Moon Shadows

by Nora Roberts

  She thought about slapping his hand aside, but found she couldn’t. She was frozen to the spot. The mere touch of his finger to her flesh had her heartbeat speeding up, her throat clogging with some nameless emotion.

  Her reaction to him was the same as it had been last night. Just being close to him seemed to awaken some deep, primal need that had her thinking things she had no right to and wishing for things that could never be.

  When at last he lowered his hand and stepped back, she sucked in a breath and quickened her pace until they reached the fortress.

  Inside the refectory, Alana was startled to see her father standing by the table. Close behind him was his man-at-arms, Lochaber.

  Each man stood tall, plaid tossed over one shoulder in the manner of a warrior.

  The women and children who had been summoned to break their fast seemed equally surprised by the presence of the two old men.

  “Father.” Alana gave a little cry of pleasure as she crossed the room to press a kiss to his cheek. “It is good to see you below stairs.”

  “Good morrow, my daughter.” Malcolm looked beyond her. “You are the one known as the Dark Angel?”

  “Aye, my laird.” Royce touched his hand to the sword at his waist before lifting it palm up in greeting, in the manner of a loyal warrior. “My given name is Royce.”

  “I am Laird Malcolm Lamont and this is my man-at-arms, Lochaber.”

  Royce offered the old man a similar greeting.

  “Alana tells me your clan was destroyed by Rothwick’s warriors.”

  Royce merely nodded, reluctant to say more. It alarmed him that, even after all these years, he felt a wave of pain mingled with fury at the horror that he and his family had suffered on that fateful day.

  Seeing the dark look in this stranger’s eyes, the old man decided not to press for more. Instead he indicated the table. “Come. We will break our fast together. And you will tell me what you know of Reginald Rothwick’s army.”

  The old laird settled himself at the head of the table, with Lochaber at his right and Royce at his left. He indicated that Alana and the others should join them.

  While the women and children settled themselves around the table, Alana found herself seated beside Royce.

  Brin passed around platters of sliced fowl and chunks of bread warm from the oven.

  Royce bit into the bread and found himself thrust back in time to another fortress, another refectory, where old Erta would always have his favorite confections cooling on a platter. Life had been so sweet. So simple. So peaceful. He had foolishly believed that it would always be so.

  “How many men have joined the ranks of Rothwick’s army?” Malcolm Lamont drained a goblet of sweet wine.

  Pulling himself back from his thoughts, Royce talked of the warriors who now swelled the ranks of Rothwick’s army. “Many once-loyal Highlanders have joined with Rothwick rather than risk death. As the army grows, so does the number of villages that have been burned and looted. Rothwick knows that with each attack, the people grow more fearful of his power. That fear works to his advantage. As more and more villages fall, his army no longer needs to wage war. Their mere presence is enough to have the villagers flee. Those who remain offer no resistance, and Rothwick can help himself to their crops, their flocks, their women.”

  Alana thought about the frightened people of Dunhill, preparing to do exactly as Royce had described.

  “Ale or water, sir?”

  “I prefer water.” Royce accepted a goblet from Alana.

  When their fingers brushed, he paused, as though his mind had been swept clean of thought.

  What was it about this woman that she had the power, with but a touch, to rob him of speech? Of coherent thought?

  In the forest, he’d been forced to go from boyhood to manhood with the thrust of a single sword. After that hideous attack, he’d had to focus all his energy on staying alive. When he realized that his life had been spared, there had been but one purpose in mind. To stop Reginald Rothwick from consuming an entire land and people with the fire of hatred that burned in his evil soul.

  But now, at this moment, Royce felt once again thrust back to those carefree boyhood days, when he and his brother would walk among the booths on market day.

  Fitzroy, ever the tease, would nudge him with an elbow in the ribs and point at some fair lass to whisper, “Have you tasted those lips yet, Royce?”

  Though Royce would blush and stammer, and threaten to wrestle Fitzroy to the ground if he didn’t stop at once, he secretly loved being teased by his older brother. And if truth be told, such teasing always led him to wonder about how it would feel to kiss a lass full on the mouth.

  He glanced over at Alana and felt a quick jolt through his system at the pretty blush on her cheeks. The problem was, he could no longer claim to be that innocent lad, dreaming of his first kiss. The years had changed him. He was a man, with a man’s desperate, driving need. What made it worse, he’d been cut off from civilization for so long, he felt more comfortable in the forest than he did in this warm, welcoming room, seated among people who expected him to behave like one of them.

  He wasn’t like them. There was a terrible fear inside him that he may be more akin to the animals of the forest than to these good people.

  Whether man or beast, he knew this. Just sitting beside Alana had his body betraying him. He knew that he would have to call on all his willpower to keep from insulting the daughter of Laird Malcolm Lamont, for surely she would be repulsed by his advances.

  As an uneasy silence stretched between them, Royce realized that he’d been lost in his own thoughts while the laird had addressed a question of him.

  “I beg your indulgence, my laird. You ask what I think Rothwick intends now. Rumors abound that it is his intention to force the few remaining Highland lairds to swear fealty to him.”

  Laird Lamont’s fist slammed the tabletop. “We would rather die than swear to such a thing.”

  Royce chose his words carefully. “It isn’t death you and the other lairds should fear. It is the torture and imprisonment of your people if you should refuse.”

  “You have proof of such treatment?”

  “This is not the place to speak of such things.” Royce glanced over and, seeing the women and children watching and listening, merely pressed his lips together without saying more.

  Seeing it, the old man shoved aside his food. “Thank you, Brin. I believe I have had sufficient. I desire a walk around the fortress to clear my mind.” He turned to Lochaber and Royce. “You will join me.”

  When the three men walked outside, Alana took in a deep breath. Just sitting this close to the Dark Angel had her forgetting to breathe. The man had a way about him, of watching, of listening, of seeming to turn inward, that was at once subservient and yet commanding. How was it that he could display such strength and still seem to have all the sweetness of youth? He was both innocent and worldly. A man of peace locked inside a formidable warrior.

  Alana looked up to see Brin watching her a little too carefully. Like the man called Royce, the old woman had a keen sense of all that went on around her.

  Forcing herself into action, Alana pushed away from the table and turned to the others. “While we set the refectory to order, there is much we need to discuss.”

  Her father, she thought as she began to scrub the tabletop, wasn’t the only one making battle plans this day.

  While Brin heated water on the hearth and the women and children washed the utensils and swept the floor, Alana shared with them her thoughts on the need to prepare for a possible attack.

  A short time later the three men returned to the room. All wore grave looks as Laird Lamont asked the women and children to gather around.

  “What is it, Father?” Before Alana could ask more, he lifted a hand to silence her.

  “We can see the smoke rising across the meadow. Dunhill, it would seem, is under attack. Which means that this fortress will be next, as Rothwick’s army marche
s toward the few remaining villages that are left.” The old man glanced around at the faces of the women and children, lingering longest on the face of his beloved daughter. “It is my desire that you prepare to journey to the Lowlands. There you will find shelter from Rothwick’s cruelty.”

  Old Brin blinked back tears. “Forgive me, my laird. Ye know I have spent a lifetime following ye’r commands. But this I canna’ do.” She looked toward the old warrior who stood so proudly beside his laird. “Lochaber and I have been husband and wife for four score years. I’ll not be driven to desert him by the likes of Reginald Rothwick.” Though her lips were quivering, she proudly lifted her head. “I’d rather die here beside my Lochaber than live another score years without him.”

  The old man’s eyes blazed. “Were you not listening to the Dark Angel? Do you know what they do to women . . .” His gaze roamed the others. “And children?”

  One of the women spoke up. “I know not how I survived the attack that took the lives of all I loved, but I know this, my laird. Like Brin, I will accept whatever fate awaits me rather than leave the Highlands.”

  Ingram drew an arm around Jeremy, who in turn, clapped a hand on Dudley’s shoulder. “I ask your leave to stay and fight, my laird.”

  The other two lads nodded.

  One by one the others expressed the same opinion, until only Alana was left to speak.

  “You know that I love you more than life itself, Father, and have never defied you. But I beg you not to ask me to leave. Like the others, I would rather suffer my fate here, surrounded by those who matter most to me.”

  Alana caught sight of Royce’s face, the features so stiff and angry they could have been carved from stone.

  The old laird blinked back the sudden moisture that threatened, before straightening his shoulders and giving a slight nod of his head. “As you wish. We stand together, loyal and courageous Highlanders to the end.”

  Chapter 6

  “NAY, lad.” Royce patiently closed a hand over Ingram’s, showing him the proper way to thrust with his sword. “If your hand is turned thus, your opponent will have the advantage and you’ll soon find yourself without a weapon.”

  Alana stood with the others, watching and awaiting her turn. In the days since making their wishes known, the others seemed resigned to the fact that they would stand or fall together, man, woman, and child, in this place. All except Royce, who had not spoken to Alana directly since she had made her wishes known along with the others.

  Royce was patient with the lads and other women, giving them as much time as they needed to master each weapon. But when it came to Alana, he was like a gruff, wounded bear, ready to sink his claws into her for the slightest infraction.

  He ridiculed her clumsy attempts to lift a broadsword, which weighed more than she. And when she managed to fire an arrow from a crossbow, he pointed out that the only wound inflicted was to a poor, unsuspecting chicken that happened to get in the way. Thankfully, Brin made quick use of the hen for their meal that night.

  Alana would stand in the circle and bear the brunt of his cruel words for as long as she could. Then she would seek solace inside the fortress, hoping to hide her pain from the others.

  Old Brin’s sharp eyes missed none of it.

  Finding Alana sulking while she fed wood to the fire, she leaned on her broom. “Sometimes a man finds it necessary to hide his feelings behind anger.”

  “His feelings of contempt? On the contrary, he makes them well-known.” Alana tossed the wood with more force than necessary. “I know I am small and thin, but so is Ingram. And that hateful warrior never loses his temper with the lad.”

  “Ingram doesn’t worry his heart the way you do, my lady.”

  “Worry his heart?” Alana tossed yet another log. “What nonsense are you speaking, Brin?”

  “I know what I see.”

  “As do I. I see a man who takes every opportunity to shame me before the others.”

  “Have you asked yourself why?”

  Alana nodded. “Aye. Because he sees himself superior to me in every way.”

  “Oh, m’lady.” The old woman sighed. “Why is love always wasted on the young?”

  “Love?” Alana gave a sound that might have been a laugh or a sneer. “If that be love, I want no part of it, now or ever.”

  “You scoff, my lady. But when the man looks at you, I see love in his eyes. Can you not see what is so obvious to the rest of us? The Dark Angel is so smitten, so bedazzled by you, it has him feeling confused and helpless. So he does whatever he can to make you hate him enough to keep him from acting on his feelings.”

  Alana’s head came up sharply. Before she could argue, the old woman walked away.

  Alana picked up an armload of wood and headed toward the next room. Was old Brin going daft? Aye, it seemed the only answer. How could there possibly be a glimmer of truth in what she’d just said? It simply wasn’t possible that the dark, angry warrior, who took such delight in humiliating her in front of the entire company of her family and friends, could be hiding feelings of another kind. Especially feelings of love.

  THOSE women and children who felt incapable of wielding a weapon were getting instructions from Brin on the many ways they could impede the progress of an advancing army. They had dragged kettles of water to the highest chambers of the fortress, ready to heat them over fires and toss on unsuspecting warriors below. The youngest children were directed to go to their assigned hiding places as soon as the approaching army was spotted.

  Young Dudley, considered the fastest runner among them, had been given the honor of standing watch from a nearby hillside. Each day the lad went there as soon as his morning meal was finished and remained there throughout the afternoon. At dusk Ingram and Jeremy took turns replacing him so that he could sleep.

  But as the days grew shorter, and the time of the harvest was upon the land, there was a new fear among the lads who would take the night watch. No Highlander was willing to be out and about on All Hallows Eve, for it was well-known that the souls of the dead came back that night to walk the earth and seek justice from those who had offended them.

  When Ingram, Jeremy and Dudley began arguing about who would take the night watch, even Laird Malcolm Lamont refused to mediate.

  “I agree with the lads,” he said to the others. “On the night of All Hallows Eve, there is no reason to stand watch. If you thought Rothwick’s men feared the Dark Angel in the forest, their fear of the risen dead will be even greater. All will refuse to leave the safety of their fortress and not even their laird’s wrath will change their minds.”

  Royce frowned. “Are you saying that the attack will come before All Hallows Eve?”

  The old man turned to him. “If you were Reginald Rothwick, would you not desire the safety of your fortress on such a night?”

  The others nodded their agreement, and Royce fell into a brooding silence.

  NOW, after watching the smoldering fires and drifting clouds of smoke from the direction of Dunhill, and finding no survivors, and aware that All Hallows Eve was but a day away, all those living within the walls of the fortress seemed even more united in their determination to stand and fight. But the anticipation of the coming carnage had everyone on edge.

  Meara paused in the doorway and banged a spoon against the bottom of a blackened pot for attention, as a signal that they were to assemble in the refectory for their nighttime meal. The others looked up in surprise to see that the evening shadows were already upon them. After working since sunrise, they needed no coaxing to put aside their weapons and return to the comfort of the refectory, and then, hopefully, to their pallets to sleep. All except Royce, who seemed to never sleep. His days were spent teaching the ways of war, his nights walking the perimeter of the fortress, alert to the slightest sound that might signal anything amiss.

  When their meal was finished, Brin handed Alana a linen-wrapped parcel and a tankard. “Take this to the Dark Angel.”

  “Let one of the othe
rs take it.”

  The old woman gave a sad, knowing smile. “They are as weary as you, m’lady. It will take you but a moment.”

  With a sigh, Alana stepped out the door and into the darkness. It took several turns around the fortress before she spotted Royce beside the wall, staring off into the distance with a look of such sadness, it tore at her heart.

  Hearing her footfall he looked over. His face tightened with a scowl. “What is this?”

  “Brin sent you sustenance.”

  “I have no need of it.”

  Ignoring his protest she set the parcel and tankard on a rock and turned away.

  As she started back, Royce fell into step beside her. “The time grows short.”

  “The time for what?” She refused to look at him. She was still smarting from the latest incident of the day when he’d singled her out, making her feel small and foolish for losing her sword to Lochaber’s first thrust with his weapon.

  “For taking your leave of this place.”

  She stopped dead in her tracks and turned to face him. “I thought I’d made my decision clear. I will not leave.”

  “Little fool.” Because they were alone he let down his guard, allowing his simmering anger to burst forth. “What we are about to face is not child’s play.”

  “Nor have I ever suggested it would be.” She started to flounce away.

  Strong fingers closed around her wrist with such force, she cried out. At once he released her, but there was no remorse in his voice. His words were spoken in a hiss of fury. “You haven’t the least idea what war will be like.”

  “I’m sure you’ll take great joy in telling me.” She stared up into his eyes. “In the hope of adding to the fear already in my heart.”

  “Is that what you think? That I merely want to add to your burden?” His voice lowered. Softened. “I’ve seen the horrors of war, my lady. It was beyond my wildest dreams of hell. I can’t bear the thought of seeing you suffer such a cruel fate.”