Kiss of the Moon (Medieval Trilogy 2)

“Nay, but—”

Leah’s eyes fluttered open for a second, only to close again.

“Dear God, please …”

Sorcha felt a moment of triumph, then experienced a wave of defeat. Oh, if she could only hear Leah’s laughter, or see her green eyes sparkle with mischief. Never again would Sorcha think ill of her sister, or consider her a ninny for not being able to keep the castle records or shoot an arrow straight. She sent up a silent prayer and stayed at her sister’s side.

“Come, we should let her sleep,” Hagan said softly, but Sorcha didn’t budge.

“Not yet.”

He didn’t argue but stood by the door. Only when Rosemary entered with fresh linens and a bowl of stew did he become restless.

Clucking her tongue, Rosemary walked to the bed and set the food and sheets on a bedside table.

“She doesn’t wake when I speak to her,” Sorcha complained.

“Give her more time,” Rosemary said, touching Leah’s forehead and brushing a dark curl from her brow. “She is healin’ well. There is no fever and—” she looked at Leah’s bound wrists “—her wounds are healing. She will awaken,” Rosemary predicted, “and soon. I will call for you when she does.” Her kind gaze met Sorcha’s. “Remember, child, it has not been long since she … since her wounds were new.”

Sorcha knew the nursemaid was right, yet she felt useless and guilty and wished that God would hurry up about this healing. There was much to do, and she needed to know that her sister would be well a

gain. Her fingers closed over Leah’s hand and she willed Leah to open her eyes and smile. “Leah, can you hear me?”

No movement.

“It may be best if you leave her be,” Hagan said, his voice surprisingly gentle.

“I’ll not leave her,” Sorcha whispered. Dejectedly she stared at the blood-soaked strips surrounding her sister’s wrists. If only she hadn’t begged Leah to take her place, if only she hadn’t been so desperate to meet with Keane and tell him she loved him not, if only they were both alive and well! Oh, wretched, wretched fate!

“Well, brother,” Darton said when Hagan strode into his chamber. Seated on a ledge at his window, one leg drawn up, he finished his wine in one gulp. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction—much like a lion who knew his prey had no way to escape. “What think you of our little savior now?”

Hagan tried to keep his temper, though he was still furious with his brother.

“Is she not the most beautiful woman ever to walk this earth?”

Hagan shrugged. “I see not that it matters,” he said, though in truth, he could not wedge her from his mind. Beautiful did not begin to describe her. When he was around her he was torn between a desire so deep, his blood seemed to singe his veins, and the knowledge that had she had more time, she would have killed him. The memory of her lying naked in his bed seared through his brain, but he knew she was still treacherous and could not be trusted.

“Ha! Of course it matters. But not as much as the power that surrounds her.” Darton walked to the fireplace, where his sheathed sword was mounted, and yanked the weapon from its resting place. “Last night when she stood over her sister and began to chant, Christ, Jesus, I swear the power in that room could have destroyed a hundred castles.”

Hagan shook his head, still disbelieving. “I know not what happened last night—”

“She called up the spirits. The gods of the old people. Don’t try and deny it, Hagan. I was there. I felt it. That empty room was filled with the souls of dead Welshmen—an army of Cymru!” Darton’s eyes gleamed in anticipation. “Last night when she drew back the spirit of her dead sister—”

“The girl was not dead.”

“Nearly so. And you admitted that you, too, felt the power in the room. As if the eye of the storm was in that chamber. By the gods, I have never seen anything like it.” Darton’s mouth curved into a cruel smile. As if anxious to reach out and grab that power for himself, he paced the room, his strides swift. “You remember the prophecy, do you not?”

“She is a woman. How can she be savior?”

“Ah, ’tis a trick of fate. She should have been born a man.”

Hagan thought of her naked body beneath his, the play of firelight upon her skin, the rise and fall of perfect breasts with dark nipples. His throat tightened as he remembered her nest of black curls and the slender whiteness of her thighs. His groin began to throb. “ ’Tis hard to think of her a man.”

“But she is the savior, trust me. She holds in her palm the most wondrous power on earth, brother,” Darton said as he buckled the belt that held his sword into place.

“I don’t know that there was any force working—”

“By the gods, Hagan, you have eyes and ears. You saw what happened when she placed that damned necklace of twigs around her sister’s neck and the serpent ring seemed to glow in the darkness. There was magic in the room.”