Irish Moon (18 page)

Breanne lined up the four short jars and
reread the instructions. Simple really. Combine, chant, combine,
circle, scry. She’d forgotten her athame and mirror.

“What mischief are we about, love?” Finn
purred at her feet.

“We are making magick, Finn.”

“Not tonight, love. I’m of no mood for it.
Let us do something else.” The wine had warmed him to her.

“It is not for you, Finn. I have other
intentions for this conjuration. And I’m sure you’ll find my
practice as entertaining as ever since I am more determined than
ever.” She retrieved her athame and drew a circle in the air around
them and the altar.

Finn kept quiet for once. Breanne began. She
chanted the words, combined the herbs and liquid, Finn giggled.
“Sshhhh,” she said.

“What exactly are we attempting?” Finn
whispered, his humor clinging to his words like honey.

“I am attempting to find a means to make
Sinclair leave Tir Conaill.”

“I say let him stay. He seems a good
fellow.”

Breanne stopped mixing to stare at the cat.
“You canno’ be serious, Finn.”

“Pish-posh, Breanne. There’s no reason ‘tall
to force the knight out. You did your part, now leave him be.” He
swayed a bit.

Pish-posh? The difference was night to day
when Finn imbibed, though either version adored disagreeing. She
wasn’t sure she liked him better this way, the amicable protester.
She refocused on the incantation.

“Why will you make him go?” Finn said. “And
how? He’s done naught to you outside of needing a bit of tending
and may I remind you that you are, in fact, a healer.”

“He’s done plenty to make me happier once
gone. His remaining puts us at risk.” She traced the page with her
finger.

“I cannot imagine him
putting his own neck on the block by telling anyone about Heremon.”
Finn squinted up at her. “What aren’t you telling me? It’s
something important and I can nearly smell it on
you
,
so you may
as well tell me now and save a fit.”

“Will you let me work, please?”

“Not until you explain that phrase to me.
What plenty has the good knight done, Breanne?” Finn said, his tone
teasing.

“He’s put me at risk, is that not
enough?”

“He did not put you at risk, you did. Aiding
him, presaged or not, was your choice. And although you had to
sneak about and heal him, you cannot convince me that is enough to
rid yourself of his innocent presence in the clan.”

He was right. Even besotted, the cat made
keen deductions and astute observations. Well, he’d have to guess
the truth because she refused to speak the words. That smile, that
damned smile, gave her such a start, such panic, what could more
cause? Another dizzying kiss, or worse, more? She couldn’t risk
it.

Breanne chanted the rhyme three times,
cutting the air with her athame in the symbol of flight. She
visualized Sinclair walking the road away from Tir Conaill, heading
north and carrying a chest. She willed the image of him to walk
onward, away, to journey elsewhere. She spoke the words and she
wished him protection on his journey.

Back to the beginning, she replayed the
sequence in her head, chanting, cutting in chains of three, until
suddenly, the image took on life. Ashlon walked, arms loaded, sword
sheathed. He paused, he turned, and looking right at her, he
smiled.

Breanne opened her eyes, coughing to catch
the breath that knocked out of her like a fist to her chest. The
mixture toppled, spilling. His smile lingered in her mind, changing
from thrilling to cloying, and she realized she’d had her first
experience of second sight.

She had chosen the spell entitled safe travel
in hopes of encouraging the man’s spirit to hunger for new
adventures and doubly count him protected, in case her duty to him
was not yet done.

Instead of completing a charmed concoction,
she’d been hit with her first presage.

Until that moment, breath caught and sitting
stunned with her hand to her beating heart, Breanne had denied the
notion that her linkage to Ashlon might not have ended with his
returned health.

A thrill of fear gripped her.

Chapter Eleven

“The man was beheaded by sword, the story
went, for a minor crime such as theft, or something of the like,”
Ashlon said above their trotting horses. “And the raconteur swore
on his mother’s bones that upon the thief’s head being severed, a
young and beautiful woman emerged from the uproarious crowd, placed
a chalice under the neck and gathered the dripping blood.”

“Horrid,” Quinlan said.

“Worse, the woman drank the blood, all the
while staring into the witness’s eyes.”

“Ashlon,” Quinlan scoffed. “You cannot have
believed such a gruesome tale as all that.”

“I hadn’t reason
not
to believe its
validity.”

“But you are a learned man, trained and
schooled in such an esteemed and unique way. For you to believe the
story and then use it as example for all of Ireland to be compared
with, I find surprising.”

A spiky range of mountains broke through the
rolling green landscape.

“It is a sad truth, I fear, that most of
England and likely other areas, view your country and people as
wild, and godless, capable of inhuman violence. Until you met me on
the road that day, I considered the same idea. Had little reason
not to.”

“Ludicrous,” Quinlan said. “A woman, or a man
for that matter, drinking blood from a beheaded corpse. Who would
say such a thing and be believed?”

“A monk swearing to have just come from
travels there at the behest of the crown.” Ashlon’s pride only
slightly stung. Thinking back and now knowing these peoples,
ludicrous described the notion precisely. “I am glad to have been
proven so wrong, Quinlan, on my word.”

“I’d say more than glad considering the state
I came upon you in.” Quinlan chuckled. “Clothes muddied and
tattered, face gaunt and wanton.”

“A sight, was I?”

“More. You looked like you’d tangled with the
wrong giant.”

Ashlon laughed.

“You must have guts of iron to have come to
us with such sordid expectations,” Quinlan said. “Obviously, it
concerns me not, is business between Niall and you alone, but I
must admit I am curious after your tale. What was it that sent you
here, if I may be so bold as to inquire, worth facing blood
drinking heathens?”

Quinlan slowed his horse to a walk. Ashlon
followed suit. Their morning tour of the area could use a short
rest.

He used their dismount near a sconce of
birches as an opportunity to find his answer. Easily, he could
offer none and Quinlan would leave the issue be. But Ashlon felt
secrecy now could impinge on trust he might need later. He would
need that trust intact if he were to gain contact with the Lady
Breanne.

“You’ve likely heard some version of the
truth by now,” Ashlon said. “A community as closely united as yours
must have drawn conclusions.”

Quinlan shrugged.

“The truth of it is that I am formerly of the
Knights of Solomon and before his death, my mentor, the Grand
Master bade me here. Any of us not directly captured, accused of
heresy, and tortured to confess such, were given instruction on
where to safely go. Mine brought me here.” Ashlon’s throat
tightened and he swallowed.

“
The Knights of Solomon. I
knew it.” Quinlan stared openly at him.

“Aye.” Knights no more.

“But you are not
surprised. No other has spoken of the supposition to
me
;
in fact, I
believe I am the only one to rightly suspect your origins. How are
you not surprised?”

Ashlon tied his borrowed gelding to a low
limb. “You betrayed your impression firstly, by asking for my help
in courting the Lady O’Donnell and secondly, only now in reference
to my unique schooling.”

“Aye, I can see I did.” Quinlan attached his
lead near Ashlon’s on the branch. “I arrived in France a year after
the inquisition began. Horrific tales I heard, and unlike the gory
one you just shared, I don’t doubt the validity of these.”

Ashlon’s nightmares’ flames rekindled in his
mind. His skin sweated and he had to shake his head to keep
composed.

“
Yes, I’m sure they were.
What business had you in France?”

“I studied at the University of Paris, a wide
variety of subjects, none of which held my interest long and few
that will aid me in my current needs.”

Ashlon matched his polite smile with his own,
grateful for the man’s smooth transition away from hell’s edge. “A
matter we shall see to then,” he said.

The agreed upon exchange for Ashlon relating
his most relevant knowledge on women would be Quinlan’s returned
instruction on all subjects Irish. It wasn’t that Ashlon any longer
felt out of his element. It was a way for him to learn Gaelic and
better know his environment should it become dangerous.

“First, Master Blake, we must consider the
subject. If you please, relay all you know of Breanne O’Donnell.” A
surge went through his body when he spoke the words. Anticipation.
Under the guise of servitude, he would gain insight to the
mysterious woman who had saved, and now snubbed him.

Ashlon leaned against the
tree trunk and chewed dried meat. Conceivably, if he knew of her
better, he could not only win her confidence
,
but her interest in his cause. For
the more he contemplated his next move, the more her name came to
mind. It was as though events were leading him to her.

“Where to begin?” Quinlan
raked a hand through his hair and plucked a strand of grass.
“Breanne and I were childhood friends, well, moreover she followed
me like the plague until I gave in and paid mind to her and my
sister, Rose. She’s quiet when she’s wary of you
,
but warm and adoring once you’ve
won her.

“Rose and I were orphaned during an English
assault. The clan pressed them back, but my father died in battle
and my mother in protecting her babes. We were fostered at the
keep, under my uncle’s care, then among Niall’s elite warriors.

“When my uncle died raiding cattle to feed
the clan three winters later, Niall kept us on. He is who I thank
for my opportunities abroad, as well.”

“He is a good man, a king better than any
I’ve known.” Not greedy and imperious as his experience showed most
nobles to be.

“Aye, that he is and would
even do well as Ard-Righ, Ulster’s high king
,
but the O’Neill’s legacy of
fearsome rulers will not see him there and Edward Bruce has an eye
for it.” Quinlan shifted, tossed the shredded blade of grass.
“Might we ride?”

Ashlon didn’t question the abrupt turn of
mood, attributing it to the unnerving topic. Women were strange
draws and his years of exile were the only blame for becoming
intimate in their ways. Perhaps returning to horseback would help
ease Quinlan back to their subject.

A few galloping strides brought them around a
low hill and in view of the township.

“Breanne, my sister and
I,” Quinlan said
,
“became constant playmates and confidantes and, I daresay,
when my sister recently related Breanne’s affection for me, I was
shocked.”

“You did not know she cared for you?”

“I knew she loved me well, aye. I did not
know that she loved me in a way such as a woman does a man. What I
took for sisterly affection, she held as wifely.” Each word chucked
forth with the hit of hooves to earth.

“Do you tell
me
,
Quinlan, that
the Lady Breanne is in love with you?”

“Aye,” Quinlan said. “Rose
blasted me with the admission one night after I had apparently
rebuffed Breanne
,
and Rose reached her sisterly and friendly threshold. She
hollered to the rafters about my dimwittedness and Breanne’s closed
mouthedness.

“And your sister made clear that the Lady
Breanne is in love with you?” Ashlon couldn’t have heard right,
understood correctly. Not after the way she had looked at him last
night, not when her lips had awakened such a hunger inside of
him.

“Aye. Apparently, Breanne has held such
affection for me for years and I had been blind to it. I never
thought of her romantically. Until now. And my first attempts have
been nothing short of dreadful. I blame my inexperience.”

Dreadful. Ashlon shouldn’t feel happy about
that. He had no claim to the lady or desire of her aside from the
physical. Certainly, he could not offer any honorable intentions
for her, being an outsider, the country-less knight, youngest
landless son with naught to offer in marriage. Nothing yet, he
amended. Once this business was concluded with the missing chest,
he would rectify the other less significant affairs.

“Breanne is the only child of Ula and Jock
O’Donnell,” Quinlan continued, unaware of Ashlon’s regard. “Her
father died as mine did, but in protecting Niall’s life instead a
year previous. The English were a plague on us for some time back
then. Jock was a good man, was named as Niall’s successor nary a
month before his death. The whole of the clan felt his loss. I
remember my mother crying terribly upon hearing the news.”

Their horses returned to
an easy walk as Quinlan retraced other lineages and verity about
Breanne, all of which bore little on who she truly was. Quinlan
seemed to be circling the subject like a bird of prey, staying
safely outside of what Ashlon had asked for. If he were to help the
man, he needed to know her likes, dislikes, habits. Her dreams.
When would the man
c
ome to the heart of it?