by Nora Roberts
This morning, he was handsomer than ever, but no more did he look formidable—not to her. In fact, he looked almost boyish, and so much younger, his dark hair falling over his brow, his eyelashes resting against his lean, tanned cheeks.
Love filled her, spilled from her. All for this man who had stayed by her side through unimaginable danger and brought her safely home.
Not only her, but the horses they’d rescued in Org, and the rat and his family who’d all sought refuge under her protection and who were now ensconced in a comfortable dirt hole within the bailey.
The entire group of them had raced straight back to Callemore, stopping only briefly at Blackthorne so that Gwynna and Keir could gather food, clothing and supplies. And when she’d finally galloped on the dun horse over the drawbridge of her own home and bolted up the stairs to Lise’s quarters to find her sister alive and perfectly restored after her ordeal, she’d nearly burst with joy.
But that joy was now matched once again—equal in every way—by the joy she felt here in this marriage bed with Keir, within the dark blue silk bed curtains, and beneath the rich gold coverlet and furs drawn across their waists.
She wriggled closer to brush her lips across Keir’s chest and traced a finger down the bulging muscles of his arm. And he opened his eyes.
“Good morning, my wife.”
“Good morning, my husband.”
They grinned at each other, and Keir reached for her, for this moon witch with her midnight hair and creamy skin, with breasts so beautiful he could have kissed them all night long, with eyes that burned sweet fire into his soul.
His mouth found hers, tasted, teased. One kiss led to another, and one touch to a thousand touches. Her hair fanned across the pillow like black lace as he leaned over her, kissed her.
And the lovemaking they shared this morning was as deep as the Wild Sea and as hot as summer’s sun.
And as they touched each other and told each other of all they felt in their hearts, as their bodied twined and their love soared and their souls shuddered to their very cores, all the emptiness and loneliness of a man who’d lost everything was forever erased by the love of a woman who gave everything and held nothing back.
In the days that followed Gwynna traveled with her husband to her new home at Blackthorne Keep. There she worked a different kind of magic—she transformed a bleak, drafty, joyless keep into a home of warmth, light and beauty. A place where first her son and then her daughter were born—into a world where sunlight gilded summer gardens and moonlight glimmered over winter snow. A world where goodness prospered, and old evils faded like mist.
Even in the once invincible Valley of Org the darkness dissipated and goodness seeped in, bringing with it people to populate the barren land, and grass and flowers to spring up where once there had been only dead trees and dust.
All of the dread creatures scattered and skulked to distant lands, and peace settled over the countryside.
And Gwynna and Keir loved each other all of their days—and all of their nights.
Their passion never faded, and neither did their love. It held through all their years together, bright and strong and brilliant as the sun, as magical and enduring as the glow of the moon.
BLOOD ON THE MOON
Ruth Ryan Langan
For Nora, Marianne, and Jill,
who share my belief that all things are possible.
And for Tom,
for always believing in me.
Prologue
The Scottish Highlands—MacLish Fortress
“MOTHER. Father.” The voice that wavered somewhere between a high-pitched squeak one minute, and a deep masculine bark the next, trailed up the stairs and into the inner chambers of the laird and his lady minutes before the one who’d been speaking appeared. The lad flew into the room, tunic muddied, dark hair flying out like wings around a face that was already showing promise of being even more heartbreakingly handsome than that of their older son, Fitzroy.
“Take a care, Royce.” Laird Ramsay MacLish turned from the window, where he’d been peering off into the distance. “Can you never move slowly?”
“Why would I walk when I can run?” Royce MacLish, at ten and three no longer a boy, not quite a man, took a moment to brush a kiss over his mother’s cheek.
She, in turn, ruffled his hair and shook her head at the rip in his tunic and hose. “It is proving impossible to keep you in clothes, Royce. Aren’t those the new hose old Moira just sewed for you?”
“Sorry, Mother. Ian and Duncan and I were practicing with our swords, and I fell off my mount.”
“Battle games.” Lady Beth MacLish glanced at her husband and caught the look of fierce pride in his eyes. She shrugged. “I suppose it is a man’s way.”
“Ian said he saw a rider bearing your standard, Father. Did he bring news of Fitzroy?”
The laird couldn’t help but be touched by the eagerness in his younger son. All who lived within the walls of MacLish keep had been nervously awaiting news of Fitzroy, at ten and eight a seasoned warrior who had been gone now for a fortnight, leading his father’s men against a sighting of barbarians.
“Fitzroy is on his way home to a hero’s welcome. The rider reported that there were no deaths among his men. I’ve ordered old Erta to prepare a banquet, and I’ve sent out runners to invite all the village elders, as well as the families of the warriors. More food will be sent to the villagers, so that all can partake of the celebration. I have declared three days and nights of feasting in Fitzroy’s honor.”
Royce could hardly contain his excitement. “Let me ride out and greet him, Father.”
His mother gave a quick shake of her head. “You know the dangers, Royce.”
“Please, Father.” The lad’s voice took on a pleading tone. “I’ll take Ian and Duncan along for company. I don’t think I can bear it if I have to wait until dark to greet Fitzroy.”
The laird dropped an arm around his son’s shoulders. “You’ve missed him, haven’t you, Royce?”
“Aye. It isn’t the same around here without him.”
“I know, lad. ’Tis the same for all of us. The entire keep has been quiet and subdued since your brother left.” Except, he thought, for this son, who was only quiet when he slept. “How good it will be to have him back with us.” He gave his son a quick hug. “Go and greet your brother, Royce. If their parents approve, take Ian and Duncan along. By the time you get back to the fortress, their families will be here with the others, ready to feast.”
“Ramsay . . .” His wife looked alarmed. “You know that I saw blood on the moon last night.”
“So you said. But we both know that’s an old wives’ tale, my love. Next you’ll be telling me you believe that the dead actually rise up from their graves on the feast of All Hallows Eve and walk the earth.” The laird lifted her hand to his lips. “Our young son is not a bairn anymore. It’s time for him to put aside such foolishness. Why, in another year or so he’ll be strong enough to lift a broadsword.”
“I’ll be careful, Mother.” Following his father’s lead, determined to charm her, Royce caught his mother’s hand and brought it to his lips, then brushed a kiss over her cheek as well.
Then he was gone, his feet pounding a rhythm as he took the stairs two at a time.
Lady Beth turned to her husband. “I’ve never known a lad with so much life bursting out of every seam. Was our Fitzroy as much of a whirlwind?”
Her husband merely laughed. “Not that I recall. Royce is such a happy lad. And why not? He is growing up in a time of peace in our land. Our people prosper. Their animals grow fat, their crops more plentiful than at any time I can recall. And his hero, Fitzroy, returns home to regale him with endless tales of his latest adventure. How could life get any better than that for a lad?”
Downstairs in the refectory Royce came to a skidding halt. “Erta, do I smell scones baking?”
The old cook, who had been serving in the MacLish fortress for more than two score year
s, couldn’t help but smile at this lad who had become her favorite. With that infectious smile, and an innate sense of fairness, Royce was the favorite of everyone in the fortress, and in the villages that surrounded it, as well. It would be impossible to find anyone who didn’t love the lad with the coal black hair, laughing blue eyes, and a taste for all things sweet.
“You do indeed smell fresh scones, drizzled with honey.”
She was delighted by his exaggerated reaction—eyes closed, one hand rubbing his middle, while he gave a deep sigh of satisfaction.
“Would you mind if I took several, Erta? I’m off to meet Fitzroy, and I’m taking Ian and Duncan along.”
“I’m not surprised. Do you go anywhere without those lads? I swear, the three of you are more like brothers than friends.” She offered the platter and chuckled when he took a handful, tucking them inside his tunic.
Royce took note of the frantic activity going on around him. The room was steamy with kettles and cauldrons bubbling with rich, spicy liquids. Several stags were roasting over spits. More than a dozen village lasses had been recruited to lend a hand with the task of cooking and serving the banquet being planned to honor the returning warriors. Several of them blushed and smiled when he looked their way and giggled behind their hands.
Royce dashed out to the courtyard and pulled himself onto the back of his shaggy pony. He looked up and, seeing his parents standing together on the balcony, gave them a smiling salute before wheeling his mount and urging the animal into a gallop.
In no time he’d collected his best friends from the village, and the three horsemen raced each other across a flat Highland meadow before entering the forest beyond.
They rode for more than an hour before spying the column of horsemen in the distance. A banner bearing the crest of a lion, a raven, and a cross flew above the warriors, proclaiming their allegiance to Laird Ramsay MacLish.
“Look, Royce.” His friend and cousin, Ian MacLish, pointed. “It’s Fitzroy and our brothers.”
The three lads turned their horses loose to run with wild abandon toward the men they’d been missing all these days.
“Fitzroy!” Royce cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted at the top of his lungs as he rode his shaggy pony at a fierce gallop right through the line of warriors.
The men he passed looked energized at the thought of returning to home and family, and each in turn lifted an arm or called out a greeting to the younger brother of the warrior they acknowledged as their leader. When he reached his brother’s side, Royce was yanked off his pony and hauled into arms strong enough to crush him.
“Look at this,” Fitzroy shouted to his companions. “My baby brother has grown as tall as a man.”
“As tall as you, I’ll wager.” Royce was grinning as his brother tousled his hair and playfully squeezed the muscles of his arms.
When at last he was returned to his pony’s back, Fitzroy’s steed never even broke stride.
Royce looked at Fitzroy with hope. “Does this mean you’ll let me ride with you next time you go to battle?”
His brother’s smile faded. “So eager to fight, are you?”
“As eager as you were the first time Father took you with him.”
Fitzroy’s tone softened. “How are Father and Mother?”
“They’re both well. They’ve been sad while you’ve been at war. But now they’ll have reason to smile. Tell me about the battle.”
“It was fierce and brief. Almost as though they lost heart the moment they realized our strength of will. One minute they were doing battle, the next they were fading into the surrounding hills. We chased after them, but lost them in the forest.”
“I’m glad. Otherwise you’d have been gone for my birthday. Or have you forgotten?”
“How could I forget that you’ll soon be ten and four?” Fitzroy reached over and slapped his brother’s arm, feeling the beginning of muscle. “You’ll soon be taller than I am.”
“And stronger.” With a laugh Royce reached into his tunic and removed a scone. “Erta baked these just for you.”
“Did she now?” Fitzroy bit into the sweet confection and gave a sigh. “How I’ve missed the old woman’s cooking.”
“She’s planning a fine big banquet for you and your men tonight. Father has invited all the villagers to stay at the keep for three days and nights of celebration.”
“Did you hear that, men?” Fitzroy looked around at the warriors’ bright smiles. “We’ll be feasting at my father’s fortress by nightfall.”
The Highlanders gave a collective cheer as they entered a narrow pass between two towering mountain peaks.
Up ahead Royce could see his friends, Ian and Duncan, riding proudly alongside their brothers. All wore the blue and green and black plaid of the MacLish clan.
He glanced over at the brother he adored. “I’ve been practicing with the sword and dirk and longbow.” He slipped the small, sharp knife from its place of concealment beneath his tunic. “Would you like to see how I can take out a bird high on the wing?”
“Aye, Royce.” Fitzroy turned toward his younger brother and saw the lad’s eyes widen with a look that could have been fear or surprise. “What is it?”
Royce pointed.
Fitzroy swiveled his head and was stunned to see wave after wave of barbarians scrambling over rocks, dropping from trees, rising up from the cover of shrubs and bushes along the pathway. So many of them, like angry hornets swarming from a hive, until the landscape seemed overrun with them. They wore the fur of animals and had their faces painted with blood. Their shrill screams sent chills down Royce’s spine.
His brother’s hand closed over his arm. “You must take cover in the forest, Royce.”
“Run and hide like a coward?” Outrage blazed in the lad’s eyes. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“Because I love you. Because it will break our parents’ hearts if they should lose both their sons this day.”
“We’ll not die, Fitzroy. We’re Highland warriors. We can subdue these barbarians.”
Because there was no time left to argue, and he knew the point was useless, Fitzroy withdrew his sword and charged into the thick of the barbarians, shouting for his men to do the same.
The strangers came at them in waves. No sooner had they fallen to the Highlanders’ swords, than another wave came over the hills, under the cover of a barrage of arrows from unseen forces hidden in the brush. With spine-tingling screams and thrusts of their swords, they managed to kill half a dozen of Fitzroy’s finest warriors before the Highlanders could even see their attackers.
Royce and his friends Ian and Duncan had mastered the art of wielding both knife and sword with accuracy. But never before had they seen their weapons land in real flesh, to draw real blood. Now, all around them, men were moaning, screaming, bleeding. Dying. The savageness of battle left them stunned and reeling.
As the killing went on and on, they could no longer think or feel. Survival was everything. There were no choices left. There was but life or death.
Within minutes, both Ian and Duncan had fallen, and lay trampled beneath the hooves of the invaders’ steeds. Royce turned toward them, determined to drag them to safety, even though in some small part of his mind he knew they were already dead.
“Behind you, Royce.” Fitzroy’s voice brought the lad out of his stupor and he whirled, landing his sword in a stranger’s chest an instant before he would have surely been cut down. When he looked back to thank his brother, Fitzroy was surrounded by a handful of swordsmen.
Royce leapt to his side and the two brothers stood back to back. Though they were bleeding from a dozen different wounds, they continued holding the attackers at bay.
With a quick thrust by one of the barbarians, Royce’s sword was swept from his grasp, and he was forced to withdraw his dirk from its sheath. Though he knew one small knife couldn’t possibly defend against so many weapons, he was determined to go down fighting.
Suddenly a horseman ap
peared in their line of vision, followed by a dozen more. Fitzroy and Royce were surrounded. And though they fought and kicked and bit, their arms were finally secured behind them, and they were hauled to their feet to face their executioner.
The stranger remained astride his horse, looking down on them with a sneer. “What I’d heard about the MacLish warriors is true. Even outnumbered one hundred to one, they stand and fight to the last man.”
The speaker was tall and broad of shoulder, with long golden hair that fell in tangles around a face that might have been handsome if it weren’t for the eyes. In the fading sunlight they gleamed yellow like a cat’s eyes.
Unlike the others, he was dressed in the garb of a Highland warrior.
Fitzroy’s arm had been nearly severed from his shoulder. Blood gushed like a fountain from the wound. The pain should have been more than any man could bear. Still he faced his opponent with head held high, refusing to show any emotion but defiance. “Why does a Highlander ride with barbarians?”
The man smiled, and it was the most chilling thing Royce had ever seen. It twisted the stranger’s face into a look that was almost satanic. “The barbarians you were sent to vanquish were there at my orders. They were intended as a distraction.”
“A Highlander gives orders to barbarians?”
“They are merely made to look like barbarians. They are actually Highlanders. We are the clan Rothwick. I am Reginald Rothwick.”
Fitzroy and his brother exchanged knowing glances.
Reginald’s evil smile grew. “I see you’ve heard of me.”
“Aye.” Fitzroy’s voice was low with disdain. “We’ve heard of the outlaw clan that goes about the Highlands killing clan chieftains, looting their fortresses, savaging helpless women and children.”
“You forgot to mention the men and boys who are left to choke on their own blood.” Reginald paused a beat. “You’ve just described what was done at the MacLish fortress.” He saw the hardness that came into his opponents’ eyes, and felt the thrill of victory. “It was kind of the laird to gather all the villagers in one place, so that the killing and looting was made easier.” His eyes narrowed on Fitzroy. “Your father has grown old and soft. I could have killed him with a single blow, but that would have prevented him from watching as my soldiers and I brutalized your pretty mother.”
