“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?”