By the Light of the Moon (26 page)

Unbidden memories of the evening with Owain intruded on her mind, entering into that raw and painful soil that was still her entire conscious. His hands had been so warm on her skin, his kisses, his tongue. When she tried really hard, she could still recall the feeling of him moving inside of her. The very thought made her eyes sparkle again and by then, she had stared at his features without realizing it for minutes.

• • •

“My Lady,” Deagan Fairester interrupted her train of thoughts this time, giving her his best sympathetic smile. “I missed you the last few days. I was so worried about you, poor thing. You still look frighteningly tired.”

“Thank you, sir,” she rasped quietly, managing another smile even though her head was swirling and something seemed to ache and prickle under her skin.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but I am so glad to see you back up and about. The castle is really not the same without you.”

He continued in the same vein, telling her how he spent the days, and that he was sad to say that he was planning his return to the capital but that he had urgent business to attend to and couldn’t be selfish and spend all autumn in Rochmond just to be in the presence of such a beautiful woman. It was theatre, too, but it was so familiar to Moira that she didn’t mind. Theatre meant that all she had to do was play her part while he played his. It didn’t require her to think or care, it didn’t shock her or make her blush and it wouldn’t crush her whatever he chose to do. And he would leave; in just a few days he would leave and she could sleep and wear her hair how she wanted and dress in plain and comfortable dresses that didn’t itch and confine her skin so much. It was something to look forward to even if that phrase wasn’t quite as filled with meaning now as it once had been.

• • •

For Owain, the evening had not quite gone as planned. He had started his day, finally deciding to ask his leave from Lord Rochmond and return to Lauryl. He’d find some employment somewhere. The business of war was never over or forgotten, on some foreign field, men always lived or died by their sword and that was where he belonged. Late events had shown this all too clearly. Falling in love with a noblewoman was bad enough; everything else was still beyond his true understanding. Over and over, he saw her in his mind’s eye, her skin bright and golden, shining in its glow. Purer than any lamp or candle could ever hope to be, gentler and sweeter than the sun. She had been so incredibly beautiful in that moment, he’d hardly been able to keep looking, humbled and almost afraid of such magnitude.

She was Fae. It was impossible but that was what he had seen, clear as the moon in the sky. The beauty was tainted and wrong, manipulative and cruel, a bait to lure the weak. And weak, utterly weak he had been to her sweet little scent and her huge scared eyes that could suddenly turn so strong and stubborn.

And then for days, they had kept her hidden or she had hidden herself. Owain found himself unable to sense how deep the conspiracy went. Her father seemed clueless but he never got close enough to anyone else to test his theory there. But how could that be? Was she a spy? Was she a changeling, like in the scary stories told to bad children? The Fae would come and take them away and exchange them for a Fae child. He still shuddered at the thought.

When he had entered Lord Rochmond’s study, however, the nobleman, before Owain could get out a single word, had greeted him overly friendly. He’d been happy to see him and explained how three of his young guardsmen had been struck with a cough of the lung and he required at least one more man to flank the lavish dinner. Owain could have declined, but Lord Rochmond still was his employer and he knew well enough that it didn’t do well to offend those if you still wanted to receive your wages and a good reference.

He couldn’t have known that this was the night they had forced Moira back to the table, but then he thought, maybe he should have guessed. If the full celebratory guard had been required, it had to have been an occasion of some significance. For a dreaded moment, he had wondered if they were announcing the engagement. It didn’t matter that a primal part in him hated her now, dreaded and mistrusted her. The idea of her with Deagan Fairester was still unbearably cruel. He’d kept his post, however, vowing to quit his station there the very next day. They would survive, Moira was evidently the last person who needed an escort, she had to be stronger than any single one of the people in the room, including him.

But then she had entered the room, and he could hardly keep his eyes away from her. She looked weak, almost dying. There was none of the light that had shone within her that night, not a single glimmer left. She seemed a shell, stumbling from step to step until she sunk into her seat. He knew that she was watching him and he had less obvious means of doing the same to her. It appeared to him as though she wasn’t watching at all.

Rather, she was sleeping with her eyes open, and was hardly there at all. Glimmers of recognition were there when she was addressed from time to time, at others she didn’t move at all and for the first time, Owain started to doubt his initial reaction. In fact, the longer the dinner drew on, the more guilty he felt. Had he checked all the facts, had he truly thought about her and who she was before making that judgment call? She looked nothing like a mystical creature now. She wasn’t even pretty anymore, and yet his chest ached with longing to hold her. It wasn’t right, it never had been and never would be, but there it was. He wanted to hold the shaking spoon and gently feed her broth, wanted to hold her and kiss her and talk her into another sip until she was strong enough to walk outside in the fresh air. The snow would come down from the mountains any day now and she would love it, crunching softly under her little feet.

Whenever Deagan spoke to her, Owain swallowed hard. He didn’t often hate and yet in his little time here he had hated twice; Deagan and Moira when she had revealed herself as Fae. Or had it been a dream? Induced by the moment and the passion? Owain knew better than to mistrust his eyes. They hadn’t led him astray yet, not together with his nose and his intelligence. And yet, he couldn’t help but look at her now and doubt them anyway.

The evening dragged on, he continued to wonder why they were putting her through it when she so clearly needed rest. Sometimes, she would sway on her seat from side to side and then take a deep breath and steady herself upright again. Sometimes, her stepmother would touch her arm or tuck a lock into her hairdo and for a moment, Moira would make an effort to smile. But really, all his eyes and nose were telling him was that there was a malnourished, exhausted girl who should have been in bed with a nurse.

In a way, he almost couldn’t bear watching. He made himself, just because he had to wonder how much of it was his fault for how beastly he had treated her. At the same time, he was just as sure that he was one of the few people in the room who could look upon her then and still feel warmth and tenderness rise in his chest. She had been just as shocked as he had been, hadn’t she? Was it possible to be Fae and not to know it? A week ago, he would have doubted the very existence of any Fae at all, so why not this? The thoughts were swirling and undulating in his head in maelstrom of guilt and desire and tenderness, distracting him.

It was because of them that he almost missed a tiny gesture. The only reason he caught it was because Deagan was sitting right next to the focus of his inconspicuous attention. The nobleman took Moira’s cup and brought it under the table. Owain heard the softest sound of trickling liquid and a moment later the cup emerged. Deagan refilled it for her with honeyed wine.

“There you go, beautiful lady, drink up. It’ll help restore your health,” Deagan smiled raising his own cup to toast to hers. Owain watched wide-eyed as Moira carefully picked hers up as well. It shook a little as she brought it closer to Deagan’s and let him clink his cup against it. The sound was deep and dull.

Owain shuddered, hesitated only a second and then jumped around the table and struck the cup out of her hand. It fell to the ground, broke and the wine splattered in all directions. It had a strange smell, Owain couldn’t help but notice in the tiny second before the table rose in an uproar. It smelled like blood and hair, like herbs and something else. Shuddering, his eyes closed in on hers apologetically. But already she was staring up at him, tears glittering between her eyelids and pain and confusion on her face. She touched her wrist and rubbed the spot he had to twist in his effort to force her to release the cup.

Just as he tried to open his mouth to explain, to apologize, to offer any kind of sound — Lord Rochmond banged his fist on the table and bellowed across the table.

“What in the name of … ?” he started, and then stopped as though even he couldn’t believe the scene that had just unfolded before his eyes. Where time had seemed to slow down for an instant before, it now sped up suddenly in the bedlam of uproar at the table.

Deagan, with no weapon at the table gave the tall, muscular Blaidyn one long look and then marshaled his desire to tackle him himself. Even the rest of the guard didn’t seem to know what to do when chaos broke out. Lady Cecile quickly pulled Moira to her feet and rushed her to the other side of the room behind a row of able-bodied men. Owain’s eyes were still on her and she tried to look back, pushed and pulled this way and that.

“Guards, take him,” Lord Rochmond finally took command. To their credit, the guardsmen tried valiantly not to show their fear. With deep breaths and steeled faces, they advanced and after another look at Moira — suddenly scared and confused and shaking again — he didn’t fight. Willingly, he let the men pin his hands behind his back and hold a sword to the soft skin under his chin.

His nostrils flared as he breathed, brain slowly catching up with the events of the last minute. His arms ached but it wasn’t enough to distract him. What did distract him was the scene taking place at the other side of the room where Moira was suddenly fighting herself out of her stepmother’s embrace. Deagan came in to try and calm her, but she evaded his arms, too, stumbling past the row of men.

“I want … let me through,” she spat out at the captain of the guard who tried to block her way to Owain. Sir Clifton knew Moira well, knew her escapades at least but for the moment, the prisoner seemed well held and after another glance at his Lordship, he stepped aside so that she could hurry in front of Owain. Up close, she looked even more breakable now. He could have pushed the guards away and snapped her neck like a twig; Fae or no Fae. She almost seemed to beg for it, she looked so exhausted with the world. And yet, there was anger blazing in her eyes, anger and confusion and fear.

“Why did you do this?” she demanded quietly. It wasn’t any use, the hall had calmed to a complete silence and everyone could hear.

“He put something in your drink … m … milady,” Owain answered, equally quietly, catching himself from using her name when his eyes only on hers put his mind into the wrong frame of intimacy. She was the only one he desperately needed to believe him.

“What?” she got out, head turning again to the shattered cup and the wine that was still glinting on the stone floor.

“I don’t know, but I saw him put something in your drink before he topped it up with wine and gave it to you. You have to believe me, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Moira had never heard Owain like this, almost begging. Everything inside of her was pulling her to touch him, to place her cheek against his chest and tell him it would be all right, everything would be all right and she would protect him. Nothing mattered anymore, not what she had said, not whatever he seemed to think she was; she loved him, and she wanted him safe.

Before she could answer, though, Deagan snorted, puffing out his chest.

“Preposterous,” he all but shouted, closing in on Lord Rochmond. “Slanderous nonsense, nothing more. Why in the world would I … ”

Lord Rochmond lifted a hand and Deagan Fairester stilled.

“Do you have proof, wolf?” he asked Owain, with as much fairness as he could manage under the circumstances, still angry and disgusted at the scene.

“Of course he doesn’t have p … ” Deagan started, but again Rochmond lifted his hand. They were both of noble birth but Deagan was not a Lord, nor would he ever be if he didn’t marry Lord Rochmond’s daughter and so he respected the man’s house rule.

“I don’t,” Owain said quietly, and then swallowed hard. “Unless the vial is still on his person, I do not … ” It was a guess, really. The sound of pouring water had been small and soft and sounded like something bubbling out of a small glass object but he couldn’t know.

This time, Deagan Fairester pulled his face into a grimace of derisive humor and opened his arms wide.

“Oh, search me, by all means,” he told Lord Rochmond, his eyes narrowing and nostrils flaring. “What reason in the world would I have to poison the beautiful flower I want to marry? Is this the kind of house you run? Some dirty wolf can simply accuse a nobleman of attempted poisoning? I demand retribution, my Lord!”

While he was speaking, any idea of searching him had gone from Lord Rochmond’s mind. He did still want the engagement to happen and he could not imagine it going well if he turned against her suitor now. And truly, the man spoke sense; the wolf did not. After all, wasn’t that what wolves did? Turn on their masters?

“Take him away. We will pass sentence on him in the morning,” he announced grandly, ignoring for the moment Sir Fairester’s demand for retribution.

“Wait … wait!” Moira called, and then coughed. She wasn’t up to shouting and her face showed it, her skin white against the red blotches. “He explained, he didn’t do anything … ”

“Moira, for once in your life hold your tongue.” Lord Rochmond hissed and the guardsmen dragged Owain away. He didn’t fight.

“But … ”

“This wolf accused the man who loves you.” The reminder came from Lady Cecile, who tried once again to put her arm around her strange stepdaughter but she evaded it.

“My lady,” Fairester started gently, “I sincerely hope that you know I would never lie to you or hurt you in any way. I want to marry you, I want you to be my wife and bear my children … I would never hurt you, Moira.”