Kiss of the Moon Page 7

  Oh, but his lips and teeth. She heard a deep moan and realized it was from her own throat. He moved against her, touching her abdomen with his manhood while his fingers delved deeper and found the nest of curls at the apex of her legs.

  NO! His fingers probed gently and she nearly screamed. This could not happen, this could not! And yet her body was starting to change, her bones to soften, the middle of her to turn hot as melting wax.

  She felt her knees being parted by his and closed her eyes.

  “Come, Bliss, is it so bad?” he asked, poised above her, ready to conquer her, his one hand caressing her skin as he drew his fingers slowly from her breasts to the small of her back.

  “Just be done with it.”

  “Not until I know you are ready.”

  “Never,” she said through clenched teeth, though her hips, damn them, lifted off the bed, anxious to give up her virginity to this monster.

  “Look at me.”

  “Nay.”

  His hand moved to her chin. “Look at me,” he commanded, and her eyes flew open to search the golden depths of his. She saw savagery and anger, passion and desire, in his gaze. She was forced to stare at his massive body, his muscles gleaming in the firelight, his expression hard, his manhood ready. She swallowed back her fear and noticed the fresh wound in his thigh. He winced a little as he shifted.

  “Finish this, m’lord,” she hissed, “or leave me go!”

  His body tensed and he glared at her. “As you wish!” Jaw clenched, he moved as if to take her, but instead he hesitated and stared at the charm dangling from her neck. His eyebrows drew together as he yanked and the string broke. Sorcha feared the tiny twigs would be crushed in his big hand. Lips tightening, he leveled his eyes at hers and stared at her face long and hard in the firelight. Recognition slowly dawned in his eyes. “Christ, Jesus,” he muttered. “I’ve seen sacrilege such as this before … ’tis the work of a witch.”

  “Isolde of Prydd, my nursemaid.”

  “For the love of God—”

  “So you finally believe me.” Sorcha felt immense relief as she snatched the necklace from his hand.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” he said, rolling off and swearing under his breath.

  Leaping from the bed and pulling the fur coverlet to cover her trembling body, she sent up a silent prayer of thanks that she didn’t have to go through with her part of the bargain, but her silly body felt disappointed and empty. “I told you a dozen times over that I’m here for my sister. Leah.” Where were the bloody knives—both of them buried in the rushes? Curse it all. Bending down, trying to cover herself, she eyed her tormentor while her fingers searched the thick rushes.

  In the firelight she saw his brows draw together. She took a step closer to the bed, still feeling the floor, cut herself on one dagger, but grabbed the hilt and curled her fingers over the handle.

  “But how?” he whispered, his eyes narrowing on her. His expression turned murderous and his eyes grew dark. “How did you—whoever you are—get past the guards?” he asked, and his voice had the deadly ring of a proud man who suddenly realized he’d been taken for a fool.

  She stood near the bed, her dagger glinting in the fire-glow. “ ’Twas easy.” Keeping him at bay with the knife, she managed to hold the coverlet over her body as she searched for her clothes with her bare foot.

  “Come over here, closer,” he commanded, and she saw the gleam in his eyes as he climbed out of the bed and stood naked before her.

  So he’d changed his mind. The beast had lied. He had no intention of releasing Leah, he’d only played with her. Shamed to her soul that she’d nearly lain with him, she shuddered as he approached, and warned, “Don’t come any closer.” She waggled the knife menacingly and saw her discarded tunic.

  He ignored her message, moving nearer still.

  Her heart thudded with dread and she snatched at the tunic.

  He was so near, she could see the ripples of his muscles. Sweet Jesus! Like a snake striking, his arm reached out to take hold of her. Whirling, she drove the blade of her dagger into his shoulder.

  Blood spurted.

  “You fool,” he said through his teeth. His eyes blazed and he sucked in his breath as if in pain.

  Writhing, she tried to pull her knife from his body so that she could wound him yet again, but he wrestled her to the bed, pinned her with his legs, and took hold of the dagger.

  “God’s eyes, you are a witch.” He yanked the weapon from his shoulder and dropped the knife to the ground.

  Blood flowed freely from his wound. His face was a hideous mask. Anger contorted his features as he twined his hands in her hair, pulled hard, twisting her, and exposing the back of her neck to the firelight.

  Upon the pale skin of her neck was the birthmark—the kiss of the moon—that he’d heard about all his life. Old women in the scullery, seamstresses, and cooks, along with tanners and bakers, huntsmen, and peasants who tended the fields, had all spoken in whispered tones of the kiss of the moon, the birthmark coveted and revered by those who still believed that there was to be a Welsh savior for Prydd.

  The girl had not lied. She was not Bliss, not a kitchen whore, but daughter of a baron with whom he had a fragile truce. A girl who would have given up her virginity to save her sister—but from what? His teeth ground hard together.

  Guilt cut through his soul and he glanced down at her tiny body—naked and inviting—proof that he’d bartered with her to give up her virtue, and nearly raped her as well. Never in all his life had he taken a woman by force. In all the battles he’d fought, all the villages that had been plundered, he’d never lain with a woman who wasn’t more than willing to give herself to him. But this girl had been different; he’d wanted to mate with her to prove that she couldn’t thwart him, to best her, to conquer her arrogant spirit. Shame gouged deep in his soul.

  “So you are the daughter of Eaton?” he said, his voice low with disgust.

  “I told you who I was, and you chose not to listen.”

  He rolled off her and cast a sorry look at her before turning his back. “Get dressed,” he commanded, tossing her the ripped tunic. “I will call for the guard to find something … more suitable.”

  “Just give me my sister and her freedom.”

  “Your sister is not here.” Tugging on his own clothes, he turned to find her struggling into the torn rags that were her disguise. She was a beautiful vixen, with her thick black hair, sculpted cheekbones, and eyes as blue as the Welsh sky in summer. God in heaven, he’d made a vast mistake, the likes of which he’d never seen. How could he not have recognized her? He remembered her as a girl, a mutinous little fox who had the gall to challenge him.

  Now she was here, and he’d nearly forced himself on her. Eaton’s wrath would be boundless, and the delicate peace between the two castles would surely be ripped apart. How had he been so foolish? He strode to the door and barked an order to the guard—insisting that the man fetch some of his sister Anne’s clothes.

  “The lady will not like to be awakened,” the guard said quietly.

  Hagan let out a long, impatient sigh. “True, but I care not what Anne likes, Sir Peter. Tell her ’tis an order, that if she does not comply, I will come down to her chamber myself, strip her of whatever she is wearing, and gladly wring her beautiful neck in the bargain.”

  He sent the guard hastening down the hall, then turned back to the bane of his existence, the savior of Prydd, the beautiful, stubborn woman who had tried to kill him in his sleep. The fact that she’d tried to slit his throat should have eased his conscience, but he still felt a blundering fool. Why had he thought her initial reaction to his seduction had been the act of a wily whore used to playing upon men’s fantasies?

  “Where is my sister?” she demanded, still standing in the shadows near his bed. She’d pulled her clothes over her body, but still she trembled. Probably from pure hatred.

  “I know not.”

  “You won’t tell me.”
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  “I have no reason to believe that she is in the castle.”

  “I would not lie, m’lord,” she said with a defiant toss of her head. “My sister is here, somewhere, held prisoner by these very walls. Leah was abducted by your men while riding to the village to pass out alms to the poor. The outlaws lay in wait in the forest and sprang upon Leah as she was going to the village. A serving maid and two of our most loyal knights were killed while trying to save my sister and me,” she added, changing the story just a little, her throat tightening as she thought of Keane, a man who had loved her, and the horrid arrow that killed him—an arrow from Erbyn.

  “You lie,” he said, crossing his massive arms over his chest. Blood was seeping through the sleeve of his tunic.

  “Why? Why would I dare come here if not for Leah?”

  “Darton would not risk breaking the truce—”

  “Then one of his men did. Someone bearing the Erbyn colors has started a war, Lord Hagan, and only you can stop it. Now, shall we find Leah?” she demanded as a knock resounded on the door.

  “Lady Anne asks for a word with you,” Sir Peter whispered as he handed Hagan a thick stack of clothing.

  “In the morning,” Hagan growled. He couldn’t think about facing his sister’s questions until the light of day. His thigh pained him and the new wound in his arm throbbed, but he was bound and determined to yank Darton out of his bed and demand the truth. “Here—wear these,” he said, tossing the tunic and mantle onto the bed.

  “I’d rather die first.”

  He snaked a glance at the ripped tunic displaying her breasts. “You might. If my men see you half-dressed …”

  With a sound of disgust, she snatched up the clothes and tossed them over her head. Her story didn’t make any sense. Why would Darton or his soldiers risk breaking the truce by kidnapping one of Eaton’s daughters and killing Eaton’s men? Head pounding with a blinding ache, Hagan grabbed for her wrists. “Come.”

  “I’ll not be shackled.”

  “Oh, for the love of Jesus …” He had not time for her churlishness. Without a warning he stripped the knife from her hands, hauled her onto his good shoulder, and swearing at the pain, carried her like a sack of grain.

  “Let me down,” she demanded. “I’ll walk on my own.”

  “You’ll do as you’re told,” he said, and resisted the urge to lay a hand across her rear. She kicked and fought, but he couldn’t trust her on her feet. Hadn’t she alone sneaked into his castle, his very room, and nearly slit his throat? Chains wouldn’t hold her. “Be still.”

  “You’re a beast, Hagan, and you’ll pay for this injustice,” she cried, swinging her fists. It may have been humorous had it not been for the fact that he’d so recently nearly bedded her.

  “Hush, woman,” he commanded. He hurried down the hall, kicking at dozing guards as he made his way along the familiar stone hallways of the keep. Rushlights and candles in sconces, burning low, were his guide to his brother’s chambers, where he pounded heavily on the door. “Darton!”

  Guards, swords drawn, the sleep leaving their eyes, gathered around. Humiliated, Sorcha squirmed, her black hair sweeping the floor as the brute carried her as if she were naught. Aye, he limped a little, from the wound in his leg, but his strength had not faded much.

  “Darton, wake up before I kick in the door!” Hagan yelled.

  To her misery, she heard the sounds of footsteps in the hallways, servants who’d been awakened with the noise, hidden eyes that watched the spectacle.

  With a thick clunk, the door opened, and Darton, hair askew, tunic thrown on hastily, blinked at the ring of soldiers and his furious brother. “What’s—”

  Hagan dropped Sorcha on her feet in front of a man who looked much like the ogre who dragged her here. The hair was the same, the features only slightly different—a bit softer than the harsh planes of Hagan’s chiseled face.

  “Who is this?” Hagan demanded, pushing Sorcha toward the door.

  “I know not,” Darton replied, lifting a shoulder in vexation and running fingers through his hair. “A wench dressed in rags and Anne’s old—” His eyes narrowed, and Hagan witnessed the blood drain from his brother’s proud face. Darton’s mouth closed and his throat worked.

  “ ’Tis Sorcha of Prydd,” Hagan said. To prove his point, he yanked her hair off her neck, turned her backwards, and pointed to the damning birthmark.

  At the sight of the kiss of the moon, Darton’s lips pinched in annoyance. “I’ve heard the whispered tales of foolish old women,” he said, but there was a darkness in his gaze that betrayed his disinterest.

  Sorcha whirled on Hagan, her blue eyes spitting fire as he released her. “How dare you—”

  “Just to prove that you’re who you say you are, m’lady.”

  “He knows,” she said, pointing a finger in Darton’s direction. “He planned all this. I spoke to the traitor, Robert, who is half-dead from the beating my brother gave him, and he told me of your plans.”

  Hagan added, “This woman sneaked into the castle, past all of our guards, and tried to kill me because she claims that you have taken her sister, Leah, prisoner.”

  “M’lord, this is preposterous,” Darton said, turning his hands, palms toward the ceiling. “I would not dare defy your word and—”

  “Liar!” Sorcha lunged forward, ready to kill the bastard if needs be. “She’s here!”

  “Nay, I—”

  “Did you lie with her? Rape her? Kill her?” Sorcha demanded, fear clutching her heart in its cruel fist.

  Hagan clamped a hand on the tiny spitfire, who turned on him. “Your brother is a lying cur,” Sorcha hissed. “I swear on my own mother’s grave, if I find that harm has come—”

  “Hush, woman.” Hagan grabbed the woman’s wrist and held her still. He was beginning to think she was more trouble than she was worth, but he was forced to listen to her ravings as he could not very well banish her. Was she lying? Or was there the hint of truth in her words? He turned his attention back to his brother. “Is she daft or does she speak the truth?”

  “Why, Hagan, do you believe her?” Darton demanded. He was beginning to sweat, though the castle was as cold as the bottom of a well. “Look at her. She’s either a spy or deranged or—”

  “Have you taken any prisoners while I was away?”

  Darton’s eyes moved swiftly from his brother to the ring of guards standing ready, swords drawn. “Aye, Hagan. You’ve been gone a long while. There are thieves and murderers, poachers and outlaws, those who refuse to pay taxes and—”

  Hagan’s patience snapped. “Is the girl here? Leah of Prydd?”

  Darton’s nostrils flared a bit. “Why would I take a girl—”

  “I care not. Is she here?” Hagan said, and when his brother didn’t immediately respond, he dropped Sorcha’s wrist, ordering a guard to restrain her as he knotted his fingers in the front of Darton’s tunic and shoved him up against the cold stone wall. His fingers tightened over the fabric despite Darton’s obvious anger and humiliation. “Did I not tell you that there was to be no warring while I was away?”

  Darton, his face turning scarlet, nodded and choked. “Yes, brother.”

  “Did I not make myself clear that there were to be no truces broken?”

  Again the clipped nod. “Aye.” Darton squirmed beneath Hagan’s iron grip.

  “Yet you disobeyed me?”

  “Would you have Erbyn defenseless?” Darton said, his voice choked, his words strangled.

  “Were we attacked?”

  “Nay,” he said with a rasp, “but our spies had word that Tadd planned to lay siege to Erbyn, and we hoped by —”

  “Lies! He lies!” Sorcha cried, lunging forward.

  “Is it not proof enough that she crept into your chamber to slit your throat?” Darton whispered hoarsely.

  “Sire, please, release him,” Sir Ives said, and Hagan, his rage a living beast running through his blood, unclamped his hand. His brother fell into a heap
on the floor, clutching his throat and coughing in fits.

  Hagan was torn. He knew that Darton would lie to save own skin, but Sorcha had tried to kill him. Mayhaps there was more to the story than either side was telling. Sorcha glared at Darton, and hatred seethed in the air, though there was something else, a glimmer of desire in Darton’s gaze, that caused Hagan’s gut to clench.

  “Tell the truth, you lying pig!” Sorcha cried.

  “Enough!” Hagan turned his fury upon her. “If you don’t want to be gagged, keep your silence. Now …” He turned back to Darton. “Tell me of Leah. The truth. You brought her here, didn’t you?”

  Darton didn’t answer, but his insolence and silence were admission enough.

  “Why?”

  “ ’Twas a mistake,” Darton admitted, still kneeling as he rubbed his throat. “I heard of Tadd’s plans and decided ’twould be best if we struck first and did damage to Prydd. The men were not to kill anyone, but they were to take a prisoner, that one, the eldest daughter of Eaton.”

  Sorcha gasped.

  “ ’Twas she who was supposed to be in the village passing out alms.”

  Hagan’s fingers straightened, then clenched into fists of anger. How could he have trusted Darton with his beloved Erbyn?

  “I have only told you the truth. There was no attack planned on Erbyn,” Sorcha declared.

  “Robert of Prydd disagreed,” Darton said.

  Sorcha tossed her hair from her face. “Sir Robert was a traitor.”

  Darton’s throat worked. “Against Prydd, aye. He was our spy, and he claimed that Tadd was mounting an army. With you gone, Hagan, Tadd hoped to end the need for a truce once and forever by breaking the truce and taking Erbyn.”

  “Liar,” Sorcha spat.

  Hagan glared at his brother. “This makes no sense, brother. Are you telling me that because of some rumor spoken by a spy, you planned to steal Tadd’s sister …?”

  Darton’s lips curved into a hateful smile. “Not just his sister, Hagan. Surely you’ve heard the old ones whisper between themselves. Think they that the bearer of the kiss of the moon is the savior of all Prydd, and mayhaps all Wales.”