Lady of the Crescent Moon

by Ingrid Hahn

Her gaze fell. “No.”

  “Then you are still my betrothed.”

  She went white, eyes wide when they snapped back up at him. “I’m sorry?”

  “You are still my betrothed.”

  She blinked.

  “I’ve made you uncomfortable.” He shifted uneasily and took a long breath. “You should know I’ve long wanted the opportunity—”

  “I’ll accept no apologies.”

  “Nor should you, but if I could beg one favor, you’ll allow a man to unburden his soul.”

  His expression must have been more pained that he’d have liked, for she clasped her hands before her, fingers loosely threaded, and steadied her shoulders. The posture of a woman who thought she’d found a bargaining chip.

  “Very well.” With a gracious a nod, she granted her assent. “I shall hear you. But only on the condition that I get what I want too.”

  His brows rose partway. “I’ll take my words to the grave before I agree to such terms.”

  “Then they’re not so burdensome after all, it seems.” She sighed, posture sagging. “You wronged me grievously, but that does not excuse my own behavior now. I must beg you to please forgive me. It was uncharitable to speak so. I hardly recognize myself.” She spoke half for him, half to convince herself.

  They stood together in difficult silence, unbroken for an interminable interval.

  “Perhaps we should talk about this tomorrow.” He rose.

  “No, we must speak now.”

  “You’re tired, you need—”

  “I ate your food, but that was my choice. I’m not obliged to you, and I certainly won’t be obedient, so stop issuing me orders.”

  A weight sunk Roland’s heart. Obedience. A wifely trait. Or so some claimed. If they had been married as they were supposed to have done, and she were his wife, would she obey him?

  A perverse part of him hoped not. True, a defiant wife would make life difficult. And as much as he wanted to protect her, it was never in the way of a shepherd guarding a newborn lamb who’d lost her mother. But a person who offered challenge—well-founded, thoughtful challenge—was a person who fired his senses and forced him to think.

  This was one matter not for discussion.

  Chapter 4

  Having a full belly warmed Sidonie’s veins and sharpened her mind. When he left, she’d try slipping into her second sight.

  For now, they had something that still needed to be addressed. His words echoed again and again. You are still my betrothed. You are still my betrothed. They made her feel as if she’d swallowed a boulder and now had to carry the burden of the weight with her for the remainder of her life.

  It was a subject she never thought she’d have to address, not after all these years. Still, there was no cause for embarrassment, however slight, and she forced herself to speak. “I don’t think you’re correct. About the betrothal.”

  “I left. I never renounced the promise.”

  The whole thing nettled. She should have let the topic fall away instead of pursuing it. But here they were, arguing over nothing. The wounds should have been forgotten years ago. Seeing him again . . . exactly what she hadn’t wanted. Maybe the reason was more complex than she’d anticipated. “Any reasonable person would understand your departure as an end to whatever arrangement there might have been.”

  “A postponement. Nothing more.”

  Her measured resolve broke.

  “Unbelievable! Of all the nonsense!” The food might have put her on a more even keel, but fatigue and impatience had their wicked way with her temper. Questions battered the inside of her skull, questions she had no business entertaining after all these years. Sidonie bit them all back. “You’re trying to manipulate me.”

  “I’m speaking the truth.”

  She shook her head, relenting, and gestured into the air. “As you would have it.”

  “If you don’t believe I would make good on the promise—”

  Sidonie thrust out her chin. “Do it, then. Make good on your promise. Call the priest from his bed and have him here within the hour.” She made a theatrical show of smoothing her skirts. “I’m not in my finest, but you’ll overlook such insignificant matters, won’t you, my lord?”

  His jaw hardened.

  “Just as I thought.” She wasn’t disappointed to have called his bluff. She wasn’t. For une sorcière—a witch—a husband would only be an encumbrance. Or worse, a danger. “Am I to be your prisoner then?”

  The haunted expression that overtook his features hit her in the belly like a sinking stone. She’d gone too far. In the terrifying space of silence ensuing, she braced herself for him to say yes. “You have to leave.”

  “I was trying to leave. You stopped me.”

  “You were trying to escape me. That’s far different than leaving.”

  “Do you wish to help me?”

  “I—”

  “Because you owe me nothing, broken betrothal or no broken betrothal. And I want nothing from you.”

  “Except to see my mother.”

  “Which isn’t your concern.”

  “Anything to do with my family is my concern.”

  “You speak like a man who takes his duties seriously.”

  “I do.” Roland spoke with solemn finality. His voice was quiet, but powerful. A silent force, waiting to show his might.

  She waved a hand. “Then why this decrepitude? Why has the château fallen into ruin? Why do you neglect yourself and your title and even your king? Why did you . . .?”

  The last unfinished question hung between them.

  “And why did I run instead of marrying you?”

  Sidonie turned her face away. “Never mind that.”

  “You say you don’t want to know, but you do.”

  “I’m losing focus on what really matters. There was nothing in the world as distasteful to me as the idea of seeing you again and being here with you is proving to me how right my instincts were.”

  Except her instincts were telling her that here at last was a man to be trusted. Was it because she still harbored feelings for him?

  Sidonie searched her heart. Even if there were room for him, it was too late.

  “No? And if I go send for the priest you called for to marry us?”

  The limited light wasn’t enough to reveal any redness that might mottle her cheeks, but darkness was no remedy against the heat spidering up her neck. This time, she wouldn’t look away. She wouldn’t. His past actions marked shame only in him. None in her, no matter what others might think. “Go on, then. And do hurry.”

  An alternative life unfurled before her very eyes. A hasty marriage. A long, long overdue wedding night in Roland’s arms.

  Then morning would come and nothing would have changed. She’d have started being a wife, but she wouldn’t have stopped being a witch.

  “Finish your wine.”

  Absentmindedly, Sidonie took the goblet and drained the last of the drink. It had been warmed, sweetened, and spiced. The most beautiful thing upon her tongue in longer than she could remember. “Becoming your bride won’t stop me. I have a duty, just as you do. Neither you nor anything else will keep me from it.”

  He reassessed her. “Precisely what is it you’ve found yourself involved in?”

  “I’ve told you as much as I care to for the time being.” She might harbor an unnatural trust for the man, but laying herself bear, as it were, wasn’t an option. If for no other reason than imparting too much information put him at risk. “If you truly want to help me, you’ll give me what I ask.”

  “Impossible.”

  Her mind combed through alternative scenarios. What she might do in case she was unsuccessful at Château Bramville. One by one, she rejected each idea in turn
. It was no use. Alone, she wasn’t powerful enough.

  Roland went to the fire and poked at the flames. “I’ll bet you’ve been traveling by night and sleeping on hard ground by day. Tell me, how long has it been since you stayed the night in a proper bed?”

  She could do well without any bed at all, proper or not. But she would need sleep, and soon. Else she’d be too weak to do what needed to be done, even in possession of the knowledge she sought. “None of your concern.”

  “It’s late. We can talk in more depth in the morning.”

  “I can’t wait. I need to do this tonight.”

  He snapped, visibly, his face going hard. “You’re in no position to make demands. And even if you were, there is no force on God’s earth that would compel me to help you in whatever it is you’ve gotten yourself tangled up in. Because while I’m still not clear on all the details, I think what you’ve taken on is not what will allow to you to see the next anniversary of your birth.”

  When she replied, her voice came out low and hard. “You can’t protect me, Roland.”

  “The hell I can’t.”

  He was powerful in all the ways that mattered. Evidence in the crumbling stone around them said differently, but no earthly object was the true measure of a man. It was probably beyond his comprehension to hear her say he couldn’t protect her. But that was the truth of it, no matter what his feelings on the matter might have been.

  “It’s too far gone.” She paused. “I’m too far gone. We’re a long way away from the children we once were.”

  “You don’t have to remind me of that.” There was a hint of vulnerability in his tone.

  Almost enough to make her wish things could have been different between them.

  “You underestimate me.”

  He gave her a hungry look. “Do I?”

  “I need to see your mother.”

  He seemed to turn to granite before her eyes. It was as if she’d said the wrong thing.

  A horrible panicked sensation made her heart clench in fear. Had a new grave been dug in the family plot since she’d left? If his mother couldn’t help her, there was nobody else. And she couldn’t do this alone. She wasn’t powerful enough. “Please, please tell me I’m not too late.”

  “You might as well be. She’s not going to last more than another day. Two at most. The end is near.”

  Panic beat a thousand flurried wings against the inside of her ribcage. Sidonie pushed to standing. After days of travel, much of it on foot, she ached all over—a trifle which she would not pay any mind. His mother was the last reason she had to dare hope she might meet with success. “Take me to her at once.”

  “In the middle of the night? Not a chance. Nobody is going to disturb her rest. Least of all you.”

  “Will you take me to her in the morning?”

  “No.”

  “Roland—” A wave of weariness so overwhelming made her knees buckle. Before she knew what was happening, she was falling. It seemed to happen with painstaking slowness. But instead of meeting the floor, he was suddenly there, catching her. She was so heavy she couldn’t lift herself. His arms were solid and strong precisely when she needed them most.

  Sidonie struggled to keep her eyes open. “What did you? The wine. How could you?”

  “It’s just until morning . . .”

  Her eyelids had already fallen, but with the last glimmer of consciousness she caught him whisper the words, “. . . my love.”

  Chapter 5

  In the darkest hour, the hour before dawn, the gateway was the weakest. With the rising sun came a reprieve. Nothing could cross again until dusk.

  Arms folded, Roland leaned on the wall adjacent the window in his bedchamber. Daybreak glowed across the eastern sky and the cutting northern winds blustered through the bare overgrowth on the riverbanks. A light frost clung to the inside of the window glaze in fields of tiny crystals that caught the morning light. For the comfort of his guest, he’d built a large fire.

  He should have been weary.

  He wasn’t.

  In the bed, she stirred, the woman everything in his being screamed for him to protect.

  Threatening to marry her hadn’t been the least bit rational. The words had been empty, and she’d seen through him, knowing instantly he wouldn’t do any such thing. He had every reason in the world to see she kept as far from him as possible. The gateway was too dangerous.

  Even were there no obstacle, what would marriage have bought him? The union might bind her to him by some heavenly grace, but it wouldn’t stop her.

  The worst part was, the threat had exposed how much he wanted her.

  After so many years of secrets and sacrifices, he’d believed he could deny himself anything. Anything.

  She made him weak. She made him want things, made him dream about what he couldn’t have.

  The bottom line: he couldn’t have them. What did he gain by refusing her request to see his mother? It wasn’t surprising that Sidonie knew. Women like them, they had a way of recognizing one another.

  The real ones, that was. Only one in a thousand of those mutilated and killed were truly what they were accused of being.

  Unlike the rest of France—or the continent, come to think of it—most of those burnt as witches up in these dark Norman climes were men. Regardless, the whole business was an abomination, a result of small minds consumed with darkness. People grasped for power in all manner of nefarious ways. Grasping for power by inflicting terror was by far the most despicable.

  Roland didn’t care for the word witch. It had been appropriated, maligned, and twisted beyond all recognition. As to the women themselves, well. They didn’t seem to bother themselves about it one way or another. They simply continued on with their work as they had done for hundreds of years.

  Their purpose in life was to help. They were the women who helped laboring women bring their babies into the world. They were the women who helped people die. And for all the thousand difficult moments for those most desperately in need, whether high or low, rich or unthinkably poor, they were there.

  Unfortunately for them, they had abilities that had come to be deemed unnatural. Fear had grown. The power-hungry fed on that fear, stirred it, riled it, worked ignorant people into a frenzy claiming witches did the work of the Devil. All the while, the men burning them carried the Fallen Angel himself on their shoulders.

  In her time, Roland’s own mother had done much and helped many. It was rare to find one of her kind so well born, but they existed everywhere.

  How had it been for Sidonie? Had she been chosen to join the ranks of witches? Or had she chosen for herself?

  Sidonie’s lashes fluttered and, as if realizing her situation, her eyes went wide and she propped herself on her elbows. “It’s morning.”

  “So it is.”

  “But you’re—” Whatever she’d been about to say was forgotten as her expression hardened. She pulled the threadbare coverings to her chin to hide the tattered shift in which she’d slept. She glowered at him. “You can’t be here.”

  The formality of her language—using the plural you—both heightened his awareness of being alone with a woman in his bed and reinforced the distance between them. It was odd because while they might have dissected delicate matters of the heart only the night prior, their language had been as formal as ever. It shouldn’t have struck him as discordant now.

  When he said nothing, she continued. “I suppose you stood guard the whole night too.”

  Yes, but not in the way she meant. “I won’t flatter myself into believing you might listen to reason. If you claimed you would abide by my wishes, I wouldn’t believe you, so save us both the trouble and don’t play games.”

  “Then I am your prisoner.”

  “On the contrary. You�
�re my guest.”

  “You drugged me.”

  “And I had no right, forgive me.”

  She glared at him. “Easy words now that you’ve had your way, aren’t they?”

  Denial would serve nothing. “Yes.”

  Her eyes glistened with challenge. “A guest has a choice in the matter of whether she remains or not.”

  “Your choice is to endure my company or enjoy the privacy of a locked room.”

  “You have no part in this. The only thing you’re doing now is interfering.”

  His brain supplied a supple translation. In this became in her life. “You involved me the moment you set foot on d’Ambroisin lands.”

  “I can’t be here. The servants will talk.”

  “Have a reputation to protect, do you?”

  “People still know me here. And Manette is at court, and you must know how things are at court these days.”

  Manette. Sidonie’s younger sister. A miniscule bit of leverage, but not insignificant. “Then I should think you would want to give up your pursuits to protect her.”

  “My pursuits, as you say, are bigger than myself.”

  “But not more important than your sister?”

  Her brows sunk low. “That’s quite enough. Don’t dare try to speak to me of my sister again.”

  “As you wish.”

  She stayed silent a moment, then carefully glanced around. “Where is my clothing?”

  Roland nodded. “Foot of the bed.”

  “Turn around.”

  He turned his head, surveying the desolate landscape through the window, but seeing not one single object, his mind clinging to the memory of her face as if fearing the image might slip from grasp.

  “All the way around, if you please.”

  He obliged, poised to run after her if she made a break for the door. Roland’s scowl deepened and a stray thought caught on his tongue. “How did you know about the passage?”