Kiss of the Moon (Medieval Trilogy 2)

Dear God, the old man was actually crying. Bayard’s eyes were filled with tears and he sniffed loudly before lapsing into a coughing fit that nearly tore out his lungs.

“ ’Tis a shame, m’lord, and I’m sorry to bring you such bad tidings.”

Tadd forced a frown and let out a long sigh that he hoped sounded riddled with grief. “ ’Tis not your fault, Bayard,” he said, his thoughts spinning ahead. With the old man dead, he was truly the baron of Prydd; the castle and lands were his. His! He wouldn’t have to worry about his father’s return; there would be no recriminations for anything he’d do. He could get rid of the lazy stable master, kill Isolde if he ever found her, and marry off his sisters! That thought pleased him immensely. Both Leah and Sorcha would be off to run their own castles, and there were barons who would be willing to pay for young women—old men who were widowed and would like a fresh flower, silky skin against their old, tired bodies. Men who wouldn’t demand dowries, but would pay for the honor of sleeping with such young, healthy wives.

For years Tadd had dreamed of being lord. He dropped his head into his hand as if he could no longer bear to hold it by his own neck. “ ’Tis a tragedy,” he whispered gruffly, “but we will have to move forward.” Clearing his throat and blinking as if against tears of grief, he motioned to a guard near the stairs. “Take Sir Bayard to the kitchen. See that he’s fed and offered a bath and bed.” Forcing a sad smile to lips that wanted to curve in glee, he clapped Bayard hard on his thin shoulder. “Thank you for returning in haste. You will always have a place here, in my father’s castle.”

The guard led Bayard away before Tadd let himself have the pleasure of a wicked grin. What good fortune! Now he was ruler of all of Prydd. As he climbed to his feet, another thought struck him: He could demand much from Hagan of Erbyn for the kidnapping of his sisters, and if either of the women had been hurt, the payment would be high. Perhaps a piece of the baron’s estate …a small castle or fiefdom. As soon as the revels were over, he would travel to Erbyn himself as the new baron of Prydd. He wanted to shout and scream and laugh his head off. All that he’d wanted was within his grasp! Racing up the stairs, he took the steps two at a time. Yes, things were going well.

Tossing open the door to his chamber, he saw Mab, half-asleep on the fur coverlet, her wrists bound to the posts of the huge bed. In truth, she was a pretty wench despite the fact that her breasts were too small to satisfy him. Still they fit into his palm easily, and when he suckled from her teat, he felt a surge of desire like none other. Even now he grew hard at the sight of her. Aye, she was a hot little wench.

As if she felt the air stir, she opened her eyes and stifled a short scream. Tadd closed the door with a thud, watching her jump a bit. Ah, he loved the fear etched across her face. Slowly he took off his tunic and hose, and she closed her eyes, resigned to her fate.

“You are in for a treat, little one,” he said with a deep-throated chuckle that brought goose bumps to her flesh.

Climbing onto the bed, he stood on his knees, towering above her, his member hard and wanting. “You are the first woman to lie with the new lord of Prydd.”

“What?” she whispered, those beautiful brown eyes widening in horror as he caressed her breast and watched it pucker despite her obvious distaste for him.

“My father is dead,” he said, his hand a little rougher. “Killed by a lucky Scot’s arrow. ’Tis a pity, is it not?”

“No!”

“ ’Tis true.”

“I don’t believe it!”

His grin was evil. “I am lord of all of Prydd now. My word is law.”

“Merciful God,” she whispered, and all the life seemed to drain from her, for in Baron Eaton she knew a fair man, a kind man, a man who cared for his servants and the peasants who worked for him. In Tadd there would only be cruelty.

With Sorcha and Leah gone, no one would stop him. She shuddered as he stroked the side of her face with his long finger. “Come, Mab,” he said, his eyes glowing with hot lust, “ ’tis time to please your lord.”

Eleven

ou want only one ’orse?” Roy hitched up his pants and attempted to hide his displeasure at Hagan’s request. One horse or ten, Roy didn’t like putting out the extra effort it would take to saddle and bridle the beast. Ever since Bjorn’s injury, Roy had been forced to work harder than usual, and Hagan had heard him grumbling to some of the other men.

“Aye. For myself. ’Tis not a hunting party,” Hagan said before he turned back to the keep. In truth he was tired of the revels, the guests, the noise of the castle, and his thoughts had been gnawing at his brain all morning, ever since the pale winter sun broke through the clouds. He planned to go riding, and he’d been foolish enough to consider taking Sorcha with him, though he’d fought the urge just as he’d fought his wayward desires for over a week. His lust for her was something he had to control, but it entered his mind whenever he gazed at her and kept him awake long into the nights.

Seeing her each day was beginning to affect his mind. He found himself staring at her during mass and looking forward to the meals, when she would be at his side. He made excuses to watch her, telling himself that it was just to make sure that she was doing as she was told, but in truth, it was because he couldn’t help watching her.

She’d gotten into his blood, no doubt of that, and he’d woken up on more than one night with the ache between his legs so hard that he thought he might go mad. Even now, in broad daylight, he wanted her. But he would deny himself. Until he was certain the truce with Prydd was still intact.

The truce worried him. His messenger, Frederick, should have returned days ago, and yet there was no word from Tadd, no sign of Frederick’s return. If Darton was telling the truth and Tadd was mounting an army, Erbyn could easily fall. True, Hagan had taken some precautions. The armorer was laboring over weapons and mail, the tanner had new saddles for the horses, the steward had been told to buy extra supplies in readiness should Hagan have to call his men to battle or, worse yet, should Erbyn be besieged.

This morning the armorer had stacked crossbows and maces alongside polished swords. Several men were oiling the portcullis, and a wagon bearing sacks of milled wheat rolled into the bailey. Behind the wagon a peddler’s cart jangled with his wares. Near the fishpond, the son of the cook was chasing down geese while his mother waited with a hatchet near a bloodstained stump.

“ ’Ere ye be,” Roy said, leading Hagan’s favo

rite mount, a sleek black destrier named Wind, into the yard. Roy, glad his task was over, managed a grin. “ ’E’s ready for a little run, methinks.”

“Good.” Hagan swung into the saddle and caught movement out of the corner of his eye—a dark cloak billowing behind a small woman who hurried along the path leading to the stables. His gut tightened as he watched Sorcha.

Her eyes were downcast and she clutched the hooded cloak about her, as if she were wearing a disguise. Rounding the corner of the stables, she saw the horse and rider and drew up short.

“Oh! I, um, didn’t expect to find you …” Her cheeks darkened scarlet. “I—”

“You were looking for Bjorn,” he guessed.