Kiss of the Moon

by Lisa Jackson

  “You … I can forgive.” He lifted a shoulder and sliced off another piece of apple.

  “What have you to do with it? Hagan is lord of this castle, and he has forgiven me.”

  Darton’s flesh tightened over his face and he pounded his knife, blade first, into the table. His eyes turned black as night. “Hagan is no longer baron. He is dead, leaving no issue, and therefore I am the rightful heir to Erbyn.”

  So that was it. Her heart thudded painfully, but she would not give up. “I want to go back,” she said, shoving aside the soup and wine, sloshing broth onto the table as she leaned forward, pressing her face closer to Darton where he sat so imperiously—so self-righteously—in Hagan’s chair, as if he were truly lord.

  “To Prydd?” he asked, setting the apple aside.

  She was surprised at her own reaction, for the mention of her home brought back none of the bittersweet memories that had been with her since her arrival at Erbyn. She no longer dreamed of returning to Prydd, nor of escaping to her home; no, something had changed in her heart on the night, the one fateful night, that she’d spent in the forest with Hagan. Hot tears stung the backs of her eyes. “Nay, Sir Darton,” she said, “I want not to return to Prydd, but to the forest to find Hagan.”

  Darton’s nostrils flared and the small lines around the edges of his mouth turned white. “He is dead, Sorcha. You must accept this.”

  “Have you his body?” she asked, her voice rising as if she were a madwoman.

  “Nay, but—”

  “Has any one of your men seen his body?”

  “Not yet, but ’tis only a matter of time.”

  “He’s alive!” she screamed. “We must find him.”

  “ ’Tis too late, I’m afraid.”

  “Too late?” A sick feeling knotted her stomach and she hardly dared breathe. “Why?”

  “There are other, more important matters to deal with.”

  “More important than Hagan’s life?” she said.

  Darton’s smile was pure evil. He snapped his fingers, and a page scurried up the stairs. Dread stole up Sorcha’s spine and prickled her scalp. What had he done? Within seconds she heard a shuffling of feet in the hallways above. She turned her eyes upward toward the noise, and her heart nearly stopped.

  Tadd!

  Dressed in a russet tunic trimmed in gold and a mantle of sleek sable, her brother appeared at the top of the stairs. He favored her with a gentle smile, and fear as dark as a moonless night entered her soul.

  “Sister!”

  She could barely breathe as he descended the stairs. Something was wrong, vitally wrong, and her insides churned. Why was he here, and so obviously treated like a royal guest? Her stomach curled as she saw the deceit in his eyes. Though he was smiling and reaching toward her as he walked swiftly down the steps, she didn’t trust him for a minute, and it occurred to her that he might have been behind the attack on Hagan.

  She felt as if her soul were scraped raw.

  “I was worried about you.” His voice rang falsely through the hall.

  Liar!

  “Thank God you’ve returned safely.” As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he squared his shoulders, then swaggered toward the dais. Inside, Sorcha cringed.

  She’d always been able to read his thoughts and knew that this day he had a secret—a great secret that pleased him, a secret he savored.

  Her hands turned to ice.

  “Sir Darton has told me that you stole horses and tricked his men, just as you did with me at Prydd.” He clucked his tongue and smiled a cunning little grin as Lucy reappeared with more wine. For a moment his attention was distracted and he hesitated, sending the serving girl a look that fairly sizzled in the air. Lucy grinned back, coloring a little, and Sorcha realized that Tadd had been at Erbyn long enough to bed at least one of the women of the castle. Tadd’s tongue rimmed his lips before his gaze returned to Sorcha.

  “I tried to escape,” she said, though she doubted he cared. Already he had allied himself with Darton, and that foreboded ill for everyone at Prydd as well as Erbyn. “Leah and I were being held prisoner.”

  “By Hagan?” Tadd asked.

  “Yes, but Darton kidnapped Leah and—”

  “They were guests,” Darton corrected.

  “Leah was never a guest! Your men carried her off to Erbyn, where you locked her into a room and forced yourself upon—”

  “Sit!” Darton commanded in a voice that shook the rafters. Then, speaking more softly, he said, “Please, Lady Sorcha, sit here at the table and have some wine, for we have much to discuss with you.”

  She wanted to argue and stand her ground, but she knew that opposing them would serve no purpose, for they had thrown in their lots together, that much was clear as glass. Instead of enemies, they acted as if they were fast friends. Sorcha was certain that their friendship was more deadly than any battle that had ever been waged. Her legs trembled slightly as she took the chair Darton offered, the chair next to his, the one in which she’d sat during meals when Hagan, lord of the keep, was at her side. Hagan … please, please be safe!

  Tadd sipped his wine. “Lord Darton has acknowledged his part in the kidnapping of our sister.”

  “Lord Darton?” she whispered.

  “As I’ve already said, m’lady, you must accept that Hagan is dead,” Darton said.

  “Never!” She tried to stand, but he pulled her roughly back to the chair, his fingers punishing as they manacled her wrist.

  Tadd’s expression turned murderous, his eyes dark with a silent rage. “Lord Darton has been most generous in offering to pay for any losses we at Prydd have felt.”

  “You mean for the lives of Keane and Gwendolyn and Henry? For the rape of our sister?” she said, horrified. “There is no payment that can begin to atone for his crimes!”

  Tadd continued, and though his voice was even, a vein began to throb at his temple and his fingers clenched tightly as if he wished he could place his hands around her neck for arguing with him. “Darton has forgiven Leah for stealing from him, for escaping Erbyn and turning the stableboy into a traitor.”

  “He’s turned this all around, don’t you see?” she said, sick with disgust. “He raped Leah, Tadd! Forced her into doing the most vile of acts, and when he was done with her, she was so humiliated and desperate that she attempted to take her own life!” She was shaking and tried to stand yet again. “For this she is forgiven?” Darton muttered something low in his throat and again forced her back to her chair, but she wasn’t finished with her brother. “What kind of man are you that has no pride, no sense of loyalty to your own kin?”

  Tadd’s jaw tightened. “I came here with an army which is now unnecessary. My men are now loyal to Erbyn and joined forces with Darton’s as Lord Darton has agreed to end the feud.”

  “How?” Then it hit her, as if suddenly her mind opened to the truth. “He bought you, didn’t he? Gave you gold for your sister’s virtue and the lives of your most trusted men.” Tadd didn’t argue, and Sorcha’s eyes narrowed. He must have hidden his soldiers—the ones she would recognize as part of his scheme. “When Father learns of this, he will see you hanged.”

  Tadd had the audacity to chuckle. “Oh, I think not.”

  “I will tell him myself,” she vowed.

  This time Tadd laughed out loud, and Darton grinned wickedly.

  Sorcha’s mouth went dry and all her worst nightmares became the soul-wrenching truth. Oh, God, no! Please, please …

  “ ’Tis not possible, sister. For, although it grieves me sorely to have to tell you the dreadful news, Bayard returned to the castle alone. Near death himself, he’d ridden home to deliver the sorry word that our father was killed in battle—”

  “No!”

  “—trying to save the king—”

  “Nay! Nay! Nay!” Sorcha felt as if her soul had been ripped from her body.

  “—protecting us all. ’Tis a pity.”

  “You lie!” With all her strength she pull
ed her hand free and struggled to her feet. Before Darton could restrain her, she rounded the table and looked down on her brother with furious blue eyes. “You lying bastard—”

  “Oh, not me, sister. I am the true issue of my father’s loins. Now, your legitimacy has always been in question. Rumor has it that our mother was not faithful to Eaton and that she gave herself to some soldier claiming to be the grandson or great-grandson or some relative of Llywelyn.”

  Sorcha lunged and wrapped her fingers around her brother’s throat. Oh, if she only had her dagger, she’d cut out his lying tongue. Rage surged through her blood. “He is not dead,” she screamed. “He is not!”

  Tadd sputtered and shoved, but she was like a burr on a long-haired cat and couldn’t be moved. Tadd was lying as he’d always lied.

  Tadd’s face turned red with rage and fury. He coughed and kicked, but still Sorcha wouldn’t give up until strong hands peeled her from her brother and she was restrained by Sir Brady.

  “You’ll pay for this,” Tadd swore, his voice rasping as he gulped air. Rubbing his neck, he grabbed his mazer, raised it to his lips, and drank so fast that wine slid down the sides of his mouth, leaving purple stains that drizzled into his beard.

  “I’ll not believe that my father’s dead!” she cried, her world spinning crazily.

  “Believe it. Eaton died in battle. I am the Baron of Prydd.”

  She felt as if a thousand knives had been thrust into her soul.

  “And Hagan is dead, as well. Killed by outlaws. Now Lord Darton is ruler of Erbyn, sister.” Tadd’s eyes gleamed with a malevolent light, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His slick little tongue rimmed his lips. “He’s been generous, I think. He’s given me a castle—a small one that is not a day’s journey from Prydd.”

  “And what have you given him in return?” she spat.

  His smile was pure evil, and a thousand ghosts seemed to tread on her spine. “You, sister,” he said, patting his fingers together. “I’ve given him you. You are to become Darton of Erbyn’s bride.”

  Pain burned in Hagan’s back and screamed down his legs and the taste in his mouth was putrid. Spitting, he tried to move, but felt as if his muscles had been rent from his bones.

  “Be still!” a woman’s harsh voice ordered. Fingers as cool and dry as parchment touched his body, sending a searing agony that ripped through his skin. “ ’Tis only ointment of thistle and ash; ’twill help you heal.”

  “I doubt anything that causes such a burn will help,” he muttered, trying to keep his mind from spinning. He remembered the attack and falling from the horse. He’d dragged himself into the forest, his sword drawn, ready to kill at least a few of the murderers and take them with him to hell. But as he’d waited, night had fallen, or blackness had overcome his mind; he knew not which. Now he was awake and in an enclosure …a dark place, mayhap a dungeon. He forced the dizziness to stop and saw that he was not in a prison, but a tent of some sort. ’Twas dark inside except for candles burning in a corner and the reflection of restless red flames from a campfire on the other side of the tent’s flap.

  Again he asked, “Where am I?”

  “You are safe, Lord Hagan.”

  “You know who I am?”

  “Does anyone who lives near Erbyn not?”

  Again the pain, but he fought the urge to flinch and forced the blackness around his eyes to recede. He needed his wits about him.

  “Trust me,” the old voice whispered.

  He had no choice. He couldn’t move. Lifting his head to hazard a glance over his shoulder, he saw an old crone with gray hair, deep grooves on her face, but kind eyes working over him. He winced and sucked in his breath as she applied more of her painful remedy. He smelled smoke from the campfire and heard the wind sigh in the trees. So he was still in the forest, mayhap with the thugs who had tried to kill him. So why the old woman? “How long have I been here?”

  “Two days. ’Twas time you woke up.”

  Two days? Two bloody days? He tried to push himself upright, but agony throbbed through every inch of his body and seemed to explode behind his eyes.

  “You are healing well.”

  He tried to move, but the blistering pain stopped him cold and he felt helpless and weak.

  “Be still. You are with friends.”

  What friends? It seemed as if no one could be trusted. His mind spun with memories. Sorcha. What had happened to her? Was she, too, in this camp? Her beautiful face swam before his eyes, and he nearly smiled at the thought of her tangled raven hair and mischievous blue eyes. Her lips, so sweet and turned into a little pout … Oh, Jesus, where was she? His guts coiled and he nearly retched at the thought that he had failed her. Even now she could be in enemy hands … beaten, raped, tortured … He slammed the door shut on those painful thoughts and forced the words over his tongue. “There … there is a woman.”

  “Sorcha of Prydd,” the old crone said with sorrow deep in her voice, a sorrow he felt to his bones. “I know.”

  “How?”

  “I was her nursemaid.”

  Sorcha’s woman servant? Here in the forest? With a band of men whose voices and laughter drifted into the tent? Hagan tried to disguise his doubts. “What is your name?”

  “Isolde,” she said.

  The name was familiar.

  “I raised the lady from a babe, I did,” the woman said, and a trace of fondness lingered in her voice.

  “She is here?”

  The hands stopped moving for a minute. “She was not with you when the scouts found you in the forest.”

  “Scouts,” he repeated. “Whose scouts?”

  “Ours,” she answered, and he knew she would say no more. He felt as if she wanted to tell him something more, to ask him questions, but she remained silent for a while, and fear began to drip slowly into his heart.

  “Where is Sorcha?”

  “We know not.”

  “She is in grave danger,” Hagan insisted, and rolled upon his side to gaze at the old crone. Her wrinkled skin was weathered from hours in the wind and rain and sun. Her mouth was without lips, and her eyes were sunken deep but kind. She looked ancient. He grabbed at her hands. “I must find her!”

  She glanced anxiously at the flap of the tent. “Our leader, Wolf, will want to talk to you.”

  “Wolf?” So he was with the outlaws.

  “Aye, I will tell him you have awakened,” she said quietly. Again he moved, but pain stayed him, and he cursed under his breath as the old woman ducked beneath the flap and disappeared.

  Sorcha. What had happened to her? He thought they’d been beset by outlaws, Wolf’s band or another company of cutthroats, and yet here he was, alive, being tended to. His head pounded, but the pain in his back and leg seemed to lessen as if the old woman’s remedies had begun to help. He reached for his sword and found it missing. His quiver and arrows, too, were gone. Mayhap he would be ransomed, and that thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. How foolish he would appear to his men—to be set upon by outlaws. Never again would his pride be the same, and yet he found it didn’t matter. Nay, all he cared about now was Sorcha and her safety.

  He heard footsteps and a rush of wind as the flap was opened yet again. A tall man with broad shoulders and a savage, rough-hewn face walked inside. Carrying a torch, the light of which played eerily across his bladed features, he strode to the pallet where Hagan lay. “So the mighty Hagan of Erbyn finally awakes.”

  Hagan’s jaw tightened.

  “My men found you in the forest, near death.” He shook his head, and raven black hair brushed his shoulders. “This is no way for a ruler of Erbyn to act.”

  “You did not try to kill me?” Hagan doubted the rogue.

  “If I wanted you dead, you would be.”

  Hagan had no choice but to believe him. “What is it you want, Wolf? Name it.”

  The leader smiled, a twisted grin that held not a glimmer of humor. “You know,” he said, placing the torch on a stand near th
e pallet and crossing his arms in front of his chest, “I thought a nobleman might sleep for weeks.”

  “What do you want?”

  Wolf leered. His face had probably once been handsome. But his nose had been broken and grew slightly crooked, and one of his dark brows bore the scar of a sword or knife. His lips were thin and cruel, his eyes as cold and blue as the sea. Dressed in black, his hair the same raven color, he seemed evil and sinister.

  “Did you bring me here to ransom me?”

  This caused a mirthless laugh. “You think your brother wants you returned to the castle?”

  Hagan didn’t answer.

  “Who do you think tried to kill you?”

  Again silence, and again Wolf’s mouth spread into a smile that showed long white teeth. He was enjoying this. “Oh, so you blame us, do you? Think you that my ragged band would attempt to kill the baron?”

  “I know not.”

  Wolf unsheathed his knife and insolently ran the sharp blade under his nails, dislodging dirt and filth. “I’ve thought of it, yes,” he admitted, frowning a little. “But it seemed foolish. Asides, my friend, we have no reason to quarrel. That you did not join with us long ago is forgiven. You betrayed us not.”

  Hagan’s head pounded, but he remembered nearly becoming one of the outlaw band. He had detested his father and he’d wanted to rebel, to go against all he’d held dear, to lose himself in the woods. He’d been young enough to think that joining a company of thieves and turning his back on his home would anger and wound his father, make the old man understand that Hagan was his own man, but in the end he’d realized his best revenge was to inherit Erbyn.

  But he’d changed his mind yet again as he lay on the pallet, his back on fire. He would give up everything he owned—aye, his very life if needs be—for Sorcha’s safety.

  “If you keep me not for ransom, what then?”

  Wolf sheathed his dagger and his smile faded. “Vengeance.”

  “Against whom?”

  “Tadd of Prydd.” Wolf’s cleaved brow lifted. “He is now at the house of Erbyn with the new lord.”

  “The new lord?”