Dragon's Moon (5 page)

Unable to break gazes with the warrior and yet unwilling to remain as she was, Ciara surged to her feet. The nights without sleep, the days she had eaten less than enough to sustain a sparrow much less a wolf caught up with her in that one confusing moment. Swaying on her feet, she tilted forward.

She jerked back, but overcompensated and one foot slipped out from beneath her.

Suddenly, unbelievably, despite her wolf's grace, she pitched forward. She tumbled into the night air, her hands scrabbling for purchase on the stone, one finger connecting. She tried to make it two, to get a better grip, but she could feel her fingertips giving way even as she did so.

She refused to let the joints unbend, but she could feel blood welling around cuts in her fingers from the stone. The wetness proved her undoing. No amount of will could force her fingers to hold as the wet blood made them slip and she fell.

Her wolf howled as she tried to shift, hoping against all to live.

But it was not the hard ground that broke her fall. Sharp talons curled around her body, warm scales that felt like living chain mail pressed against her face and suddenly she was not falling, but flying upward. In the arms of a dragon.

That was the last her tormented mind could take. Ciara welcomed the black oblivion as it came.

The dragon wing of night o'erspreads the earth.

—S
HAKESPEARE

T
he woman's body went limp in his arms and Eirik knew she had fainted.

Fury fueled by an inexplicable worry and having to shift into his dragon where other Sinclairs might be watching filled him as Eirik flew back toward his people.

At least it was night, but the moon was nearly full and a keen-eyed Sinclair could not help but notice a dragon flying in the sky over their holding.

What had the bloody-minded female been thinking to climb onto the tower, instead of staying safe inside it?

What was she doing out at all this late at night? He could smell her wolf, so he knew she was Chrechte. Did she think that made her safe from dangers that lurked in darkness?

Despite his anger, he was careful when he laid her on the grass to regain her senses. He was dressed and strapping his sword back on when her eyes fluttered.

Eyes the color of emerald looked up at him in confusion. “You are dragon.”

He did not deny it.

“You are.”
She tried to rise, but fell back weakly. “You are
the dragon
.”

“And you are clumsy for a Faol.”

She shook her head, but he did not think it was in denial. Dark shadows marred the perfect pale skin below eyes in an oval-shaped face, so lovely it almost hurt to look at her. Her collarbones were outlined by that same pale skin, as if she had not been eating enough. And her hands trembled.

Was Talorc not taking care of his people?

Eirik could not believe it of the arrogant but honorable Chrechte laird.

The trembling could simply be from fear though. He could smell it on her, a sour stench that did not coincide with her beauty or Chrechte spirit.

“My…I…”

“What were you doing on top of the tower?”

“Waiting for you.”

He gave her a look that doubted her words. Was she addled then? He could sense the heat of her blush before her alabaster skin turned pink.

“I mean for all of you. I wanted to see the new Chrechte that would join our clan.”

“You are a Sinclair.” Of course she was. She wore their plaid, though her dress was a little different.

Her skirt was the pleated tartan of the Sinclair, but she wore a black bodice laced over her white blouse, a tartan shawl pinned to her shoulders.

It was far too many layers for a wolf to wear for easy shifting. Did the Sinclair not teach his Chrechte the importance of speed when doing so? It could make the difference between life and death.

Had Eirik not been able to shift near instantly only moments before, that death would have been hers.

“I was a Donegal.”

So, she had married into the clan. Why that knowledge should make his dragon feel like casting fire Eirik did not know.

“And now you are a foolish Sinclair who does not know
better than to keep your vigil of curiosity on the top of a tower. You are no bird to save yourself with a shift.”

She frowned, clearly affronted by his plain speaking. Too bad. Someone should have spoken to her of such before.

“Your husband has failed in his duty to protect you.” And Eirik would tell the idiot just that when he met him.

“I have no husband.”

“Then how did you come to be a Sinclair when you were a Donegal?” Only his younger cousin would dare to interrupt Eirik's discourse with the Sinclair wolf.

Ciara turned her head so she could see Fidaich. “I came to live with the Sinclairs after your prince killed my brother and mother.”

Low exclamations and gasps sounded from the others, indicating they had heard the woman's accusation.

Fidaich grabbed her arm and shook her. “You take that back. My cousin is no murderer like the Faol.”

Eirik's dragon growled.

“Not all wolves are killers,” the boy's mother reprimanded, apparently oblivious to the dragon's precarious temper.

But both the Sinclair woman and Fidaich ignored Eirik's aunt to glare at one another.

“Release her,” Eirik ordered in a voice none had ever been foolish enough to ignore.

Fidaich did so but stared up at Eirik with frustration. “She cannot be allowed to make such false claims against you.”

“They are not false.” The woman's voice was laced with absolute certainty, but worse—with pain.

Eirik did not like it.

Fidaich did not, either. “They are.”

“Not.”

Eirik rolled his eyes.
“Fidaich.”

Just one word, but his cousin subsided. Eirik met the now accusing gaze of the woman. Her fear had not diminished, but now it was laced with anger and hurt.

“Explain.”

“You killed my brother with your fire and my mother
took her own life because of it. Therefore, you murdered them both.”

His dragon had only ever killed two men in that way. One had been this woman's brother. But how had she known?

“'Twas not murder, he was protecting me and Canaul,” Fidaich growled, clearly unable to keep well out of it.

The woman started. “You were one of the boys Luag meant to harm?”

“Your brother was this Luag?” Eirik asked before Fidaich could answer.

The utter revulsion that came over the woman's features denied Eirik's words before she said a vehement, “Nay.”

“The other one?”

“His name was Galen. He was a good brother.”

“But not a good Chrechte.”

Shame dropped her eyes from his and made his dragon want to sneeze with its acrid scent. “He was deceived by those he thought were friends.”

“He would have allowed his friend to murder a child.”

“So, you killed him.”

“I did not know he was any less a threat than the man with a fist raised to my cousin.”

“He was.”

“I could not risk it.” Not that he'd even considered the matter.

“You burned them to ash.”

“Aye.”

“I left Luag's remains in the forest for the animals.” She said it as if admitting something no one else knew.

As far as Eirik was concerned, she'd done exactly right. “'Twas no less than the would-be killer of children deserved.”

She nodded and he helped her to her feet, unable to let her sit so defenselessly in the grass any longer. It just didn't feel right. “You saw me.”

“Yes.” She pulled away from him as soon as she was standing.

“How?”

She swayed a little but seemed to stay standing by sheer will alone. “Does it matter?”

“It does if you were in a position to protect the boys and did not choose to do so.” He knew not all Faol were bad, but to think this woman lacked honor in that way made something in Eirik's gut twist sickly.

“I was going to intervene, but you got there too quickly.”

“Barely quickly enough to stop Luag from killing my cousin with a single blow.”

“I was set to attack him as a wolf.”

“You hesitated too long. If I did not see you, you could not have reached Fidaich in time.” Eirik made no effort to soften the censure in his tone.

This woman accused him of killing not only her brother but her mother as well by his actions in protecting Fidaich and Canaul. He would give no quarter on the circumstance of her brother's death. Chrechte did not harm children.

And none should stand by while one tried to.

“The only one who killed that day was you.”

“Would you have rather I left my cousin to the nonexistent mercies of your Luag?”

“He was not mine.”

But Eirik was not listening, nor did he care how much revulsion she showed at every mention of Luag's name. He had heard enough from this female wolf who accused him of murder when she had stood by while Éan children were threatened.

He regained his mount and nudged his horse into movement. The Sinclair wolf could walk. The bridge into the fortress was close enough.

Nevertheless, Eirik was not surprised to hear Lais offer the woman a ride on one of the extra horses. As healer to their people, the eagle shifter was the only one with the authority to do so without Eirik's say-so.

Lais must have seen how weak the woman was, the way she swayed on her feet, and chosen to show more pity than the woman's brother had had for two Éan children caught playing in the forest.

The quiet words of acceptance and gratitude reached Eirik's ears before he kneed his horse into a gallop.

I
gnoring the looks of censure he received from the others, Lais helped Ciara onto the back of Eirik's extra mount. It was the only horse well trained enough that he had no worries about it dumping the obviously shaky woman on the ground.

“I am Lais. I don't know if you remember me, but I was once a Donegal as well, Ciara.”

“You know my name.” Ciara searched his features until her green gaze glimmered with recognition. “You are here with the Éan? But you were a friend of Rowland's. Of Wirp's.”

“I was never their friend.” Though he'd been misled into believing himself so at one time.

She pondered that for a moment and then nodded ever so slightly. “Like my brother, you were deceived.”

“Yes.” Which was why, of all the Éan, he was probably the only one who would understand Ciara's defense of a man who had stood by while Chrechte children were threatened.

He was also one of the few Chrechte, maybe the only other one besides himself, who knew the toll that day in the forest had taken on Eirik's soul. And how much Ciara's accusations would have bothered the prince.

“Do you remember my brother?” Ciara asked softly.

“I did not know him well. He spent most of his time with Luag, some with Wirp.”

“Yes.”

“He would have mated you to Luag.” And a damn shame it would have been. Luag had been a sadistic, honorless man who did not deserve the wolf that shared his soul.

“You can't know that.” But Ciara's tone said she knew the truth of it, just as Lais did. The scent of grief and sadness coming off of her told their own story.

Wishing he had not reminded her of her brother's other failings, Lais said, “You never told anyone of the dragon.”

“No.”

“How did you explain your brother and Luag's disappearance?”

“I told everyone Luag had led Galen into harm's way and caused both their deaths. It was the truth and the Chrechte of our clan could scent it. I masked the deceit in my scent when I told them I had built my own pyres and burned them as is right and true.”

“You can do that?”

“Yes.”

“That's unheard of.”

“Others in my family had similar talents.”

He did not doubt it, but he could not help being glad her brother was dead. A wolf who hated the Éan but had the ability to mask a lie? He could have wreaked havoc in a way even Rowland could not have competed with.

“Your prince did kill my brother.”

“But he did not murder him.”

She did not answer, but her lack of argument said it all.

“How did you know he is our prince?”

“How could he be anything else?” Ciara asked in a tone that said she doubted his intelligence but he should not doubt hers.

Lais laughed. “You're an arrogant little thing, aren't you?”

“I don't mean to be.”

“With eyes as green as yours, I always suspected you and your mother were descendant of the Faol royalty.”

“MacAlpin killed all the royals of our line.”

“Only those counted by matriarchy.”

“It does not matter; the Sinclair recognizes Scotland's king. To be royalty among the Faol can have no meaning.”