Kiss of the Moon

by Lisa Jackson

  “The enemy?” Hagan said, feeling uneasy. “Who’s the enemy? Surely not the Scots—”

  “Tadd of Prydd,” Darton said.

  “We have a truce with Eaton.”

  “Yea, but the baron’s away, and now we deal with his simpleton of a son, a man who is greedy and growing more powerful each day.” Darton walked to the fire to stand next to his brother. “Did I not already tell you that there have been rumors, Hagan, rumors suggesting that Tadd is mounting an army the likes of which we haven’t seen in years? My soldiers were traveling the road that leads to the village near Prydd. Sir Robert, one of our most trusted men and a traitor to Prydd, told me that Tadd was strengthening his forces while his father was off fighting the Scots.”

  “There is a truce—” he repeated.

  “Aye, and it has been broken many times. Eaton is an old man and far off. Tadd can honor the truce or break it.”

  “What does this have to do with Lady Leah?”

  Darton sighed loudly. “The capture of Leah was a mistake. I told the men to take only Sorcha, that she was worth more.”

  “You thought to sell her?”

  “Nay, to bargain for her. To show Tadd’s hand. The exchange would be her safe return for peace.”

  “You expect me to believe—”

  “ ’Tis the truth,” Darton swore. “She is powerful, Hagan, and tonight was proof of that. Many have whispered that she is the chosen one, the savior of Prydd, a woman blessed by the old gods, and though we may find such beliefs foolish, they exist. Her birthmark alone sets her apart, causes old tongues to wag. We may laugh at the ancient ones and their religion, but many still believe in the old rites. Oh, they hide their blasphemy well by attending mass and pretending piety, but—” he leaned closer to Hagan, conviction etched in his features “—they think of her as their true leader. It matters not what favors Edward bestows upon you, Hagan. Many of the peasants and servants believe that Sorcha of Prydd is the most powerful woman—or man, for that matter—in all of Wales.” His voice lowered a fraction and he glanced to the door, as if he was hiding his next words. “There is gossip about her that runs deeper. ’Tis rumored that she was not sired by Sir Eaton, that she’s not the seed of his loins. There are many who believe that a true prince of the Celts, a bastard grandson of Llywelyn, raped Lady Cleva, under the watchful eye of a full moon; that Sorcha of Prydd is not Eaton’s daughter but is really descended from Llywelyn the Great, that the blood that flows through her veins is from the true rulers of Gwynedd.”

  Absently, as Darton spoke his nonsense, Hagan rubbed his shoulder, where her knife had found its mark, and Darton sat on a stool near the hearth as he spoke. “The old ones, they believe the prophecy, and they’ve taught their young the same. Edward may think that he is king of all that is Wales, but he is a fool. Only those with royal Welsh blood can rule the people.” Satisfied that he’d convinced Hagan of his prisoner’s worth, Darton leaned back and knocked off a bit of mud from the sole of his boot with the toe of the other. “She is a prize, brother. A prize to bargain with.”

  Hagan’s teeth were clenched so hard that he could barely speak. “So you plotted Sorcha’s kidnap because of her power over the old people, because she is rumored to be the true ruler of Prydd?”

  “Nay. I took her because of the rumors of war.” Darton frowned darkly. “Tadd of Prydd cannot be trusted. He has threatened to raise his sword to Erbyn more than once.”

  “But he’s never broken the peace.”

  “ ’Twas only a matter of time.” Darton rubbed his jaw and his eyes narrowed. “The mistake was that my men brought the wrong woman and killed two of Tadd’s soldiers.”

  “As well as a lady in waiting.”

  “Bloody hell,” Darton ground out, apparently furious that his scheme had not gone as planned.

  “So instead of preventing war, you may have started one. Tadd of Prydd now has an excuse to break the truce. Now he will certainly be looking for trouble.”

  “Aye,” Darton admitted with a lift of one shoulder. “That much is true. However—” one side of his mouth curved upward “—all is not lost. By the fates, brother, we now have Sorcha.”

  That thought gave Hagan no comfort. “As well as her sister, who may die.”

  “By her own hand,” Darton replied callously. “ ’Tis a pity, aye, but there is no way to undo the deed.”

  “Leah tried to kill herself because you brought her here against her will.” Hagan leaned against the warm stones of the fireplace and tried to keep the rage from his voice. This time Darton had gone too far. A woman—Sorcha’s sister—was nearly dead. Dead! No amount of chanting would bring her back if she gave up her spirit. Yet Darton acted as if her life made no difference. A cold desperation gnawed at Hagan’s guts. “So tell me, Darton, did you treat her well while she was here?”

  “She was a prisoner.”

  “A prisoner? For God’s sake, what were you thinking?”

  Darton’s eyes narrowed. “I was trying to save your barony, that’s all, m’lord!”

  Hagan’s jaw hardened. “As a prisoner, was she beaten?” Hagan asked, his stomach roiling as he thought of Sorcha’s sister being flogged.

  “Nay—”

  “Raped?” he asked.

  A small light flickered in Darton’s eyes. “Nay, I—”

  “Just tell me this, brother. Did you force her into your bed?” Hagan demanded, though he knew the answer.

  “She came willingly,” Darton said with a smile that made Hagan’s blood turn to ice.

  He could stand the lies no longer. Grabbing the front of Darton’s tunic, he twisted the fine fabric, making a noose of his brother’s clothing as he lifted Darton in the air. “When you are ready to tell me the truth and all of it, I will listen to you. My guess is that you are telling me only what you think I should hear, but I trust you not. That girl tried to kill herself, Darton, with her own knife or else you or one of your soldiers attempted to take her life. You may yet succeed, for she’s none too strong. Whether she lives or dies, you will pay, brother, and pay dearly. You’ve put this castle and all who depend upon Erbyn for safety in danger. ’Tis something I’ll not forget.” He dropped Darton as if he were a vile piece of meat and strode out the door, stopping only to instruct the guards to keep the heavy door barred.

  His leg ached and his shoulder throbbed as he strode down the curved stairs. Damn Darton, damn his bloody schemes and damn him for his whoring.

  Tadd of Prydd was not known for his patience. A bully with a mean temper, he would want revenge.

  Soon the very gates of hell would open, right here, at Erbyn.

  “Bring me the stable master!” Tadd bellowed, his boots sinking into the mud, his fury evident in the harsh lines of his face. Could not anything ever go right? He tapped his riding whip in the palm of his gloved hand impatiently. Guards scurried into the stables and searched the castle.

  Finally the bravest of the lot approached Tadd. “The stable master’s gone,” Sir Prescott said, ducking his head against the fine morning mist that drizzled continually from the gray sky.

  “He’s gone and my horse is missing,” Tadd said, flicking his crop at a piece of dirt on the shoulder of Prescott’s tunic. “Think you he took the stallion?”

  “I know not,” Prescott admitted, showing off the tight wedge of his teeth that bucked prominently over his lower lip. He looked like a frightened rooster contemplating the butcher’s hatchet.

  “Have you spoken with his wife?”

  “Aye, and all she does is wring her hands while her little ones hide behind her skirts.”

  “She knows not where he is?” Tadd had trouble believing the woman had no idea where her husband had gone.

  “If she does, she says nothing.”

  “Someone knows where the man is!” Tadd nearly yelled. He was in a foul mood. The kitchen wench with whom he’d lain the night before had been silly and dull. A beauty, with full breasts and accommodating hips, she was a bore with little i
magination, a woman who giggled incessantly until he’d kicked her out of his bed and felt unsatisfied. He’d woken up with the need to go hunting. His blood was up, his temper black, and he wanted only to sight a boar or stag, chase the animal down, and fell it swiftly. Now his horse, his prize destrier, McBannon, was missing. Along with that miserable Tim, the stable master.

  “Find out what happened,” Tadd ordered, turning on his heel and feeling a chill as cold as death as Prescott hurried back to the stables.

  First the attacks on his sisters, bungled though the one on Sorcha had been, and the murder of two soldiers and a maid, and now this … the loss of his finest war-horse. He wouldn’t be surprised if Tim, a man who loved mead, had taken off with the great beast. The man was a drunk and a dullard, kept on only because he had a talent with the horses. It was eerie sometimes, the way he could encourage the most headstrong of animals to do his bidding.

  Tim had been with Prydd for as long as Tadd could remember and was one of Tadd’s father’s most trusted men. Though Tadd would love to turn the man and his family out of the castle walls, his father would not hear of it. Should Tadd dismiss the stable master while his father was absent, there would be serious trouble as soon as Eaton returned and discovered the fat pig missing. ’Twas enough to turn a man to drink!

  Footsteps approached, and Tadd, who had started up the steps to the great hall, paused. Turning, he saw Prescott running across the wet grass and mud of the bailey. Rain drizzled down his long nose and splattered his cheeks. “M’lord,” Prescott said, “one of the guards on duty last night—Sir Michael—said the old woman was out searching for her herbs in the moonlight.”

  Tadd snorted in disgust. “She’s a foolish old hag. She has nothing to do with—” He glanced up at the iron-colored sky, and his eyes narrowed. “Was there a moon last night?”

  “Aye.” Prescott offered a cruel smile.

  “Bring Isolde to me,” Tadd said, climbing the stairs with a new sense of satisfaction. He enjoyed baiting the dried-up old crone who had seemed to despise him from the very day he’d been born. Her disgust with him came from the birthright, of course, always the damned birthright. If only Sorcha had been born without that blasted mark on her neck, then no one would question his power. ’Twas he who should have been bestowed with the kiss of the moon. He was the firstborn son of the baron, and therefore heir to Erbyn. No one could question the power that would someday be his—if it weren’t for that damned prophecy and Sorcha’s birthmark.

  Gnashing his teeth together, he kicked at a bench by the fire, yanked off his gloves, and settled into his chair to wait.

  Sorcha heard the sounds of the castle coming to life. Girls calling to the chickens, carpenters pounding with hammers, sheep bleating in the distance. She stretched and raised one eyelid. Her heart was heavy with a sadness she couldn’t name, and then it hit her with the force of a winter gale: Leah. Sweet, happy Leah was dead. No, that was wrong, she was still alive, or had been when … when what?

  Why couldn’t she remember? She’d seen Leah, the blood, felt the life draining out of her sister, and then … the ring. She looked down at her hands and saw the serpent wrapped around her finger. Leah had been alive. Her eyes had opened and she’d breathed a deep breath, but that was all Sorcha remembered before the blackness had wrapped her in its soothing folds.

  Stretching and letting out a yawn, she sat in the bed only to find herself in a large chamber with a fire in the grate and a man—a hellish brute of a man—seated on a bench. He glowered at her with an intensity that cut her to the quick.

  Hagan of Erbyn! Her insides curdled at the sight of him as the horrible nightmare of the night before played upon her mind.

  “ ’Tis time you woke up,” he said, his voice more gentle than she remembered.

  “Where’s my sister?”

  “She’s been moved, to a better room. She is resting.”

  Sorcha sprang from the bed. “I must be with her.”

  Hagan shook his head. “She is with Nichodemas, the physician.”

  “Are you daft? Someone has already tried to kill her.” Sorcha, hair flying behind her, bolted for the door, but he grabbed her arm, spinning her back into the room.

  “Nichodemas thinks she tried to kill herself.”

  “Leah?” Sorcha cried. “She had no reason to try and take her life until your brother brought her here. Asides, ’tis a sin, and Leah is devout. She would never—”

  “I’m only repeating what Nichodemas told me.”

  “Take me to her.”

  “In time.”

  Sorcha was frantic. “But she’s not safe—”

  “Rosemary is with her, and the room is guarded. No harm will come to her. I swear it.”

  “As you swore that she was not here?” she demanded, thrusting out her chin. “You are a pitiful ruler, Lord Hagan, for you cannot control those in your own castle, including your murdering brother.”

  A muscle tightened in his jaw. His hands clenched and he looked angry enough to spit. “I’ll have fresh clothes for you and a bath brought—”

  “I want none of your charity.”

  “You’re a guest in this keep and—”

  “Make no mistake, I’m a prisoner.”

  When he seemed about to argue, she closed the distance between them, her feet whispering through the rushes. “Or if, as you say, I am a guest, then let me visit my sister. Surely no guest in the house of Erbyn would be locked in a room far away from the Christmas revels and her own sister.”

  “ ’Tis not possible for you to walk the castle grounds by yourself,” he replied, his eyes cold and assessing.

  “Why not?”

  “Mayhap you have forgotten that you stole into the castle by telling falsehoods, that you tricked the cook and my guards, and that you sought to kill me while I slept.”

  “Aye, but I had a purpose, m’lord. I knew my sister had been brought here. Taken prisoner. The least you could do, as ruler of this castle, is give us our freedom. Let us return to Prydd.”

  “When your sister is well.”

  Her heart turned to stone. The beast meant to keep them both here? Didn’t he know how dangerous it was for Leah to remain here? Desperation clawed at her. “You must let us leave before someone tries to kill her again.”

  “Sorcha, Nichodemas found the knife that she used on her wrists. Lying on the floor. There is little doubt that your sister tried to end her own—”

  “Last night you tried to convince me that she wasn’t here,” she said, unable to listen to any more lies. “You know not what goes on in this castle, Lord Hagan. You’ve been off to war, and many of your servants and knights have sworn their allegiance to your brother.” She was guessing now, but she’d seen the same betrayal at Prydd when her father was away.

  “You doubt that my servants are loyal?”

  “To you? Aye. I know as much.”

  His eyes gleamed a little. “What else do you know, Sorcha? Hmm? Can you tell the future? Or are your powers limited to bringing those on the brink of death back to life? What kind of woman are you? Sorceress? Witch? One who truly has the power of the kiss of the moon? Or are you a fraud—a cheap magician who has tricked us all?”

  When she didn’t answer, he stepped closer, his gaze searching the contours of her face as if studying a mystical puzzle. “What was that all about last night? How did you make the wind whistle and the fire dance?”

  “I know not,” she admitted, her heart beginning to thunder within her rib cage.

  “No? And yet your sister, who seems to be drawing her last breath, returns to life; her eyes open and she calls your name.”

  “Mayhap it was my faith that she would live.”

  “So now God is listening to you,” he said, his gaze lingering in hers.

  She could barely breathe. The room seemed to grow smaller.

  “Please, let me see my sister.”

  For a moment he hesitated and his gaze lowered to her lips as if he might kiss her. Her
stomach pressed hard against her lungs, and her heart pounded like a hollow drum. “As soon as Nichodemas agrees.”

  He touched her hand, lifting it so that the silver ring caught in the morning light. One long finger traced the serpent’s coil. “What kind of magic is this, Sorcha?” He dropped her hand, and she bit her lip. Seconds passed. His eyes were kind when he said, “Until I can trust you, you will remain in here or with a guard at all times. I can be fooled once, but not a second time. ’Tis your choice whether you are a guest or a prisoner.”

  Sorcha swallowed the lump in her throat. In truth, she had committed many crimes against Erbyn, be they for a good cause or not. He, as lord, could imprison her as he saw fit. Biting her tongue against challenging him further, she tried to ignore the dried blood on the sleeve of his tunic.

  “I’ll not forget that you tried to kill me.”

  She felt a little bit of remorse, for she had never before hurt a man, yet she couldn’t stop the words that fell off her tongue. “I only wish I could have slit your miserable throat.”

  His smile was suddenly cruel. “Mayhaps you’ll get another chance,” he said, the color of his eyes shifting to a darker shade of gold.

  Sorcha’s heart thudded painfully. In the thick silence, she knew that he was thinking of their night in his room, and her cheeks flamed hot when she remembered how wantonly she’d behaved.

  “Be careful, O savior of Prydd,” he warned in a dangerously low voice that touched a forbidden part of her, “for you are at Erbyn now, and here we play by my rules.” He turned on his heel and strode quickly out of the room.

  The heavy oak bar dropped into place with a thud that echoed to the ceiling. Without a doubt she was doomed to be a prisoner at Erbyn until Hagan the Cruel saw fit to release her and her sister.

  Never before had she felt so small and frightened. Crossing her legs, she sat down on the cold floor. If only those who thought she was meant to be their deliverer could see her now, she thought miserably. ’Twas horrid fate that put her in the hands of her sworn enemy.