Beneath a Midnight Moon (25 page)
Read Beneath a Midnight Moon Online
Authors: Amanda Ashley
At his words, Kylene’s hand flew to her throat. The bathtub! Of course, it all made sense now. Her horrible fear of water, of drowning. It all came back in a rush, as clear as if it had happened only yesterday instead of years ago.
They’d been playing in the tub, having a contest to see who could stay under the water the longest. It had been Kylene’s turn. She’d been just about to come up when she’d felt Selene’s hands on the back of her head, refusing to let her come up for air. She remembered the horror of it, the awful panic when she realized her sister wasn’t playing. She’d been almost unconscious when her mother lifted her out of the tub. Until now, she’d blocked the whole incident from her mind.
“Soon after that,” her father went on, “we realized there were others who wanted to destroy you so that the prophesy could not be fulfilled, just as we realized that, to keep you safe, we would have to send you away until it was time for you to marry.”
“Are you telling me that you wanted the prophesy to be fulfilled?” Hardane asked. “That you want peace?”
“Aye.”
“You’re lying! Everyone knows that the House of Mouldour has refused all offers of peace, that they have pursued war with a vengeance.”
“Not I.” Carrick met Hardane’s accusing stare. “I have always spoken for peace. It was the main cause of contention between Bourke and myself. He wanted to conquer Argone, to put his bastard daughter on the throne. I refused.”
“And so he took the throne by force,” Hardane mused.
“Yes. With a little help from the Interrogator and the witch of Britha, Bourke managed to steal my throne.”
Hardane grunted softly as he pondered Carrick’s explanation. One thing still troubled him. “Why didn’t Kylene know who she was?”
Carrick shook his head. “Understandably, Kylene was never the same after her sister tried to drown her. I think she refused to acknowledge who she was because it was too painful, or maybe she simply didn’t want to remember.” He shrugged. “As it turned out, it made it that much easier to hide her. She couldn’t remember who she was, and except for the Mother General, no one in the Motherhouse knew who she really was.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Carrick turned to Kylene. “Where’s your sister?”
“I’m not sure. At Mouldour, I would imagine.”
Carrick grunted softly. Holding Kylene’s hand, he glanced over his shoulder at his son-in-law.
“What do you plan to do with me now?”
Slowly, Hardane shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“I think we should all get some sleep,” Sharilyn suggested, rising to her feet.
She glanced around the room. Kylene looked to be on the verge of emotional exhaustion. Carrick was thin and pale, obviously not yet fully recovered from his sickness. There were fine lines of pain etched at the corners of Hardane’s mouth and eyes. Of them all, only Jared looked fit and strong.
“I think you’re right,” Hardane agreed, rising to stand beside his mother. “Jared, take Lord Carrick to the brig. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
“The brig!” Kylene protested. “Hardane, he’s my father. I won’t have him locked up.”
“Kylene . . .”
She jumped to her feet, her hands planted on her hips, her eyes defiant.
“If he goes to the brig, I’ll go with him!”
“Very well,” Hardane relented. “Lock him in the aft cabin.”
“Hardane . . .”
“I know he’s your father,” Hardane replied wearily. “But I don’t know whose side he’s on, and until I do, he’ll have to be locked up, at least at night.”
She wanted to argue with him. She would have argued with him if she hadn’t seen the utter weariness in the depths of his eyes, heard the barely suppressed pain in his voice. She remembered then that the wound in his thigh was not yet fully healed, that he should still be in bed, resting his leg.
“Good sleep, Father,” Kylene said, kissing his cheek, and then, smiling sweetly, she put her arm around Hardane’s waist, giving him the benefit of her support without anyone being the wiser.
Sharilyn bid them good night and hurried to her cabin to check on Kray, leaving Jared to escort Carrick to the aft cabin.
Alone in his quarters with Kylene, Hardane sat down, his head resting against the back of the chair. His leg ached incessantly, his head throbbed, and all he wanted to do was sleep. But he couldn’t rest. Too many troublesome thoughts were churning through his mind. His father was badly wounded and might not recover. . . . Carrick was not dead, after all. . . . He was here. . . . He said he wanted peace, but could he be trusted. . . . Bourke wanted to rule Argone. . . . Renick intended to have it all. . . .
He closed his eyes and summoned the image of the wolf. Putting everything else from his mind, he imagined the freedom of running across the fields in the dark of night, of dancing in the light of a midnight moon.
A low growl of pleasure rose in his throat as he felt Kylene’s hands soothe his brow, felt her fingertips knead the stiffness from his shoulders. Her fingers slid down his arms, and then began to work their magic on his injured leg, her touch soft and soothing, the warmth of her hands banishing the pain from his taut muscles.
“Sleep, my lord wolf,” she murmured, and her breath fanned his face. “Sleep, beloved. All will be well.”
And because he loved her, he believed her.
Chapter 42
Bourke sat on the tall, intricately carved throne, his hands resting on the arms, which were covered with rich purple velvet.
“He’s alive, I tell you. Someone saw him leaving the castle. With Kray. And Sharilyn.” Bourke dragged a hand across his brow. “And the wolf of Argone.”
“It’s impossible!” Selene exclaimed. “I was with him when he died.”
“Then he must have risen from the grave.” Bourke was practically shouting now. “What say you, my Lord Interrogator? How is it that Kray managed to escape from the dungeons?”
“It is obvious to me that his wife took on my shape and effected his release,” Renick replied calmly. “Never fear, my lord, we will have them.”
“You’re a fool, Renick,” Bourke retorted angrily. “We’ve lost everything.” He ran a hand through his hair, then drummed his fingers on the carved arm of the throne. “We’ll have to flee the country. Find sanctuary. He’ll never forgive me—”
“Stop babbling, you fool!” Renick snapped. “We’ve lost nothing!”
Bourke glared at the man who had held the title of Lord High Interrogator for the last twelve years.
“If you think that, Renick, then you’re a bigger fool than I imagined. The people have always loved Carrick. Now that he’s returned, they won’t rest until he’s restored to the throne.”
“This is all your fault, you spineless dolt. If you’d killed him in the first place, as I suggested, we’d have nothing to worry about now.”
Bourke stood up, his face flushed with rage. “You dare to call me such names! Jance! Arrest this man!”
“There will be no need for that, Jance,” Renick said.
A slow grin spread over the Interrogator’s face as he drew his sword and climbed the three steps that led to the throne.
“Jance!” Bourke screamed, staring past Renick to the guard who stood at his right hand. “Arrest this man at once!”
“I’m afraid Jance no longer takes orders from you,” Renick said with mock regret. “I bought his loyalty a long time ago.”
“This is an outrage!” Bourke sputtered.
“Indeed?”
With a cry, Bourke reached for his sword.
It was the move Renick had been waiting for. Face void of all expression, he drove his sword into Bourke’s heart and gave it a short hard twist.
For a long moment, Bourke stood there, his body impaled on the Interrogator’s sword, his eyes staring at the blood that dripped from the blade, and then his eyes glazed over and he fell forward.
Renick put out a hand to stop Bourke’s fall. Withdrawing his sword from Bourke’s chest, he gave a gentle shove and the body teetered backward and dropped with lifeless grace onto the throne.
Slowly, Renick turned to face Selene. She was watching him, her face drained of color, her eyes wide with disbelief.
“My lady,” Renick said, holding out his hand, “how would you like to share the throne of Mouldour?”
Chapter 43
For the first time in her life, Kylene felt a sense of coming home as they entered the Great Hall of Castle Argone.
Parah, Teliford, and Hadj had hurried out to meet them on their return, their smiles of welcome quickly turning to expressions of concern when Hardane’s father was lifted from a litter and carried inside.
Lord Kray’s condition had worsened during the voyage. He had drifted in and out of awareness during the first ten days; since then, he’d been unconscious. His face was as pale as moonstone, his cheeks were gaunt, there were dark shadows beneath his closed eyes.
News of their liege’s illness quickly spread throughout the castle and kingdom. Almost immediately, gifts began to arrive—dried flowers, sachets filled with healing herbs and spices, prayers and good wishes written in the ancient language of Argone.
The castle physician had been called to attend Lord Kray’s injury. Grim-faced, he had drained the wound and cut away the putrid flesh.
The Wolffan priest came, offering what comfort he could. All of Hardane’s brothers had come home, lending their strength and support to Sharilyn.
Druidia had been summoned, but for once none of the witch’s unguents or potions had any effect, and now, three days after their arrival, Lord Kray remained unconscious.
In his father’s illness, Hardane sat upon the throne of Argone. Kylene had been startled the first time she entered the Great Hall and saw her husband sitting in his father’s place.
Lord Kray’s throne was massive. It had been fashioned from the same dark wood as the doors of the Temple of Fire. The arms were carved in the likeness of wolves lying on their bellies, heads resting between their paws. The back of the throne was in the shape of a wolf’s head.
Sharilyn’s throne was the same as Kray’s, only slightly smaller.
And now it was the night of the third day and Kylene was wandering through the castle. The servants had gone to bed long since. Sharilyn was sitting beside Kray. She’d hardly left her husband’s bedside since their arrival. Hadj had to remind her to eat. Old Nan, the cook, prepared all Sharilyn’s favorite dishes in hopes of tempting her appetite, but to no avail. Sharilyn ate only a few bites at a time, never taking her eyes from Kray’s face, never leaving his room except when absolutely necessary.
Kylene’s father had been given free run of the castle with a thinly veiled warning that the dungeon awaited him should he try to escape. Kylene had spent her days with Carrick, getting to know him, listening to stories of her mother and sisters.
On one occasion, Carrick had reminisced about his childhood, about the happy times he’d had as a boy growing up in Castle Mouldour. Bourke had once been his best friend, he had confided. They had explored the castle together, from the topmost turrets to the hindermost regions of the dungeons. They had played tricks on the housemaids, learned to ride together, to fight together, shared secrets. Being twins, they had tried to fool their parents and friends, laughing with delight whenever their mother mistook Bourke for Carrick. Their closeness, the bond they had shared, had made Bourke’s treachery all the more painful for Carrick to accept.
Kylene saw little of Hardane. He was burdened with the affairs of Argone, and when he had a free moment, he sat with his father. Kylene could not help feeling guilty because her own father was here, strong and healthy, while Lord Kray hovered in the netherworld between life and death. She tried to tell herself she had no cause to feel guilty. She’d been years without a father; surely no one could begrudge her the time she spent with him now.
Kylene sighed heavily as she made her way to the Great Hall. She needed to see Hardane, to feel his arms around her, to feel his strength.
He was there, sitting on his father’s throne, a sable cloak wrapped around his shoulders.
She stared at him from the doorway, wishing there was something she could do to ease the pain in his heart.
She had been there only a few moments when Hardane looked up, his gaze finding her in the shadows. Wordlessly, he held out his arms and she hurried toward him, climbing onto his lap to pillow her head against his shoulder.
They sat that way for a long time before Hardane spoke. “I was missing you,” he murmured, one hand burrowing in her hair. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Kylene snuggled deeper into his arms, hoping her presence would comfort him.
“Why don’t you come to bed?” She traced the outline of his jaw with her fingertip. “It’s been a long day.”
Hardane grunted softly. Bed, he thought. A nice soft bed with Kylene to warm him.
“A hot bath to relax you,” Kylene suggested, “a glass of wine, and then a good night’s sleep.”
Hardane nodded. Effortlessly, he stood up and then, carrying Kylene with him, he made his way up the winding stairway that led to their bedchamber.
He closed the door behind them. A tub of scented hot water awaited him. A flagon of wine stood on the bedside table. The blankets were turned back, and his pillows had been plumped.
“Thank you, wife,” he murmured, kissing her cheek.
“You’re welcome, my lord wolf. Will you put me down now?”
“If you wish.”
He let her slide through his arms until she was standing in front of him, her body pressed to his.
Kylene smiled up at him as she began to unfasten the laces of his shirt. Lifting the garment over his head, she tossed it onto a chair, then knelt to remove his soft leather boots and breeches.
Taking him by the hand, she led him to the tub, trying not to notice his body’s reaction to his nudity and her nearness.
When he was settled in the tub, she dropped to her knees beside the tub, took up a soft cloth, and began to wash him.
Hardane groaned softly.
“Is something amiss, my lord wolf?” she queried, dragging the cloth across his chest and down his belly.
“Nay, lady.”
“You don’t seem very relaxed,” Kylene mused, noting the taut muscles in his arms, the tension in his jaw.
He gasped as the cloth brushed the inside of his thigh. “You can hardly expect me to relax with you so near.”
She had not meant to arouse him, only to soothe him. “I did not mean to torment you,” she remarked, not certain whether she was causing him pleasure or pain.
“Ah, lady,” he muttered hoarsely as her hand hovered dangerously near his groin, “it’s torment of the sweetest kind, I assure you.”
“Shall I stop?”
“No.” He ground out the word, his body aflame as the soapy cloth moved over him, teasing, tantalizing.
His nostrils filled with the scent of the water, and with Kylene’s own sweet scent, which was more intoxicating than ale, more potent than Mouldourian wine.
Lifting a hand, he cupped the back of her head and drew her toward him, his mouth covering hers. She was his woman, his life-mate, overflowing with life. His free hand moved to the soft swell of her belly. She was life renewing itself, and he needed that reassurance, needed it badly.
Kylene sighed with pleasure as his lips moved over her face, her neck, and then, abruptly, his arms went around her waist and he buried his face in the cleft of her breasts. She felt his shoulders shake and realized he was crying.
“Hardane.” She dropped the cloth and wrapped her arms around him, her heart aching for his sorrow.
She held him close until his sobs subsided and then she coaxed him from the tub, dried him with a square of heavy toweling, and led him to bed.
Undressing, she slid in beside him, turned onto her side, and drew him to her breast.
Like a fox to its den, Hardane snuggled against her, his arms locked around her waist, his face buried in the warm softness of her breasts.
For a time, he didn’t move, only lay there beside her, content to be held in her arms. The warm womanly fragrance that was hers and hers alone rose all around him. He could hear her heart beating a soft tattoo beneath his cheek.
He lay still for so long that Kylene thought he’d fallen asleep. Gently, she smoothed his hair, caressed his cheek, her heart swelling with such an outpouring of love it was almost painful. She wished she could do something to ease his sorrow, and the knowledge that there was nothing she could say or do brought tears to her eyes.
“Why do you weep?” Hardane murmured.
“Because you’re unhappy and I . . . I love you so much and . . . and there’s nothing I can do to help.”
“Your presence comforts me, lady, as nothing else can.”
His words, so clearly spoken from the depths of his heart, brought a fresh wave of tears to her eyes.
Rising on one elbow, Hardane kissed the moisture from her cheeks, and then his mouth covered hers. As always, her nearness fanned the embers of desire until he felt as though his very blood were afire.
Hardane caressed her with his lips and his eyes, and everywhere he touched, her body came to life. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her thighs parting to receive him. And for a brief moment, there was nothing in all the world but the two of them, life reaching out to life as their hearts and souls entwined, love engulfed by love.
Something was wrong. Kylene sat up, her heart pounding with dread. In the darkness, she reached out for Hardane, only to find the bed empty beside her.
Truly worried now, she lit a candle and glanced around the chamber. There was no sign of Hardane.
Frowning, she slipped out of bed and drew on a heavy fleece-lined wrapper. Holding the candle in one hand, she crossed the floor, opened the chamber door, and peered into the corridor. All was dark.
She hesitated for a moment and then, as though guided by an invisible hand, she made her way down the stairs, through the main hall, and down the passageway that led to the gardens behind the keep.
When she reached the narrow door that led to the gardens, she blew out the candle and left it on a nearby table. Then, taking a deep breath, she lifted the latch and stepped into the yard.
It was like stepping into another world. Overhead, the moon was full and bright, almost blinding in its intensity. A fountain bubbled in a corner of the yard; tall trees stood like sentinels in the darkness, their leaves whispering a requiem to the dead.
The rich scent of flowers and earth hung heavy in the air. And there, in the midst of the garden, she saw a half dozen wolves gathered together. One lay beside the fountain, its head between its paws, while the others stood around it, their tails lowered. She hadn’t made a sound since she stepped into the yard, yet one wolf, the tallest of them, immediately swung around to face her.
It was Hardane. In spite of the distance between them, she felt the touch of his eyes on her face, felt the heavy sadness that permeated his whole being, and she knew, without being told, that Lord Kray had passed away in the night.
Hardane, I’m so sorry.
She spoke the words in her mind, and the wolf nodded its head. She glanced at the prone wolf and knew that it was Sharilyn; knew, without knowing how she knew, that the other wolves were related to Hardane’s mother, that they had come to share her grief in the loss of her husband.
She spoke the words in her mind, and the wolf nodded its head. She glanced at the prone wolf and knew that it was Sharilyn; knew, without knowing how she knew, that the other wolves were related to Hardane’s mother, that they had come to share her grief in the loss of her husband.
She was turning to go, to leave them to mourn in private, when she heard Hardane’s voice in her mind.
Stay. I need you here.
She met his gaze and nodded. There was a small wrought-iron bench beside the doorway and Kylene sat down, wanting to remain unobtrusive.
For a long time, the wolves simply sat there, and then, one by one, they lifted their heads, their voices rising on the night wind in a long lament that bespoke their sorrow, their loss.
The anguished cries sent a shiver down Kylene’s spine, and she thought she had never heard anything as sad, as heartbreaking, as the sound of those melancholy howls as members of the Wolffan clan mourned the passing of a loved one.
One by one, the wolves stepped forward to lick Sharilyn’s face, and then, like shadows before a storm, they disappeared into the darkness until only Sharilyn and Hardane remained.
With a low growl, Sharilyn rose to her feet. She rubbed against Hardane a moment, whining softly, and then trotted away.
Almost immediately, Hardane assumed his own shape.
As always, the incredible sight of wolf transforming into man trapped Kylene’s breath in her throat. It was an amazing thing to watch, mesmerizing, frightening.
And then Hardane was walking toward her, and her breath escaped in an audible sigh of relief that he was again the man she knew and loved.
She rose to meet him, her arms outstretched to enfold him.
“I’m sorry” she murmured, drawing him to her, “so sorry.”
“He went in his sleep,” Hardane said, his voice thick with unshed tears. “He never woke up. My mother . . .” He took a deep, steadying breath. “She’s grieving, not only for his death, but because she was denied the opportunity to tell him good-bye.”
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