Kiss of the Moon (Medieval Trilogy 2)

Again he slid lower and his hands moved to her back, fingertips touching her spine as he lifted her close to him. His breath was hot on her stomach and abdomen as he lowered himself slowly, his tongue rimming her belly button as he moved toward her legs.

What was he doing?

A finger slid down the inside of her thigh and she cried out.

“You want me?” he asked, his breath ruffling the nest of curls between her legs.

“I—I—”

“You want me?”

“Yes.” She closed her eyes in mortification. She was behaving like a wanton, a common whore, and yet she couldn’t help herself.

“And I want you, little one. So much.” His breath fingered up her belly. “You vex me, but I want you more than I’ve wanted any other woman.”

Why his words brought tears to her eyes, she didn’t understand, but when he moved one hand around her waist and held up her buttocks with the other, she cried out. “ ’Tis good, Sorcha,” he said, his words rippling over her skin as he gently opened her with his fingers, touching her in the most vital of spots, c

ausing candlelight to flash behind her eyes. His hand was slow and sure, and her throat turned to dust as her hips moved with his wondrous rhythm.

She felt as if she were drowning in a sea of warm water, but when he pressed his lips to her flesh, she stiffened. What was this? she wondered but for an instant before his tongue and lips wove a special magic upon her, and soon she was twining her fingers through his hair, twisting and panting, feeling wave after wave of desire until her heart seemed to stop for a moment and she bucked up against him. Of its own accord her body squeezed tight and then exploded. The forest seemed to spin, and the sun, somewhere above the trees, danced wildly. She could barely catch her breath, and when Hagan came to her, lying atop her and wrapping her in his sinewy, sweat-stained arms, she clung to him and listened to the wild beating of his strong heart.

Words of love formed on her tongue, but she held them back as the spinning slowed and her mind seemed to work again. Just because she’d acted like a common wench was no reason to embarrass herself further with silly claims of love. While the act of lovemaking was new and frightening and awe-inspiring to her, no doubt it was commonplace to him.

Despite her embarrassment, she looked into his eyes. Her heartbeat had not truly slowed when he kissed her again, and she realized the act was not finished. With bold hands, he took her fingers and guided her to the bulge in his breeches. His lips found hers and to her astonishment, the desire so recently fulfilled began to burn. His hands caressed her, and she worked at the laces of his breeches.

A twig snapped.

He stiffened and quickly rolled away from her. She began to protest, but he cupped his hand over her mouth and shook his head silently.

McBannon nickered and pricked up his ears. Snorting, the stallion turned to face the woods and his coat quivered nervously.

Sorcha’s throat turned to sand. She listened, and over the quiet lapping of the brook she heard the sounds of voices—men’s voices, muffled but drawing near. Without a word, Hagan quickly donned his mantle. He strapped his belt with his sword in place, then sneaked to the horses. Sorcha slid into her clothes, her fingers fumbling with the catches, as Hagan snatched the reins in one hand and motioned to the woods on the far side of the hut. Sorcha, heart thundering, followed. As quietly as a cat stalking prey, he led her deeper into the shadows, past scrawny trees and bushes to a spot behind a blind of berry vines.

They were barely hidden when Sorcha, swallowing against her fear, peeked between the thorns and saw a group of men appear on horseback. The ragged band with tattered, stained clothes and weapons strapped to their sides hovered near the edge of the forest before urging their horses into the clearing. Only one man rode tall, the leader of the band, it appeared, for all the men followed him and listened to him as they let their horses drink from the brook. The leader’s courser was a sleek stallion, unlike the other horses, which looked like little more than plow animals. But the gray was a fast horse …a soldier’s horse.

Hagan’s eyes thinned on the leader and his breath swept into his lungs in a silent hiss. His lips drew tight and his hand clenched Sorcha’s arm in a grip of death.

Sorcha’s heart was a hollow drum, beating with fear, for she recognized that the men had to be outlaws, thieves and murderers and heaven only knew what else. She bit her lip and prayed that their own horses would not nicker and give them away. As she eyed the riders, she noticed that one kept his horse away from the rest and deeper in the far edge of the forest. The rider, in a brown cloak and hood, was hunched, perhaps old, and obviously not considered part of the inner circle of the band. There was something familiar about the solitary horseman, and yet Sorcha knew not who he was.

The moments passed in agonizing slowness, and the men, as if sensing danger, stayed alert, watching the undergrowth, until the horses had their fill. Without a sound, the leader motioned his ragged band back to the overgrown path and they urged their sorry mounts forward. The singular rider followed last on a horse that looked nearly crippled, and Sorcha felt a familiar tug on her heart as she was reminded of Isolde … kind Isolde.

Her throat went suddenly dry and she nearly shouted. Could it be? Her pulse raced wildly. Isolde and the robber band? Impossible. And yet …

She stared after the horsemen.

Only after long minutes did Hagan stir. “Christ Jesus,” he whispered.

“Who were they?” she demanded, still certain her mind was playing tricks on her.

“Come, we must return to Erbyn,” he whispered.

“Who were they?”

“Outlaws. Led by a man who calls himself Wolf, though I doubt that is his given name. Now, hurry.”

“Why?” she demanded.

“Why?” His expression turned as dark as the clouds beginning to gather over the hills. He swung into the saddle and stared at the trail where the outlaws had so recently passed. “Wolf was riding Sir Frederick’s horse, and yet Frederick was not with them. So Wolf has killed my soldier or left him for dead.” Hagan’s jaw clenched so hard the bone showed white beneath his skin. His enraged gaze held Sorcha’s for an instant. “Either your brother never got my message, so he probably thinks you and your sister are being held prisoner, or … Tadd and Wolf have allied themselves against Erbyn.”