Beneath a Midnight Moon (6 page)

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Authors: Amanda Ashley

BOOK: Beneath a Midnight Moon
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“Where are we going?”
“Home.”
Home, she thought, and the word twisted through her like a hot knife. She’d never had a real home. The only place that had come close had been the gray stone abbey of the Sisterhood, and now that was forever lost to her. She had no place to call home, no one to call friend, except . . . She glanced furtively at Hardane. He had treated her kindly on board ship, looking after her needs, calming her fears. Surely that qualified him to be her friend.
“What will happen when we get to your home?” she asked tremulously.
“What do you mean?”
“Will you send me away?”
Hardane let out a sigh. Send her away? That was the last thing he wanted. “Is there somewhere you’d rather go?”
She shook her head quickly. “No.”
“My people will make you welcome, Kylene. My mother has always longed for another daughter. She will receive you with open arms.”
“I hope she’ll like me.”
“She will. And you’ll like her.”
“Does she look . . . different?”
“Different?”
“Someone once told me she was a descendant of the Wolffan.”
“As I am.” Hardane smiled wryly. “You needn’t expect to find her with fangs and claws and blood dripping from her mouth.”
Kylene stared up at him, mute, a flush of embarrassment staining her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“You didn’t. She has no fangs, Kylene, no claws, only a rather sharp tongue when she is angry. But she is rarely angry.”
“Will we be there soon?”
“By nightfall.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t be afraid, lady. My people are not savages. They do not eat helpless women or small children.”
Kylene’s cheeks burned hotter. Even in the relative solitude of the Motherhouse, she had overheard tales of Argonian treachery, of Mouldourian babies snatched from their cradles and fed to Wolffan young. Often, the Sisterhood had united in prayer for the poor lost souls of Argone who were doomed to burn in the fires of Gehenna for their brutality.
They traveled for some distance in silence. Kylene stared at the passing countryside, wishing she could run barefoot through the tall green grass, stop to touch the petals of a flowering shrub, splash her feet in one of the numerous blue-green pools that glistened in the bright sunlight.
They passed through several small villages. The houses were all neat, the yards well tended. The people they saw smiled and waved. Some flagged the carriage to a halt and plied them with warm wine and bread and cheese, baskets of sweet rolls, bowls of fruit. If they stared at Kylene, it was only with friendly curiosity, but the main focus of their attention was Hardane. That he was loved by his people was evident in every look, every gesture, every offering of goodwill.
How different from the attitude of the people of Mouldour toward Bourke, she mused. She had heard it said that he dared not travel unescorted, that he feared to eat the food that came from his own kitchens until it had first been tasted by another to make certain it hadn’t been poisoned.
It was near dusk when they started up a steep, winding hillside. No trees grew along the narrow pathway, and when Kylene remarked on the lack, Hardane said it had ever been so, that no shrubs or trees were allowed to grow close to the road because of the danger of ambush in times of war.
It seemed they’d been climbing for hours when the road straightened and Kylene saw Hardane’s ancestral home for the first time.
A soft sigh of wonder escaped her lips as she stared at the beautiful edifice. Constructed of white stone, it seemed to shimmer with a pale golden light in the last rays of the setting sun. Blue and white banners fluttered from the towers.
As they drew near, she saw that there was a wide moat, an enormous drawbridge, a well-fortified gatehouse. Mounted men wearing the blue and white of Argone rode out to meet them, escorting them across the bridge.
Two men hurried up to the carriage. One took the reins; the other helped Kylene out of the coach. They bowed respectfully to Hardane before leading the horses toward the stable.
As Hardane and Kylene neared the entrance to the castle, a tall, gray-haired man opened the door. He bowed low, then informed Hardane that his mother could be found in the Blue Tower.
Hardane smiled reassuringly at Kylene, then held out his hand. “Ready, lady?” he asked.
Kylene took a deep breath. “Ready,” she said, and placed her hand in his, praying all the while that she wouldn’t do or say anything to embarrass him, that his mother would like her, that she might stay here, in the heart of Paradise, forever.
Chapter 12
Kylene stared at Hardane’s mother. Perhaps, deep down, she
had
expected to find someone who resembled a wolf, but the woman who fairly flew across the room to greet her son didn’t resemble a wolf in the least. She was small-boned, petite, with waist-length black hair and eyes as dark as midnight. Her skin was golden brown, smooth and clear.
“Hardane!” she cried, and threw her arms around her son, tears of joy welling in her eyes. She held him for a long time, her face buried against his chest.
Kylene felt a tug at her heart as she watched the two embrace. Hardane bent his head, his cheek pressed to his mother’s, his eyes suddenly bright with unshed tears.
Feeling as if she were intruding, Kylene backed toward the door, only to be brought up short by the sound of Hardane’s voice.
“Mother, I’ve brought a guest.” He raised his head and smiled at Kylene over his mother’s shoulder. “Kylene, this is my mother, Sharilyn. Mother, this is Kylene of Mouldour.”
Sharilyn dabbed at her eyes with a delicate kerchief. “Forgive me, Kylene, but I’ve not seen my son for several months.”
“Of course,” Kylene said. She curtsied as she had been taught. “I am pleased to meet you, my lady.”
Sharilyn smiled. Gliding across the floor, she took Kylene’s hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. “We’re not very formal here, child. Please, call me Sharilyn. Everyone does. She’s lovely, Hardane. Have you made plans for the wedding?”
“Wedding?” Hardane stared at his mother blankly for a moment, and then muttered an oath. “She’s not Carrick’s daughter.”
“She’s not?”
“No.”
Sharilyn’s gaze darted from her son’s face to Kylene’s. “Then who is she?”
“A foundling, my lady,” Kylene replied. “Lord Hardane rescued me from the hands of the Executioner.”
Sharilyn shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s a long story, mother mine, and we’ve been on the road since dawn.”
“Of course.” Sharilyn smiled at Kylene. “No doubt you’d like to bathe and change your clothes.” She clapped her hands twice. Immediately, a young girl dressed in a long brown tunic hurried into the room. “Hadj, take our guest upstairs and make her comfortable. She’ll want hot water for a bath, and a change of clothes. Brushes, soap, toweling.”
“Yes, my lady,” Hadj replied. Turning to Kylene, she offered a tentative smile. “This way, miss.”
Kylene looked at Hardane, reluctant to leave his presence, afraid she’d never see him again.
“Go with Hadj, lady,” he said. “I’ll send for you as soon as Cook has prepared us something to eat.”
Stifling the urge to seek shelter in his arms, she followed the maid up a long, winding staircase, down a wide, well-lit corridor, and into a room that was almost as large as the Motherhouse at Mouldour.
“Make yourself comfortable, miss,” Hadj said. “I’ll be back soon with water for your bath.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ll like it here, miss,” Hadj said with a reassuring smile. “Lady Sharilyn is very kind.”
“I’m sure she is. And Lord Hardane, is he also kind?”
A dreamy expression softened the girl’s features. “Lord Hardane is most kind,” Hadj murmured. “All the people love him.”
And so did Hadj, Kylene thought.
Kylene was wondering if the serving girl was going to spend the rest of the evening contemplating the heir to the throne of Argone when Hadj apparently remembered where she was. With a smile of apology, she hurried out of the room to do her mistress’s bidding.
 
 
Sharilyn frowned as Hardane’s story drew to a close. “So, she is not Carrick’s seventh daughter, but a foundling raised by the Sisterhood.” Sharilyn shook her head. “How can that be? How is it she received your shade if she is not your betrothed?”
Hardane spread his hands in a gesture of bewilderment. “I know not. Have you had any word from my father?”
“No. But he still lives, Hardane. I would know if it were otherwise.”
Hardane nodded. The bond between his parents was unusually strong. In days gone by, they had often communicated without speaking, a gift which Hardane and his sister had viewed with mixed feelings of admiration and jealousy.
“How soon will you return to Mouldour?” Sharilyn asked quietly.
“Within the month. We’ll set sail as soon as the necessary repairs have been made on the
Sea Dragon.
”
“Did you hear any mention of your father while you were in Mouldour?”
“No.” Hardane took his mother’s hand in his. “But, like you, I’m sure he still lives. If not . . .” He took a deep breath, his jaw clenching with determination. “If not, Bourke will rue the day of his birth, and Carrick will pray for death a thousand times before it finds him.”
Sharilyn’s smile was rueful. “He’s too valuable a hostage for them to eliminate, Hardane.”
“Perhaps. But if my father dies, I will not let his death go unavenged. If the Wolf of Argone must be unleashed, so be it, but my father’s blood will be avenged.”
“As you will, my son, only remember, there is no pain greater than the pain of taking a life.”
“I hear you, mother mine.” He drew a deep breath, exhaled it slowly. “Let us speak of happier things. How are my brothers?”
“Very well. Scattered to the four winds, as usual. Dirk and Garth are at Fescue trying to settle one of the endless boundary disputes between Clannon and his uncle. Dubrey and the others have gone to Chadray.”
Hardane grunted softly. The people of Chadray sometimes forgot to whom they owed their allegiance. Twice each year, the men of Castle Argone went to Chadray to remind them who ruled the land. “And my sister?”
“I had a message from her only yesterday. She said the babe thrives, and she prays she will see you soon.”
Hardane grunted softly. He had not seen his sister, Morissa, since her wedding to Eben, Lord of Kyle, almost six months ago.
It had taken more than a month to learn that his father was no longer imprisoned in the dungeon at Mouldour, and another month to discover that he had been moved to the Isle of Klannaad, and then, when he had been about to launch a rescue, he had sensed that his betrothed was in mortal danger. Saving her life had taken precedence over freeing his father.
Due to foul weather, it had taken longer than usual to cross the sea to Mouldour to rescue his betrothed, only to learn that the woman he had snatched from beneath the very nose of the Interrogator was not his bride after all.
He shook his head in confusion. Why had he sensed that Kylene was in danger? If she was not his betrothed, why, when he sent his shade to seek his future bride, had he been directed to Kylene instead of Selene?
Hardane frowned. Was there an evil wizard at work, casting some sort of spell to cloud his powers so that he was drawn to the wrong woman, thereby making it impossible for Hardane and Selene to wed on the seventh day of the seventh month? Was the Interrogator behind all this? Had he used witchcraft to summon Hardane to Mouldour to rescue the wrong woman?
He swore softly. He would have to go back to Mouldour and find Selene before the auspicious date set for their marriage passed, but first he must rescue his father.
His crew was already at work, refitting the ship. They would lay in supplies, make the necessary repairs, patch or replace the sails. When all was in readiness, he would sail to the Isle of Klannaad and free Lord Kray from the dungeon.
 
 
Kylene stood at the window, gazing down into the courtyard below. Hardane was there. Shirtless, his long legs clad in black leather breeches, his hair flowing down his broad back like ebony-hued silk, he faced a good-looking young man with dark brown hair and dark eyes. She thought it might be Jared, but she couldn’t be sure. It was odd, she thought, that she had no trouble recognizing Hardane, and it occurred to her that she would know him even in the dark. The sunlight danced and shimmered on their swords as they lunged and parried.
Both men moved with innate grace and remarkable speed, yet there was something about Hardane’s movements that set him apart. He moved with catlike ease, supple, lithe. Power radiated from him as he launched a bold attack, driving his opponent back. The corded muscles in his broad back and shoulders rippled with each lunge, and he wielded the blade as though it were a part of him, an extension of his hand.
She heard the sound of his laughter, deep and rich, filled with exultation as his opponent lowered his sword in defeat.
And then he looked up, his gaze meeting hers as he lifted his sword in a salute. Light and fire seemed to fill her whole being when he looked at her. And then he smiled, and it was as if she’d been struck by a thunderbolt. Oh, she thought, the power in that smile. It could melt stone.
His smile broadened, as though he knew exactly what kind of effect he was having on her. Then he turned away and draped his arm over his companion’s shoulder, and they walked toward the well in the center of the courtyard.
She couldn’t stop watching him. She watched the muscles ripple in his back and shoulders as he raised the bucket, then took a long drink. Filling the dipper again, he poured the water over his head. To her chagrin, she envied the drops that sluiced down his face and neck, trickling down over his shoulders, his chest. That broad chest, lightly furred with curly black hair that tempted her touch even from a distance.
The mere thought caused her heart to pound in her chest, and she turned away from the window, chiding herself for such improper thoughts. She was bound to the Sisterhood. She had vowed to obey their laws, to be chaste. Somehow, she would find her way back to Mouldour and take her final vows. She would don the heavy black habit of the order, embrace their rules, and forget this man who filled her mind with thoughts she ought not have, who followed her into her dreams, dark sensual dreams that made her wake in the night, her body sheened with perspiration, yearning for things she did not understand.
 
 
The next few days passed quietly. She developed a deep admiration for Hardane’s mother, sometimes pretending that Sharilyn was the mother she had never known. Hardane was devoted to his mother. He spoke to her always with love and respect. Kylene envied the bond between them, envied the hugs they exchanged morning and night, the easy affection and gentle repartee they shared. She had never been a part of a real family, never known what it was like to receive a mother’s love, a father’s esteem. The Sisterhood had nurtured her. They had treated her with kindness, with respect, but they had never indulged her, never showered her with affection. Only now did she realize how much she had missed. She felt a yearning to be hugged, to be held.
She took her meals with Hardane and his mother, spent her days working in the flower garden on the east side of the castle, or doing needlework, or simply standing at her window watching Hardane and his friend Jared practice with the sword.
For Kylene, who was accustomed to being busy, to long hours spent washing and mending, cooking and scrubbing, it seemed a life of idleness. In the Motherhouse, one never had time to merely sit and contemplate life, to watch the clouds drift across the sky, to walk through a meadow and gather an armful of flowers. But here, in Hardane’s home, there were servants to do the cooking and the cleaning, to make the beds and change the rushes, to make candles, to beat the dust from the carpets and draperies. Servants to draw water for her bath, to lay out her clothes, to help her dress and arrange her hair.
Sharilyn had given her a dozen gowns, beautiful gowns in rainbow colors, but Kylene could not bring herself to wear them. Colors were forbidden to the members of the Sisterhood. The novices wore brown, the professed wore black. Kylene had looked at the bright reds and blues and greens with covetous eyes, and then, regretfully, had begged Sharilyn’s understanding and asked for a simple dress of plain brown wool.
Sharilyn had not argued. She had provided Kylene with several dresses of different design in varying shades of brown, but she had insisted that Kylene keep the other dresses as well.
And now it was evening and they were gathered in the dining hall. Sharilyn sat at the head of the table. Hardane sat at her left, Kylene at her right. She tried to concentrate on the meal, but, as always when he was near, she was aware of Hardane’s proximity. The sound of his voice, deep and mellow, tugged at her heart. The knowledge that she could reach across the table and touch him made her pulse race. And when he looked at her, as he was doing now, all coherent thought fled and she was conscious only of the magnetism of his gaze, the timbre of his voice, the blatant maleness that seemed to fill the room, dwarfing her, making her feel vulnerable and somehow empty inside.
“You look pale, child,” Sharilyn remarked. “Hardane, why don’t you take Kylene riding tomorrow? No doubt she’s weary of my company. Perhaps a ride to the cove. It will be cool there.”
“There’s no need,” Kylene said quickly. “I’m sure he’d rather spend the day with Jared. And I . . . I should . . .”

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