Kiss of the Moon

  He swallowed and shifted from one foot to the other. He knew that Tadd and Darton were drinking together and that Darton was hoping that under the influence of wine and Lucy’s considerable charms, Tadd would ask for less compensation for the trouble of the kidnapping and the murder. Darton would be furious if he was interrupted, and Sir Patton had tasted Darton’s wrath once before. He still bore the scars of Darton’s whip from the last time he’d stupidly disobeyed the new lord of Erbyn.

  “You’ll not be staying long,” he said.

  “But a few minutes, just to assure myself that she eats some of Ada’s eel pie.” Grinning coyly, she opened the linen covering, and in a warm cloud of spice, the scent of onions and fish wafted through the hallway.

  Patton licked his lips and moved the bar from the door. “See that you hurry.”

  “I promise,” she said sweetly as she swept into the room and found Sorcha huddled before the dying fire. The door clanged shut behind her, and Sorcha looked up sharply, expecting Darton and finding his white-faced sister.

  “What do you want?” Sorcha asked. She’d never trusted Anne because the woman was often with Darton.

  “Only your company,” Anne replied, glancing over her shoulder, then letting out a long sigh. She held out the pie tin.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You must eat.”

  “I’ll not—”

  “Come, Sorcha, we have little time,” Anne whispered firmly as she cast another worried glance over her shoulder. “If you are to escape before Bjorn is hanged, we must work quickly.”

  “Escape.”

  “Aye. Look, I know I’ve not been … kind to you, but I cannot stand idly by and watch my brother … Oh, Lord, please, just trust me.”

  Sorcha didn’t know if she should bother listening. Anne had not been overly friendly to her since her arrival at Erbyn, and she’d seemed closer to Darton than to Hagan. Could this be a trick to test her allegiance? “You want me to plan my escape? Why? So you can run back to your brother and tell him?”

  In vexation, Anne blew a strand of hair from her eyes. “Nay—”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “Because you have no choice.”

  “But—”

  “Because your sister’s life depends upon it.”

  Sorcha bit her tongue.

  “Because you love Hagan and tomorrow you are to wed Darton.” Anne’s fingers coiled anxiously in her hair. “Please, Sorcha, listen to me. For Hagan’s sake. I have an idea, a way to help you escape, but I’ll need your help, for I know not the ways of the old ones,” Anne said, though in truth, she shuddered as she thought of it. Again she gave the pie tin to Sorcha. “Eat … eat … in case Sir Patton returns.”

  “This is no trick?”

  “I, too, wish for Hagan’s return, though I fear … Oh, God, if Darton has had him killed …” Anne’s voice caught and her brown eyes filled with tears. Sorcha realized the horrid truth: Anne was right, she had no choice but to put her faith in Hagan’s sister.

  She took a large bite from the pie. “What do you needs know?” she asked around a bite of the succulent eel.

  Anne’s shoulders relaxed a little. With one eye trained toward the door, Anne reached up beneath her skirt and withdrew not one, but two small daggers. The very knives that Isolde had given Sorcha oh, so long ago. “This one is yours,” Anne said, handing her the knife with a curved blade.

  “And the other?”

  “Is for me.” Anne shifted her gaze to the dying fire and said a quiet prayer for strength. “I think I have found a way for you to escape to your freedom, but we must work fast. Tonight. If I am to help you, I need you to swear on all that you hold holy that you will find Hagan or proof of his body.”

  Seventeen

  bergwynn,” Wolf said, his voice barely a whisper.

  From inside, as if in answer, a wolf or dog howled, and Hagan felt a finger of ice draw down his spine. The small band of thugs pulled up their horses at the edge of the forest, but Hagan rode forward, staring at the castle.

  Like towering giants the battlements of Abergwynn rose in the dusk, and Hagan admired the sturdy stone walls. If only the baron was as strong as his castle, there might be a chance that he could rescue Sorcha. For the first time in his life, Hagan felt powerless, and all of his possessions and wealth meant nothing to him. Darton could have it all.

  Except for Sorcha. The thought that Darton was marrying her was a weight upon his shoulders Hagan couldn’t dislodge. Why had he been such a blind fool—trusting a brother who had always begrudged him? Now, because of his stupid pride, because he wouldn’t see Darton for the traitor he was, Sorcha and all of Erbyn would suffer at his brother’s cruel hand.

  His teeth gnashed together in his impatience. A sentry shouted and a horn blared, signaling their arrival. Hagan knew only a little of Garrick of Abergwynn, and yet he was trusting his life and the fate of those he loved to an outlaw and a baron he’d never before met. He glanced at the rogue, a man named Wolf with cold blue eyes and a savage grimace. Hagan didn’t know what ties bound Wolf to Abergwynn, but he guessed that the baron owed the outlaw a favor—perhaps in payment for some murderous deed Wolf had done under the cover of darkness.

  Though not a God-fearing man, Hagan sent up a prayer for Sorcha’s safety and resigned himself to the fact that the meeting with Garrick was necessary, though time seemed to be running out.

  Wolf felt Hagan’s impatience, and in truth, he, too, was anxious, for at last, Tadd of Prydd would be his. Tadd would finally pay. A cruel smile twisted his lips as he stared at the massive curtained walls of the keep. It had been ten years since he’d been in the castle. He’d left when he was but a boy. He’d been foolish and young and thought himself a man at the time, but he’d been proved wrong.

  Hot injustice, banked for years, simmered to the surface of his blood. Inside his gloves, his fingers clenched tightly around the reins. It had been so long. Memories of his youth flitted through his brain, and he found it hard to believe that he’d been gone for so many years. Would they remember? Or did they believe him dead?

  He smiled coldly, for it would do his heart good to think that he might scare the living hell out of his brother. There had always been a rivalry between them, and the one time he’d tried to prove his manhood, Wolf had let Garrick down. He’d vowed never to return, but here he was, ready to beg a favor. He was anxious and sweat began to dampen his spine, but he showed no outward sign of emotion. He’d grown into a man in the past ten years, seen the hell that life could be, and he’d learned to keep his feelings deep in his soul, hidden away from anyone else’s eyes. ’Twas weak to show emotion, and Wolf wanted his men, aye, and his brother, too, to believe him strong.

  “Who goes there?” a guard yelled from the tower. A young man whom Wolf didn’t recognize glared at the ragged company of riders. The guard’s gaze narrowed in suspicion and his bow and arrow were at ready.

  “I’m here to see the baron,” Wolf said, ignoring the fact that the sentry’s weapon was aimed at his heart. He remembered another time when he’d stood outside this very keep, a knife pressed to his throat.

  “That doesn’t answer me question,” the sentry said. “Who are you?”

  Wolf leaned forward on the saddle, and his gaze was fierce as he stared up at the man blocking his entry. There was a guard at ground level, too, a wary lad with a long sword. Wolf thought about knocking the sword from the younger man’s hands and grabbing the sentry by the front of his tunic, then hauling him off his feet and scaring the devil out of him, but he couldn’t. For if he made a swift move, a dozen arrows would be showered upon his men. “Tell him Wolf from the forests near Erbyn has come. I bring with me Baron Hagan, and we have a request for Lord Garrick.”

  The guard’s gaze moved to Hagan, his eyes slitting a bit as if he didn’t believe a grand lord would look so pale and weak. “Is this true?”

  Hagan stiffened and his own gaze turned to stone. “Aye. I’m Hagan.” r />
  “Come in then,” the guard said, waving them through the portcullis, “but just you two.” He blocked the way of the rest of the outlaws, and though Cormick and Odell grumbled loudly at being mistreated, Wolf did not argue with the guard.

  “Baron Hagan’s wounded,” Wolf said. “We seek but a few hours’ rest and an audience with—” He saw her then. Through the opening in the gate, he watched her dash across the bailey. As slender as he remembered and even more beautiful, she ran with four girls chasing after her, all with the same wild black hair and small white faces as their mother. Behind the last girl a dog—nay, a wolf—loped with an uneven gait.

  She was hurrying from the new chapel, a small church that hadn’t been built when Wolf had last seen Abergwynn. As if she’d heard him speak, though he hadn’t uttered a word, she turned and noticed him. The temperature of the air in the bailey seemed to drop ten degrees. She gasped, her hand flying to her throat. The wolf sniffed the air and growled. “Merciful God,” she cried. Her eyes locked with Wolf’s before she smiled widely and picked up her skirts, running forward and leaving her dazed daughters to stare after their mother. The dog followed his mistress, his tired old eyes trained in Wolf’s direction.

  She didn’t seem to care that the guards and men could see her legs as she ran to him. Her green eyes were filled with joy. “Ware!” she yelled. “Ware! You’re alive! I knew it! I’ve seen visions of you … Oh, thank God, you’ve come home!”

  Leaping off his destrier, he swept her into his arms and twirled her off her feet. “ ’Tis good to see you again, Morgana.”

  For a minute his men, watching from the other side of the gate, were confused. Was this, their leader, the Baron of Abergwynn? No. Wolf was not Garrick! And yet this woman who seemed the lady of the castle was greeting him warmly, tears of joy running from her beautiful eyes. She clung fiercely to him as if she were afraid he might vanish …

  “ ’Twas sinful of you to let us think you were dead,” she teased, but couldn’t stop smiling.

  “Morgana!” a harsh voice boomed across the bailey, and the lord himself, his face set in a savage scowl, stood at the top of the stairs to the great hall.

  “Look, Garrick,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes. “ ’Tis—”

  “Wolf, the outlaw from Erbyn,” the rogue said as he let go of Garrick’s wife. Head cocked arrogantly, he swaggered up to the great lord.

  Garrick’s jaw was firmly set. Hand on the hilt of his sword, he swiftly crossed the wet grass and glared at the leader who had the audacity to take his wife into his grubby arms. “I’ve heard of you,” he said as he drew closer and his eyes narrowed upon the man.

  Morgana giggled. “Oh, my love, do you not recognize—”

  “My God!” Garrick whispered hoarsely. “Can it be? Does the ghost of my brother visit me?”

  One side of Wolf’s mouth twisted into a cynical smile. “I assure you, Garrick, I am no ghost.”

  “Ware!” Garrick said, his harsh features relaxing. “By the gods, I thought you were dead. Morgana has been prattling on and on about you, saying you were returning, but … well, I found it impossible to believe. It’s been so long …” His voice caught.

  “This is Ware?” A lad of about thirteen with red-brown hair curled his nose at the outlaw as if he smelled foul.

  “I’m afraid we’ve told Logan many tales of you,” Morgana said with a smile. “All of them very heroic.”

  “He’s a bloody outlaw,” Logan said.

  “Aye. And my brother as well.” Garrick clapped Wolf on the back, and Wolf, too, embraced his brother. Until this moment he didn’t realize how much he’d missed Abergwynn. It had been too long he’d been hiding in the woods.

  Morgana touched him on the arm. “You must tell us everything as soon as you meet your nieces.”

  “Nieces only? No sons?”

  “Aye, there are enough women here to make a man daft,” Garrick agreed as his daughters raced up to him. “Jillian, Jane, Millicent, and Margaret.” He shook his great head. He swept two of the raven-haired vixens into his arms. “Logan keeps hoping for a brother.”

  The boy rolled his eyes to the heavens, and Garrick ruffled his hair as he ducked away.

  As Garrick set his daughters back on their feet, Morgana took Ware’s arm. “Come,” she said, the laughter in her eyes slowly dying. “I knew you were alive, I could feel it, but there are still so many questions …”

  Ware’s smile vanished and a shadow passed behind his eyes. “You are asking of your brother, Cadell,” he said sadly, and shook his head. “I know not,” he said with a sigh.

  She blinked rapidly and looked away.

  “Come, bring your men inside and tell us all,” Garrick said, waving to the guard to allow the rest of Wolf’s band into the castle. “Give these men food and drink.”

  Hagan slid down from his mount and extended his hand to Garrick as Wolf introduced him as the rightful Baron of Erbyn. “His brother is now, through trickery, ruling the castle.”

  “Darton?” Garrick asked.

  “Aye, he’s trying to wrest the power from Hagan, and it would do me well to help restore the rightful lord to his castle,” Ware said. “ ’Twould fulfill my promise to myself.”

  Garrick’s eyes locked with those of his younger brother. “You still blame yourself for losing control of Abergwynn?”

  “Aye. You had faith in me and left me in command. Strahan would never have attacked had you stayed behind.”

  “ ’Tis long over now,” Garrick said. “ ’Twas not your fault.”

  Ware frowned but didn’t seem relieved. “We’ve come here for your help, brother.”

  “Help?” Morgana whispered, and her voice faded on the wind. “You are not staying?”

  Wolf shook his head. “We have not the time.”

  Hagan was restless. The hours slipped by. Even now, Sorcha could be married to Darton. His fists clenched silently and his mind was back at Erbyn imagining the horror that his brother had brought upon the castle. He ate the Baron of Abergwynn’s fine meal of salmon, venison, fruit pies, pigeon, and custard, yet he hardly tasted a bite, and it was all he could do to keep from storming out of the great hall, climbing upon his horse, and riding back to Erbyn as fast as the beast could run, though he knew as one man, he could accomplish nothing. He needed the strength of Garrick’s army as well as Wolf’s bravery and cunning.

  The brothers and Morgana talked long and hard, and from the pieces of their stories, Hagan learned that ten years before, Garrick’s son, Logan, had been kidnapped. His most trusted knight, Strahan of Hazelwood, Garrick’s cousin, had suggested asking Morgana of Wenlock, whom some believed possessed the gift of sight.

  Garrick had resisted the idea, but he was desperate to find his son, especially after loving his wife. He never expected to fall in love with raven-haired Morgana, but fall he did. Not only did Morgana help find Logan, she won Garrick’s heart completely. She and Garrick eventually wed, but Ware, Garrick’s younger brother, and Cadell, the brother to Morgana, had been feared dead. Morgana had seen them tumble off the cliffs and into the sea, presumably to their deaths.

  “Sometimes,” she said, leaning over the table and dabbing at a spot of gravy at the corner of her smallest daughter’s mouth with her napkin, “I feel as if Cadell is calling to me. When the wind is silent, I hear his voice.”

  Ware sighed and shook his head. “I saw him not that night. ’Twas as if the sea had swallowed him whole. I waited until morning, searching the rocks for either him or his body. But I found nothing, no hint of what had happened to him. I was half-dead myself, but a fisherman found me.” His voice lowered a bit. “The fisherman, Alan, took me back to his village, where I worked for him until I was ready to leave.”

  Hagan sensed that there was more to the story, but Wolf fell into silence, and Morgana dropped scraps of venison to the wolf that was always at her side.

  “You chose not to return to Abergwynn,” Garrick said, his frown becoming more prono
unced.

  Ware drank long from his cup, and though there was much more he could tell them, he kept his silence. Only Hagan knew of the hatred he harbored for Tadd of Prydd, though the rightful Baron of Erbyn knew not why. No one would ever know the truth, for ’twas too private—just between Tadd and the outlaw Wolf. Mayhap he should have slit the bastard’s throat and slain him when he’d posed as a messenger to Prydd, but Wolf had sensed that the time was not right. He’d waited nearly ten years, he could wait a few more days.

  His eyes narrowed in the candlelight. He’d been happy working with the fisherman, learning a trade and falling in love with Alan’s pretty daughter, Mary. Even now, as he thought of her, his heart lifted, then he remembered how it ended. Mary was but fourteen when Tadd of Prydd had ridden through the village, seen her, and decided that he would like her to warm his bed.

  Alan objected loudly, defending his daughter’s virtue, and for that crime Tadd had used his sword to sever Alan’s arm at the elbow. Ware, too, intervened, and Tadd’s sword felled him, slicing his face, sending him nearly to his death. They hadn’t been able to save Mary, and Tadd, in front of his men, in her father’s bed, had raped her. When Ware had finally come to consciousness, she cowered in the corner, half-dressed and shivering on the bloody sheets. Ware had tried to comfort her, but she’d screamed at his touch and would let no man near her.

  Weeks had passed into months and Mary retreated into herself, not speaking to anyone, cowering at the very voice of any man other than her father. During a storm with Mary aboard, Alan’s boat had disappeared in the ocean, and Ware, who had stayed ashore upon the fisherman’s orders, had vowed that he would seek vengeance on Tadd of Prydd. From that day forward he’d called himself Wolf and had become an outlaw. He shuddered at the memory and silently pledged that he would finish it with Tadd, make him suffer as Mary had, or end up dead himself.

  As he stared into the flames of the white tapers of Abergwynn, he felt his brother’s gaze and he pulled himself from the depths of his memory.