Kiss of the Moon (Medieval Trilogy 2) - Page 27

“Shh … she works her magic.”

“There is no magic.”

Sorcha heard their exchange as if from a distance. She knelt at her sister’s side, touching Leah’s cool fingers, whispering words of encouragement, willing her life-force into her sister.

The serpent ring felt suddenly warm around her fingers and seemed to possess a pulse of its own. Was it her imagination or did Leah move slightly? Was there a tiny gasp in her shallow breathing? “ ’Tis good, sister,” Sorcha encouraged, her eyes shimmering with tears.

A woman’s sharp voice reverberated down the hallway. “What in the name of God are ye mumbling about—what girl? What sorceress? I swear, Sir Marshall, it’s losin’ your mind, ye are.”

She entered the room, and a rush of wind caused the candles to flicker. “What’s this?” she asked as Sorcha turned in her direction, and the woman, big-boned but surprisingly agile, moved to the bedside. Her gaze traveled quickly over Leah’s body and wrists. “Lord have mercy!” she said.

“Can you help her, Rosemary?” Hagan asked.

“The poor, sweet child.” Rosemary wasted no time and her fleshy hands were on Leah’s face, touching her temple, smoothing her skin. “I think ye best be callin’ for the priest,” she said sadly. “She’s nearly gone.”

“No!” Sorcha cried. “She can be saved.”

“This is the girl’s sister. She is called Sorcha,” Hagan explained when the large woman glanced at him.

Rosemary sighed and turned kind eyes on Sorcha. “I’m sorry, love, but in all my years I’ve never seen one so far gone come back. She’s sleeping now; her heart is slow, and her breathing … I can do nothing but pray for her soul.”

“You haven’t even tried!” Sorcha proclaimed. “She cannot die!”

“ ’Tis not in my hands, child.”

Sorcha would not give up. She placed her fingers on Leah’s shoulders and whispered, “All that I have is yours, sister. Please hear my prayer. Come back to those who love you.” Again the snake ring grew hot, tightening painfully over her finger.

Hagan stood transfixed, staring at the little woman who knelt so proudly near the bed. He almost believed her to be a witch … a most entrancing witch. Her black hair, in wild curls, shone dark as a raven’s wing in the candlelight, and her eyes, round and surrounded by curling lashes, were filled with conviction. Her cause was futile, of course: Leah was nearly dead and could not be saved.

“Come,” he said to Sorcha. “Let Rosemary stay with your sister.”

She shrugged off his hand. “I’ll not leave until Leah awakens.”

Darton started to step forward, but Hagan held him back. “If she wishes to stay, so be it.”

She laid a hand over Leah’s heart. As the ring strangled her finger, she felt a sudden chill deep in her soul. Though the window was not open, a wind, damp and smelling of the forest, began to blow and circle around her. Candlelight flickered and the fire burned more brightly. “Take not my sister’s life,” she prayed. “Protect her from all evil and give her back to us.” Her own heartbeat thundered through her skull, and as she laid her hand with the ring across the necklace she’d placed around Leah’s throat, she sensed a tremor run from her body and through her sister’s. Leah’s fingers twitched, and Sorcha felt suddenly weak.

“By all that is holy …” Rosemary whispered, falling to her knees.

Leah moaned softly, and the world seemed to tilt behind Sorcha’s eyes.

“By the gods!” Darton whispered. “She lives!”

Sorcha’s heart beat frantically. Her legs were suddenly unsteady, as if all her strength had poured into her sister. Sweat ran down her face and her breathing was shallow—as shallow as that of her sister. A blackness threatened her eyes.

Hagan’s voice sounded distant. “Sorcha. Are you … ?” The room closed in on her. She couldn’t breathe. Hot. She was so hot.

“Sorcha?”

Leah’s voice came as if from a great distance. Sorcha tried to respond, to say something of comfort to her sister, but her legs gave way and she began to fall. A strong arm surrounded her as the great black void swallowed her.

Five

ake sure she sleeps,” Hagan told Rosemary. “And if she wakes, send for me.” He placed Sorcha on a bed in a guest chamber and tucked the cover to her chin.

The old woman eyed her new charge warily. Nervously her tongue rimmed her cracked lips. “I’ve heard she’s a wild one; saw what she could do—”

“There will be guards posted at the door.”

Tags: Lisa Jackson Medieval Trilogy Historical
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