Kiss of the Moon

by Lisa Jackson

  Hagan’s forehead furrowed and his eyes darkened. “From Mother’s lady in waiting, my father found out about Tullia. He came here, accused her of killing his wife, and forced her to drink some of her own potions.”

  “Oh Lord,” Sorcha whispered, fearing the rest.

  “Aye, she, too, died, and no one has lived here since. My father ordered the cottage destroyed, but the soldiers who came to burn it and tear it down were set upon by outlaws and killed. Rumor had it that the forest was infested with ghosts and demons and that the spirit of the witch Tullia still walked between these old walls.”

  “Yet you come here,” Sorcha said.

  He frowned. “I find it comforting. There was an uprising soon after—with Prydd—and my father turned his hatred away from here.”

  “And to Prydd?”

  “Aye.” He leaned against the bark of an ancient oak and gazed up to the sky through the leafless branches. “There has been little peace between our castles.”

  “Where is Tullia buried?” she asked suddenly, glancing around for a gravestone.

  “She was burned.”

  “What?”

  “No Christian burial for a witch. Her body was laid on a pyre and consumed by flames, for her soul would surely go to hell; at least that was my father’s thinking. I’ve tried long and hard to understand him, but failed. He died years ago, and I only know that he could be a kind man or he could be unreasonably cruel.” Hagan’s features turned hard and he threw an angry glance at the rubble of the old house. “Mayhap we should leave.”

  “Why did you bring me here?”

  “I had no intention of bringing you anywhere. I planned to ride alone. Come.” He started for his horse, but she touched him on the sleeve and he stopped short, his expression pensive.

  “But you wanted me to see this place. There was a reason.”

  “Because you vex me, Sorcha,” he said, his eyes the color of ale. “Some say you’re a witch, others claim you speak with God, still others expect you to be the savior of Prydd, as if Prydd needs a savior, and others …”

  She waited, and when he didn’t continue, she twined her fingers into the folds of his tunic. “Others …” she prodded.

  “Others claim that you are not the true daughter of Baron Eaton, that—”

  She let go of his sleeve as if his tunic were on fire and she shrank from him. “I know what they say, Hagan, but ’tis a lie,” she hissed, the old fury burning bright in her breast. She’d heard the rumors herself, knew that some of the servants at Prydd whispered and laughed among themselves over the lie, but Sorcha would never believe the horrid tales. “My mother would never have lain with another man. She was true to my father until the day she gave up her life!”

  “What of the rest of the stories?”

  “I’m no witch, Lord Hagan; I’ve told you so myself,” she said as she lifted her chin at a defiant angle. Tossing her head, she turned away from him.

  His insides turned dusky with want. In the dark woods with only the soft rush of a breeze stirring the branches of trees and the quiet lapping of the brook as it rippled over stones and the occasional snort from one of the horses, Hagan stared down at Sorcha and intended to haul her back to the castle. He took her arm and twirled her to face him, thinking he would push her toward her steed and they would be off.

  She gasped, her hair fanned away from her face, and in the instant when her blue eyes met his, he lost all control. Instead of shoving her away, he pulled her closer still, until her breasts were crushed against his chest and her startled breath whispered over his face. She gulped, and the air was tight in his own lungs. Though he knew he was being a traitor to his very soul, he couldn’t stop himself and his lips settled eagerly over hers—warm and wet and wanting.

  She didn’t push him away as he expected, but quivered at his touch, and when he pressed his tongue against her teeth, she sighed, slowly opening her mouth to him, like a bud opening to sunlight.

  He held her fast, feeling the softness of her body and hearing his own thundering heartbeat. Lust flowed hot through his veins and pooled between his legs.

  With featherlight strokes, his tongue dipped and touched, as if lapping sweet nectar, and a low moan escaped her throat. Fire flashed through his blood and he couldn’t stop. Pulsing desire swept through him and he ground his mouth over hers, wanting, taking, demanding more from her.

  She responded with a reckless hunger. Her arms wound around his neck, and there was no ounce of struggle in her bones.

  Soft, warm, pliant. His hands spanned her small waist and he slowly dragged them both to the ground. She didn’t make a sound of protest. When his tongue touched hers, she eagerly responded, that sweet, slick little beast touching and playing with his teeth and the roof of his mouth until he was blinded with desire. He snapped open the brooch at the base of her neck, and her black cape spread upon the forest floor like a blanket.

  Kissing her was sweet ecstasy. He no longer fought with himself and gave in to the demons in his mind that told him she was his for the taking; all he had to do was strip her of her clothes and claim her body with his. Ah, ’twould be paradise to feel her hot warmth wrap around him. But he wanted more than her supple body, he wanted her mind as well.

  She moaned into his open mouth when he unlaced her tunic and let his fingers trail against her skin. Beneath the soft layer of her chemise he felt her breast, warm and ripe, waiting for his touch. Her heart beat rapidly, her pulse jumping as he scraped a long finger against her throat.

  “M’lord,” she whispered.

  “Shhh…”

  Sorcha closed her eyes as he touched her. She knew she was wading in dangerous waters, but she couldn’t stop herself. The magic of his touch made her feel weightless, and his rough fingers stoked fires of desire that grew hotter with each stroke of his hand.

  As he kissed her, she felt her clothes being pulled away from her body, knew that parts of her skin were naked to the cool air and shadows of the forest, but she didn’t care. Her own fingers found the clasp of Hagan’s mantle and slid beneath his tunic. He sucked in his breath when she touched his skin.

  His muscles were hard and strong against her fingers, and she felt the scars of battle on his flesh, the wound in his shoulder which she herself had inflicted. Though it was cold outside, his skin was dewy with sweat and his breath was shallow.

  His eyes darkened seductively.

  She felt him brush aside her chemise and growl deep in his throat as her breasts were bared to him. She had trouble breathing and her heartbeat thudded in her brain as he rubbed her nipple between his thumb and finger, watching the dusky bud grow tight, nearly painful with want. New sensations carried her away on wave after wave of pleasure, but she wanted more. He placed his lips around her nipple and gently tugged.

  Her back arched off the ground and he caught her buttocks with his hands, pulling her against him, bending her like a bow, forcing her closer still so that she felt hardness swelling between his legs. The dark heat within her turned liquid with desire, and when he laid her gently back on the ground and parted her legs, she shivered with need and flushed with embarrassment.

  He kissed her again and she became liquid inside. “I will not hurt you,” he vowed, and she believed him as he kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her throat, and moved lower to tease her breasts with his tongue and teeth until she writhed beneath him, wanting more, feeling empty and not really understanding the aching void that seemed to pulse with desire deep within her.

  Again he slid lower and his hands moved to her back, fingertips touching her spine as he lifted her close to him. His breath was hot on her stomach and abdomen as he lowered himself slowly, his tongue rimming her belly button as he moved toward her legs.

  What was he doing?

  A finger slid down the inside of her thigh and she cried out.

  “You want me?” he asked, his breath ruffling the nest of curls between her legs.

  “I—I—”

  “You want me?”


  “Yes.” She closed her eyes in mortification. She was behaving like a wanton, a common whore, and yet she couldn’t help herself.

  “And I want you, little one. So much.” His breath fingered up her belly. “You vex me, but I want you more than I’ve wanted any other woman.”

  Why his words brought tears to her eyes, she didn’t understand, but when he moved one hand around her waist and held up her buttocks with the other, she cried out. “ ’Tis good, Sorcha,” he said, his words rippling over her skin as he gently opened her with his fingers, touching her in the most vital of spots, causing candlelight to flash behind her eyes. His hand was slow and sure, and her throat turned to dust as her hips moved with his wondrous rhythm.

  She felt as if she were drowning in a sea of warm water, but when he pressed his lips to her flesh, she stiffened. What was this? she wondered but for an instant before his tongue and lips wove a special magic upon her, and soon she was twining her fingers through his hair, twisting and panting, feeling wave after wave of desire until her heart seemed to stop for a moment and she bucked up against him. Of its own accord her body squeezed tight and then exploded. The forest seemed to spin, and the sun, somewhere above the trees, danced wildly. She could barely catch her breath, and when Hagan came to her, lying atop her and wrapping her in his sinewy, sweat-stained arms, she clung to him and listened to the wild beating of his strong heart.

  Words of love formed on her tongue, but she held them back as the spinning slowed and her mind seemed to work again. Just because she’d acted like a common wench was no reason to embarrass herself further with silly claims of love. While the act of lovemaking was new and frightening and awe-inspiring to her, no doubt it was commonplace to him.

  Despite her embarrassment, she looked into his eyes. Her heartbeat had not truly slowed when he kissed her again, and she realized the act was not finished. With bold hands, he took her fingers and guided her to the bulge in his breeches. His lips found hers and to her astonishment, the desire so recently fulfilled began to burn. His hands caressed her, and she worked at the laces of his breeches.

  A twig snapped.

  He stiffened and quickly rolled away from her. She began to protest, but he cupped his hand over her mouth and shook his head silently.

  McBannon nickered and pricked up his ears. Snorting, the stallion turned to face the woods and his coat quivered nervously.

  Sorcha’s throat turned to sand. She listened, and over the quiet lapping of the brook she heard the sounds of voices—men’s voices, muffled but drawing near. Without a word, Hagan quickly donned his mantle. He strapped his belt with his sword in place, then sneaked to the horses. Sorcha slid into her clothes, her fingers fumbling with the catches, as Hagan snatched the reins in one hand and motioned to the woods on the far side of the hut. Sorcha, heart thundering, followed. As quietly as a cat stalking prey, he led her deeper into the shadows, past scrawny trees and bushes to a spot behind a blind of berry vines.

  They were barely hidden when Sorcha, swallowing against her fear, peeked between the thorns and saw a group of men appear on horseback. The ragged band with tattered, stained clothes and weapons strapped to their sides hovered near the edge of the forest before urging their horses into the clearing. Only one man rode tall, the leader of the band, it appeared, for all the men followed him and listened to him as they let their horses drink from the brook. The leader’s courser was a sleek stallion, unlike the other horses, which looked like little more than plow animals. But the gray was a fast horse …a soldier’s horse.

  Hagan’s eyes thinned on the leader and his breath swept into his lungs in a silent hiss. His lips drew tight and his hand clenched Sorcha’s arm in a grip of death.

  Sorcha’s heart was a hollow drum, beating with fear, for she recognized that the men had to be outlaws, thieves and murderers and heaven only knew what else. She bit her lip and prayed that their own horses would not nicker and give them away. As she eyed the riders, she noticed that one kept his horse away from the rest and deeper in the far edge of the forest. The rider, in a brown cloak and hood, was hunched, perhaps old, and obviously not considered part of the inner circle of the band. There was something familiar about the solitary horseman, and yet Sorcha knew not who he was.

  The moments passed in agonizing slowness, and the men, as if sensing danger, stayed alert, watching the under-growth, until the horses had their fill. Without a sound, the leader motioned his ragged band back to the overgrown path and they urged their sorry mounts forward. The singular rider followed last on a horse that looked nearly crippled, and Sorcha felt a familiar tug on her heart as she was reminded of Isolde … kind Isolde.

  Her throat went suddenly dry and she nearly shouted. Could it be? Her pulse raced wildly. Isolde and the robber band? Impossible. And yet …

  She stared after the horsemen.

  Only after long minutes did Hagan stir. “Christ Jesus,” he whispered.

  “Who were they?” she demanded, still certain her mind was playing tricks on her.

  “Come, we must return to Erbyn,” he whispered.

  “Who were they?”

  “Outlaws. Led by a man who calls himself Wolf, though I doubt that is his given name. Now, hurry.”

  “Why?” she demanded.

  “Why?” His expression turned as dark as the clouds beginning to gather over the hills. He swung into the saddle and stared at the trail where the outlaws had so recently passed. “Wolf was riding Sir Frederick’s horse, and yet Frederick was not with them. So Wolf has killed my soldier or left him for dead.” Hagan’s jaw clenched so hard the bone showed white beneath his skin. His enraged gaze held Sorcha’s for an instant. “Either your brother never got my message, so he probably thinks you and your sister are being held prisoner, or … Tadd and Wolf have allied themselves against Erbyn.”

  “You cannot believe …” she said, but her heart turned to stone when she knew that Hagan was probably right. By now, Tadd would have found out that she’d tricked him, and Isolde … oh, poor Isolde would bear the brunt of Tadd’s vicious wrath. Her insides knotted. If the messenger had not gotten word to Prydd that she and Leah were safe … Her world seemed to crumble around her.

  “There will be war, Sorcha.”

  “War—nay …” she whispered, but a cold, certain fear gripped her heart in its clawlike grasp.

  “Aye,” he said tersely. “War between Erbyn and Prydd.”

  “We must strike early,” Sir Brady said, finishing his cup of wine and eyeing the serving wench as she moved between the tables in the noisy little tavern set on the edge of the village. The interior was dark and filled with men who sat at tables, drank mead, and rolled dice. They were a raucous bunch, bellowing insults and laughing at one another.

  “Hush—we trust no one,” Darton said with a harsh glance at the men at other tables.

  “ ’Tis time!” Brady insisted, pounding his fist upon the scarred table. “If we wait much longer, fewer soldiers will turn away from Hagan. He has come back, and those who had said they would turn their allegiance to you are now wavering. Like it or not, m’lord, Hagan is well loved.”

  “Bah! He’s a bastard.”

  “But a kind one,” Marshall said, disgust threading through his words. Marshall had no use for men who were not strong and cruel. Kindness was a sign of weakness.

  The others seemed to agree with Brady that some of the soldiers they’d hoped to use to start their rebellion were now doubting the wisdom of rising up against Hagan. Sir Marshall touched his neatly trimmed beard with strong, bony hands. “The longer Hagan is back, the harder it will be to wrest his power from him.” He was the thoughtful one of the group. The others—Brady, Elwin, and Ralston—were known for their strength rather than their cunning. They were burly men who had hungry appetites for gambling, drink, and women. Greedy by nature, they’d cast their lots with Darton on the promise of riches—riches Darton could only give them when he was the true Baron of Erbyn.

  And of Pryd
d. For he still planned to take Sorcha for his bride. Her two miracles at Erbyn had convinced the peasants, servants, and soldiers that she was, indeed, powerful—the savior of all that was Prydd.

  “I say we lure Hagan out of the castle and kill him. Blame it on outlaws.” Marshall’s plan was simple.

  “Others can’t be trusted to do the deed,” Darton replied, thinking of his earlier plan and the archer whose deadly aim was supposed to have killed his brother in the battle with the Scots. But Hagan, by a stroke of luck and the careful eye of his loyal knight, Sir Royce, had escaped with only an injury to his leg—the very injury that had sent him back to Erbyn early. By God, it just wasn’t fair, as it wasn’t fair to be born scant moments after his brother and thereby lose all his inheritance. He swallowed some of the sour-tasting mead. All his life Darton had been forced to endure the indignation of being born second. What a cruel, vile twist of the fates, for only he was destined to be ruler of Erbyn.

  “There’s a cockfight round back,” the serving wench said with a swing of her wide buttocks. “Big Henry, he’s takin’ bets.”

  “Ye like cocks, d’ye?” Brady asked with a gleam in his eye.

  “Only big ones,” she replied with a toss of her brown hair. She poured more mead into the cups. “And good fighters. That’s what I look for.”

  All of the men except Marshall laughed loudly.

  Brady tugged on his belt and grinned broadly at his companions. “If it be cocks y’re lookin’ for, I’ll be glad to show ye—”

  “I’m sure ye would, darlin’, but it would cost ye more than what y’re payin’ for the drink.” With a slow wink, she turned to another table of men and switched her rump close to Brady’s florid face. He clambered to his feet, but Darton grabbed hold of his arm.

  “There’s time for wenching later,” Darton said. “We’ve other things to discuss.”

  Brady looked about to argue, but caught the determination in Darton’s gaze and sat down reluctantly, his eyes following the serving wench as men pinched her fleshy arms, joked with her, and patted her on the rump.