Sorcha’s most worrisome concern was Darton. She was forced to talk to him, to pretend that she didn’t loathe him, and he, more than anyone in the castle, seemed convinced that she was magical, that she had some gift of healing. He’d drawn her into conversation twice at mealtimes and once after mass. Her skin had crawled during the conversations, which she’d kept short, and it was all she could do not to accuse him of trying to murder her sister. But she’d held her tongue, knowing that with Darton she would have to be careful. According to Isolde, he had planned on capturing her rather than Leah.
Darton was hateful, but Hagan … oh, her feelings for Hagan were in such a jumble, she couldn’t think straight. He was the enemy, to be sure, but there was something about him, something powerful and male and commanding, that she found fascinating. Telling herself she was a silly goose, and silently condemning herself for any fantasies at all with the blackheart, she tried to keep her distance from him. But even in a castle the size of Erbyn, avoiding him proved impossible, and the foolish little catch in her heart when he gazed at her wasn’t easy to ignore.
On the fifth night since the messenger had been dispatched, they were seated at the table and finishing a course of quince pie, perch, and little lost eggs. A nest of stag antlers rested before them, with long white candles affixed to the entwined branches of the horns. Hagan, as he drank wine, watched her over the rim of his cup. He had spoken very little to her since McBannon had trampled Bjorn and she’d used her “magic” to help the stableboy recover, but now he turned toward her. His eyes were still wary, but not unkind. For the first time he seemed amused by her.
He jabbed a piece of fish with his knife. “You have not told me how you brought the storm upon us.”
“I didn’t,” she said, unable to eat another bite. Leah was seated next to her, picking at her food as she shared a trencher with a lord from a neighboring castle, but she only nibbled at the tasty food and kept her eyes downcast, for Darton, too, was at the head table.
“You did something,” he insisted, watching her intently.
“I prayed for Bjorn’s health.”
“As you did for your sister’s?”
“Aye.” She took a sip of wine and managed a confident smile. “Truly, there was no magic involved.”
“The servants believe that you called upon the spirits of the old ones.”
“The servants believe what they want to believe.”
Hagan salted his fish, but his eyes never left hers, and he waggled his knife at her. “The wind changed, as it did the night you …”
“The night I brought Leah back to life; that’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it?” she asked.
“That’s the way it appeared.”
She offered him a smile that caused his heart to stop. Mysterious and coy, her eyes catching the reflection of a hundred candles, she had the nerve to laugh at him. A soft, tinkling sound that should have enraged him, but didn’t. She was dressed in a gown of blue silk with silver threads that sparkled in the candlelight. Her cheeks were the color of rose petals, and her lips a tiny pink bud. “Do I look like the Lord Christ Jesus?”
He snorted a laugh and dropped his knife back to the table. “I hope not, or all of Christendom is in dire jeopardy.”
Her eyes shined in merriment. “Well, m’lord, unless I’m greatly mistaken, He’s the only one who can raise the dead.”
Darton, seated farther down the table, turned his head in her direction, and she felt a cold as bitter as the north wind sweep through her soul.
“Something happened,” Hagan insisted. But he wasn’t demanding, and he held his wine cup loosely between his fingers, as if he half expected her to jest.
“What you saw was God’s will,” she said, believing that God, either with the help of the old pagan gods or by His own hand, had saved Leah and Bjorn. She was but His vessel. She cleared her throat and shifted uncomfortably under the intensity of Hagan’s stare. “Have … have you heard from the messenger?”
“Nay.” Hagan shook his head, and his eyebrows drew into a knot. He rested his elbows on the table and supported his chin in his big hands. “Frederick is a good man; I cannot understand why he has not yet returned unless he was delayed at Prydd.”
“For the revels,” Sorcha guessed, though, from Hagan’s expression, she knew otherwise. Her throat was suddenly dry and she took a long gulp of wine.
“Mayhap he was held captive by your brother,” Hagan suggested.
“I don’t think—”
“Would not Tadd want revenge?” He shoved aside their trencher. “I should have sent more men. ’Twas my mistake.”
“Perhaps he’ll return on the morrow,” she said, though her heart was sinking quickly. She finished her cup of wine and felt a little dizzy, for she’d drunk more than was her custom. But the gaiety of the revels and the unsettling manner in which Hagan stared at her seemed to bring on her thirst.
She wanted to return to Prydd, to take Leah back to safety, and yet a part of her was beginning to feel at home at Erbyn, and she would hate to leave Hagan … Oh, but that was foolish and disloyal. Prydd! You must remember Prydd! Yet when she stared up to Hagan’s chiseled features, she could not for the very life of her conjure up memories of her home.
Hagan’s gaze lingered in hers, and her insides felt as if they had suddenly turned to jelly. He seemed about to ask her something when the minstrels in the gallery at the far end of the hall began to play a lively tune.
“Come.” Hagan took her small hand. “ ’Tis time to dance,” he said, and though she wanted to back away, she was trapped. He was the lord of the castle, and to deny him would be unthinkable. Still, she felt awkward as the tables and benches were quickly cleared away and Hagan’s arms surrounded her.
Others joined in, but she couldn’t stop the wash of embarrassment that climbed up her neck as they twirled around the floor. Even Leah joined in the celebration by dancing with a dark knight Sorcha didn’t recognize. Lady Anne was on the arm of a nobleman from Castle Hawarth, and Darton, his gait uneven, danced with a woman who was his guest and was easily one of the most beautiful women in the castle. Sorcha felt a jab of jealousy when the woman, in a shimmering gold tunic trimmed in fox, swirled by. Her face was flushed, her lips drawn into a smile, her eyes flashing merrily. Hagan, too, glanced her way, and Sorcha died a little, though she told herself it mattered not.