Kiss of the Moon (Medieval Trilogy 2)

“Leave me now, Sorcha. I’ll stand and fight.”

“Never!” She kicked Wind with all her strength.

“For once in your life, woman, obey me!”

“I can’t … Hagan …” Her eyes filled with tears and love, and she clung to him, unwilling to let him go, to let him die.

“There is no other way.”

“I’ll never leave you—”

Thwack! A deadly arrow sizzled through the air and pierced Wind’s haunch. The horse reared and screamed, and Hagan slipped to the ground, leaving Sorcha to scrabble for the reins. She started to dismount, but her foot tangled in the long stirrup.

“Ride to Erbyn. Get help!”

“Nay!” she cried, desperate. She thought for a fleeting second of riding to Prydd, but the journey was much longer than to Erbyn, and she could not leave Hagan.

Tossing his great head and whinnying in terror, Wind bolted. From the corner of her eye Sorcha saw Hagan crawl into the gloom of the forest. No! No! No! She couldn’t leave him! She had to return and save him. Only she had the power to heal, and for the first time in her life, she was grateful for the damned curse of her birthmark.

She groped for the reins, but the terrified horse lunged forward, racing down the road. Trees and light flashed by, and Sorcha, determined to return for Hagan, gritted her teeth and clawed at the stallion’s neck, straining to reach the leather straps that flapped in the air and slapped against Wind’s lathered coat. His hoofbeats thundered through the forest, and with each stride he carried her farther away from Hagan.

“Whoa!” she screamed, her lungs burning. “Damn you, stop!” She could barely breathe, but she couldn’t give up. Even now Hagan could be set upon by the outlaws, his blood staining the forest floor. Her throat was dry, her heart hammering with fear. With one hand she knotted her fingers in the animal’s thick mane and grabbed for the reins with her other. “Stop, you bloody beast. Stop!”

The reins were just out of reach, slipping away each time she caught hold of a strap.

Determined not to lose this battle for Hagan’s life, she lunged and her fingers captured one thin strip of leather. With all her might, she wound the rein through her fingers, feeling the leather cut into her skin as she pulled back with all the power in her shoulders. The horse nearly stumbled as he slowed and turned in a tight circle. “Now, you damned animal, we go back!” she commanded, though the horrid arrow still protruded from his rump. “Hiya!” She kicked him in the sides and started back.

Hagan, oh, Hagan, hold on. I’m coming. Don’t give up, my love!

He had to be safe! He had to! But pictures of him lying in a pool of blood tortured her mind as the stallion raced through the dead leaves and mud. He couldn’t be dead. Oh, God, what would she do without him? She sent up prayer after desperate prayer for his life. Her heart twisted as wind coursed through her hair and tears streamed from her eyes. So blind was she that she almost didn’t see them—a strong line of soldiers blocking her path.

Tugging hard on the reins, she felt a moment of gladness, for she recognized these men—they were Hagan’s soldiers. “Thank God,” she whispered as Wind skidded to a stop near a rider on a bay stallion. “Oh, Sir Brady! You have to help me! Hagan’s been struck down by outlaws and he’s here, in the woods …”

Brady grabbed the reins, stripping them from her frozen fingers. His smile was cold as the North Sea, and his eyes glinted with an evil light.

Sorcha’s breath died in her lungs, and dread, that black monster, settled deep in her heart.

“I have terrible news, m’lady,” Brady said as Sorcha’s heart pounded with the rhythm of doom.

“No!” she screamed before the horrid words found her ears.

Brady’s mouth pinched a bit. “I’m sorry, Lady Sorcha, but I fear Lord Hagan is dead.”

Fifteen

won’t believe it!” Sorcha regarded Darton with hate-filled eyes. The great hall was nearly deserted and felt dreary and dank without the revelry of Christmas, without the laughter of the peasants, without Hagan. She shivered and rubbed her arms, but her gaze never left Darton’s. “Hagan’s not dead! He can’t be!”

“You saw him fall yourself,” Darton said with a smile that was meant to be kind but shredded Sorcha’s insides. He motioned quickly to Lucy. “Hot soup for the lady and a cup of the best wine. She’s had a long journey and needs—”

“Nay!” Sorcha had no time for these comforts he offered. Each minute wasted precious seconds of Hagan’s life. “We must go back,” she insisted, restraining herself from lunging at Darton and shaking the very life from him. What was the matter with him? His own brother, his twin, was lying in the forest, his lifeblood seeping out of his body, and here Darton sat, in the baron’s chair, drinking wine and talking with his men, as if an attack on Hagan’s life happened each day.

There was something amiss, but she wasn’t sure what. “Take me to him. Send his soldiers …”

“I’m afraid you’re asking the impossible,” Darton said, and she suddenly had a glimmer of the truth—that Darton, and not outlaws, was behind the attack. Her throat tightened in fear, for Darton was far more dangerous than unknown cutthroats.

“Where are all of Hagan’s men?” she asked, her mouth feeling as dry as sand. “Sir Kennard and Sir Royce and Sir Winston … Where are they?”

“They left with Hagan yesterday. No one’s seen them since.” Darton let out a long, unhappy sigh that Sorcha didn’t believe for an instant. “ ’Tis feared that they, too, were set upon, and none survived.”