Moon Shadows (24 page)

As she worked, Alana could hear the lads' voices nearby. Occasionally they would drift away until, their arms filled, they would return to the cart.

Spying a fallen log some distance away, she hurried over and struggled to lift it. It was impossible to budge. Still, she had to try. It would make a grand blaze in her father's chambers. Enough to keep him warm an entire night, without having to rouse herself to add more wood. The thought was too enticing to give up without a struggle.

She sat down with her back to a tree trunk and brought her feet to the log, hoping to dislodge it from the moss and vines that had grown around it, anchoring it to the spot. Though she shoved with all her might, it barely moved.

Using a boulder and a heavy branch as a lever, she set the tip of the limb beneath the log and leaned all her weight on the length of it. Feeling it move slightly, she huffed and grunted and pulled, but the moment she let up on the lever, the log settled back into the same spot.

With a sigh she tossed aside the tree branch, ready to abandon her plan. As she turned, she saw something move in the shadows.

Only a deer, she thought. But when she turned back, she found herself staring up at a man so tall she had to tip up her head to see his face.

She was so startled, she thought about bolting, but her legs refused to move. She stood frozen to the spot.

She had to blink several times to convince herself that it truly was a man. And what a man. Unlike any she had ever seen. She was vaguely aware of animal skins stretched tautly across shoulders wider than a crossbow. His long legs were encased in fur. On his feet were mismatched brogues, and it occurred to her that she'd heard the dead warriors were often missing their boots as well as their weapons. A sword was strapped at his hip, and the hilt of a dirk could be seen tucked at his waist.

Long black hair spilled around a face hidden in shadow.

He took a step toward her and she caught sight of his eyes. Bright blue, they were. As blue as the sky on a summer day, fixed on her with a look so intense, so piercing, it had her heart leaping to her throat.

For the longest time he merely stared at her, as though he'd never seen a woman before. His gaze moved over her, starting with the hem of her skirts that brushed the tall grass, pausing for a moment at her tiny waist, then moving upward to her bosom, heaving as she fought for breath, and lingering there so long she felt her cheeks grow warm.

At last he brought his gaze full on her face, and something flickered in his eyes as he studied the curve of her lips, the set of her chin, the flare of nostrils.

Without a word he moved past her and picked up the log as though it weighed no more than a twig. He dragged it toward the cart and lifted it up and over, tossing it on the top of the pile.

When she realized that he was about to leave without speaking, she called, “Thank you.”

He stopped. Turned with a frown. Stepped closer. And all the while his eyes were fixed on her with that same, intense look.

Just then the breeze caught her hair, flaying a strand across her cheek. He reached out a big, rough hand, brushing it aside, and stared in fascination as the silken strands sifted through his callused fingers.

Alana knew he could hear the way her heart was pounding. But in all her years, she had never seen a man look at her the way this one did. Not only the way a man might look at a woman he found desirable, but also with a childlike fascination that she found most appealing. It occurred to her that despite his rough clothing and appearance, and his reputation as a ruthless avenger, there was a gentleness, a courtliness about him that seemed completely out of character.

She looked into his eyes and wondered at the many emotions she could read in their depths. Curiosity. Annoyance. A hint of humor. And above all, a deep and abiding pain. More
than anything, it was the pain that touched her tender heart. “Are you a man or a spirit?”

He seemed about to speak. Before he could form the words, a shout rang out through the forest.

“Alana.”

At the sound of Dudley's voice the man looked up sharply, then began stepping back. Even while Alana watched, he seemed to blend into the woods until she could no longer distinguish him from the dense foliage around him.

“Alana.” Dudley and the others came thrashing through the forest, arms laden with tree branches.

Seeing the immense log in the cart, they turned to her with matching looks of surprise.

“How ever did you manage that?” Ingram asked.

“I . . .” She swallowed and looked around, but the man who had been there just moments earlier was nowhere to be seen. She managed a weak laugh. “It would seem that I'm stronger than I look.”

The three lads stared at one another with disbelief. But since Alana wasn't willing to offer any further explanation, they were forced to take her at her word.

She waited until they'd deposited their firewood, then leaned her weight against the heavy cart. “Come along. Now that it's filled to the top, let's see if we're all strong enough to get this back home before darkness falls.”

While they pushed and shoved, forcing the cart over ruts and across ravines, she glanced over her shoulder several times, hoping to catch at least a fleeting glimpse of the man before it was too late. Alas, he was nowhere to be seen.

As much as she wanted to share her news with her young friends, she wasn't ready to talk about it just yet. Instead she hugged her secret to her heart, enjoying the tiny curl of pleasure that shivered along her spine at the realization that she had just had a most amazing encounter.

She had actually met the one known throughout the Highlands as the Dark Angel.

O
N
her way to the stream, Alana passed the children playing in the protected area of the walled garden behind the keep. As always, the older lads indulged in war games and fancied themselves standing toe to toe with Rothwick's finest swordsmen. Brave warriors all, when the worst thing they had to confront was another lad's stick. The younger ones stood in a circle urging them on, awaiting their chance to assume the role of warrior. The girls skipped about under the watchful eye of the women. When they'd first arrived at the fortress, these women had taken refuge in the great hall, huddling around the fire, eyes vacant, spirits broken. But gradually, under Alana's coaxing, they had begun to take a more active role in guiding the children, who were desperate for the love of a mother. Alana had wisely realized that both women and children had need of one another. Each had much to offer the other. Still, seeing how they banded together, like wounded birds, she often wondered if they would ever be able to leave the safety of the fortress and fly back to their villages to make a life for themselves among former neighbors and kin.

What was to become of them? Of all of them? Alana wondered. Rothwick's army continued rolling across the Highlands, destroying everything in its path. There was but one village now lying between them and the ruthless band of marauders.

There was a time a hostile army might have avoided her father's fortress, because of his reputation as one of the fiercest of warriors, much revered by the other chieftains. Now, if word got out that he and his warriors were old and frail, she had no doubt what Rothwick's reaction would be. He would crush them as he'd crushed all who stood in his way.

She paused on the banks of the stream and dropped her basket of soiled linens before glancing up at the sky. This day it was a clear, cloudless blue. As blue as the Dark Angel's eyes.

There he was again, taking over her mind. She hadn't been able to stop thinking about him. Whether man or spirit, there had been such sadness in those blue depths.

How did he survive in the wilderness? Where did he sleep? What did he eat? Where was his family? Could he speak? If so, was she right in thinking that he'd been about to say something to her when he'd been startled by the children?

Ever since that brief encounter he'd been hovering on the edges of her mind, disturbing her sleep. Even now, as she saw to the many chores required of her, she could see him. His face, for those few moments she'd had a clear view, was the most handsome she'd ever seen. Despite the rough garb, the wild tangle of hair, and the intensity of his gaze when he'd looked at her, she hadn't felt any real fear. But she'd felt something that had rushed through her with all the force of a summer storm. Something she couldn't quite put a name to. As though their meeting had been fated and would forever change both their lives.

What nonsense. She bent to her wash. If he truly was the angel, and she felt certain he was, it was only natural that she would be fascinated by him. He was larger than life. According to local lore, he had single-handedly dispatched scores of Rothwick's evil warriors and had done what all the Highland lairds and their puny armies combined had not been able to
accomplish. He, and he alone, had actually caused Rothwick to tremble in fear for his life.

She had trembled as well. When he'd reached out and touched her hair, she had felt his touch all the way to her very core. It wasn't fear she'd felt, but something quite different.

In peaceful times there had been lads in the village who had gone out of their way to catch her eye. A few of the bolder ones had even kissed her. But none had ever made her feel the way the Dark Angel had, with but a single touch.

She heard old Brin's voice, ordering the lads to put their warriors' skills to good use by hunting game for their supper. She smiled as she began spreading the clean linens over low-hanging brush and tree limbs to dry.

With the empty basket on her hip she sauntered back to the keep. The lads were gone now, and the women and younger children had disappeared, presumably inside with Brin, who doted on them and often gave them her last bit of bread dipped in honey as a midday treat. Old Brin may show a harsh face to the world, but her heart was as pure as an angel's.

Angel. The very word had Alana trembling.

The women would now be in the steamy kitchen, gathered around the fire, sewing and mending, and hoping that one day soon their poor hearts would mend as well. All of them had lost their men to death at the hands of Rothwick's army and had seen their ancestral farms torched, their fields destroyed.

When would it end, Alana wondered? And how could one man, even one as fierce as the Dark Angel, actually hope to destroy the might of Reginald Rothwick and his warriors, who grew stronger, and more ruthless, with each passing year?

While she dashed about her father's keep, building fires in the many rooms. Alana pressed a hand to her back and thought about the life of ease she had enjoyed as a child of wealth and privilege. There had been a time, so long ago, that her pretty young mother and strong, handsome father had been adored by their clan and had actually dined with royalty. Now her mother was dead of childbed fever, and her father, his heart and spirit broken, waited to join his beloved Amena in the afterlife.

“What do you mean, the child isn't with you?”

At the sound of Brin's voice raised to the level of hysteria, Alana hurried down the stairs. In the refectory the old cook stood facing the band of lads, who were proudly holding an array of partridge and pheasants that were leaving a trail of blood across the stone floor.

“What child is missing?” Alana asked reasonably.

“Meara. I thought she was with Ingram.”

The lad's lips were quivering. “I thought she was safe here in the keep with Brin.”

Though Alana's heart was pounding, she struggled to hide her fear from the others. “Meara probably trailed behind you, Ingram. I'm sure she'll be coming right along. After all, her little legs can't keep up with your strides.”

“But I'd have seen her, my lady. I never saw her while we hunted.” The lad glanced at the others, who were shaking their heads.

Alana fought the panic that was beginning to wrap icy fingers around her heart. Grabbing a shawl from a peg by the door she called, “Brin, you and the women and younger ones will search the keep, while the lads and I return to the place where they hunted.”

“You mustn't . . .” Brin said, but Alana cut her off with a quick shake of her head.

As they stepped outside Alana glanced toward the sky. Already the sun had made its arc to the west. Shadows were gathering, cloaking the land in the first layers of twilight. There was no time to waste. Under cover of darkness, no one was safe from Rothwick's vicious warriors. That was when they swooped down upon helpless peasants, using the cover of night to slaughter flocks and steal women and children for their pleasure.

Children. The thought of what might happen to one sweet innocent had Alana's heart contracting with absolute terror.

“Meara!” With her hand to her mouth Alana shouted into the shadows and struggled to hold back the knowledge of what could happen to the child unless she was found and soon.

“You mustn't call out, my lady.” Ingram caught her hand
and lowered his voice. “You know the soldiers ride about the countryside at night. If they hear us, they'll be on us before we can return to the safety of your father's fortress.”

She knew the lad was right. That only made her fear all the greater. How could she bear to return to safety, knowing that sweet child was alone and afraid?

“Show me where you hunted, Ingram. We'll start there and work our way back to the keep.”

In silence they climbed to a high meadow.

“Why did you come so far?” Alana kept her voice to a whisper.

“It's where Laird Rothwick's men often hunt game. Dudley and Jeremy suggested we'd have our choice of plump partridge in such a place, for the warriors use the choicest hunting grounds for their laird.”

Alana thought of how proud the lads had looked when they'd presented their kill to old Brin. And their genuine horror when they realized that Meara was missing.

In silence they fanned out, walking across the meadow, pausing to search every dip, every stream, every patch of tall grass where a child might be hidden from their view.

Alana glanced up at the shadowed sky revealing a golden slice of moon. In the distance she could hear the pounding of horses' hooves and knew that danger was afoot. “We can stay here no longer.”

With a heavy heart they started toward the fortress. As they skirted the edge of the forest, Alana saw something dark along the ground.

With her heart tripping over itself, she stopped and pointed. The lads froze in their tracks.

“Is it . . . ?” Ingram couldn't bring himself to speak the lass's name.

“I know not.” Alana crept forward, praying it was an animal. When she drew closer she realized it was a man. Judging by the boots and hooded cloak, it was one of Rothwick's warriors. He was lying in his own blood. A little farther on was another and yet another. Six in all, they counted, and all with their throats slit, their blood congealing in the dirt where they lay.

The sight of them, eyes wide in horror, bathed in blood,
and the stench of death all around them, had Alana and the lads biting back screams as they turned and fled.

They were almost at the wall of her father's keep when they saw a tall figure up ahead, moving slowly toward the gate.

While the lads fell back, Alana recognized the man and hurried forward.

Hearing her footsteps he whirled and watched as she approached. When she drew near she could see that he was carrying something in his arms. Her heart gave a hard, quick tug.

“Meara.” The child's name came out in a cry. “We've been searching everywhere for her. Is she alive?”

“Aye.” The word was little more than a grunt.

Though the lads were fearful of the stranger, they gathered around Alana in a protective circle.

Seeing them, the man frowned. “Yours?”

It sounded more like another grunt, but Alana was so delighted to learn that he could actually speak, she merely nodded her head.

“And this?” He glanced down at the child in his arms.

“Her name is Meara. When we found her missing, we feared the worst. Especially when we saw those warriors . . .”

The little girl whimpered and burrowed closer, burying her face in the man's shoulder.

He held her as gently as a flower in those big, work-hardened hands. “They'd intended to use the child as sport.”

Alana let out a little cry before clapping a hand to her mouth. “Oh, sweet heaven. Did they . . . ?”

He gave a quick shake of his head. “I gave them no time. When I heard what they planned, I knew I had to stop them.”

At the enormity of the situation, Alana had to swallow several times before she could find her voice. “I don't know how to thank you. Perhaps you would come inside my father's fortress. The lads managed to hunt some game earlier. Our cook was preparing it when we left to search for Meara.”

He was already beginning to back away, but when Alana reached out for Meara, the lass whimpered and wrapped her arms tighter around her protector's neck.

“She's afraid.” He spoke the words slowly, as he'd spoken
the others. As though he'd somehow forgotten how to speak aloud and was only now attempting this long lost art.

“She has a right to be.” Alana cleared her throat, wondering at the lump that was threatening to choke her. “I hope you don't mind carrying her just a little farther.”

Without a word he followed Alana and the lads until they opened the door to the keep. The wonderful aroma of roasted fowl and bread baking on the hearth billowed out, perfuming the air.

Alana saw the man's head come up. He breathed deeply, a look of such intensity on his face, she surmised he might be recalling something long-forgotten.

The lads trooped inside, announcing loudly that Meara had been found. That brought Brin and the others racing across the room to gather around Alana and the stranger.

“Oh, our darling lass is safe.” Wiping a tear from her eye with the corner of her apron, old Brin held out her arms and the child was coaxed to release her hold on the man's neck, only to be folded into the cook's embrace.

The other women gathered around to stroke her hair and murmur words of comfort. They carried her close to the fire, where she was wrapped in a shawl and petted and fussed over until her tears were dried.

Seeing that the stranger was poised to flee, Alana quickly closed the door and pointed to the scarred wooden table surrounded by long wooden benches. It was big enough to feed an army of hungry warriors and once had. “If you'll sit there, we will reward your kindness with a fine meal.”

At her words the cook looked over, as did the other women. Now that the stranger had stepped from the shadows into the light of the refectory, they became aware of the wild look of him. An awkward silence fell over all in the room.