Irish Moon (35 page)

“Not the kind we heard talk of in whispers
and rumors among the Knights, mind you, Ashlon. What I speak of is
the stuff of myth and legend. Fairy princes, Elvin kings,” Ramsey
said.

Ashlon only half heard his friend. He’d be
galloping back to her with his heart in his hand and a seven-year
vow in shambles at his feet.

“You’re scared, aren’t you?” Ramsey said.

Ashlon scowled at him in response. “I have
long outgrown fear, my friend. The Pope himself, you can thank for
that.”

Ramsey snorted. “A grand lot of hog’s shite,
that one is.”

“I assure you, years of evading assassins has
a way about killing all fear in a man.”

“Then you’re not scared of what Ireland
offers you? Home, kinship, a future, none of that shivers your
skin, then?”

Ashlon shook his head. How could he fear what
he might not have a chance at winning? “Overestimated, all of it,
if you ask me,” he said with a full grin.

Ramsey laughed. “The beautiful lasses, the
welcoming homes and hearths, the ongoing revelry? None caught your
eye?”

“Aye, who needs it?”

Ramsey took cue and said, “Right you are. Off
with us then.” He heeled his bay into a canter.

Ashlon followed suit, glad to be done, until
Ramsey’s next rising urge to prod him back the road they came.

Their horses’ hooves were all he heard for
some time, blessedly, until another distinct sound pricked his
senses. Ashlon slowed his horse and motioned for Ramsey to do the
same. They left the narrow road and came to a stop.

Ashlon listened to the sound of another rider
approaching. Both men dismounted and crouched in the wood.
Thankfully, Ramsey didn’t question Ashlon and kept low and silent
in the foliage cover. The sound drew nearer, grew louder, until
Ashlon readied to watch the traveler pass them by.

But, without preamble, the sound stopped. It
did not slow, or change or reverse. It vanished as though it had
never occurred at all.

The hairs on Ashlon’s neck stood up.
Something was sorely amiss for a rider to thunder up the road and
then disappear without a sound. No horse could come to a soundless
stop, no rider could handle such a feat.

Ashlon stood. The two steeds nickered and
pulled for their heads. The black reared up, spooked by what,
Ashlon could not tell. Ramsey stood, as well, and gestured that one
of them should go look while the other kept to the horses.

With a soothing pat below his black’s
withers, Ashlon carefully walked into the open to peer down the
dirt lane.

No sign of another comer existed. No wafting
dust, no trampled bush. He walked with his sword drawn and ready,
should any hidden person spring upon him. But the farther he went,
the more he worried he’d misheard.

Some paces away from Ramsey, he scanned the
road and wood for signs of movement or trafficking. When he saw
none, he lowered his sword and headed back to his waiting
horse.

Ramsey still crouched and had rested his head
against a tree trunk. He was making a poor guard with his eyes
closed, looked ready to nap rather than keep watch over Ashlon’s
back.

Ashlon nudged the man’s form with his boot,
ready to rebuke his laziness for the duration of their trip. But,
the nudge did not wake the man, only moved him enough to cause him
to slowly slide sideways and on the ground. It was the limp
appearance that provoked Ashlon’s immediate alarm.

Ramsey was not resting, he was unconscious.
His body hit the wood floor with a thump. No blood, nor sound
signed the cause of his injury, but Ashlon held no doubt that
Ramsey had been accosted in the short space of separation.

He spun about, sword ready to slice into any
criminal in its path. Ashlon’s mind raced with possibilities. A
papal assassin was his first most likely drawn conclusion but he
didn’t discount the potential of a robber or other similar villain
to come upon them.

The horses grazed unperturbed. The air was
unusually silent. Not even an insect’s buzz carried on the breeze.
Something black flashed in the corner of Ashlon’s vision. He swung
toward it, his breathing coming in hard gasps as rage and fear
warred his pulse.

He would not end this now, not in this
fashion. He had come too far, had forgone too much to let another
steal the chest now. If it fell into the Pope’s hands it would be
more heretical than any act the Knights were accused of, for he
would possess the floating head that he so wanted, had tortured
innumerable men to ascertain the location and validity of.

The Bloodstone inside of the chest was too
valuable to allow the church to poison its meaning and use. He
would die for it but death could only worsen its fate.

Another flash of black and gray streamed past
him. He followed with his blade but did not move from his spot next
to the chest strapped to his horse. In a spur, he mounted his
steed.

He had no idea whether his friend lay
breathing or dead and hated that he could not find out. But, he had
to draw out the assailant and kill or be killed.

Ashlon rode to the path, his stallion leaping
to life as though sensing his rider’s urgency. Trained for war, the
black bared his teeth and braced for battle unseen.

The blur of black and gray stripes came so
fast, Ashlon and his horse were knocked to the ground before his
mind could register the assailant’s attack. The chest came upturned
and loose, sliding down the black as it righted itself to
stand.

Ashlon did not make it to his feet. Suddenly
his attacker was kneeling on top of him and a small blade
threatened Ashlon’s throat. His eyes were an eerie shade of pale
green. Something about the lanky form was familiar.

Wordlessly, he took Ashlon’s sword from him.
He turned the hilt over in one hand while pressing the knife
against Ashlon’s Adam’s apple with the other.

Ashlon struggled to conspire a tactic to
regain control of the situation. His only hope seemed to be that
the attacker would take the emerald encrusted sword as enough goods
and leave the horse and chest.

While his sword in the wrong hands was not
good, without the chest its value was little. Ashlon pushed his
abdomen against the weight of the man and breathed angrily, staring
at him unwaveringly.

The man’s eyes narrowed on him and his head
tilted. He seemed to be measuring Ashlon up, unmindful of being out
on the open road for incomers to witness.

Then he turned his attention back to the
sword hilt, the emeralds. Dread overwhelmed Ashlon’s senses. The
man was eyeing the emeralds and then looked directly at the chest.
Ashlon grasped for the sword, meaning to cut the attackers throat
as his own might be, as well.

But, the man was off of him and on the chest
so fast Ashlon had to blink to focus. He got to his feet and lunged
at the man, ready to use a rock as a weapon if he couldn’t retrieve
either his sword or the small dagger.

Equally swift, the man moved again and was
down the road, kneeling before the chest, using Ashlon’s sword to
open the chest. Ashlon screamed furiously, running for the man,
knowing not what the man was or how he knew of the Bloodstone,
seeing only his life’s meaning being stolen, a legacy of secrets
and power being lifted up and examined in the sunlight.

He reached the man, lifted the rock and,
wailing like a bloodthirsty Viking of lore, brought down his crude
weapon. It cracked into the chest, sending splinters to the dirt.
The thief was gone.

Ashlon glanced about, terror striking through
him like a bell. The man was gone, as though he’d never been there
at all, and he’d taken the Bloodstone.

Ashlon fell to his knees and grabbed his
sword. None knew of the key, Jacques had sworn to that, that it lay
in the unusual encrusting of emeralds on the Toledo sword’s hilt.
And whoever stole the Bloodstone, found the sword and chest
useless, as they were, once the contents were gone.

He had to get it back before the stone was
used, or worse joined with any of its three brethren stones. The
power and magic the stones held could easily be abused if the man
could access them.

Returning to Ramsey, Ashlon found him not
dead but still unconscious. He shook him, needing his help in
identifying who the attacker was and where he might have gone to.
The sense of familiarity was stronger now. Perhaps Ramsey could
help piece together the clues.

After three hard shakes, Ramsey grunted and
opened his eyes. “What happened?”

“It’s what I would like to know. Did you see
your attacker, Ramsey?” Ashlon asked in a rush. He helped his
friend to his feet.

Ramsey shook his head as though to clear it.
“I must have gotten my brain knocked a bit loose. I remember you
creeping off to the road and then….”

“What?” Ashlon grabbed him by the shoulders
both to steady and see him.

Ramsey rubbed his head. “Well, it was the
damnedest thing. You left and out of thin air, it seemed, a cat
approached me. A large tomcat of sorts, the like you’d find kept on
to catch mice.”

Ashlon’s gut turned sour. But, he wouldn’t
let the disbelief overcome the clear instinctual certainty his mind
just reached.

He’d seen enough in the last twenty-four
hours to know his conclusion was at least possible. Which meant he
needed to ride at double speed back the way he came. He must get
back to Breanne.

“Can you ride?”

“Aye. I’ll need to take it slow, but I can
sit a few hours more.”

“I’m sorry, Ramsey. I must leave you here. I
forswear I cannot explain now but will you follow and bring this
chest with you? It may be a matter of ….”

Ramsey held his hand up. “No explanation
needed, Ashlon. Godspeed.”

* * * *

“I knew it,” Rose said. “I knew the very
night he walked into the keep alongside my brother.” It had taken
her some time to get the truth out when her friend demanded to know
what had happened to her.

Breanne wiped another tear away. “You did?”
She’d sat crying at the foot of her bed for more’n an hour since
Niall finally dismissed her, verdict in hand.

“Aye, you’re a terrible liar, Bree, leastwise
when it comes to me. I know you better than your own mother does,
I’d wager.” Rose had been waiting outside her door on the same
stool Niall had left behind.

“And you’re not angry with me?”

“Goodness no. Had a bit of fun with it,
gushing over Ashlon Sinclair as I did, and figured you’d be telling
me in your own time, as you always do.”

Breanne almost didn’t want her best friend to
go so easy on her. Her heart ached and her conscience was bruised.
She didn’t deserve such understanding.

“Let’s dry those tears now, Bree. There will
be time aplenty to cry later, after the wedding. You don’t want to
be puffy eyed and make people wonder if you’re against it.”

Another round of sobs racked through her.
“But, how can you not be furious with me? I’ve broken Quinlan’s
heart.”

Rose sat next to her on her bed. “Because you
haven’t. Ashlon Sinclair has broken yours. Quinlan’s pride is a
mite bullied, but you’ll be saving him from a worse fate.”

She didn’t see how. Quinlan not only knew of
her maidenly ruin, but he had befriended the man who had ruined it.
Well, not ruin, taken but not ruined. What Ashlon had given her
shouldn’t be treated as a soiled product of lust.

“He must hate me. I gave in to a baser need
and never once thought it would impact another’s fate aside from my
own. In truth, I didn’t think it would impact mine either.”

“Things like this have a way of rippling
through other lives, Bree. Do you remember when Ryan and I
handfasted? How many people were hurt in the course of our
happiness?”

Breanne sniffled. She tried to recall. “But,
Rose, none were hurt by it.”

Rose frowned and looked pensive. “Humph.
Well, bad example. Well, look at it this way Breanne. It’s better
to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. And you
might be happier in the end.”

“How so?” An inkling of hope shimmered inside
of her. Her heart leapt at the image of Ashlon riding back to her,
alive and ready to begin his life.

But that was not the angle Rose was taking.
“I can speak for a marriage based on passion and primal urges. It
is a rocky road to travel with ups and downs the like you’ve never
known. It scares me to the bone sometimes, how much I need my Ryan.
I’ve wished more’n once that I could love him a little less.”
Rose’s eyes brimmed with emotion as they looked at her.

Perhaps she was right. She could not love
Ashlon after all. He was perfectly wrong for her. He was a warrior
and would live the kind of life her father had. Mayhap she would be
better off with a man who she would not fret about each night,
wondering if he’d lived the day.

“And,” Rose said. “What better person to wed
than your best friend?”

“Even if you betrayed that friendship?”

“He’ll get over it, Bree.” Rose gave her a
reassuring hug.

“I can’t see how. He’s found a man he trusted
has bedded the colleen he meant to handfast and now is forcibly
held to his intention by his own chieftain.” The tears came hot
down her cheeks but the sobs stayed at bay.

“You’ll be saving him from Rhiannon’s lovely
snare and in time, he’ll thank you for it,” Rose said with a firm
nod and pat to Breanne’s knee.

“I expect you’re right.” She wasn’t all that
surprised when Rose had told her of Rhiannon’s intentions to steal
Quinlan. If Ashlon had not left, Rhiannon might have won what with
Breanne’s attention so easily distracted in his direction. But,
Quinlan wouldn’t likely be happy for many years with such a
conniver as Rose had discovered her to be.

“Of course I’m right. You yourself said,
Ashlon Sinclair will never set foot in Tir Conaill again.”

It wasn’t that he wouldn’t. It was that he
couldn’t. She’d made sure of that. By protecting him in getting the
stone back to him, she’d prevented the mortal danger she’d seen in
her foresight. And she didn’t doubt that Ashlon needed little
impressing to stay away when he’d so resisted the friendships and
welcome of the clan.