Kiss of the Moon (Medieval Trilogy 2) - Page 17

Footsteps rang in the great hall as Darton descended the stairs, and he smiled when he saw his brother … a pitiful shell of the man he’d once been. Wet and streaked with mud, Hagan was much thinner than he had been when he’d left Erbyn. Though his skin was dark from hours in the sun, there was a haun

ted look to his eyes. His beard was uneven and matted, and his clothes were mere tatters. Worse than all this, Hagan the proud, Hagan the strong, Hagan the supremely arrogant, was limping slightly as he approached the fire. A pitiful sight and one that warmed Darton’s heart.

Flames crackled against pitch and smoke curled lazily upward, scenting the hall with burning oak.

“Brother!” Darton cried with forced delight. “We’re honored by your early return.”

“Are ye now, Darton?” Hagan said in a voice that was rough as gravel. He cast his brother a suspicious glance, and the insides of Darton’s mouth turned to dust. His arrogance fled for a second. Hagan could not have yet heard about the capture of Leah … or could he have? Sometimes the man seemed to know in advance what was going to happen. Darton shuddered inwardly.

“You doubt me?”

“I’ve heard tales, Darton,” Hagan said, yanking off his gloves and warming cold-to-the-bone fingers in front of the flames.

“And what kind of gossip has been spread, eh?” Darton asked, favoring Hagan with a clap on the back. He motioned to a serving girl hovering near the door to the buttery. “Bring the lord some wine, Elfrida, and be quick about it. And call for more firewood.”

Hagan’s eyes narrowed on his brother. He knew all of Darton’s tricks, and his skin crawled as he realized that his twin thought he could fool him. Shoving his wet hair from his eyes, Hagan accepted a cup of wine from a serving girl he’d never seen before. His bones were cold to the marrow and his muscles ached. He didn’t want to deal with Darton this night. He was too weary, and his leg, blast it, burned as if hot coals had been buried in the flesh of his thigh. He swallowed back the wine and felt the liquid flow warm and sweet down his throat.

Darton eyed his brother over the rim of his cup and motioned to the page for more wine. Soon Hagan’s vessel was full again. “You’ve had a hard ride, Hagan,” Darton observed as Hagan took a long swallow. “Need you a woman?”

Hagan’s mouth lifted at one side. “So now you’re in the business of whoring, are ye, brother?”

Darton let out an ugly laugh. “There are many here that would please you, Hagan. Elfrida has magic in her hands, I swear.” He leaned closer to his brother. “And her mouth … sweet wonders, she can do.”

“I need not a woman,” Hagan said, disgust surging through his blood. He finished his drink and felt the soreness in his muscles loosen a bit.

“Then there’s Bliss, and aye, that she is. The smith’s daughter, she works in the kitchen.” Darton lifted a finger and stroked the side of his mouth. “She’ll play any game ye wish. She has the strength of a woman twice her size, yet loves to be mastered. She’s got spirit and fire and can handle a whip as well as—”

“Did you not hear me?” Hagan said in a low voice.

With a nod from Darton, the page refilled Hagan’s cup. As the boy retreated, Darton said, “Do not be too hasty, brother. Bliss … believe me, there is no woman like her in all of Erbyn. She’ll disguise herself, torment you, fight you like a tigress, then, once you’ve proven your strength, open her legs so willingly—”

“Enough!” Hagan whispered harshly. He was sickened at the depths of his twin’s perversion.

“But, brother—”

Hagan grabbed the front of Darton’s tunic and hauled the shorter man to his feet. Darton’s cup spilled on the table, wine flowing between the thick boards to be lapped up quickly by the ever-vigilant dogs. “There will be no wenching, Darton, and if I hear that you’ve turned any of the serving maids into whores, you’ll have to answer to me!”

Darton’s face lost color.

Hagan slowly uncurled his fists, but his eyes were still dark with anger, his jaw set and tight. “We’ll talk on the morrow,” he said as he motioned to a page. “Have hot water brought to my chamber.”

“Aye, m’lord.” The page hurried out of the hall with swift footsteps.

“Talk of what?” Darton asked, but Hagan didn’t reply, just finished his wine and sent his brother a scathing look that was certain to curdle Darton’s blood.

Sorcha’s ears strained in the darkness. She’d heard the sounds of feasting and revelry and even the sharp noises of an argument, but the words had not filtered up to her, and now the castle seemed asleep. Even the restless hounds who had paced near the kitchen hoping for scraps had settled down for the night.

Though Erbyn was cold, nervous sweat collected over Sorcha’s forehead as she crept stealthily to her feet and eased through the partially opened door to the lord’s chamber. She’d heard him enter the room hours ago, stoke the fire, and command some poor servant to set a tub of hot water near the hearth. She’d imagined him washing his body, but knew he’d never scrape off enough dirt to cleanse his soul.

In her hand she carried her dagger as she slid into the room and saw the bastard, rolled on one side, snoring softly, his dark hair falling over his face. In the firelight his skin seemed bronzed, his eyebrows thick and black, his nose more hawkish than she’d imagined. His lips, partially hidden, were thin, quite probably cruel, though, in truth, should she let her thoughts wander in so wanton a direction, she would have to admit that Darton was a far more handsome man than she’d heard. Dark, swirling hair covered a chest that was hard with lean muscles. He rolled over, and she stopped dead in her tracks, her heart beating as fast as a sparrow’s wings. He cleared his throat, mumbled something, and began to snore again. Sorcha quietly let out her breath and wiped the sweat forming on her lips.

In the firelight, she viewed his backside, and a few old wounds were visible on his shoulders and back—or what she could see of it before it disappeared beneath a coverlet of black fur.

Well, he might be handsome and strong, but he was about to meet his match, she told herself. Fortunately no dogs were curled at his feet, and she had but to stealthily cross the rushes to his bed, seize his hair, and place the wicked little blade of her knife at his throat. Darton was known to be a coward. He would certainly shrivel up and agree to her demands. But … oh, Lord, he was so large. She quickly made the sign of the cross over her breasts as she slowly inched across the room. Without making a sound, she prayed that all the saints would be with her.

Just a few more steps.

A quick movement.

Tags: Lisa Jackson Medieval Trilogy Historical
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