Authors: Amanda Ashley

Beneath a Midnight Moon (10 page)

BOOK: Beneath a Midnight Moon

5.13Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

ads

The same stillness permeated the rooms. The sisters wore the same look of serenity, their eyes filled with a deep inner peace. Their voices were soft, never raised in anger. They moved through the corridors on silent feet, accomplishing the tasks that needed to be done, feeding the hungry, the homeless, tending the sick, praying for those who were dying.

They had welcomed her with open arms, without question, apparently recognizing her immediately as one of their own.

The howl of the wolf came again, louder, closer. Kylene glanced around the candlelit chapel, but none of the other sisters seemed affected by the savage howling. Indeed, if they heard it at all, they paid it no mind, so caught up were they in their prayers, in their own private meditations.

Resolutely, Kylene clasped her hands and bowed her head in prayer, seeking the deep inner peace that had once been hers. But it remained out of reach, a shadow without substance, a chimera, like swamp gas on a cool summer night.

Desperate, her eyes damp with tears, she tried to find her own inner stillness, but it was gone, perhaps forever, shattered by the remembered touch of a man’s hands on her too willing flesh, and the heartrending lament of the wolf.

That cry, that haunting, lonely cry, followed her the rest of the afternoon and into the quiet hours of the evening, penetrating every thought.

That night, when she crawled into bed, she was determined to stay awake, afraid he would steal into her dreams and take her unawares, afraid that, if he but spoke the word, she would turn her back on all she had promised to be, to do, simply because she wanted so badly to indulge her fantasies, to feel his hands in her hair, his lips caressing her flesh.

Wicked, she thought helplessly; such thoughts were so very, very wicked.

She closed her eyes and tried to pray, but her ears were filled with the anguished sound of the wolf’s howl.

She remained awake as long as she could, but gradually her body’s need for sleep overcame her and she tumbled over the brink into oblivion.

In her sleep, she wept, because he was not there.

Chapter 17

“It was what she wanted, Hardane,” Sharilyn said gently. “The vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience are not given lightly, and, once given, must not be broken.”

“I know.”

He sat with his head cradled in his hands, his shoulders slumped. She had never seen him look so defeated, so thoroughly discouraged.

“Hardane . . .”

“I’m all right, mother mine. Don’t worry about me.”

Indeed, she thought. When had she ever done anything else? He had been an adventuresome child, walking when he was only eight months old, climbing, exploring. No matter how many times he fell, how many bumps and bruises he sustained, he never gave up. Nothing frightened him—not fire, not water, not threats of dire punishment. What he set his mind on, he achieved. And yet, for all his willfulness, he had never been mean or disrespectful. When he did something wrong, he admitted it and took his punishment without complaint.

Now, for the first time in his life, he wanted something and he couldn’t have it. Most people learned early in life that they couldn’t have everything they wanted.

Sharilyn admitted it was partly her fault that it was a lesson Hardane was learning only now. But he had been her last-born son, the seventh son of a seventh son, and because she had known of the hardships that awaited him, she had cherished him and spoiled him beyond measure. She knew now that it had been a disservice to let him believe he could have everything he wanted simply because he wanted it.

Hardane rose to his feet heavily, crossed the floor, and gazed out the window, staring at the forest. Beyond the trees lay the tall gray buildings of the Bourne Sisterhouse. And Kylene.

He had spent a sleepless night, tormented by his longing to walk in her dreams and the knowledge that he had no right to violate her. She had fled the castle to escape him, and he would respect her wishes. But the knowledge that he could go to her, that he could touch her again, hold her in his arms, even if it was only in her dreams, was tearing him apart.

He sensed his mother’s presence behind him, felt her arms circle his waist. “It will pass, Hardane. Only give it time.”

He nodded bleakly, not believing her.

“Won’t you trust me, son?” she asked quietly.

“I love her. I . . . I did something I shouldn’t have.”

Sharilyn’s arms tightened around Hardane’s waist. “Tell me.”

“I seduced her.”

“No!”

“Only in her dreams, mother mine, but it could not have been more real if she’d been in my arms.”

Sharilyn uttered a wordless cry of despair. For the Wolffan, the line between reality and dreams was very fine indeed. Sometimes, what happened in the netherworld of sleep was more meaningful, more significant, than anything that happened in the clear light of day.

“I’m going after my father,” Hardane said. “I’ve already alerted my men. We leave on the evening tide.”

“Can you not wait for Dirk and Garth to return? They should be home within a fortnight.”

Hardane shook his head. Much as he would have liked to have had his brothers at his side, he couldn’t wait.

Sharilyn nodded, knowing there was nothing she could say to change his mind. And perhaps, she thought, it was better not to try.

With a sigh, she pressed her cheek to his back. “Be careful, Hardane,” she murmured. “Your people are depending on you.”

He nodded, but she knew him too well. He wanted the danger, the adventure, seeking it as an alternative to the pain he was feeling, as men had always run toward danger when they were running away from a deep inner hurt.

“Be careful,” she repeated, and then he was gone.

He stood on the quarterdeck of the
Sea Dragon,
gazing out across the water, his face into the wind. Kylene had run away from him, run to the safety of the Bourne Sisterhouse, knowing he could not follow her there. He could not blame her, not after what he’d done, and yet the thought that she’d run from him hurt as few things in his life had hurt.

He was the seventh son of a seventh son and as such, he was heir to the throne. And because he was to be the next Lord of Argone, little in life had been denied him. He’d never thought of himself as being pampered but, in retrospect, he supposed he had been. People had always deferred to him. At first it had been because he was the heir, but later, as he grew to manhood, he had earned their respect, earned it with his sword on the battlefield; on shipboard, with his crew; and, more recently, in running the affairs of the land while his father was imprisoned. He had always done what was expected of him, always done what was right even when it wasn’t what he, himself, wanted.

He wanted Kylene.

With an oath, he began to pace the quarterdeck, relishing the sting of the wind in his face, the smell of the salt air. Perhaps two weeks at sea would clear her image forever from his mind.

And perhaps the sea would freeze over and the sky would melt, he thought ruefully.

The bells. Her life was ruled by the bells. Five bells roused her from her hard, narrow cot in the morning, four sent her to prayers, three directed her to the refectory for the morning meal. Another four bells sent her back to the chapel for midmorning prayers; two told her it was time to take her place in the laundry room where she helped one of the Holy Sisters of Bourne wash the heavy black habits of their order. There was a brief pause for the midday meal, more prayers, and then it was back to the laundry until the ringing of the bells sent her off to the refectory again.

Idle speech and laughter were to be avoided in the sisterhouse. Their rule was one of work and prayer. They followed a schedule that never varied, summer or winter, rain or shine. Sunday was a day of rest, a day to be spent in constant prayer and meditation.

Kylene slipped into the life of the Bourne Sisterhouse without causing a ripple. She purged her mind of all worldly thoughts, all memories of a tall, well-muscled warrior with copper-hued skin and hair the color of pitch and eyes as gray as the stone walls of her tiny cell.

She prayed constantly for strength, for forgiveness for the lustful thoughts that had plagued her while she had been in Hardane’s company.

And if she sometimes wondered at the wisdom of her chosen vocation, if she questioned what good could come of spending one’s life closed behind high stone walls, of denying oneself the companionship of a husband, the joy of children, she kept such thoughts to herself, certain that, if she tried hard enough, she would learn to control her thoughts. Surely, in time, Hardane’s image would become less clear, the remembered the touch of his hand would lose its power to make her tremble with longing. Surely, in time, she would forget the sound of his voice, forget how masterful he looked standing on the quarterdeck with the wind whipping through his hair. She would forget how he had comforted her and held her and . . .

She was lying to herself, and she knew it. She would never forget him, not if she lived a thousand years. The color of his eyes, the breadth of his shoulders, the soft husky timbre of his voice were forever imprinted in her mind and her heart.

With a sigh of resignation, she bent to her task, trying to concentrate on scrubbing the dirt from the heavy black habit in the tub. But the color of the cloth reminded her of the ebony hue of Hardane’s hair, and the water sloshing against the wooden sides of the washtub reminded her of the sound of the sea. . . .

It took almost a week to reach the distant Isle of Klannaad. Hardane dropped anchor several leagues off shore. At dusk, he slipped over the side and swam to the island.

Upon reaching land, he overpowered a convict he found relieving himself near the water’s edge, bound the man’s hands and feet, and then grinned wryly as he took on the familiar shape, wondering, as he did so, what the Executioner had done to merit being sent to this wretched place.

No one bothered him as he made his way toward the small stone castle that was situated on a low rise. The citadel had once been a monastery, but a plague had wiped out all human life and the castle had fallen into ruin. The island had been deserted until Bourke became Lord High Sovereign of Mouldour.

Hardane paused to scan the area. Fire and neglect had ruined the upper two floors of the castle, though the ground floor was still habitable. The dungeon, located below ground and made of stone, was a honeycomb of small cells where those accused of treason or treachery were imprisoned.

Where his father was imprisoned.

Hardane passed several small groups of men as he climbed the rock-strewn ridge. He guessed there were less than twenty prisoners roaming the island. He could tell, by the way they deferred to him as he walked by, that the Executioner had already established himself as a man to be reckoned with.

On reaching the top, he melted into the shadows. And waited. An hour later, one of the guards left the castle and made his way into the darkness. On silent feet, Hardane slid up behind him and rendered him unconscious. And once again, he changed shape.

Approaching the castle, he stepped inside and looked around. In the next room, he could see six cots placed at intervals along the far wall. Men slept in four of them.

Only one man occupied the anteroom. He sat behind a badly scarred table, halfheartedly sharpening a long-bladed knife.

The guard looked up as Hardane stepped into the room. “Everything quiet out there?”

Hardane nodded. He stood in the doorway for a moment, wondering if it would cause suspicion if he went down to the dungeon. The guard made it easy for him.

“It’s time to check on the prisoners,” the man muttered, checking the sharpness of the blade with his thumb. “Take care of it, will you?”

Hardane grunted. Then, his heart hammering, he took a torch from the nearest wall sconce and made his way down the narrow stone stairway.

The stink of urine and vomit and unwashed bodies hit him even before he reached the bottom of the stairs. Voices called out to him, begging him for food, for water, for mercy.

He walked slowly down the corridor, peering into each cell, appalled by the gaunt faces, the sunken eyes devoid of hope.

He found his father in the last cell on the left. For a moment, he could only stare in horror at the human skeleton that sat huddled on a filthy pallet. A heavy chain secured Kray’s right foot to an iron ring in the wall.

Anger churned through Hardane as he took in his father’s ragged clothes, his bare feet. His long black hair and beard were matted with filth. His father had always been a proud man, careful of his appearance, conscious of his station in life. He was the Lord High Ruler of Argone. As such, he should have been treated with respect.

“You’ll pay for this, Bourke,” Hardane muttered under his breath. “By damn, you’ll pay!”

At the sound of Hardane’s muffled words, the prisoner looked up. Hardane watched in amazement as a change came over his father. Kray lifted his head, his black eyes blazing with contempt. Gone was the forlorn prisoner of a moment before and in his place sat the Lord High Ruler of Argone, haughty, defiant, as though he were sitting on his throne instead of a rank pile of straw.

Hardane couldn’t stay the grin that tugged at his lips. He had thought his father cowed, beaten, humbled. He should have known better.

“Father.”

Kray leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “Why do you call me father?”

“Because it is better to die as a wolf than live as a dog,” Hardane whispered, quoting an old Wolffan proverb.

“Hardane!” Rising to his feet, Kray closed the distance between them.

“Are you well, my lord?”

“Well enough. How’s your mother?”

“Anxious to see you again.”

Kray smiled, the expression softening the harsh lines of tension around his mouth and eyes.

“I’ll have you out of here soon,” Hardane promised.

Kray nodded. He didn’t ask questions. There was no need.

“How many guards on the island?”