Irish Moon (3 page)

The copse of pines and birch gave way and
glimpses of ocean took the place of sky in the gaps between them.
Breanne slowed her pace and realized how hard she was breathing.
She paused at the edge of trees and caught her breath, scanning the
open area for a dwelling. When she found none she stepped further,
feeling exposed but alone, and followed the remaining marks Heremon
left behind.

“Are you lost?” a whisper said.

Breanne swung about, weapon ready, shards of
panic snapping through her. To the left, the right, her eyes shot.
Nothing. Nothing more than the trees and grass and sounds of spring
humming met her searching gaze.

A deep chuckle carried upward from her ankle
and immediately Breanne’s fear changed to anger. “Finn! You scared
me, you evil thing.”

A deeper, purring chuckle with no apology. “I
couldn’t resist after watching you sneaking along with that
ridiculous excuse for protection held like your life depended on
it. Truly, Bree, if you’d seen yourself….” His chuckle broke into
coughing guffaws.

Breanne could kick him, she really could, if
not for the fact that he was stuck as a creature more helpless than
she. And if she weren’t so nice a person as she was. Even so, the
idea was worth fantasizing, however briefly and unrealistically as
she could. Breanne dropped to the ground and wiped her sweaty brow,
the boline forgotten.

“
I swear I dream of the day
that I will no longer be the source of your twisted
amusem—.“

“Shh. Did you hear that?” Finn said, suddenly
recovered and his ears pricked low.

Breanne frowned, listening. The distant rush
and crush of waves below the cliff, the chirp of birds and
crickets, leaves rustling behind, no more. Her eyes narrowed on
Finn. Paying no mind to her skepticism, he crept forward, nearing
the cliff.

Breanne watched and crouched lower herself,
unwilling to move and risk the noise of her gown and limbs alerting
someone or overbearing whatever the cat’s ears had picked up.

Finn inched closer to the perilously sharp,
rocky edge. Breanne breathed shallowly and strained her senses to
detect something, anything within the sunny, spring day around
her.

He looked back at her then pranced sideways,
arching his back. The hair along his spine stood up as he hissed at
the cliff’s edge.

Breanne crawled as close to him as she could,
without allowing the deathtrap waters to reach her line of sight,
on her belly.

“What?” she whispered. “What do you see?” She
couldn’t bring herself to look over the sharp edge.

He hissed again and she slammed her head to
the ground, heart pumping, and ready to retreat back to the woods
fast. She closed her eyes. Something touched her hair. She screamed
out the last stitch of air in her lungs and blindly raced back to
the woods.

Finn’s chortle of laughter brought her to a
stony halt. She should have known. Not bothering to turn back
around, she stormed through the brush and returned the way she had
come. If she didn’t move fast, she might end up living out that
kicking fantasy despite the threat of tumbling over the edge and
plummeting into the bleak waters after him.

Although, he would be tumbling first.

Chapter Two

The flames scalded. He
could feel them lick over his face, crawl over his skin, sear his
very soul. He tried to scream
,
but no sound came out. They were burning him
alive. Through the blue-orange flames Ashlon made out their
laughing faces. They were dancing.

A flash of cold wet him, dowsing the flames
down. Their faces changed. They saw him. They saw that he still
lived and one vicious man came forward. It was Jacques. Jacques was
alive.

Ashlon rejoiced, certain
his old friend simply had not known what he’d done, who Ashlon was.
But Jacques’s smile was twisted, contorted with ugly intention.
Ashlon shook his head, trying to speak
,
but his jaw and lips and tongue
failed him. All he could do was plead with Jacques with his eyes to
stop this madness.

“Quiet now,” Jacques said and wiped his face
with his cold hand. Jacques’s face went blurry as his voice drew
nearer. “Don’t struggle. Relax. You’re safe here.”

His friend’s face vanished and in its place,
Ashlon looked into the kindest green eyes. Even so, the eyes
belonged to a stranger. He should reach for his sword. He couldn’t
move, so weak he feared trying to. But those crinkling eyes
reassured him along with the brittle voice.

“Rest now.”

Ashlon let the nightmare leave him and his
eyelids drooped shut. The continued cool pressing and wiping
soothed him like a baby in its mother’s arms. He succumbed to
feverish fatigue.

* * * *

“
I must say, I thought
you’d come straight away, dancing and bubbling with joy this
morning, Bree. Did you not see Quinlan just this morning?” Rose
McRoarty pedaled the spindle as she spoke.

“Aye, we spoke in the hall, but not regarding
anything worth bubbling or dancing, Rose,” Breanne said and kept
her gaze on her embroidery.

None of the women around her yet noticed
she’d made not a single worthwhile stitch, so preoccupied was she
with this morning’s events. Leave it to Rose to unwittingly add to
her worries. She’d completely forgotten about Quinlan’s waiting for
her, or their awkward exchange, so rapt in thought, planning
methods to escape into the night in seven or so hours.

Rose’s delicate red brows
arched, probably both in surprise and suspicion. As Breanne’s best
friend and single confidante, she knew of the decade long
infatuation Breanne had had with Quinlan who was also Rose’s
brother. Ten years she’d loved him. In all those ten years since
the two had come to live within the keep, orphaned, Rose had
patiently listened to her best friend vie and long for her older
brother and never interfering on either party’s
behalf
. N
o easy
feat.

Today, she no doubt knew of Quinlan’s attempt
to begin officially courting her, might’ve even suggested what kind
of flowers he should gather. And so she had reason to raise those
beautiful brows that Breanne now peripherally saw, and silently
cursed. Breanne found herself stuck.

“Oh,” Rose said after a moment of
consideration.

Breanne could only hope that she’d yet to see
and question Quinlan concerning the success or disaster of his
morning’s best intentions. Mayhap, she’d be smiled on and he’d not
tell Rose at all, give up easily and allow their long friendship
(minus her long-standing obsession, of course) to resume as though
nothing had gone amiss.

“Did you not see him this morn?” Rose
asked.

Dratted persistent thing that she was, Rose
would ask for more from one, eventually both, of them, until the
whole sordid truth surfaced. Well, not easily, Breanne decided and
looked up from her piteous knots to hold her best friend’s gaze as
steadily as she possibly could. A steady gaze seemed the best way
to convince Rose of the lie about to spit to life.

“Only for a moment,” she said. “Long enough
for a quick good morn greeting. He appeared to be in quite a hurry
and so I left him and attended to, er, Finn. He desperately needed
a bath.” A bath? A BATH? Felines bathe themselves, remember? But
she nodded and returned to her embroidery. If she unknotted the
last stitches and began again, the small wren might look less like
wet horse droppings.

When she looked away, she didn’t miss the
pure disbelief flit to life and death in Rose’s cerulean eyes.
Breanne didn’t know when the lies had started. Weeks, months
mayhap? They weren’t really her fault and in fact protected Rose in
the end.

No one could know about her training with
Heremon aside from Ula and Niall. The first few years of her study
she didn’t have to lie, simply told part truths. She was learning
to be a healer. But, when she’d begun acting as a healer and
concern from her uncle, the abbot, had risen, secrecy had been
decided upon. Strict secrecy.

While most things Druid were incorporated
into religion, what she studied was not. By some standards, it
could be misconstrued and considered witchcraft, heresy, and devil
worship. Breanne made the choice between stopping altogether and
absolute concealment to the point of denial easily.

And regarding lies of Quinlan, well, what
else could she do? At least that’s what she told herself when pangs
of hurt shot through her heart.

The truth about Quinlan seemed more harmful
than any lie could be. And how could she begin to explain such a
dramatic change of heart to the one woman on the whole of Ireland
who loved Quinlan? She wished fervently she could, too, in the way
she did the very second before his lips locked onto hers.

But, she didn’t.

She didn’t know what she
felt any longer. Breanne didn’t want to call it
revulsion
,
despite it being the closest descriptor to the sick stomach
turn his lips and tongue and bulge churned up in her.

“Did he stink so terribly?” Rose asked with a
touch of sarcasm.

“Who?” Breanne frowned. “Oh, Finn, you mean.
Of course.” Damnation. She was appalling at this. “Yes. He rolled
in carcass, I believe. All night, he smelled so foul that I swore I
would wash him clean first and foremost that very morning--this
very morning.” Thankfully, Finn had yet to return to the keep and
her side, so he couldn’t be offended which he’d doubtless seek
vengeance for.

Rose laughed deeply, making Breanne feel both
relieved to see her friend did not see through her fabrication and
guilty by the lies. “I’ll wager that was not simple. Such a big
feisty thing, he is.” Her cheeks and eyes were bright with
cheer.

“Aye. He is and never more than this morning.
I took him by the scruff and lowered him straight in. He kicked and
yowled,” she detailed, enjoying the chortles of laughter as well as
the attention it drew. Rose could light a dark room with her
joy.

“And not a scratch on you. I’ll say you’ve
missed your calling, Bree.”

Breanne looked back to her cloth and needle,
still smiling. The words rang through her with a painful truth she
didn’t want anyone seeing. Had she missed her calling? Heremon’s
strange behavior circled back into her thoughts, again consuming
them.

Her mother’s gentle hand on her shoulder
startled her. “It’s good to see you smiling,” Ula said, not to her
but to Rose.

Breanne furrowed her brow. As she began to
ask why Rose wouldn’t be smiling, her mother’s expression stopped
her. It held a seriousness that unsettled her. She half knew what
words were coming.

“Niall and I would like a word before you
bathe for the evening meal, Breanne.” Ula stroked and cupped
Breanne’s cheek warmly, then walked away as demurely and quietly as
she had come.

Breanne wasn’t sure she
could withstand any other emotional struggle
today
,
but
neither saw a way clear of it. A husband. She dissected the feel
and parts of the word, turning it over in her mind.

“What’s this then?” Rose asked, speaking low
so none of the others would hear them in their corner of the
Grianan.

“I do believe I’ve been decided for, Rose,”
she said, the words feeling strangled.

Rose gave her a sympathetic look and cluck of
her tongue as Breanne walked past her. She followed the way her
mother had come, through the main hall and into a small room filled
with books, inks, rolled tapestries and Niall O’Donnell’s broad
frame.

It wasn’t the walk she’d taken this morning,
sneaking up the stairs to her mother’s door. This walk, all could
see and most did. The curious stares and hand-covered mumblings
made putting one foot in front of another, trying to appear casual
but proud, difficult. She swore the clusters of men and their
speculative mutters were worse than any of the women. They seemed
to relish a good tongue-waggle much more than any of the numerous
females Breanne grew up listening to.

Before entering the room, Breanne stopped and
swung full around, her hands on her hips, and glared at every man
she could meet eyes with. Most had the decency to look away. One
smiled toothsomely right at her. Shane MacSweeney. What had Niall
said when Shane asked for her hand? She might be about to find
out.

Niall’s earlier mention of
him to her mother recalled in her memory. She narrowed her eyes on
him, raised her chin a notch.
We’ll be
seeing about that, MacSweeney.

She knocked on the heavy door causing it to
open. Bravely, she stepped in. Her stomach roiled with nerves and
her pulse slammed.

“My lord has asked to speak with me,” she
said, with a deep feminine bow. Though she disliked the idea of her
mother marrying the man her father had died protecting, she
couldn’t resent him.

“Breanne, yes, please come in,” Niall said in
his booming voice.

He looked distressed, his brow heavily
creased, mouth tight-lipped. Breanne did as asked and came forward.
He rose from his seat and came around the table. Ula remained
seated. Her mother’s distress showed singularly in fidgeting
fingers toying with the hem of her blue and silver gown.

Niall circled the room, closed the door, and
continued. “Please, be seated.”

Breanne took the deep chair opposite her
mother. She bit the inside of her lip when it trembled. She fought
to maintain outward calm, as well. Niall did not. He paced the
floor in large circles, his big hands clasping behind him, moving
to the front, to his chin and returning to his back.

She wanted to scream out. She wanted to order
him to speak so they all could breathe again. But, she didn’t.