Irish Moon (13 page)

“Oh aye. Plenty. Love seems to enjoy
complications,” Rose said, looking about the room. “Now then, I’d
better be joining the ladies before they pact against us and poison
our ale.”

With a kiss and hug she left Rose, offering a
broad smile to the other ladies along with a polite farewell. Not
one smile back could be counted as sincere. She promised to stay
longer next time and gladly shut the door behind her. Perhaps she
would return above to her chamber?

She’d barely sighed her relief when Quinlan
stepped in view. Though he held no flowers, his eyes held the
promise of a proposition. Recalling what Rose had said, Breanne
stood her ground. And there was too little space of time or
distance to bolt.

Lord the man was beautiful. Nearly pretty
with his auburn hair and deep brown eyes smiling at her now, firm
mouth struggling to find words.

“Would you take some air, perhaps a ride with
me, Breanne?”

“A ride sounds lovely,” Breanne said. And,
surprisingly it did. It might help soothe her harried mind.

His smile widened and his heels popped him
happily up. “I’ll bring two around, then?”

And he did. Not ten minutes later they rode
down the hill. Storm clouds draped the afternoon sky in gray. A
blustery wind iced their cheeks red and felt good. The somber tone
of Heremon’s burial two days prior left her, the strangeness of the
week past, as well, seemed to sweep away with the wind, leaving
Breanne sparked with vigor.

When they reached the bowl of green valley,
she returned Quinlan’s bright smile readily. “Thank you for this
invitation. An excursion is exactly what I needed.”

“It is my pleasure to share it with you,
Breanne. And if I may say, you look like yourself again.”

“I expect I’ve not quite been myself Quin.
More than you might believe, I have been out of sorts, thrown by
recent events.” She brought her white mare up in stride with his.
The taller bay nickered softly and Quin gave him his head.

“I fear I owe you an apology, Breanne.”
Quinlan cleared his throat.

Breanne winced. “Shall we ride much further?
It feels like a downpour may be on the way inland.”

He shook his head. “Allow me to finish, Bree.
I ‘ave no easy time saying what I must to you.” His Adam’s apple
moved down as he swallowed.

Breanne’s stomach squeezed. “Aye,
Quinlan.”

“If my intentions have not been clear, may
they be so now. I am of a mind to win your hand in marriage. I am
aware of the new discomfort between us and I take full blame for
it. Please know that I count you as a friend, my closest and
dearest.” He swallowed again. They veered southeasterly between two
hills and through the edge of woods.

“I hold our friendship very dear also,” she
said, his silence prodding her.

He chuckled. “Breanne. I was not
finished.”

She had the good grace to blush.

“I am full aware of competition for your
affection and will not be daunted by a bit of competition.
Considering, the incident in the corridor, I offer my apology and
assurance that I will insinuate no other such intimacies unless I
have first asked and gained your permission.” The ocean, the
cliffs, came into view.

Breanne waited, not sure he had finished
though his attention seemed caught by the scene before them. The
tide pushed forward in tall, foamy waves. The sky was steel
colored, textured with heaps of cloud.

“Was it near here?”

Breanne knew his meaning and nodded once. She
pointed and his gaze followed. Heremon’s roof top showed among the
trees, peeking around the curve of a low hill the man had once
claimed to be a sidhe, a fairy mound, in fireside conversation
after three too many ales.

Quinlan clucked his bay to a trot. Breanne
followed, panic rising. She tried to quell the sudden shaking
coursing through her veins by reminding herself she’d left the man
well, prepared. He might be gone and if not, surely hidden well as
she’d made quite clear he must be until she could return.

She had been so rapt in Quinlan’s speech, she
had failed to recognize how close they were to the dwelling.
Breanne urged her mare after him. “We should return to the keep,”
she called loudly at Quinlan’s back as he brought his steed short
in front of the door. But, his stare was on the ocean.

Breanne pulled on the reins and leapt down
after him. She glanced surreptitiously from the quiet looking
cottage and back to Quinlan. Her mind worked at ways to move him to
leave. A small, rebellious voice told her to go inside now when she
had the chance. Slip in, it said, while he’s distracted. Get to the
man before he comes to you.

Breanne stood outside the door and took a
single step backward. She just wanted to touch the wood, to feel
the door, hold the knob. But, the irrational voice that whispered
for her to find the man inside grew louder, more insistent.

Quinlan walked further away
as though entranced by something below the wall of rock and moss.
He will follow if I go in, she argued to the voice.
He will find the man, unless he has left the
cottage as he did the cave.
If not now, it
shot back, when?

Tonight. I will find a way to return
tonight.

“Did you say something?” Quinlan asked,
facing her.

Breanne pinched her lips and shook her head.
She shrugged her shoulders. To her left, well within Quinlan’s
view, she swore a shadow passed over the windowpane. Behind her,
she released the cold metal.

“We should head back,” Quinlan said, before
she could, eyeing the sky.

Before he finished, Breanne had mounted and
urged her mare back the way they’d come. She bit down the impulse
to glance back and make certain he followed. Drizzle began wetting
both of their noses as they kicked their steeds and galloped
home.

Chapter Eight

Ashlon stared at the final chunk of food in
his hand menacingly. Rain thrashed the roof and walls around him
and though he certainly felt grateful for shelter in the storm, he
itched to be out of the small room, to finish things.

He plunked the venison into his mouth and
chewed slowly. His stomach would not be satisfied with the meager
fill it had just received but had little choice. The barely legible
letter he woke to concisely stated the danger he’d be avoiding by
staying put.

He wondered again as he chewed, who had
penned the missive laid on his bundle of clothes. The angel or the
heathen? He mostly hoped it was the heathen and that the angelic
face he couldn’t get out of his mind was no more than illusion
brought on by illness.

For if she weren’t real, then neither was the
inexcusable kiss. The last seven years of exile had taught him more
about women than any of the preceding twenty-four, eight of those
spent becoming a man among the Knights. Women were undeniably the
lord’s creatures. They could lift you up or tear you down. Succor
your soul or tempt it toward hell itself.

He’d learned the lesson the hard way when a
particularly beautiful and welcoming Spanish Duchess had taken him
in shortly after James de Molay and so many others were captured.
Spain could have remained a safe haven. From the beginning, both
her estate and the Duchess herself gave safe harbor--until he’d
offended her.

Duquesa Maria Santiago, widowed and young,
took Ashlon as her lover. The more time they spent in each other’s
arms, the more possessive and manipulative she became and pressed
for marriage. He refused. She exposed him and nearly caused his own
capture.

Thereafter, Ashlon took caution in all regard
of the female gender. Of the many more who took him in, protected
him, welcomed him in every way, he made clear that marriage would
never be an option. The more deceptive ladies still tried, but by
keeping his distance, Ashlon managed to avoid so insulting
another.

And Ashlon couldn’t see a way around the fact
that he’d thoroughly kissed that angelic face and wanted to do far
more. If she were in fact real as all of his sensibilities
dictated, then that kiss risked more than he would allow himself to
ponder. She could be married, spoken for, a maiden, all of which
could be grievously insulted by his actions, fathers and husbands
aside.

His actions were a clear violation and
despite the inclination to lay blame on the tonic she had fed him,
he should have controlled himself. As soon as the storm let up, he
would leave. It was his best option now that he was well and
regaining strength.

The room provided little entertainment. Rows
of jars, mixing bowls, grinders, parchment. The only item of
interest was a thick leather bound book found tucked in a corner
and wrapped in red wool. The words inside were a language he did
not understand. He assumed it to be Gaelic and though some words
resembled familiar English ones, he didn’t presume any accuracy in
defining them.

It felt good to walk the room, however small
a space it was, and to be clothed. His sword hung at his hip,
though he felt a bit silly placing it there alone as he was. The
familiar weight comforted him. He paced the short length, the scant
light dimming as the day closed, and paged through the thick
volume.

Elaborate scrollwork graced the edge of each
page and fascinated him. An intricate knotted design hid small
birds, lions, dragons, all interconnected. The time and patience
and love such artistry displayed impressed him. He felt tempted to
keep the treasure if no one returned to the shelter. It might even
be prudent to do so, could be used as a bargaining piece.

But, the old man did not know of the missing
cargo, he reminded himself. He’d seen it in his eyes. Honesty.
Surprise.

The room grew darker. Ashlon’s gut ached with
hunger. His mind longed for diversion. He tried the door. It eased
open a fraction and stopped, blocked by an obstruction. A crack of
dim light helped little. Carefully, taking pains not to make
overmuch noise, Ashlon pushed. A thud and a scrape felt loud as
gunpowder blasts in the silence.

The rain had stopped.

Sunset glowed through the window and bathed
the empty room in gold outside the door. He’d gained six inches,
enough to reach an arm out to hold the stack of books on the narrow
table and shove.

Walking like a mouse, he felt drawn to the
window. His body pulsed as he hazarded a look. Thick clouds covered
the sky. They were gray and turning pink and gold as the sun sank
into the dark water line. Birds chirped, the eaves dripped and the
wonderful smell of clean earthiness saturated the air.

As his pulse slowed and he drank in the
beauty, a faint, low thunder sounded. Hoof beats. The sound was
unmistakable. Swiftly, Ashlon returned to the small room and pulled
the door closed. He couldn’t move the table well in his hurry and
knocked several books to the floor in trying to. He hated running,
hiding like a thief, a common criminal. In all the years of exile,
he’d never been forced under beds, into closets or alleys. He’d
found a balance between concealment and exposure.

He held his sword ready. The hooves neared
and stopped. The outer door slammed open. The table scraped,
clattered. Ashlon’s heart slammed. The door he’d closed flew open
as Ashlon raised the blade high then stilled.

The angel had returned. Golden pink light
shone behind her, illuminating her hair. Small gold orbs woven
through her coiffure tinkled as she came abruptly short in front of
him. Wide coppery brown eyes latched on the menacing figure his
sword must have presented before lighting on him.

“I’ve but a few minutes. If I linger longer,
I’ll certainly lead men here,” she said and pulled his arm.

“What men?” Ashlon said and retrieved his
arm.

“The men who will follow my trail, find you
and either kill you directly or capture you. Quickly, collect your
belongings. We must leave now.”

She strode to the window, peered out and
rounded back to him.

“I demand to first see the man called
Heremon. He has something that I will not leave without.”

Her eyes narrowed, pain flashed in them.
“Your request is denied. As you are likely already aware, he is
dead, possibly killed by you. Tarry longer and those men I
mentioned will assume exactly that.”

Ashlon chose not to argue and had no
belongings to gather. He took only the book without a second
thought. All he owned, he now wore. Wordlessly, he followed her and
her led horse into the thicket of woods.

“Where do you lead me?” he asked.

“To the cave you left. But, I warn you not to
leave it again. Leastwise not until morning.” The orbs in her hair
tinkled in rhythm with her hurried stride.

The man was dead, killed, she had said and he
saw the truth glittering in her eyes. Yet, he’d left Ashlon in the
care of this ethereal lady.

And he’d kissed her.

The cave was well hidden and Ashlon saw the
chance of his finding his way back to it on his own slim to none.
He would be safer here and at least able to come and go. And though
she treated him so curtly, she was helping him. He could not fathom
a reason why she should though.

“The man, Heremon, he sent you then?” he
asked and bent to enter the cave. The book jabbed his stomach from
its position under his shirt.

She didn’t look at him. “I find ‘sent’ isn’t
the best word but yes, I am responsible for your care which I can
see by your color and energy you will no longer need.” Her eyes
went over him.

She exited and reentered with a bundle
balanced on her hip.

“How did he find me?”

“You have no memory of it, then?” she
said.

“I rowed into the cove then awoke lying in
that room,” he said, feeling as though she should already know
this.

“I canno’ know. He died before giving me
specific instruction or detail regarding your arrival to his home.
Here is food, ale. The storm has passed and I do not recommend a
fire. The night should be mild and these coverings should keep you
warm.” She plopped a bundle to the floor.