By the Light of the Moon (7 page)

“He is a good man, Moira. He’s from a good family … and, between you and me, he is far more handsome than his older brother.” It was a string of comments, launched toward Moira’s general direction. She couldn’t move her head while the maid was braiding and coiling and pinning up her hair but she could feel her stepmother sitting there, watching her intensely enough to make her squirm.

“I’m sorry, milady, did I hurt you?” the maid asked immediately, hands leaving her red hair and Moira stopped herself from shaking her head and ruining the work in progress.

“No, I’m fine, Bess.”

Lady Cecile eyed them both, brows knotted with a sigh caught in her throat. Moira was truly quite beautiful when she tried. They would find a way to redden those sallow cheeks and to make her smile and there was no reason why she wouldn’t look absolutely marriageable. She wasn’t as slim as she could have been, but that brought with it a certain vigor and the promise of children between her wide hips and to nurse at her ample bosom. Moira, of course, had neither vigor, nor did she seem like a woman who would conceive easily, Lady Cecile thought, but there was nothing wrong with attributes, which gave that impression in any case.

“You should feel flattered that he came back; he obviously liked you when he visited last.”

Moira finally cast her eyes over at her stepmother, she still didn’t move any other muscle but she could see her there, drumming her fingers almost noiselessly on the polished wood table. She did not feel flattered and she knew better than to think he’d come back because of her. He’d come back because he had been told that she was his one chance at ruling over his own fief after his father would die and leave the house and the land and the riches to his older brother. If he married the young Lady Moira, however, he would rule over the Bramble Keep, the village of Rochmond and leagues of farms, fields and mountains. He would take the title, the name and the fief — the wife was just another possession.

Moira was more than aware of this, no matter that the frequency with which Lady Cecile repeated these facts seemed to suggest otherwise. She knew. She even tried to convince herself that this, inevitably, was her life; that she had no choice and that she could be happy if she just gave in. If he didn’t care about her, she had little doubt that he wouldn’t insist on seeing her every day, and her life wouldn’t change all that much. But she would be married, would no longer be considered a child and she would be able to ask him to remove her prison guard. And still, as much as she tried, she couldn’t stop her body from locking down at the idea, couldn’t keep it breathing or keep it from crying or get it to sleep.

“I hear that he is a most excellent sword-fighter, a good jouster, too. And in the royal hunt last year, he brought down the second largest stag. He is a good man, Moira. A man you should be proud to marry.”

When Moira was alone with her maid, she almost liked the soft little tugs at her hair, the way she had to sit absolutely still, and someone else was moving their hands and fingers so close to her scalp; it wasn’t being alone, it wasn’t quiet but wasn’t bad. Being watched while Bess was putting her hair up, however, was setting her teeth on edge and made the little down on her back raise with the need to shake herself, shake it off and just scream until she could drown out the constant drone of her stepmother’s voice.

“Really, I swear to the heavens, child … sometimes I wonder if you are even listening to a word I say.”

“I am,” Moira said quietly, blinking and staring ahead. How could she not? It would have been far easier if she had any way not to, any way to block it out but she had never acquired that particular skill that most other people seemed to take for granted.

“At least give him a chance, will you? You know what happens if heavens forbid, your father should die before you get married.” Lady Cecile exhaled a deep sigh, shaking her head, “What will happen then … to either of us?”

“I know, mother.”

“You are not a child anymore, Moira, and it is high time you started thinking of these things. He is a good catch and I don’t see a better one on the horizon.”

“Yes … mother.”

• • •

Moira did not look at her guard who was waiting for her when she exited her chambers, hair elaborately and intricately styled and wrapped in silks and gold and pearls. It was too much. It wasn’t her, nor did she feel like herself; and his presence there was just another reminder of the utter lack of control she had over her own life.

Instead, she followed her stepmother down the corridor, eyes on the back of Lady Cecile’s head where the curls and braids and intricate designs always looked a little more at home, a little more in place. And then all she had to do was continue to do it; to keep walking to all those places she didn’t actually want to go.

She was being led to the library again, where her father seemed deep in conversation with Deagan Fairester. He was a little taller than her father and had a fineness of features that her father never could have possessed, even in his youth. They both turned around when the ladies entered and bowed before Moira and Cecile curtsied in turn.

“Darling,” Lord Rochmond enthused, but she did not recognize the smile on his face easily. “You have met Master Deagan, son of Lord Hindrick Fairester?”

“Of course,” Moira replied, stepping forward, wary and careful. “It is a pleasure to receive you at Rochmond Castle again, sir.”

Words. Words she had learned.

“My lady, I’m quite enchanted to see you again.” He had a fair face, small featured but handsome and intelligent. Moira didn’t think that he had changed much in the weeks since he had been to Castle Rochmond, except maybe that his smile was broader, just around the lips.

“My father tells me that you are well but I had to see it for my own eyes. You are growing ever more beautiful, milady.”

“Thank you, Sir Fairester.”

“I should thank you; and your lord father, of course, for your hospitality. It is always a pleasure to visit. I simply had to come back before everybody will be here for the Festival of Prevailing Peace and see it for themselves.”

Moira took a deep breath. She could feel the muscles in her face quivering slightly where they were trying to hold her smile in place. Her shoulders twitched a little on their own accord but she managed to smile.

“I am glad. We can’t quite … compete with the splendor of Lauryl, I’m sure but … I’m glad you are enjoying it.”

“Well, it’s a splendid place and may I just say … a beautiful woman makes it well worth a journey.” A look passed between the young master and her Lord Rochmond and Moira looked down, exhaling an almost silent, steadying breath again.

“Your father and I were just talking about the apple harvest and his famous apple wine. It is a delicacy even at court as you must know.”

“I do. My father is very proud of it.” Her eyes caught her father’s and the plea for help was easily hidden from him when all he wanted to see was his future son-in-law and his daughter dressed up to what she was supposed to be.

“Maybe you could show him the grounds and the castle,” he suggested with a benevolent smile at both of them. Moira wondered whether he thought he was doing her a kindness by allowing them some time to themselves, but then his eyes fell on her guard and she knew it wouldn’t turn out that way. For once, she was relieved rather than angry.

“But of course, I would love the see the orchard. We’ve been travelling by ship for almost two weeks, milady, a good, solid orchard might be just what I need.”

He was so friendly, so open, Moira thought it overwhelming and she had to take another deep breath and a step backward until she managed a nod.

“As you wish … ”

“May I escort you, milady?”

Another wordless nod and she daintily placed her hand on the proffered arm. She didn’t look at anyone as he started to lead her out of the library but she could feel the Blaidyn and his almost soundless steps behind them.

• • •

The rock upon which Rochmond stood offered only space enough for a small private assembly of apple trees toward the southern edge of the property, a small field between the sunny side of the Keep and the little moat that had once truly offered an obstacle to pressing armies but nowadays mostly served to dispose of human waste and to keep the gardens irrigated.

“Most … most of the apples come from … from other orchards in the area,” Moira explained haltingly. At the earliest chance, she had withdrawn her hand from the suitor’s arm and was now walking at the widest distance she still considered proper. Letting her hands rest on the gnarly bark of the old trees helped but it wasn’t a fix. It was rough, as though she only had to press hard enough and it would tear her skin, would leave deep gouges there and she would be able to watch the blood trickling out, watch them slowly heal. She would feel the sickening and heady sensation she always felt at the sight of blood.

“I’m sorry?” she asked, blinking when she became aware that he had been talking and she hadn’t taken in a word. That had to be one of those social blunders her mother and governesses kept trying to iron out of her but she had genuinely lost track of the moment then. She could feel her guard move in closer behind her, but how she knew this she wasn’t quite sure.

“I apologize, milady, sometimes I just talk and talk. I was just admiring the area … and yourself.” He smiled again, that small knowing smile that was different from humor or pleasure. She didn’t like it, just like she hadn’t liked it on his first visit. “Because you, my lady, are quite worthy of praise. So lovely in this light; it suits you.”

He took a step closer and instinctively, Moira took one backward but found she was trapped against that same bark she had marveled at earlier. She could have pushed herself off and evaded him in any other direction around the garden but she hesitated for a moment too long and suddenly he stood right in front of her, smiling and plucking an apple from the tree in an oddly provocative manner.

“Not a day passed that I didn’t think of you, Moira … ” his voice was low and sweet, his smile almost compelling this close.

If she were to marry him, maybe he would always be this nice to her, maybe she would get used to it? Maybe she would like it? She tried to return his smile. But then he lifted his hand and cupped her cheek and Moira tried to back away so hard she hit the back of her head against the tree. She coughed out an apology. Then she slipped out from between him and the obstacle behind her. She didn’t feel so good. Her chest was suddenly cold and hard again, and every breath she forced into her lungs hurt. She didn’t even look back.

Then, something closed around her wrist and pulled her back. She yanked at her arm but she couldn’t break away. And suddenly, Owain stood between her and her suitor. A moment later, she was free. She cupped her wrist in her hand and gasped for a few shallow breaths. She could maintain now, where a few years ago she would have run off crying that very moment. Now, she could steel her shoulders and look back at Deagan Fairester who was shooting a look at her guard before his eyes returned to her. His face took on an apologetic expression.

“Milady, are you quite all right?” he asked, advancing again. But when his hand reached out for her one more time, Owain stepped between them again. He was fast and just then, in her shifting alliances, he seemed safer than the human.

“I believe my Lady Moira isn’t feeling well, sir. I will escort her back inside,” Owain told him in a dangerously quiet voice.

“That’s quite a bark on you, dog,” the nobleman snorted. But when he tried to sidestep the Blaidyn, Owain blocked his path again with a dangerous growl. Sir Fairester jumped back. His face first registered fear, but then quickly turned to anger. Even Moira flinched at the sound and then stared at the usually so silent and unobtrusive man.

“You should keep that animal on a leash,” Sir Fairester spat and then stalked off in the opposite direction.

Owain stood there, actively suppressing the rage that fueled the wolf inside. He, like all young Blaidyn had learned to channel his rage into fight and he did it well, but when there was no one to fight, the rage had no other place to go than into the painful and prickling need to shift and the let the wolf run. Especially when he was this close to the full moon.

Moira had walked all the way back to the archway leading into the keep when he started after her. She looked shaky and pale and whatever the rage was doing to him … he was worried for her.

“He … he shouldn’t have said that,” she said very quietly when he came up on her side and he eyed her with a momentary sense of surprise. “You didn’t have to … do that but … that wasn’t, it wasn’t right, I’m sorry.”

“Milady didn’t do anything wrong,” he assured her. There was a hoarse quality to his voice, the hint of a growl still prevalent but he watched her closely, narrowed his brows. She didn’t look at him, but she seemed content to let him walk her back to her chambers. The walk felt too short.

“Thank you,” she offered and her eyes brushed past his for the fraction of a second and then a moment longer. “You look pale,” she said and he almost wanted to laugh despite his lingering unease. It was an interesting comment coming from that ghostly young woman.

“I am fine, milady. I am honored by your concern, but I am perfectly well.”

She eyed him for another long moment and then nodded with a shy shrug before she vanished behind her heavy door. Her scent lingered in his nose as he slowly trotted back to his chambers.

It was much later in the day and Moira was sitting at the largest desk in the library. It was covered with an intricate and stunning map of the realm pinned neatly onto the wood — Lynne from the ocean in the west to the mountains in the east.

Old Brock was hobbling around it, moving figurines that stood for opposing armies around the borders and the different fiefs, never stopping in his narrative. He had been teaching her for years but it was exactly lessons like these that always failed to completely grasp her attention; they were so long and always the same. It was difficult to try and care about why some nobleman far away and once upon a time had felt slighted in his pride and declared war upon his neighbor. Or why two brothers who had broken apart their father’s land had ended up killing each other in a duel, following a decade of vicious wars.