by Lisa Jackson
Dear Reader,
KISS OF THE MOON is filled with magic, curses, heroes, and villains. It’s set in medieval Wales, an intriguing place filled with deep magic, dark castles, brooding heroes, and strong-willed heroines.
Adventure, allure, and avarice hide in the shadows of shadowy forests and candlelit towers of Castle Prydd where an ancient prophecy is fulfilled when Sorcha of Prydd comes into the world: “born during a tempest, with hair the color of a raven’s wing, eyes the blue of midnight, and the kiss of the moon on skin like alabaster…” It’s said that whoever is born with the KISS OF THE MOON birthmark upon his skin will rise to become the savior of Prydd. No one ever expected the chosen one to be a woman! Not only is this heresy, but an outrage. Surely the fates are wrong… or are they?
Years later, Sorcha’s courage is sorely tested when she must save her kidnapped sister and in doing so enters Hagan of Erbyn’s bedchamber. Never intending to be seduced by the arrogant and handsome lord, she places a knife to his throat. But that is just the beginning—and soon her pulse pounds whenever he’s near. Though she warns herself that Hagan is her sworn enemy, Sorcha can’t convince her wayward heart.
KISS OF THE MOON is a tale of curses and lies, trust and betrayal, and, ultimately, the power of love. I hope you are captivated by it.
—Lisa Jackson
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LISA JACKSON is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than a dozen novels, including The Night Before, If She Only Knew, Cold Blooded, Hot Blooded and Enchantress, which is available from Pocket Star Books. She lives with her family, two cats, and an eighty-pound dog in the Pacific Northwest. Visit her website at www.lisajackson.com.
Heartwarming praise for Lisa Jackson’s bestselling novels
“Her books are compelling, her characters intriguing, and her plots ingenious.”
—Debbie Macomber
“What a natural talent! Jackson delve[s] deeply into her characters’ motivations, lives, loves, and hidden secrets … and boy, does it work!”
—Literary Times
“Heart-stopping.… Don’t miss it!”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
“Superb! Lisa Jackson has outdone herself.… Highly recommended.”
—Reader to Reader Reviews
“When it comes to providing gritty and sexy stories, Ms. Jackson certainly knows how to deliver.”
—Romantic Times
“[S]pine-tingling.… [An] incredible tale.”
—Times Record News (Wichita Falls, TX)
BOOKS BY LISA JACKSON
Enchantress
Kiss of the Moon
Outlaw
Published by POCKET BOOKS
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Pocket Books
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1994 by Susan Crose
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
First Pocket Books eBook edition August 2012
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Front cover art by Alan Ayers
ISBN-13: 978-1-4767-0506-4
Special thanks to Nancy Bush,
Sally Peters, and Kathy Okano
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Prologue
Castle Prydd
November 1280
his night the gods were angry. The wind howled and the sea raged with a fury that tore at the cliffs on which Castle Prydd had stood for over a hundred years.
Shivering, Isolde held her precious basket close. A midwife whom some believed to be a witch, she caught her bony fingers in the cowl of her cloak and hurried toward the great hall. Rain, as cold as the soul of the very devil himself, lashed from a sky where black clouds roiled and blocked the moon. Whistling eerily, the wind raced from the sea, dancing in death-light footsteps up the back of Isolde’s wrinkled old neck. Strong gusts tore at the thatch on the roofs of the stables and sheds in the outer bailey. Lightning split the sky in sizzling forks, and the low rumble of thunder could be heard over the steady pounding of the surf.
Isolde cast a fearful look to the stormy heavens and whispered a quick prayer, for she knew God was furious with her for practicing the pagan ways of the old people.
“Think not of what I do, Lord. Just be with the lady,” she begged, clutching the damp handle of her basket more tightly. As if God would turn His deaf ear her way!
Through the portcullis and across the inner bailey she dashed, her leather shoes sinking deep in the muddy trail caused by the horses and men who had trampled the grass on their way to the great hall. A few knights lingering on the steps wore grim countenances, for Lady Cleva, beloved wife of the baron, was losing blood, perhaps losing her life, in the birthing of her long-awaited second child.
Unless Isolde could help and change the course of destiny.
Cleva’s firstborn, a boy named Tadd, was barely seven, but was already spoiled and stubborn, with a cruel streak that Isolde had witnessed too often. He was quick with a whip to his pony’s back and quicker yet to kick at the hounds and send them yelping in pain. Tadd had wounded some of his playmates as well, scratching, kicking, biting, and punching, and knowing always that he would be the victor in any match, for he was the baron’s eldest child: the chosen heir to Prydd.
Aye, he was a bad seed, that one. Yet there were no other children to Baron Eaton and his wife. Three times since Tadd had been delivered screaming into the world, Cleva had been with child. Two had miscarried early, but the last infant had been in Cleva’s womb the full time, only to be born blue-lipped and weak. The newborn had died within hours of his birth, and the Lady Cleva, who had lost much blood, had been so distraught with her grief, the baron had put her under guard for fear she might take her own life.
And now the lady was in a difficult labor yet again. Isolde crossed herself quickly. She was no fool. The baron would only have called for her in the most dire of circumstances, for Father William, the chaplain of Prydd, disdained her use of herbs and spells.
“ ’Tis the magic of the devil. Witchcraft,” he’d said on more than one occasion.
Lifting a lofty brow, he’d added, “And it will be in hell you’ll be dwellin’, Isolde, for all eternity.”
William was quick to preach the wages of sin to those who lived in Prydd, but Isolde suspected that he, too, was guilty of a few vices himself. Too often William’s eyes wandered to the wenches during meals, and several times Isolde had watched as he’d stumbled near the altar and slurred the mass, as if he’d tasted frequently of the baron’s wine.
Yea, William would have put up a fight at the thought of having Isolde birth this new baby. But the baron loved his wife more than he loved his God, and he would do anything to save Cleva—even call upon Isolde’s sorcery, if needs be.
“This way, woman,” the guard said as he shoved open the thick oaken door of the great hall. Inside, the sounds of the castle were muted. Four soldiers rolled dice near the staircase, maids spread clean rushes near the hearth, the smith stacked firewood in the corner, and the steward with his nasal voice barked orders to the cook in the kitchen.
A fire crackled and hissed, giving off a red glow, but the castle felt cold with the presence of death. Two yellow-eyed hounds growled at Isolde’s approach, as if they, too, knew she wasn’t a true believer in all that was holy.
“Isolde! Come quickly!” Baron Eaton hurried down the stairs. He grabbed her arms and half dragged her up the slick stone steps. He was a tall man with broad shoulders and a cap of thick red hair that framed a fair, freckled face. His eyes were as blue as the skies over Wales, and his features were sharp, whittled to steep, aristocratic angles. Rumored to be the bastard son of the king, he was a handsome and strong man. Yet his worry was deep; his usually clear eyes clouded with concern.
“Thank the saints you’ve come.” Rowena hurried toward them, causing the light from the sconces to flicker in her wake. A rotund woman with fine white hair and a red complexion, she, too, was a midwife. But she was a Christian woman of uncommon faith. No one would doubt her devotion to God, not even Father William. Rowena grabbed Isolde’s hands in her plump fingers. “Lady Cleva calls for you. The labor …” Her words were choked off, and she bit her lip. “Well, come, come … there’s no time to waste. The baby’s turned, I fear, and … Oh, please, just hurry.”
Low, pain-racked moans echoed through the upper hallway. The lady was in agony, to be sure. Isolde’s footsteps quickened until she spied Father William standing guard at the door to Cleva’s room. Isolde crossed herself, but William’s fleshy fingers curled around her bent elbow, and he stopped her short before she could enter.
“This is a Christian house, midwife,” he cautioned, his voice booming through the castle.
“Aye, Father.”
“I know of your ways. There will be no devil magic here. No chanting. No witch’s charms.”
Isolde stared long into his red-veined eyes. “I am here to help with the birthing, Father. That is all.”
The priest’s lips thinned and he reached quickly into her basket, his thick fingers digging under the towels to the knife, herbs, and candles within. “Witch’s tools?” he whispered, clucking his sanctimonious tongue.
“Nay, Father, only the tools of a good midwife.” She tore her arm from his.
“Is this true?” Father William asked Rowena.
Rowena swallowed back the truth and avoided the priest’s heavy gaze. “Isolde is here but to help in God’s work of bringing the baron a son. M’lady needs assistance that only Isolde with all her practice can bring.”
“But—”
“Remember, Father,” Rowena added, “Isolde was not at the birthing of the still babe. Aye, and she was not here when the lady lost those poor little souls who had no chance to grow in her womb. I think ’tis God’s will that the baron and his wife have many more sons and daughters.”
From the chamber, Lady Cleva cried out, “Help me, please. Oh, God, help me!”
The priest opened his mouth, caught a glance from Baron Eaton, and snapped his teeth together. His face was a mask of his own iron will. “There will be no witchcraft in the house of Prydd, Isolde. ’Tis the law of God and country.”
Isolde straightened her old spine and stared directly into the priest’s righteous eyes. “I have work to do, Father. Mayhaps you can help by going to the chapel and praying for the soul of this unborn babe.” She glanced at the baron. “’Twould help you as well.”
“Aye.” Without another word, Eaton led Father William down the stairs, and Isolde, offering a prayer of thanks to whatever god was listening, hastened to Lady Cleva’s bedside.
The room was large, with fresh rushes spread upon the floor, clean tapestries draped over the whitewashed walls, and a fire glowing warmly in the hearth. Yet wafting over the scents of smoke and lavender came the acrid odors of sweat, urine, and blood.
Lady Cleva lay on her bed, her face flushed and damp, her eyes bright with pain. “Help me,” she whispered, twisting her fingers in the wrinkled linen sheets. “Please, Isolde … you must …” She clamped her lips together and tears filled her eyes.
“Shh …” Isolde said softly as she touched Cleva’s sweat-soaked hair. She ran bony, experienced hands along Cleva’s body and didn’t stop until she’d felt the baby, twisted in the birthing channel.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Rowena hastily cross her heavy bosom.
“ ’Twill be all right,” Isolde assured the lady, though she doubted her own words. There was more here than a simple birth, and would the baby not turn, it would strangle itself.
“God is punishing me,” Cleva murmured, her pretty face twisting in agony as her body convulsed.
“Hush, m’lady! God punishes no one with a child.”
Again Cleva cried out. Her skin, so perfect and white, was now mottled, flushed where the veins in her face had burst. “But this child …’tis not Eaton’s …”
Isolde turned her stern eyes on Rowena, cutting off further confession. “You, midwife. Get clean sheets from the laundress, fresh, hot water from the kitchen, and see that no one disturbs us.”
“But I could be of assistance—”
Isolde wouldn’t budge. “The lady is rambling; she knows not what she says.”
Rowena swallowed. “You think that the child is a bas—”
“I think we need to save this babe and heed not the words of a woman in pain. All that is said here will remain in this chamber.”
“But—”
“Should I hear one word of what goes on tonight gossiped in the kitchen or stables, believe me, Rowena, by all that is holy and all that is not, I will work my magic against you, for I will know that it is you who have spoken. Now, get the towels.”
Cleva screamed, and Rowena, biting her fat lip, hurried into the hallway. Isolde wasted no time. She reached into her basket. Withdrawing herbs, she poured a combination of ground mistletoe, fern, and rosemary onto the candle holders before placing long tapers therein. Only then did she light each candle, murmuring a quiet spell of protection for the mother and infant. She cared not if the babe be Eaton’s or that of a stableboy; Isolde loved the lady and would do whatever necessary to protect her.
Cleva sucked in a breath, and Isolde took a red cord, knotted it nine times, then threaded the cord around Lady Cleva’s sweaty neck. “Now, m’lady, we must work fast, the babe’s almost here.” With deft fingers she took off her silver ring, in the shape of a serpent, and pressed it into Cleva’s palm. “Hold tight to this and feel its healing power,” she said, folding Cleva’s sweaty fingers over the ring. “Now, the child …”
Carefully spreading Cleva’s legs further, Isolde reached into the birthing channel, feeling with skilled fingers, praying that the child would turn as she eased the baby’s slick head forward.
Rain pounded the thick walls, and the wind gave up a shriek as loud as Cleva’s cries. “Merciful God! Please. Ohhh—” Her fingers curled over the ring until the metal cut into her palm.
“Come, Cleva, ’tis only a short time yet …”
Lightning split the night, casting the room i
n an eerie flash of brilliance.
Cleva moaned loudly, and with one last push, the infant slithered into Isolde’s waiting hands.
“Oh, God, oh, God,” Cleva whimpered, blood flowing from her in a warm rush.
“ ’Tis a girl, m’lady,” Isolde said as the child gave out a first, lusty cry, “and a beauty, she is …”
Cleva tried to rise up, but Isolde, still holding the baby, shoved her gently back on the sheets.
“Wait … ’tis not finished,” she said, as the baby was still attached to the afterbirth. She tied the cord with strong thread, then severed it with her knife.
Skillfully Isolde washed the infant, her bony fingers touching each joint as she watched eyes as blue as the sky blink up at her. Dark curls surrounded a perfect little face, and Isolde’s heart nearly stopped.
Wind shrieked over the battlements, and the prophecy she’d heard since childhood, the prediction of the old ones, swam in a wild current in Isolde’s mind.
She mouthed the words and could not help opening the towel.
Born during a tempest, with hair the color of a raven’s wing, eyes the blue of midnight, and the kiss of the moon upon skin like alabaster …
She let her gaze wander over the pale folds of newborn flesh until she spied it, the birthing mark at the base of the babe’s neck, a perfect crescent … the kiss of the moon. “By all the saints,” Isolde whispered, rewrapping the girl-child.
Her throat constricted in awe, for she knew she was looking upon the chosen one, the savior who would sacrifice herself for peace between her countrymen. She held the baby close, felt the infant’s warmth, and closed her eyes. Aye, she saw in her mind’s eye the future, filled with bloodshed and deceit, and somehow she knew this little one’s destiny was wrapped in the words of the old people.
Isolde had heard of the visions—aye, she’d had more than her share of the sight herself—but never had she expected to help bring into the lady’s house the chosen one who would become the savior of Prydd.
