By the Light of the Moon (18 page)

They had chosen it well for their hunt, but Owain couldn’t help but think that the sun was shining purely for him and Moira. In the heat of summer, the sun made him feel weak and tired — like it did most Blaidyn — but in spring and autumn it was far enough away to allow him to simply appreciate its beauty, shining over the land and onto Moira’s flaming hair. Some of the strands had come loose from the intricately braided style her maid had formed it in. Now, they were spread over his shoulder, glinting in the light like living copper, like the blood of the earth. He could have carried her for hours, just to feel her heartbeat under her skin and bone, just to smell her slowly calming and to hear the tiniest noise of pleasure and comfort she exhaled from time to time against his chest. He hadn’t heard it in a while, though.

“Are you all right?” Owain finally asked. He could feel something off about her; not the smell of panic or exhaustion but something new. There was a note of tension in the set of her forehead and her jaw and her body wasn’t as relaxed as it had been a few minutes ago.

Moira nodded and Owain brushed his scruffy chin over hair reddish crown of hair until it snagged against a pearl ornament. It didn’t seem at home there, utterly misplaced like a jewel on a flower.

“Are you sure?”

“Maybe you should put me down,” she said quietly, nudging her forehead harder against his chest and Owain, trying to interpret those seemingly opposing signals, tucked in his chin to look down at her.

“I’m mostly all right now, I could walk … and I must be getting heavy.”

He could hear the untruth in her voice. She was a special human, but she was human and he was not. There were always things humans did that would baffle him and for a moment it pained him that it was true for Moira, too.

“You’re not heavy. But I can put you down if you want.” He stopped in his steps and his arms slackened a little to allow her to get down on her own two feet. After a moment’s hesitation, she did. He could tell that she was still feeling shaky but not enough to warrant being carried, maybe.

“Thank you,” she uttered quietly and didn’t meet his eyes. She breathed in deeply and Owain could almost feel the crackling pain in her ribs at the motion. Then she started to walk. He could see her carefully placing one shaky foot in front of the other, keeping herself upright and regal despite her disheveled hair and her tearstained face. He admired it, as much as he missed her soft curves in his arms. In a way, he thought she was far more beautiful like this; her eyes glittering and red, her hair no longer tamed and styled.

As if she’d been reading his mind, she raised her hands to tug at the jewelry in her hair. One by one, she removed pearl-encrusted pins and ribbons, uncoiled braids and knots as she walked until her hair lay free across her back, wild and curly. Owain was walking a step behind her, giving her that moment of breathing of getting away from him. He wasn’t completely blind to her motivation, and knew she was right, however much it pained him.

“I missed you,” he could finally hear her say, quietly, almost too quiet to pick up with normal senses. “I wanted to go out and find you every night but … ” she shook her head and then reached up to rub her fingers over her cheeks. Owain could feel her fingernails scraping over her skin and his brow furrowed.

“If I did that then … then the next day would be even harder, wouldn’t it? And then the next day? And the next day?” Once she had started to speak, she didn’t seem able to stop and now, her lower arms were once again the target of her nails. “And then the rest of my life with Deagan or someone just like him. Just an endless series of next days with … without you.”

Owain stood, locked in place by the force of her words and when she stopped hearing him behind her, she came to a halt as well but she didn’t turn around. He could see her breathing shakily, deep enough to expand her chest a little bit with each inhale, even from the back. It was beautiful and alive, fragile and stunning. His eyes caught on the nape of her neck that shimmered white through her hair.

“Turn around,” he told her, voice low, almost a growl, almost a command. As though she had received those from him for a lifetime, her body turned on its axis. She looked back at him, wide-eyed and wanting. Did he imagine it or did her lips look redder than before? Wetter, too, begging to be kissed and bitten. His legs pulled him forward, almost more than his head or any conscious decision. Similarly, it was his hand that cupped her cheek. Eyes locking, he gently smoothed his thumb over the faint pink lines her fingernails had left there and he shook his head maybe an inch from side to side.

“I want to kiss you again, Moira,” he whispered. Where her insecurity, her worries and her fragility was transported in a shiver and a higher pitch, his voice went lower, rougher, with a raw quality that made her stomach clench with excitement. “I want you aching for me tomorrow … I know I shouldn’t, but I do.”

For a moment, she didn’t know if she was still standing upright or whether she had already started floating, anchored only by his hand on her cheek. Her body seemed to have gone numb except for the few centers that exploded in sensations; her cheek, her neck, her spine, her stomach, the little nub between her legs.

“I can smell that,” he exhaled again and Moira went scarlet. When she tried to look down and avert her gaze, he held her in place, fingers slipping under her chin. “Don’t be embarrassed. Not you.”

Shaking his head ever so slightly, he inhaled deeply through his nose and when he exhaled again, his smile looked almost painfully beautiful.

Moira didn’t answer. Not at first, not while she was trying to feel her feet, trying not to faint on the spot while the little nub was pulsing under his gaze. He was shaking, too, ever so slightly and before she knew it, her fingers touched his chest. His smile deepened. His fingers, though, tightened under her chin, pulled her upwards until her body was stretched straight and she slid on her toes. Still he was far taller but his lips seemed closer now. She remembered them well, too well … warm and soft.

When she remembered to breathe, it was in a loud gasp that made him lean in closer. Their lips just a few inches apart, she could feel his breath on her face, the warmth of his body.

“Please … ?” She exhaled, when she couldn’t bear it anymore, her body strung tight as a bow ready to release in an explosion of need.

“Even if it will be worse the next day? And the next day?” he asked, still in that hoarse whisper that made something twinge painfully, tenderly, inside her. And then she nodded. Yes.

His lips touched hers only a moment later, softly at first, reacquainting themselves with the taste and the feel of her. The side of her nose touched the side of his, her forehead leaned against his brow and slowly they deepened their connection. Their mouths opened further, finally crashing against each other with the need pent and piled up for days and days and nights without end.

When her knees gave in and she stumbled against his chest, he walked her backward, smiling against her lips, until they hit a tree that lined the path. The smell of bark and wood invaded her nostrils in an interesting contrast to his smell. A leaf, shaken loose by her back hitting the trunk sailed lazily toward the ground. She could see it in the corner of her eyes for only a moment before his lips were on hers again but the deep red hue burned itself into her memory. It was forever connected with his lips and his tongue and the way his hand found her hip, pressing her against that tree unashamedly.

They broke apart, out of breath, and her eyes were shining up at him. So green and sparkling, Owain felt mesmerized for a long moment, wanted to get drunk on her, lost in her.

“Momo … ” he whispered without thinking, smiling down at her tenderly. When she raised her brows in a careful inquiry, he just nodded and repeated it. “Momo. That’s you. My Momo … ”

Her eyes sparkled again and he gently brushed the fleshy part of his thumb under her lower eyelid. “I can’t call you milady anymore. My name for you, Momo. Beautiful, strong, brave little Momo.”

He could feel her heart beating a wild rhythm in her chest, could smell the blood pooling under her heating cheeks, her neck, and swelling the petals of the flower between her legs. It was intoxicating, so strong, he had to physically hold the wolf back from taking control and pushing her to the ground to tear her clothes away. Not like that, though. Not his Momo.

“I don’t ever want to go back,” she exhaled, unfiltered what came to her head and both of their faces fell just a little before he cupped her cheeks in his hands.

“We’ll go together.”

“And if tomorrow … ”

“If tomorrow gets too bad, you find me.”

Moira nodded, only once but she did. What else could she say? What pretense did she have left to uphold? If the next day would get too bad, she would find him and he would kiss her again. And maybe, maybe she could never get married and he would stay with her and her life would be one next day after the other, one kiss after the other; a life with Owain. The thought was both startling and cleansing; it made her breathe in deeper and gave her a reason to smile.

“I will find you,” she exhaled, and happily sucked her bottom lip between teeth until it was bright red and shiny.

“That’s right, Momo,” Owain answered, eyes utterly captured by the view. Heart and mind by her eyes and her smile and the sound of her voice.

He took her hand and brought it to his lips. Kissing her palm, he breathed her scent in deeply, memorizing, filling up on her to the brim. It was the hand she’d had between her legs all those long days ago and somewhere under her skin, in the smallest crevasses, lines and pores, her essence still lingered. All he had to do was breathe her in deep enough and he could get drunk on her, like a man dying of thirst. Drunk and high and happy until he could lead her back home.

With most of the men away on a long planned hunt, the castle was more quiet than usual. The maids and servants were readying meals and cleaning mess halls and hallways, some singing, some chatting but most of the hustle and bustle in the courtyard was missing from the soundscape.

Iris, in a wide, woolen gown, her hair demurely held back in the nape of her neck, was standing in the garden, overlooking the herb patch. It was part interest, part ruse, even though she had no way of knowing how closely she was being watched. Her years of hiding and being careful had taught her to expect the worst, however; and so she patted the little leather sack, bound to the string that held her dress together around her waist and opened it. Then she pulled out a small silver-bladed knife and cut a few leaves of mint and thyme to put into the bag.

The fragrant herbs left their essence on her fingers and she brought them to her nose for a moment before closing the little leather satchel and looking around with a dissatisfied look on her face. It really was a small patch, filled with cooking ingredients rather than those the so-inclined might use for potions and draughts, for charms or readings.

Just to be safe, she took another look through the small, well-groomed garden and then walked through the broad hallways into the entrance lobby and outside into the courtyard that led to the drawbridge. Where usually guardsmen were jousting or training, there was only one man stationed at the bridge, who never so much as asked her where she wanted to go. She had never been questioned before, but her heart beat rapidly anyway when she nodded a greeting and then walked down under the dangerous spikes of the portcullis. The wood of the bridge creaked under her feet and she only really dared to breathe when she reached the other end and felt earth under the thin soles of her shoes.

It was quite a walk down to the village; at least she felt it in her bones and her aging muscles. Down the serpentine way off the rock upon which the Keep was built was the easiest part and she followed a long, winding street past harvested fields and fragrant orchards. A horse-drawn cart passed her now and again, and in the end, one took pity on the old woman and halted offering her a ride. A stick to lean heavily on had done the trick and Iris smiled to herself when the young farm hand even helped her on the back of his onion cart. Perched there, the street looked friendlier and she watched the famed Bramble Keep very slowly shrink in size the further they left it behind.

Finally in the village, her legs and chest thoroughly shaken on the bumpy road, she looked around and breathed in the different air. It was more populated, less clean than up the Keep, human waste in open little runlets at the side of the streets, stables and animal droppings on the large market street. But it was also more lively. It was barely afternoon, and she already heard music coming from various pubs and establishments, the fishwives were singing their song whenever they weren’t crying out their wares. Dogs were barking, children yelling and running around. It wasn’t Lauryl, but the atmosphere was oddly more wholesome, more natural than the quiet, more reserved castle on the rock.

She doubted that she was still being watched. Just to be safe, though, she stopped by the market and found a stall that sold herbs and imported spices. She didn’t have a lot of money, but she bought a small satchel of bright orange saffron and tugged it away after taking a deep whiff of its aroma. She still had a little of it back in her things, but she liked it as an ingredient and if anybody asked upon her return, she would have something to show for her trip. Besides, she could always gather more naturally growing ingredients on the long way back. She had seen a hawthorn bush not far off the trail, and somewhere in the forest, she would find the varieties of mushrooms she would need. Those would be hard to find on the market, though, for most of those she used for her magic weren’t the edible variety.

Finally, she mimed a tourist and looked around. There was the path down to the harbor where they had arrived almost a moon ago, there the famous Lake-side Inn with the Fae War murals she had been told about more times than she had cared to. She didn’t pay it a visit. Instead, she followed down a smaller side street; just an old woman getting lost in a village she didn’t know until she chanced upon an inn. This one was smaller, less expensive. The Clearing. Over its door hung a wooden sign of three trees standing in a triangle but it was so old that the once-green treetops were mere grey and the wood was weatherworn and laced with deep gashes in its veins.