Irish Moon

by Amber Scott

  Breanne suppressed the emotions threatening to gag her. She composed herself as well as she could and glanced at the mirror to verify she looked suitably aloof and reserved.

  Rose took her hand, tucked at another scant curl in her coiffure and together they walked the long length of corridor leading to the main hall. Chatter bubbled up to them and turned Breanne’s stomach. She didn’t want to face them, but knew she had no other choice. She swallowed against the lump in her throat and took two steadying breaths.

  Rose paused a moment with her, patted her hand. “It will be as easy or difficult as you make it, Bree. So, let us chin up and show them nothing but beauty.”

  Breanne nodded and watched as Rose walked down the stairs and away from her.

  The first step was the hardest and when she reached the bottom, the half an hour that followed blurred past with the sheer effort of maintaining her serene smile.

  * * * *

  The black’s hard breaths came out in puffs of steam in the dusk air. The moon was rising. The temperature was dropping and clouds menaced the horizon.

  Ashlon hunched low over the stallion’s withers and gave him his full head. What had taken him eight hours at least, he was fighting to make four. It wasn’t going to happen.

  The images of the Bloodstone’s theft skipped and replayed in his head as his mind sifted for more clues. Breanne would know. Breanne would see what he could not. He had to return to her. And not simply to help him yet again, but because he knew down to his soul that her life was in jeopardy.

  The black grunted and heaved up the low hill, whose crest Ashlon prayed would reveal the towers of O’Donnell keep. He didn’t know how much more he could ask of the stallion if not.

  As the grassy hill gave way to cloudy sky, a square-ish and undeniably stone formation reached their view. Ashlon cried out in triumph and patted the black’s neck. “Not long now, my friend. We’ve nearly won the race.”

  He had no doubt his attacker had returned here long before, although he couldn’t name why. He credited the Knighthood’s constant guarding ceremonies warding evil for the bill of trust he now paid. The Pope’s forced confessions of a floating head worshipped by the Templar Knights were in part true. The bloodstone was no head, and had not been worshipped. It had been studied, revered, and protected from the earliest times of their brotherhood’s formation.

  The Bloodstone was not proof of heretical practice, of devil worship as the Pope and throne wished to prove. It was a resource that only a few could utilize due to its complex nature and giftedness.

  The signs had been there and he’d chosen to ignore them. Breanne might be one of those few. And the fiend that was clearly not of this world, might be, as well.

  His only hope was that nothing catastrophic had transpired in the time it took him to rejoin the fiend. If something had happened to Breanne due to his hardheadedness, he could not forgive himself.

  If the spawn of demon life that took the Bloodstone lay…. Ashlon stopped himself from carrying down that road. He would get the stone back and see the villain’s blood drawn in the process, that he swore before God himself.

  A lather of sweat gathered on the black’s coat and brought Ashlon back to reality. He slowed the steed to a canter and then a trot. No sense in blaring up to the doors and raising alarm or leaving the horse dead tired.

  He needed to keep stealthy, find Breanne and not draw undue attention. In fact any attention would be undue since he had absconded with a horse and might very well be summoned to answer for it wedding feast or no.

  The stable boy took the black’s reins and gaped at the sight of both. “You’ve raced back for naught and missed both nuptials, Sir Sinclair.”

  Ashlon did his best to look disappointed. “Both, you say?” He tried to swallow against his hard breathing.

  “Aye sir, the Lady Ula and the O’Donnell’s with the last minute addition of the Lady--.”

  “Brian Patrick O’Toole,” a booming voice called from the rear. “Get your lazing arse back here this minute afore I come up there and--.”

  “Coming,” Brian called in return and scurried away, black in hand.

  Ashlon was glad for the boy’s distraction and his mild curiosity at what he’d spoken of gave way to immediate need to locate and find privacy with Breanne.

  He did his best to appear unassuming while he walked through the kitchen entrance. The staff there looked busier than a honey hive and only one member caught sight of him. The wide mouthed look of recognition made him nervous and he flashed the girl his best charming smile, the one practiced for many a young welcoming widow over the years.

  It worked well enough to raise a pretty blush to her cheeks and force her gaze back to her work. The priest’s voice held melodiously and clear above the noisy kitchen and drew Ashlon out. He stood in shadow, his pulse pounding, his heart aware she was near.

  * * * *

  When Father O’Donnell announced the newly wed couple to the onlookers, Breanne realized with a start that it was over. Her mother had tears in her eyes and Niall’s shone wet, too. She’d never seen either look so happy or so obviously in love as her new stepfather bent down and kissed his bride.

  Breanne joined in the applause and riotous cheer that followed as Niall and Ula sprinted like kids back down the aisle, Niall nearly knocking over several guests. In an eager swarm, the lines of waiting spread and gathered into circles while the servants reassembled the banquet’s tables.

  Her mother was wedded. Shortly, she, too, would be and Niall had made clear that he would announce her betrothal this very eve to ensure neither she nor Quinlan lost spine or procrastinated it off.

  Quinlan had stood at her side, silent but strong through the service. He had not yet met her eyes but then she’d equally avoided his. Her belly still rotted with guilt and loss, but her face showed no such torture.

  Might she have been wrong in thinking her mother to be the only one to accomplish a peaceful visage? Perhaps she’d learned more’n she’d credited from her mother, similar or no.

  It made her wonder what Ula kept hidden beneath. But, not today. Today her mother shined like a star in the sky. She looked vibrant and younger than her years.

  A peal of laughter carried above the din and brought her head to the left. Quinlan’s notably followed and stopped as well upon the vision of Rhiannon gushing at the side of Timothy O’Doherty. Their wedding had taken place as a quick opening for the main event of her parents’ ceremony and now Rhiannon seemed desirous of a piece of the crowd’s focus and well wishing.

  Her mother would never say so, but Breanne thought the spontaneous request for Rhiannon and Timothy to marry as well today a bit contrived and without good taste. Ula had been gracious however and postponed her vows just long enough to allow Father Connelly to wed the youngsters.

  Breanne hooked her arm through Quinlan’s and laced her fingers through his. “She does not know what she’s lost, Quin.”

  He looked down at her, pain and anger brightening the blue of his eyes. “And you do?”

  She might have deserved that and so she only lifted her chin higher. “Aye. I always have.” She bored her gaze into his, trying to stare her sentiment home.

  Quinlan lowered his glance and smiled a little. “Might we should play a bit of her game, then?”

  Breanne smiled back. “A fine idea.” Anything, to erase the pain.

  They sat together at the table of honor on either side of Niall and Ula. Quinlan took effort to kiss her hand and bestow a loving smile on her before sitting.

  “You look absolutely beautiful, mother.”

  Ula beamed at her, love in her eyes and no trace of the earlier anger and disappointment. “As do you, Breanne.”

  Shame mixed with gratitude. Mayhap she had not ruined her mother’s happiness with her scandalous behavior. Mayhap things would turn out for the best, just as Rose had declared.

  For the first time that day, Breanne smiled a genuine smile and cared not whose eyes were on
her or what they thought about it.

  A flash of sapphire drew her attention across the room. She instantly thought of her own missing sapphire cloak, the single item unaccounted for once she’d righted the room. But, when she turned to find the color’s source it was gone, the main doors closing out a strand of night.

  Another movement caught her eye. In the shadows, not far from the entryway, she distinguished a set of perfectly broad shoulders. The silver shine of a sword glinted in the candlelight. None else in the room seemed to notice the unmoving figure and Breanne’s heart tripped a beat.

  It could not be him. It was too dangerous and too impossible a hope to entertain. The form retreated further into dark as a handsome couple passed by. Rhiannon and Timothy, hands held were making another round of the room for congratulations.

  “Are you quite prepared, then, Breanne? Are you certain you can manage it?” Quinlan said low near her ear.

  She glanced at him, her mind racing to the man in the corner, pulling him into the light to verify that her eyes were lying to her heart, teasing it mercilessly. “I’m sorry?”

  “They come this way now.” Quinlan nodded slightly in Rhiannon’s direction.

  Breanne looked back, torn, and found Rhiannon’s lovely figure blocking her view. She nearly rose and peered around her but a nudge from Quinlan recalled her earlier insinuation.

  She owed him far more than the planned display would repay and could not worm out of it. Quinlan put an arm about her shoulders, possessively so. Breanne acted her best coyness, dipping her chin and batting her lashes. She leaned in and pretended he’d just told her an enormously funny jest, timed exactly at the couple’s approach.

  “Lady Ula, King O’Donnell,” Timothy said, his eyes barely able to land on any face, so enamored of his bride’s as he spoke. “Please accept our eternal gratitude in allowing us to join in you in happy day with our own.”

  “It is our pleasure, of course, my good man. Although I must say we will miss our little Rhiannon come the morrow when you must away back to O’Doherty tuath,” Niall said and speared a sweet meat to offer Ula.

  Rhiannon’s eyes were hovering at Quinlan and Breanne’s close embrace. Breanne could see the barely discernable shift of the lady’s brow at seeing them. They’d struck their mark. The jealousy nearly steamed from her ears.

  “Ah, Quin, I’m afeared my smile might make me wrinkled before my time, so much laughing as you’re forcing on me.” Breanne plucked an invisible thread from his chest and allowed her hand to rest there while she looked amorously up at him. While Rhiannon pretended not to be watching the pair, the man in shadows behind them consumed Breanne’s hopes and fears.

  She wanted to see his face, to know the trick her eyes must be playing and simultaneously feared the truth the light would reveal. If it were Ashlon and he now watched her, what would he be thinking? Would he see the ruse and know her real desire for him or would he believe her a weak willed woman, given easily to whim and want?

  If it was not him, then he had not returned for her. If it was then his life’s thread still hung at fate’s sharp blade prime to be severed.

  Rhiannon’s gaze fell on her face and Breanne forced her best, joyous smile, praying that only she would believe its lie. Quinlan deserved more than this tart of a woman had proved to be and Breanne could not let Rhiannon believe she’d won and upped him.

  Breanne held her breath, seeing the movement across the hall. She glanced there and back again to Rhiannon, wishing an end to the couple’s visit.

  “You must be so excited, Rhiannon, to leave Tir Conaill and away to a new home,” she said. “No doubt your many skills will do you well among new friends and family.”

  The barb struck. She could see when Rhiannon’s radiant smile faltered. It took a moment for her to reply. “Aye, I will begin anew. I imagine it will be quite freeing, not having a past known to all in clear detail.”

  The insult was obvious but did not hurt. She cared not what this woman judged her to be, as Rhiannon would never know a love like Breanne had experienced. The sheer thrill that ran through Breanne when Ashlon was near, the plunge of passion deep within her soul, Rhiannon was ignorant of love like that. She was a woman too wrapped in her own immediate wants to see and feel and touch what Breanne had.

  Breanne only shrugged, and the cavalier response appeared to irritate more so than any insult. Rhiannon glared openly at Quinlan and Breanne, tugged at Timothy’s arm and began to drag him away mid-sentence.

  Niall only chuckled at the inappropriate leave, unoffended. “He’ll have his hands full with that one, mark me. Quinlan, I dare say you’ve escaped the gallows thanks to me.”

  “I do see you are right on that count. It appears I am in debt then to Breanne and Sir Ashlon, in a round about way.”

  Breanne winced as though he’d punched her in the belly. She lowered her head to hide the color stinging her cheeks. He was still very angry, then.

  She should have predicted as much. A small act of affectation for the lady bounder was not nearly enough to compensate for a forced hand in marriage. Breanne waited until her cheeks cooled before peering to the entrance again. When she did, her breath stuck at her throat and her belly tilted. The man was gone. Without thinking, Breanne stood up.

  “Are you well, lass?” Niall said.

  “Come Breanne, sit. I will not speak of him again,” Quinlan said low next to her. “Breanne, you are causing a stir.”

  She became aware of how she must look, with her mouth hung open, her brow gathered with concern and her hand trembling over her breast. Quickly, she feigned a loud dramatic sneeze and sat back down.

  Several blessings and a scatter of applause followed. She’d become quite the player today and would need one more act’s success. Breanne waited a few moments and rose with a delicate smile, patting her belly.

  “Too much wine, I believe,” she said demurely.

  It worked. She walked toward the stairs and slipped into the kitchen at the last step. Peeking through, she saw no one that looked her way suspiciously and ignored the few that did from behind.

  “I need some cool night air,” she said, fanning her face, for the benefit of those few that remained interested in her sudden appearance.

  Breanne stepped out the door and rushed down the wall to where she hoped the man would be. She lifted her skirts and cared naught for the noise she stirred. Her forced equanimity was forgotten. All her mind and heart could care for was around the stone corner of wall she raced toward.

  Her pulse raced. A cheer echoed from within. Muffled thunder of tankers and goblets hitting the wooden tables carried, as well. She slowed enough to make the corner without a fall and found herself square on her arse, nose hurting and dazed.

  She shook her head. Had she hit the wall? She looked up and took the proffered hand in front of her. Ashlon. He was back and before she gained a full standing position, her world tilted again. He caught each elbow in his hands and her weight into his body. Then, as she struggled to collect her wits, he swept her up and hid around the dark corner she’d barreled into.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  The ground jarred her back to reality when Ashlon soundly set her down onto it. Breanne didn’t know what to say or how to feel. She wanted to kiss him fully on the mouth and yet to slap him just the same.

  “Why are you here? Have you secured the stone to rest in such a short time, Ashlon?” His life was foremost on her mind, the scenes she’d foreseen recalled.

  Ashlon snorted. “My apologies for the rude interruption of your festivities.” But, he did not sound the least bit rueful.

  “They are not my festivities, but my mother’s, as well you know. You did not interrupt but are avoiding my questions.”

  He ran a frustrated hand through is hair. “Please, keep your voice down. I’ve come back for you, that is to say, I need your help yet again.” He did not sound like he wanted it, though.

  Breanne ignored the trill that ran through her when he’d
said he came back for her as well as its quick death after he clarified his meaning.

  “Please do not say you’ve lost the stone?”

  “Aye, it was taken from me on the road and I have reason to believe you know the--what did you say?”

  “I asked of the stone. And you have answered.” What had he been about to say?

  Ashlon took hold of her elbow. “We must away at once. Someone is coming and I must demand you remain with me.”

  Breanne didn’t have time to answer or ask his meaning or intentions. Soon he’d found cover near the gate and motioned that they should slip away.

  Distantly, she swore she heard her name called. She winced. She could not answer and could not leave. Her only hope at no alarm being called was the excuse she’d used to make escape.

  They slipped past the guard as he bent to tend a boot. Ashlon held tightly to her despite her compliance and they rushed through shadow, down the well worn main and under a crofter’s thatch. The home was dark.

  “Ashlon, please, tell me what happened.” Fright fluttered through her body and she was close to trembling with it. Something had gone completely awry and her presaged fate for him weighted her heart.

  “I’m not sure you will believe me and yet I somehow trust you will. Ah, my head is scrambled since last night. You’ve bewitched me so I no longer think straight, particularly in your presence.” His words came harsh and low and he suddenly released her arm as though his hand had been burned.

  Ashlon paced in the shadow, clawing fingers through his hair.

  She kept silent and still, sensing he needed no further anxiety. He’d lost the Bloodstone, his life’s mission. And it had brought him here, which meant….

  “Who took it? You were saying that I know. What do I know?” Breanne kept her voice level in spite of the knots of emotion tying her up inside.

  “It will sound mad, but I feel its truth down my bones, Breanne.” He stopped in front of her. The light of the moon displayed his handsome features, showed his gaze come to rest on her lips. “It was the cat. Finn.”