Kiss of the Moon (Medieval Trilogy 2)

Another slow sip of wine. He swirled the dark liquid in his cup for long minutes, and Isolde felt sweat trickle down her backbone. “You are loyal to Prydd, are you not, Isolde?”

“M’lord, I’ve been here since the birthing of your own mother—”

“Hush!” He leaned forward so swiftly, he spilled some of his drink. His face was suddenly so close to hers, she could see the small scar near his eyelid where an unhappy maiden had scratched him, cutting deep into his skin. “I know that you believe in the savior of Prydd and the kiss of the moon and all the foolishness of gossiping old women. I know that you would lay down your life for my sister, but not for me.” She could smell the foul stench of his breath as he said in a low, evil voice, “If I find out you have lied to me, I will take that knife you use to dig the herbs for your spells and I will use it on you.” He smiled coldly, as if the thought of bringing her pain gave him great pleasure.

Isolde’s insides knotted, but she bowed her head and bit her tongue. “It hurts me that you have no faith in me, m’lord. Please trust that should I hear anything, I will speak with you.”

“ ’Tis wise,” he said, his eyes narrowing as if he were not quite convinced of her loyalty. “Now, bring me my sister; I should have a word with her.”

Isolde’s blood turned cold as death, for Sorcha had not yet returned. She nearly argued, but thought quickly, knowing that the only way to beat Tadd was to outwit him. She offered a smile that she didn’t feel. “ ’Twill please m’lady to leave her chamber. I’ll go fetch her at once.”

“Said she that she was unhappy?”

Isolde grinned inwardly, but shook her head. “Oh, nay, m’lord. But Sorcha likes not to be penned like an animal. She is one with the wind, her spirit soars to the hills, and being locked up makes her feel tethered and anxious. I will get her—”

Afraid her bluff may not have worked, she started for the stairs, her heart drumming in her chest.

“Wait, old woman! We needs not disturb her just yet.” Tadd cleared his throat. “I will call for her later.”

Isolde’s old knees went weak with relief. “But she may know—”

He waved aside her arguments. “She’s been locked up and would know nothing. Leave her be.”

“She’ll be unhappy—”

“I care not,” Tadd said. “Because of her, Leah is held prisoner and two knights and a maid are dead. Let her sit and think about her actions. I’ll talk to her on the morrow.”

Isolde scurried out of the great hall, and with a prayer to the Christian God, she planned a few special runes and spells for Sorcha’s safety.

“I need no assistance,” Sorcha told the quivering maid standing before her. A large tub of fragrant water had been delivered to her chamber by two stout guards. They’d returned to their posts, and this frail simpleton of a maid was left holding soap and towels and the finest tunics and mantles Sorcha had ever seen. Though she’d promised herself to do Hagan’s bidding, thereby earning his trust, she couldn’t help the sharp words that sprang from her tongue. ’Twas not her nature to be subservient, and doing so seemed impossible.

“Lady Anne asked me to tend to you.”

“As I said, I need no help.”

“The lady will be offended.”

“Not if you do not run back to her chamber and tell her.”

The girl set the clothes on the bed. “You must be tired, m’lady, and sore.” She let her eyes wander down Sorcha’s body, lingering on her matted hair and dirty face. “Please, let me assist you.”

In truth, the bath, smelling of lavender, looked inviting. But Sorcha wanted privacy and time alone to grieve for Keane. For Henry. For Gwendolyn. Sorcha’s throat threatened to close and she blinked rapidly against hot tears building suddenly behind her eyes. If only she were back in Prydd, she would cry a thousand tears for those who had trusted her and given up their lives, but not here, not when she had to find a way to escape with Leah.

“ ’Tis my duty to tell the baron that you are disobeying him.” Her fingers moved restlessly in the folds of her bliaut. “ ’Tis not wise to go against Lord Hagan.”

“I care not.”

“He will be displeas

ed—”

“As I am.”

The maid sighed loudly and dropped the towels and clothes on the bed. “As you wish. But I heard the baron tell the guard that if you refuse the bath and bed, he will come in here himself and bathe you. As for the bed …” She let the sentence trail off and a dark blush stained her cheeks.

Sorcha swallowed hard. She had a vision of Hagan, so furious his face was mottled, his strong hands surrounding her waist before he stripped her of her tunic and tossed her into the tub of hot water. In her mind’s eye she saw herself sputtering as he shoved her head under the water and lathered her hair until her lungs felt as if they would burst. Then as she sat mortified, he ran his callused hands over her body, cleansing her in the most intimate of places. “God be with me,” she whispered, and she felt herself no better than a wench because her vision was not entirely unpleasant.

The girl managed a sly smile. “ ’Tis your choice, m’lady.”