Kiss of the Moon

by Lisa Jackson

  Hagan jumped down from his steed and touched the mud. The tracks were fresh; whoever he was following had been here not long before. A cruel smile played upon his lips. No doubt he’d found one of the outlaws. Who else would wander through this dense part of the forest? His fingers tightened around his bow as he walked the horse forward. Soon he would get some answers. Maybe then he’d learn of Sorcha. His heart twisted at the thought, for even now she might be in the hands of the outlaws. Would they treat her as a lady? Ransom her, but not harm her? Or would they be captivated by her beauty and, having not been with women in a long while, torture her and force her to lie with them?

  His teeth gnashed together and he swore on his very life that if she was harmed, he would return that pain to her captors a hundredfold and they would beg for his mercy before he killed them slowly one by one.

  It was fitting that he was in the woods near Tullia’s cottage, he thought. If needs be, he could rest and find shelter in the stone house, sharing it with the rats and vermin.

  He circled up the hillside again, but found no one lurking in the forest, no sign of Sorcha nor the outlaws who had attacked him. He rode for several hours until what little sunlight there had been filtered away in the evening gloom.

  Silently praying that Sorcha and her small band of rebels had made it to the gates of Prydd and were now safely tucked within the thick stone walls, he rode through the gorge. He had almost convinced himself that she was certainly fine when he came upon the horse—a white palfrey that had been stolen from the stables of Erbyn. The hairs lifted on the back of his neck as he walked up to the animal. Covered with mud, the mare had been through much. There was an arrow in her haunch and dried blood on her matted coat.

  Hagan felt as if his world had stopped. They’d been captured or killed. He knew it as certainly as he knew his own name. Bloody Christ, what a waste. Grief swallowed him and he felt as if his soul were being ripped from his body. “Sorcha,” he whispered, his eyes hot.

  He tore the arrow from the mare’s hip, and she squealed; rearing back, blood oozing again.

  Hagan whispered to her and held on to the reins, but she didn’t trust him and her eyes were wild as he led her behind Wind. Night closed around him, and the forest became so dark, he could barely see. He had no choice but to follow the stream and hope to find shelter.

  “There is death in the forest.” The old woman’s voice was sharp as a crow’s caw and caused his skin to prickle in fear.

  “Death? Whose?” Wolf asked as they made camp for the night. They’d had to keep moving, for surely by now Frederick had made his way back to Erbyn, and Hagan had sent out his soldiers. Wolf wasn’t worried about the warriors from Erbyn, he was more concerned with Prydd and Tadd’s reaction to the letter.

  Wolf wanted just one chance at Eaton’s son.

  “ ’Tis not clear,” she said, obviously vexed. Isolde sketched upon the ground, using a sharp stick and reading her own scratches as if they were the very words of God. She muttered to herself, cast some herbs into the wind, and frowned at her marks in the mud.

  “Surely not my death,” Wolf said, not concerned. It mattered not a lot whether he lived or died, though he would like to finish a few deeds before he crossed to the other side, whatever that might be. Mayhap there was a God; then again, mayhap not. He wasn’t certain, and he was sure if there was a heaven and a hell, he would be more likely to enter through gates of brimstone and fire rather than gold and splendor. He hadn’t been a saint, but he wasn’t about to change his ways. Not when vengeance against Tadd was at hand.

  The old scar splicing his brow seemed to tingle, and he scratched at his beard.

  “You are too stubborn to die,” Isolde said. Biting her lip, she mumbled something in the words of the old ones, the language of the Welsh of which he understood little.

  He felt a gasp of wind against the back of his neck, though the air was still. Turning, he half expected a beast with breath as cold as ice to be standing behind him, but there was no one near him. Nothing stirred.

  “What of Sorcha?” he asked finally, for he knew she was on the old woman’s mind.

  “I wish I knew,” Isolde said, and stared up at the black sky. A few billowing clouds moved across the half moon, and in the darkness Wolf saw lines of despair and worry deepen upon Isolde’s forehead. “I fear she is lost.”

  “Lost?”

  “Aye.”

  “Is she not at Erbyn?”

  Isolde rubbed her fingers together, as if they itched. Closing her eyes, she lifted her face to the pale light of the moon. “She is alone and afraid, though she pretends not to be. She is hiding in a place of great power and waits for the dawn.”

  “What will happen then?”

  The old woman’s fingers curled into fists so tight the knuckles bleached her old skin white. She trembled slightly, as if a shaft of fear sliced through her. “She is in danger.”

  Wolf took a step closer. “From whom?”

  The old face wrinkled. “I know not.”

  “Hagan?”

  One of Isolde’s arms began to shake more violently. “Nay. The brother.”

  “Tadd?” Wolf asked, his hatred of his old enemy turning in his stomach like a snake shedding its skin.

  “Nay …” Her other arm shook as well. “ ’Tis the brother of Hagan who would destroy her.”

  “Darton.” Wolf’s lips thinned as he stared at the old woman. Was she to be believed? Her eyes were round with fear, her frail body spent from looking into the mirror of the future, and yet she could be just an old woman, one who wanted to fool him or one whose mind was already half-gone.

  Whichever she was, Wolf could take no chances. Sorcha of Prydd was much too valuable.

  Sorcha rested her back against the damp wall. Her entire body ached, and muscles she hadn’t known existed throbbed from her hours on the horse, the scramble down the hillside, and long walk in the icy water of the stream.

  Her feet were numb with the cold, and she huddled in a corner of the old house, hoping to sleep until morning, when she could set off on foot to Prydd. She prayed that Leah and Bjorn had escaped the huntsmen, whoever they were, but fear was her constant and only companion.

  The thought that even now Leah might be captured worried her. Had she saved her sister from the evils of Erbyn only to lure her into more danger, where Hagan didn’t rule and couldn’t protect her? Somehow, through any means possible, she had to save Leah. If she wasn’t dead already. Oh, Lord, surely she couldn’t be responsible for more deaths, she thought desperately. Keane, Henry, and Gwendolyn were more than enough to bear in her heart, but Leah and Bjorn as well …

  Tears filled her eyes and she blinked them back. This was no time to cry. This was time to plot how to find the men who had attacked them. She thought they were part of the robber band she and Hagan had seen earlier, but she hadn’t noticed the leader, nor had she seen Frederick’s horse. However, she hadn’t spent a lot of time looking over her shoulder.

  Somewhere in the faulty rafters an owl, or other roosting bird perhaps, flapped its wings loudly, and she held her cloak around her more tightly. She shivered and closed her eyes, only to open them again at the noise. The scrape of a boot.

  Heart in her throat, she reached for her dagger, but cowered silently in the corner, hoping whoever was outside would pass. Her heart stilled and she swallowed against a throat as dry as winter leaves. Fear tasted like metal in her mouth as she saw him enter, a big figure, dark and tall, with wide shoulders and long legs.

  Despite the cold, her hands began to sweat as her fingers curled over the hilt of her knife. She hardly dared breathe and stared in awe as he dropped his sword on dirt that had once been the floor. Biting her lip, she watched him take something from a pouch, then leave. Her stomach rumbled at the thought of food, and yet she didn’t move. Whatever was in the pouch would have to stay there for a while.

  He returned with sticks, and her heart dropped clear to her knees. He was going to build a fire! Tho
ugh she longed for the warmth of flames, she would be discovered in the glow of the blaze. For all she knew, this man could be one of the men who had chased her down, or if not, the light from the fire would attract her enemies.

  She had to escape or stop him.

  He placed the bundle of sticks in the hearth, then worked with his flint.

  Sorcha barely dared breathe as she slowly advanced. His back was to her, and the distance was not great, and he seemed absorbed in his task, so she stepped forward, her dagger raised, her eyes centered on the back of his neck. She’d grab him there, fling herself onto his shoulders, and lay her blade at his throat. If he valued his life, he wouldn’t dare move. She could then tie him, rob him of whatever food he had with him, steal his horse, and be off.

  One more step. She sprang, and at that moment he turned, grabbing her around the middle with one arm and capturing her upraised wrist with the other. He shook her wrist and the dagger flew into a pile of rubble.

  “Oof!”

  “Damn you to hell,” he roared, and she nearly laughed aloud as she recognized his booming voice.

  “Lord Hagan?”

  “Bloody Christ. Sorcha?” Was there relief and joy in his voice? “By the gods, I found you!” His arms tightened possessively around her, and suddenly his lips captured hers. He kissed her wildly, as if he couldn’t stop, and she clung to him, refusing to give way to the hot tears of relief that burned against her eyelids. Hot, hungry, breathless kisses that didn’t stop. The warmth of his body invaded hers and she sagged against him.

  His voice was rough. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

  “I guess, m’lord, you’re not that lucky.”

  He snorted a laugh, but his arms didn’t loosen, and when he pressed his lips to her grimy forehead, she wanted to melt inside, so gentle was the kiss. “Tonight I feel as if the fates have cast good fortune to me. I thought you might be dead.”

  She shuddered thinking how close he was to the truth. Her teeth chattered and he held her tight again. “You must tell me what has happened.” Then, as if suddenly realizing that she was chilled to the bone, he said, “Here, talk while I build a fire.”

  Relieved, she settled on one of the stones that had fallen from the walls and told him of the attack.

  “I warned you not to leave the castle,” he said with a sigh. “Yet you disobeyed me, turned the stableboy against me, stole my horses with the intention of running back to Prydd and starting a damned war.”

  “I do not think—”

  “ ’Tis the problem. Sometimes you act before you think.” He rubbed the flint, frowning deeply as he tried to start a spark.

  “You were keeping me prisoner.”

  “I was only waiting until I’d talked with Tadd.”

  “Which might have been a long while.” Finally a spark sizzled and caught on some dry moss. Carefully he set the burning ember atop some twigs in the fire.

  “You needs learn to be patient,” he reprimanded as the flames crackled against the dry wood. Golden light reflected on the decaying walls.

  “Think you not that our fire will attract the huntsmen?”

  “ ’Tis too late. They have already made their own camp,” he said. “Asides, no one comes here. ’Tis rumored to be haunted.”

  “By Tullia?”

  “Aye.”

  “But you are not afraid?”

  He snorted in contempt. “Were it not for Tullia, I would not have been conceived. I feared her not alive, so if her spirit still lingers, I doubt she will do me harm.” He cast a glance over his shoulder and his gaze settled upon her. Deep in the pit of her stomach something warm and wanton turned over. “Come closer. You’re wet. Warm yourself by the fire and tell me where are Bjorn and Leah.”

  She sighed and shook her head. Dread settled in her soul. “I know not,” she admitted, her eyes clouding over as she wondered where they were.

  “Think you they were captured?”

  Lifting a shoulder, she stared into the growing fire and her teeth began to chatter. “I pray not.”

  The wind whistled through the open rafters, and she shivered.

  “Take off your clothes.”

  “What?” She couldn’t believe her ears. Now he wanted to lie with her?

  “Dry your boots and leggings by the fire.” He unclasped his mantle, which was only slightly damp. “Wear this. ’Tis long enough for you to use as a wrap until your clothes dry.”

  She thought of undressing in front of him, and the idea was not unappealing, but she shook her head. “Nay, I cannot …”

  His fingers tightened into fists and he inched closer until his face was so near, his breath was warm and angry against her skin. A furious pulse jumped in the side of his neck. “You disobeyed me and tricked my guards so that you could leave the castle. Like a common thief, you stole my horses. I’ve spent the day looking for you, and two good men may have given up their lives in my quest, while another has an arrow lodged in his leg. Leah and Bjorn could be captured or killed—”

  She shivered, biting her lip.

  “—all because you were too stubborn to listen to me.” His words were fierce and seemed to ring through the forest, though he spoke in a rough whisper. “For once, you bloody savior of Prydd, you will do as you’re ordered, or by the gods, I’ll strip you myself!” He swept the mantle off his shoulders and held it out to her.

  With shaking fingers she took the fine wool cloth and then turned her back, quickly working out of her boots and leggings and tunic. She used the large mantle as a shield, to hide her nakedness, but she could feel his eyes upon her back and she blushed deeply.

  “That’s better,” he said, his voice low and silky when she was finished. A satisfied grin slashed white in the darkness and she felt wanton, like a common strumpet. Without saying a word, she placed her wet clothes in front of the fire, watching the steam rise from the damp fabric.

  Hagan kicked off his boots and set them next to hers. The remains of the cottage walls seemed to close around them. She half expected soldiers or outlaws to be drawn like moths to the fire, but no one appeared.

  “Come,” he said softly, “you need sleep.” He patted the ground next to him.

  “I’ll stay awake.”

  “ ’Tis foolish. Come over here.”

  “Really, I—”

  “Sorcha.” His voice was more harsh. “Come lie beside me. For warmth. I promise that I won’t harm you.” His eyes were dark but sincere.

  She hesitated, knowing that being alone with him was dangerous enough, but pressing her body against his with only the mantle separating them …’twas madness. Her skin tingled as she remembered the other times she’d been with him, how her traitorous body had quivered for his touch, how his kisses had ignited secret dark fires deep within her, how she’d been so willing to give herself to him. ’Twould be better to freeze to death.

  “Come here.” His expression had turned harsh, and she, arguing with herself, slid closer to him. He wrapped an arm around her, holding her body close to his. “Sleep. Morning will come soon enough.”

  “I can’t—”

  “For the love of God, close your eyes and quit arguing,” he growled, yanking her closer still. She realized then that he wasn’t going to kiss her, that he had no intention of trying to claim her body with his, and she felt a tiny shaft of disappointment pierce her heart.

  She did as she was bid, snuggling closer to him, resting her head on his chest, and closing her eyes. The wool mantle scratched her skin when she moved, but along with the heat of Hagan’s body, provided warmth. The smell of him invaded her nostrils, leather and smoke, mud and rainwater. All male and so, so, hard. With a yawn she felt sleep overtake her and wondered why this crumbling haunted house located in the middle of a forest inhabited by outlaws felt so safe.

  All his life, Hagan had kept his code of honor concerning women. He enjoyed women, dreamed of women, and had lain with more than he would like to remember. But he’d never taken a woman by for
ce, nor had he tricked one into sleeping with him. When a lady said no, he didn’t argue and left. His need for sex had always been strong, but he’d never allowed himself to lose his emotions and had always kept his passion in check.

  Losing one’s control, even while in the throes of lust, could be a death sentence. Never had he lost his heart and his self-control. No woman had touched him to his very soul.

  Until now. The feelings he had for Sorcha, the savage desire that swept through his blood like a desert storm, was tenfold to the passion he’d ever felt before. Holding Sorcha so close, listening to the gentle rhythm of her breathing, sensing the steady knocking of her heart, having her pressed so intimately against him, caused fire to burn through his veins. The swelling in his groin was painful, and though he tried to ignore it and hoped that the hard ache would disappear, it didn’t. As the minutes dragged into hours, he tried to stay alert, to listen to the sounds of the night, to be at the ready should anyone stop by the tumbledown cottage. But as each second slowly passed, her warmth, the deep lilac scent of her hair, the gentle whisper of her breath across his chest, brought images to his mind that he couldn’t dislodge. He remembered the first night when he had nearly forced her into submission, when she’d bargained with her body, and times thereafter when her kisses, sweet and innocent, had turned lusty and wanton. How jealous he’d been of Bjorn … God’s eyes, she’d turned his thinking all around.

  She moaned low in her throat and nestled against him, so that her black hair rubbed against his neck. His gut tightened, and the lust burning through his body turned to liquid heat. He gritted his teeth and tried to think of the coming day and how they would have to return to Erbyn for more soldiers before giving chase to the faceless enemy in the woods, but even as he concentrated, she moved again, her small hand touching the base of his throat. His wayward manhood stiffened tighter still.

  Somewhere near dawn, she stirred, and blinking in confusion, she opened those glorious blue eyes to stare at him. The smile that was forming on her lips froze and she grew rigid for an instant before memory assailed her.