Kiss of the Moon (Medieval Trilogy 2)

to raise her sister’s sagging spirits.

They often played dice, something her father frowned upon but Hagan encouraged. Outwardly he seemed to want to do anything to help Leah’s recovery. All her meals were sent to her room, and her clothes were the finest the seamstress could sew together.

Sorcha sat near her sister on the window ledge. They passed the dice between them and talked, their voices muted by the rattling cup as Nellie returned with fresh linens.

“Has there been news from Prydd?” Leah asked, her gaze wandering to the servant girl, who couldn’t help but overhear part of the conversation.

“None yet.” Sorcha tossed out the dice. “Lord Hagan thinks ’twill not be much longer.”

Their eyes met. “Good.”

“Today I planned a walk in the bailey. Mayhap you could join me?”

“I don’t think—” Leah caught the gleam in her sister’s eye. “You know I don’t like to leave this room.”

“But you can’t stay here forever. Asides, there is much to see with the revels upon us. Come.” Sorcha scooped up the dice and left the cup on the sill. “ ’Tis not too cold today, and you needs see the rest of the castle.” She took her sister’s hand in hers and felt the tremor of fear in Leah’s touch.

Leah paled, but walked to the wardrobe and, with Nellie’s unwelcome help, selected a gray wool mantle trimmed in squirrel fur. Sorcha guided her sister through the dark hallways and down the back stairs past Hagan’s room. Leah followed along, though she nearly jumped at her own shadow.

Outside, Sorcha hurried along the path that led past the candlemaker’s hut through the gardens near the bakery. A chill wind swept through the grounds, but it was fresh and brought with it the scents of baked goods and spices as they walked along the paths through overgrown rosebushes and mulberry trees.

The clang of the armorer’s hammer, the creak of the bucket being drawn up the well, and the shouting of thatchers who were repairing a hole in the tanner’s roof were only a few of the sounds filling the air. Children laughed and played, and the rattling of bridles and creak of the wheels of carts was ever present.

Leah slipped the hood of her mantle over her head. “You were right,” she admitted, breathing deeply of the cool air, “’tis good to be out of that room. Oh, if only we were at Prydd again!”

“We will be, and soon.” They passed the dovecote and followed the trail to the stables, where Bjorn was brushing a small chestnut mare. He looked up when they approached, his gaze colliding with Sorcha’s for an instant, his blond hair ruffling in the breeze, before he turned his attention back to the horse’s muddy hide.

Sorcha cleared her throat. “I wanted to check on my horse,” she said, ignoring the stiff back turned in her direction. Her heart turned to stone. He had to help her, and yet all friendliness had disappeared and he was treating her as if she were an enemy. “My stallion’s the big—”

“I know which one is yours,” he said swiftly. “Your charger’s fine.” Again his eyes met hers for just a second before he turned back to his task and ran the comb through the mare’s coarse mane.

What had gotten into him? Was he so afraid of Hagan or had she read him incorrectly? “If I could see for myself.”

“No one is allowed near him. He’s a wild one, that.”

“I rode him here from Prydd. I’m not afraid.” Annoyed, she felt her fists clench and stared at him boldly. “Please, get him for me—”

“Hey, what’s this?” The stable master, squinting against the daylight, appeared in the doorway of the stables. Covered with filth, with a belly that hung low and eyes nestled in a puffy face, he hitched up his belt and hung his whip on a peg near the door. “Well, well, well.” He dusted his big hands together and grinned widely, showing off a mouth with few teeth. “I’ll be buggered. What can I do for you, m’lady?”

“I just wanted to check on my horse.”

“A devil, he is,” Roy said.

“But surefooted,” Sorcha replied. “He belongs to my brother.”

Bjorn looked up quickly, his eyes meeting Sorcha’s over the back of the mare.

“Sir Tadd’s charger, is he?” Roy asked, his pig eyes slitting a bit.

“Aye, he’s taken my brother into many a battle.” This was a lie, of course. Tadd had not yet seen war, but Sorcha wasn’t above stretching the truth if it served her purpose.

Roy rubbed the stubble on his chins. “Bjorn, can’t you tell that the lady is worried about her charger? See that he’s fed and watered. A bit of exercise wouldn’t hurt, either.”

Every muscle in Bjorn’s body flexed. His jaw clenched tight as if he were trying to hold his tongue, and for a second Sorcha thought he might disobey. He snapped the mare’s reins from the post to which she’d been tied, then led the docile horse back to the stables, as if he were following Roy’s orders.

“We’ll take good care of the animal; you’ve got no worries of that,” Roy said with a smile that made Sorcha’s skin crawl.

“Well, if it isn’t the savior of Prydd and her sister, Lady Leah.” Darton’s voice reverberated through the bailey. Leah gasped softly, and Sorcha turned, wondering how long he’d followed them. Wearing polished boots, a dove gray surcoat, and purple mantle trimmed with black fur, he smiled easily, as if pleased to have found them. “What brings you to the stables?” he asked amiably, though Sorcha read suspicion in his eyes.