Kiss of the Moon

by Lisa Jackson

  When she tried to pull away from him, he couldn’t stop himself, but kissed her, long and hard.

  Sorcha felt his powerful arms surround her and the sweet pressure of his lips on hers. Her own mouth opened and his tongue slid gently between her teeth, touching and probing, creating feelings within her as magical as this crumbling old building.

  A gray light began to invade the forest, and mist rose toward the trees, cloaking the cottage in its thin lacy veil.

  Hagan’s body was warm and inviting, his lips possessive, and though she knew she was wading in dangerous waters, she could not stop herself from taking the next step, through the ripples and over the ledge if needs be. Her mind was already swimming when he reached beneath the mantle and felt her skin.

  Goose bumps rose on her flesh and he touched her breast, causing the nipple to stiffen. He took in a swift breath as his thumb grazed the dark bud, and a liquid warmth rolled deep within Sorcha. She felt the mantle being stripped away, shoved beneath her as a blanket, knew that she was naked beneath him and didn’t care. He kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her throat, running his slick tongue over her skin, tasting of her and making her shiver with desire.

  She knew she wouldn’t stop him, they’d come too often to this precipice only to pull back, but this time, alone in the woods, with the embers of the fire glowing red and the forest coming alive with the morning, she couldn’t resist.

  He took her breast into his mouth, teasing with his tongue, nipping gently with his teeth, until she arched upward, her spine bowing as she strived to get closer to him.

  He kissed her and ran his hands along her body. “Not yet, little one,” he whispered as skilled hands skimmed her rump, then grazed the inside of her thighs.

  Something hot and moist blossomed within her and she bucked. Her eyes were open and she watched while with one hand he caressed her, and with the other he tore off his own clothes. His body, hard and sinewy, gleamed in the firelight, and a thin sheen of sweat covered hard muscles.

  Her throat felt as if a noose were slowly tightening over her neck as she watched him. Though her own body was screaming for more and she was shivering in anticipation, her eyes devoured every inch of him, seeing the slick muscles, the dark hair beneath his arms and at the top of his legs, the long shaft of his manhood, anxious and ready.

  She closed her eyes, certain he would pierce her, but instead he settled over her and kissed her breasts and stomach, moving lower, making her squirm with a need so fierce, she could think of nothing save loving him.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  “Not yet.” He parted her legs and breathed on her in a way that made her hips lift from the ground. His hands grabbed her buttocks and held her near as he pressed his face even closer and he tasted of her.

  Sorcha gasped, her heart thundering, her body moving of its own accord as he loved her with his mouth. She writhed and cried out, wanting more until, in a steamy moment of heat, the earth shattered and her soul rocked. With a cry as primal as that of the forest, her body wrenched and convulsed, and stars grew bright in the early morning light.

  He laid her gently back on the mantle, and she sighed. “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “You will,” he promised, and he spread her legs with his knees.

  “But—”

  “Kiss me.”

  “What?”

  “Kiss me.”

  She lifted her face to his, pressed warm lips to his mouth, and felt his arms surround her. She’d thought she was finished, that he’d wrung every emotion he could from her, but she was wrong, for the loving started all over again.

  His tongue worked its magic, his hands brought her to dizzying heights of desire. Her blood, so recently cooled, ran hot again, and soon, as his fingers touched and probed her, she was moving anxiously beneath him, wanting more. So much more.

  It had taken all Hagan’s determination to go slow with her, for he’d wanted to thrust into her hard and fast, pouring his seed into her and rearing back his head in a triumphant male mating call. He could think of little else but burying himself in her sweet lush body, but he’d held off, digging his fingers into the dirt, silently cursing his need to think of her, feeling the sweat run down his spine as he’d loved her with his mouth. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed it, she’d tasted sweeter than any fine wine, but it hadn’t been enough.

  But now, as she writhed beneath him, begging him to end her agony, he knew giving her what she’d needed first was worth it. He wrapped his arms around her and, with his lips claiming hers, pressed into her. He felt the resistance, the tightening of her abdomen, the swift intake of her breath, but he couldn’t stop and he thrust past the thin barrier of her maidenhead, feeling her warm and oozing, hot and steamy, surrounding him.

  She cried out and he tried to be gentle, taking it slow, gritting his teeth against his own desire as he sheathed himself in her silken warmth and waited a heartbeat before slowly withdrawing again.

  She whimpered at the loss of him, and he entered her yet again. She was tight and frightened, but slowly her body opened to him, joining him in his rhythm.

  Her fingers delved into the deep muscles of his shoulders, touching the very wound that she had inflicted, and she stared up at him and watched his skin gleam with sweat, the sinewy muscles tightening as her mind began to spin a private tapestry of color and light.

  A force built within her, hotter and hotter, pulsing with need, thundering in her ears until, with an earth-shattering cry, he thrust himself into her one last time and an exploding of sweet pleasure caused her to arch up and accept the seed he spilled from his body to hers.

  “Sorcha, sweet, sweet Sorcha,” he whispered hoarsely as he fell upon her, crushing her breasts and twining his fingers in her hair. He sighed loudly and stared into her eyes. “So you were a virgin.”

  She felt as if the earth had truly moved, as if life itself had changed, and she kissed his chest, tasting salt and man, clinging to this warrior whom she’d thought her enemy. “Aye,” she said.

  “No other man?”

  She managed a naughty smile. “Nay, m’lord, not even the stableboy, Bjorn.”

  Jealousy caused a tic at the side of his face. “What of someone at Prydd?”

  She thought of Keane, and her throat worked. “I cared for someone once, though I loved him not,” she admitted, seeing Hagan’s eyes turn dark. “He was a good man, though … he seemed more interested in my birthmark and the gossip surrounding the silly thing than he did in me.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Dead,” she admitted. “Killed the day that Leah was abducted to Erbyn.”

  His mouth grew grim. “By my soldiers?”

  “By outlaws, but I know not that they weren’t bought by Darton. Seems it not strange that on the very afternoon Leah was captured, that Keane was killed?”

  “Odd, yes,” he admitted, his thick eyebrows drawing together. “If I find out an innocent man was slain by my men, everyone involved will pay.”

  She sighed. “Be careful, m’lord. You may have just condemned all your soldiers to an early death.”

  “My soldiers are loyal,” Hagan argued, and touched a long strand of her hair. “Much more loyal than you, I fear.”

  She stared up at him innocently. “Oh, you are wrong. I am very faithful and true.”

  “To Prydd.”

  “Aye,” she said.

  “Just as I feared.” With a crooked smile, he pushed a lock of her hair away from her cheek and stared down at her with his liquid gold eyes. “Well, now, little savior of all that is Prydd, tell me, what the devil am I going to do with you?”

  Fourteen

  here is the woman?” Darton demanded, his patience stretched thin. Seated in the lord’s chair on the dais, he drummed his fingers. His companions were a nearly empty cup of wine and the dark fury that roiled through his blood.

  He took a long swallow from the silver-rimmed mazer and watched as two of his best soldiers, Sir Ralston and Sir Marsh
all, exchanged worried glances. They stood next to the fire, warming their backsides.

  Ralston spoke. “Lady Sorcha escaped us.”

  “She escaped you,” Darton said with flat condemnation. “A mere woman and she escaped two of the finest knights in the entire castle.”

  “Aye,” Ralston said, ignoring the bite of sarcasm in Darton’s words. “We lost her in the gully that runs by … the witch’s house.”

  “The what … ?

  “Tullia’s cottage,” Marshall interjected as he took off his gloves, tossed them on the floor, and opened his palms to the warm golden flames. “Some of the men are superstitious.”

  “Of course they are.” He couldn’t keep the annoyance from his voice. These were his best men? God help him. His rebellion would surely fail if he had to depend upon the likes of these morons.

  “ ’Tis haunted,” Ralston said, nodding his head rapidly. “The house. ’Tis haunted. And ’twas dark by the time we got to the gully. We thought we’d find her in the morn, then came Hagan and his men and …”

  “And you failed me,” Darton said, so angry, spittle collected behind his teeth. Fools. He kept company with fools!

  Ralston had the decency to appear contrite. He looked down at his grimy fingers and avoided Darton’s condemning gaze.

  “Why isn’t Hagan dead?” Darton demanded. He drained his mazer and checked over his shoulder to see that none of the servants might overhear. The great hall wasn’t the best place to discuss this, as the walls seemed to have ears at times, but he had no choice. Ralston and Marshall had returned with disturbing news. Now all of his plans, the plot that had seemed so perfect only hours ago, were suddenly crumbling to jagged pieces that he might be unable to fit together again. Curse and rot his bloody luck. When this was all over, he’d remember those who obeyed him without question and those whose own fears controlled their actions. He had no use for knights who wouldn’t ride willingly into the very gates of hell if commanded.

  Marshall, damn his calm, waved off Darton’s worries with his bony fingers. “Hagan will die. By the end of the day.” With a knowing glance at Sir Ralston, he added, “Brady and Elwin are still in the forest tracking him. ’Twill not be long before we have news of his death.”

  “You’d best be right, Marshall, or we’ll have anarchy on our hands.” In vexation Darton kicked a bench away from the table and paced restlessly before the fire. He couldn’t hope to become baron without news of Hagan’s death, for there were far too many people in the castle who were perversely loyal to his brother.

  “Did we not detain his troops?” Marshall asked in that silky voice of his.

  “So you say.”

  “They are shackled in the old mill, along with their horses, waiting for word from you. A few are dying already from their wounds, and the others are bound. Would you like them killed? Or do you hope to turn them into your own soldiers?”

  Darton was in no mood to discuss anything so trivial. With Hagan loose, nothing else mattered. He rubbed the knotted muscles at the base of his skull. “ ’Twill be difficult to turn them away from Hagan. His damn knights are stupidly loyal to him. Since they’ve seen your faces, they must realize that I am behind the attack against my brother and will resist accepting me as their liege.” He plowed two sets of fingers through his hair. “We need other ways to convince them to join us.”

  “A bribe, if it’s large enough, might work on a few of them,” Marshall said thoughtfully as he stroked his beard. “And for those who can’t be bought outright, we might be able to find secrets that they’d rather keep to themselves and offer to maintain our quiet only if they meet our demands and turn against Hagan.”

  “You know of such secrets?” Darton was impressed. Maybe he’d underestimated his second-in-command.

  “A few,” Marshall said, his cold smile causing a chill to drip into Darton’s blood. Marshall wasn’t loyal. He was only interested in his own greedy ambitions, and Darton knew that someday he would have to get rid of the knight, else-wise Marshall would be plotting Darton’s death. As soon as the rebellion was successful, he would find a way dispose of the cur.

  “There’s always torture,” Ralston said. His faded blue eyes gleamed deep in their sockets. Ralston’s cruel streak was well known throughout the castle. More than once Darton had been forced to reprimand him for his mistreatment of a horse or hound or whore. Darton, too, enjoyed his sex rough, but even he had limits. Ralston had none. “A few lashes of the whip can convince a man that he needs to think in a new way,” Ralston suggested. “Or take away ’is food and water for a while. Turns a strong man into a simpering, crying puppy who would run after you on all fours and lick yer arse to boot.” He laughed and eyed Darton’s empty cup greedily.

  Darton wasn’t swayed. “Keep Hagan’s men locked up for now. Until we hear of his death. Then we can decide.” Darton sat back in his chair, frowned into his empty cup, and clapped for a serving wench just as a soldier, his boots ringing against the stones, joined them. A plain girl scurried in with more wine, filling Darton’s cup before hurrying away.

  “There is news?” Darton asked the sentry. He tried to keep his willful heart from leaping in anticipation. Surely this was it—the word that Hagan was finally dead.

  “An army approaching,” the stone-faced guard said without a trace of emotion.

  “An army?” Darton repeated, sliding a suspicious glance at Marshall. This was a complication he hadn’t expected. “Whose?”

  “The colors are those of Prydd.”

  Darton’s heart sank. Was it possible that Sorcha had returned to her home and found a way to convince her brother to mount an army against Erbyn? But the timing wasn’t quite right. It was nearly a day’s ride to Prydd from here, and Tadd would need time to equip and ready an army. Again Darton was on his feet. He bit his lip as he strode with a gait that pained him, and his thoughts whirled ahead of him. He was at a disadvantage, not knowing what to expect. He hated for anyone, friend or foe, to have the upper hand. “Is the lady with them?” he asked, though he knew it to be a stupid question. Even if Sorcha demanded to return to Erbyn, Tadd would have forbade a woman on the journey. Any woman, including his powerful sister.

  “I know not.”

  “Allow in only the leader … and one of his soldiers, I suppose. Swear that he will have safe passage.”

  “Aye.” The soldier turned on his heel and clipped out of the room. Darton fingered the knife at his belt as his gaze met Ralston’s. “If Tadd of Prydd gives me any trouble, you are to kill him at my signal,” he said.

  “What signal?”

  “I’ll call for more wine and ask for the jug to be left at the table rather than having it returned to the kitchen. You then draw him into battle with an insult or two and slay him.”

  “What of his guard?”

  “I’ll handle him,” Marshall said.

  “Good.” Darton was pleased with Marshall’s act of allegiance. Maybe he wouldn’t have to kill the pensive knight after all. “I’ll see that only my men are around, and they will swear that Tadd struck first.”

  Ralston’s smile stretched beneath his red beard. “Just give me the signal and I’ll run ’im through.”

  “From the front. The wound must be in his chest, for it must appear a fair fight.”

  “ ’Twill, my liege,” Ralston assured him as Darton made ready to receive Sorcha’s brother. “Have trust in me.”

  Astride a tall stallion, Tadd led his party around a final bend in the forest road. The gloomy trees gave way to a trampled meadow, a deep chasm, and the sharp cliffs supporting Erbyn. Tadd’s guts twisted at the sight of the huge keep. In comparison, Prydd seemed small and of no consequence, but this … this was truly a castle. Thrice the size of those at Prydd, the battlements and towers crawled along the steep cliffs, rising above the ground with thick, impenetrable walls and a drawbridge wide enough for four carts abreast. Banners in the forest-green and gold colors of Erbyn snapped in the breeze from poles mounted
on the highest towers. Envy coursed through Tadd, and he suddenly wondered why he’d been satisfied to be baron of Prydd—a tiny fiefdom with a small keep. The missive from Hagan of Erbyn told him that both his sisters were within the strong fortress that was Erbyn, and Tadd suspected he could command much for their imprisonment, for though Hagan said the women were his guests, Tadd would choose to call them prisoners and insist that he be paid much for his worry.

  That thought pleased him, and he grinned inwardly.

  As Tadd’s party approached the main gate, a horn sounded and guards appeared at every post. Archers stood at ready as if expecting an enemy. Aye, this was a fine castle … a castle fit for a king …

  Scratching his crotch, he squirmed in the saddle. He’d been riding for hours and was weary. His muscles and back ached clear to his bones, but the thought of bargaining over his sisters’ future brought a smile to his face. Sorcha—his tormentor. Now, at last, he could be rid of her and be paid a handsome price as well. As for Leah, he was glad to see her off, as far away as possible. Let her preach and pray at another castle; Tadd was tired of her piety and glances of disapproval. Yes, he’d take whatever he could for her as well.

  From the looks of the castle, the Baron of Erbyn was a very rich man. He could let go of a few pieces of gold and a smaller castle somewhere near Prydd, a castle where Tadd could keep several whores, women who would take care of him in ways his wife would never.

  He planned to marry soon, get his wife with child, and become father to a son, but he knew that whatever noble-woman he chose, she wouldn’t excite him in bed. She’d do her duty and bear children, but would probably disapprove of the wenches he would need to satisfy his lusty appetite.

  Yea, a small castle for drinking, gambling, bearbaiting, cockfighting, and whoring. Mab. He’d take Mab with her small breasts and quivering lips and round, fearful eyes. He’d keep her until she no longer trembled at the sight of him. Then, as was his original plan, he’d loan her to his friends; by then she would learn that by pleasuring a man, she would receive gifts and kind words. Yea, in time, she would make a fine whore.