find a way to save those he planned to harm. The list was long, but it started with Sorcha of Prydd.

  By the gods, he could walk! One leg didn’t work very well and he was still stiff and sore, but whatever that bitter concoction was that old Isolde had forced down his throat, it seemed to have worked. He’d drunk the stuff, coughing and spitting, for two days while she’d applied an ointment to his wounds. Now Hagan was able to stand and walk with no assistance, though his back and legs still throbbed.

  He’d been lucky, Isolde had told him. None of the arrows, save the one in his forearm, had pierced deep. Even his old wounds throbbed. His thigh muscle ached, and his back, near the shoulder, burned, but the pain was not great enough to keep him lying on the pallet in Wolf’s tent.

  Too much was at stake.

  He couldn’t wait another minute, for the dull ache from his wounds was nothing when compared to his tortured thoughts of Sorcha. He’d been tormented for three days with the sickening image of her standing before a priest and swearing to honor and obey Darton. Guts roiling, Hagan had tried to push himself to his feet, demanded that Wolf find a way to free her, ranted, raved, and cursed until he was hoarse and could speak no more. But it seemed Wolf had his own plans and was in no hurry.

  Grinding his teeth, Hagan walked stiffly out of the tent, and with each stride his sore muscles began to respond. He found Wolf near the embers of the fire. ’Twas twilight and the forest was beginning to shadow.

  Some of the men were out hunting game, others were guarding the camp, and a few others had ridden away on their own missions. Several of the ruffians and the old woman, Isolde, lingered in the camp. Hagan hadn’t asked about them; he was better off not knowing which laws were being broken and by whom.

  “We must go back to Erbyn,” he said as Wolf began to sharpen his dagger on a whetstone. “We have little time.”

  “There is time.”

  Hagan’s temper flared. “Nay—”

  “Patience,” Wolf snapped, sliding his thin blade over the smooth rock. His eyes shadowed over with a memory that he didn’t bother to share. “I learned patience a long while ago; now ’tis your time to understand so simple a virtue.”

  “But Sorcha—”

  “Is not married yet.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “As I told you, I have spies at Erbyn,” Wolf said with more than a hint of pride. Click, click, click, the tiny weapon gleamed in the firelight.

  Hagan’s fists curled in vexation. Never had he felt so helpless, and the feeling gnawed at him. “Who are these traitors?”

  “None of your trustworthy men, rest assured, but a few of Darton’s followers who drink too much. When their tongues are loose and their loins hot, they lie with poor wenches who, for a little silver, are willing to share their tales.”

  Hagan snorted. “You rely on gossip from whores.”

  Wolf grinned and wiped his knife upon his leggings. “This bothers you?”

  “Everything bothers me, and there is no time to waste. Look, outlaw, I would reward you well if you would help me free Lady Sorcha.”

  Wolf considered. “How well?”

  “All your crimes would be forgiven.”

  He sheathed his dagger and lifted a shoulder. “I care not that there be a price upon my head.”

  “That is not all. Half of all that is mine, I will give to you.”

  Wolf rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “Land?”

  “Aye, and a castle. One that is not far from Prydd.”

  “That is a great amount, Lord Hagan,” Wolf said with a sneer. “You are generous.”

  Generous? Nay. Desperate. And impatient. “My offer only stands if we start today to save the lady.”

  “I want none of your wealth, m’lord,” Wolf said with more than a trace of sarcasm. Hagan felt as if a stone had been thrust upon his soul, for without Wolf’s help, he would have to return to Erbyn alone—trick the outlaws, steal his horse, and begin the journey back to the castle. He wasn’t afraid of returning by himself, but he knew that there was might in numbers, and even this tattered group of robbers was better than no army at all.

  Wolf’s eyes slitted at the darkening heavens. “I want only Tadd of Prydd,” he said with such a low voice that Hagan wondered at his intense hatred.

  “He is yours. But we must hurry.”

  Wolf lowered his blue eyes and gazed at Hagan. “Worry not, I ride in the morning.”

  “To Erbyn.”

  “Nay, to the north. To Abergwynn.”

  “Abergwynn?” Hagan said, remembering the huge castle from his youth. As large as Erbyn, the castle was a fortress with wide curtain walls and tall towers. Its battlements, ramparts, and towers were said to be impenetrable. Garrick, the ruler, was fearless, a warrior whose reputation cast fear into many who rode outside the law. Yet this outlaw seemed to think the baron could be persuaded to their cause.

  “How do you know the Baron of Abergwynn?” Hagan asked suspiciously.

  Wolf’s eyes clouded and he refused to answer. He motioned to the silent one, the big man known as Jagger. “We ride in the morning,” he said. “To Abergwynn.”

  Hagan said, “I will go with you.”

  Wolf considered. “This is personal.”

  Hagan didn’t give a damn. “If you want me to deliver Tadd of Prydd to you, then you must take me with you.”

  Scratching his beard, Wolf frowned, but seemed to be wavering. “You are in no position to bargain.”

  “This is my battle, Wolf. I will reward you greatly, but I must be a part of the battle plan. I needs speak to Garrick of Abergwynn myself.”

  “You are not healed.”

  “I will ride swiftly. Without complaint.” Hagan reached for his sword and drew it deftly, placing the point at Wolf’s throat. “I will not slow you,” he vowed.

  Wolf wasn’t pleased. His blue eyes turned to ice in his anger, but he lifted a shoulder. “ ’Tis your own death you seek.”

  “So you still defy me.” Darton stormed through the door to her chamber and kicked aside Sorcha’s uneaten trencher. Venison and gravy sprayed upon the walls and floor, and the hard bread sailed into the fire, where it was quickly consumed by hungry, hissing flames.

  Sorcha, leaning against a post to the canopy of her bed, lifted her chin and pinned her bridegroom with a gaze of pure hatred. “I feel not like eating,” she admitted, and knew she’d failed. She’d told herself that she had to appear to accept her fate, that she should eat her meals and smile at Darton, but her pride would not allow her to grovel at the boots of someone she detested.

  “ ’Twill do no good, this moping and starving yourself.” He walked to the foot of the bed, near enough to her that she could touch him, and he said, “We will be wed tomorrow.”

  “Nay.”

  Darton curled strong finger
s over her arm. Squeezing painfully, he said, “You have no choice in the matter. Tadd has agreed. The arrangements have been made.”

  Sorcha’s heart was thundering with rage, and she wriggled free of his hurtful grasp. “I will never marry you, Darton of Erbyn. Nor can you torture me into agreeing to be your bride.” Turning swiftly, she walked to the window, where the air was fresh and the wind blew softly over the curtain wall. In the orchard, apple and pear trees lifted their bare branches to the darkening heavens, and Sorcha felt foreboding as dark as the middle of the night.

  She heard him approach, and stiffened. His breath was hot against the back of her neck and she tried to move, but he used his body to block her escape, and she was forced to stare out the window.

  “I want you to be my bride, Sorcha,” he said.

  “Why?”

  His finger trailed along her neck, and she shuddered. “Because I’m captivated with you.”

  “I detest you.”

  “You’re very powerful, m’lady. We could use that power, you and I.”

  “Did you not hear me? I loathe being in the same room with you, I cannot stand to hear your voice, and I will never, never agree to marry you!”

  He chuckled softly. Hideously. “I think I can persuade you.” His voice had a deadly ring that caused her heart to stop. When she turned to face him, his eyes were dark with lust. He motioned at the window, and one of his guards scurried through the bailey. A few seconds later the guard returned, dragging Bjorn with a noose slung over his neck.

  “What … what is this?” Sorcha whispered, her words frozen in her throat, the silent knell of doom resounding through her brain. The first stars were beginning to wink through heavy clouds, and she could barely see.

  With curses and kicks, Bjorn was shoved up the steps of the scaffold and forced to stand upon a stool.

  Horrified, Sorcha cried, “No, you must not! This is madness. Bjorn did nothing—oh, my God.” She saw a movement from the corner of her eye and turned to watch as her sister was being led—half dragged into the yard as well. Oh, God, no! He couldn’t mean to kill them! Leah was crying, her hands over her eyes, her screams muffled. She tried to run to the gallows, but a huge guard restrained her, and her wails rent the bailey and cut into Sorcha’s heart.

  “You bastard!” Sorcha spat. “What are you doing?”

  “Taming you.”

  “I will never—” The words died in her throat.

  “It seems your sister has taken a fancy to the stableboy, and her bridegroom, Sir Marshall, does not like anyone else vying for her affections.”

  “Sir Marshall?” Sorcha whispered, conjuring up the gaunt knight with devious eyes, bony skull, and long fingers. Cold, cruel, and heartless. This was the man to whom Leah was betrothed? Nay! Nay! Nay! “No!” She felt sick inside. “Leah will not marry—”

  “ ’Tis arranged. Tadd has agreed.”

  “But Leah—” Oh, Lord, what of her sister?

  Leah was on her knees in the bailey, sobbing wretchedly and letting the rain pound upon her head and shoulders. “Noooo!” Suddenly catapulting to her feet, she lunged up the stairs, screaming and scratching, begging the guards to stop as the noose settled upon Bjorn’s neck.

  Cursing loudly, a burly soldier hauled her back down the stairs, and she let out a keening wail that brought goose bumps to Sorcha’s neck.

  “Release him and let her be!” Sorcha screamed from the window, but the guard ignored her pleas. Turning to face Darton, Sorcha cried, “You must stop this madness! Bjorn deserves not to die. ’Twas my plan to steal the horses and escape the castle. ’Twas I who begged him to help us!”

  “So you want to join him?” Darton cocked his head toward the gallows.

  She angled up her chin. “I will replace him. Rather than marry you.”

  “Careful, my love,” he said, and she wanted to spit in his face. She didn’t, however, for fear he would give the signal to have Bjorn’s stool kicked from beneath his feet. Gritting her teeth, her fists clenched at her sides, she said, “Please, don’t do this.”

  Darton hesitated, then cast a bored glance out the window. He held his hand in a signal, and as Sorcha watched in silent relief the noose was tossed away from Bjorn’s neck and he was led back to the dungeon. “ ’Twas not planned for this day anyway,” Darton said, slowing twisting a coil of Sorcha’s black hair around his finger. “ ’Twill be done at dusk tomorrow.”

  “No!”

  He let the loop of hair slide from his finger. “You are willing to plead for the stableboy’s life, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “And bargain with me?”

  Her heart nearly stopped when she realized his ploy. Her stomach rolled over, and she had to swallow hard not to retch. “This show was only for me, was it not?”

  “Smart girl.” He lifted his brows. “Bjorn’s life as well as your sister’s happiness is in your hands. Marry me, and Bjorn will live. Leah will not be forced to marry a cold man who would as easily slit her throat as lie with her.”

  “And Hagan?” she asked, barely daring to breathe.

  “Is dead.”

  “But his body has not been found,” she said, horrified at the twist of her thoughts. She felt as cold as death when she realized that if Hagan were found alive Darton would surely kill him. Darton would not stop short of murdering his brother to remain Baron of Erbyn. She swallowed back the lump of fear in her throat, but said, “I will marry you, Darton, if you promise Bjorn’s freedom and that Leah will be allowed to return to Prydd or go where she pleases. If Hagan is found alive, you will not harm him.”

  Though there was no wind, she felt as if a gale as sharp as a blade of ice cut out her soul. The thought of marrying Darton was vile.

  “Hagan is dead.”

  “So you say,” she whispered over the thickness in her throat. Tears threatened her eyes, and her voice was low and uneven. It was all she could do to keep from falling on the floor and sobbing for the man she loved. She clenched her fists and refused to show Darton any more of her weakness. “But there is a chance that Hagan is alive, and I want your word that you will look for him no longer, and if he is alive, you will let him live as a free man.”

  “Think you I would ever hand back Erbyn to him?”

  “Nay. I did not ask for that, Darton,” she said, forcing her gaze to meet his. His face was blurred as she stared through tears. “It matters not if he is stripped of his possessions, but you must vow to me that he will live.”

  “And for this you will marry me?”

  The words lodged in her throat, but she forced them over her tongue. “Aye, my liege,” she said, hoping to sound obedient when she wanted to spit in the cur’s face. “I will be your wife.”

  “Then we will make haste. The wedding will be tomorrow at dawn.”

  Bjorn stared at the moon through the small window high over his head. In the rat-infested dungeon, he glared at the night sky and vowed his vengeance. He’d been toyed with today, and he still felt the scratch of hemp at his throat. More frightened than ever in his life, he’d learned something vital when the hangman had tightened the noose around his neck. He could face death, but not without some sense of dignity, and he would not willingly be led back to the gallows until he’d tried to pay back Darton in kind for all the evil he’d brought to Erbyn … and to Leah.

  For, in truth, Bjorn felt little loyalty to the castle or the lord, but for the first time in his life, he cared for another person; someone other than himself.

  In the few days he was with Leah, he’d fallen in love with her. Though Sorcha was the forceful one, the sister with the ideas and the power and the birthmark proclaiming her the savior of Prydd, it was Leah, sweet, simple, and good, to whom he had been drawn.

  Mayhap it was because she seemed so quiet. She hardly dared look a man in the eye, and yet he sensed in her an inner strength. He’d heard the rumors, knew that Darton had forced her into his bed and raped her. His teeth gnashed and hate poured through his bloo
d.

  During their one night alone together in the forest, Bjorn had heard Leah scream in her sleep, and when he’d tried to awaken her, to hold her until the demons of the darkness left her mind, she’d scratched and fought, pushing him away with more strength than he’d expected. Perhaps she was terrified of all men. Because of Darton. His lip curled and he spewed a curse at the new master of his fate.

  Bjorn and Leah had become close during their few hours together, and she had seemed to come to trust him. But he’d failed her and they had been ambushed by Darton’s men and brought back in humiliation to Erbyn.

  By the blood of Christ, he would save her.

  In the darkness of the dungeon, Bjorn swore on the grave of his mother that he would seek revenge upon the evil one who called himself baron. For himself. For Sorcha. But most of all, for Leah.

  Somehow, he intended to kill Darton with his own hands before he’d let the hangman kick the stool away and snap his neck.

  Anne had never considered herself a coward, and yet sweat ran down her spine as she faced the guard at Sorcha’s door. For once, her usually graceful bearing seemed forced. She smiled sweetly, but wanted to kick the man into doing what she wanted.

  “I didn’t hear nothin’ about a visit,” Sir Patton, the dullard of a guard, said as he scratched his head.

  Anne looked down her nose at the man. “The lady has not been eating. My brother is concerned and thought she might need company to bring back her appetite.”

  The guard didn’t move. “Brady says no one goes in but the servant girl.”

  “Brady is not the lord. Now, Sir Patton, the baron has asked not to be disturbed while he and Lord Tadd work on the details of the truce between our houses, but if you will not allow me to visit his bride and take her the meal Darton so wants her to eat, then I’ll go fetch him and he can tell you himself. Maybe he’ll bring Lord Tadd along as well.” She smiled coldly and let her words settle into Patton’s thick skull.