But the strength of Hagan’s arms around her, the tickle of his warm breath against her neck, the touch of his body to hers, caused her head to spin. She couldn’t help but feel an inward joy to be dancing with him, and though she told herself she was being foolish, she let herself laugh and talk and pretend that she wasn’t a prisoner in an enemy castle. She swirled and let the music play upon her ears and leaned against this man who could be her enemy. He wore a white tunic with a rich brown surcoat trimmed in tooled leather and fastened with metal studs. His boots flashed as he danced, and he held her with a possessiveness that caused her senses to swim.
If she let herself, she could lose her spirit to this strong man who held the power of her life and death in his hands.
Only when she looked up to the top of the stairs and saw Bjorn, tired and drawn, holding on to a pillar for support, was she reminded of her purpose. In Bjorn’s pale face she was reminded of others—Keane, Gwendolyn, and Henry. Her throat grew suddenly tight and she spied Leah, smiling and laughing and dancing with the unknown knight.
What was she thinking? Her silly fantasies were deceiving her. She glanced up to the landing again, but Bjor
n had disappeared.
“He’ll be all right,” Hagan said, his voice without a trace of merriment.
“Who?”
“Bjorn. He’s well enough to walk, thanks to you, so he’ll be returning to his hut.”
“Oh…good.”
She glanced up at Hagan, whose eyes were thoughtful, his mouth thin and white as the music stopped for a second. “What is it that fascinates you about the stableboy?”
“ ’Tis only his health—”
“Would you do me the honor?” Darton flashed his white smile and bowed to Sorcha, expecting her to dance with him. Hagan’s grip on her tightened and the music began again.
“She’s with me this night, brother,” Hagan said before Sorcha could reply.
“You have not shared her.”
Hagan’s mouth curved wickedly and the fingers around Sorcha’s waist gripped her hard. “You are right, Darton. As I said, this night she is with me. ’Tis my right. As lord.” Without another word, he swept Sorcha into the middle of the hall, and she settled into his arms again.
“Darton has offered to marry you,” he said against her ear, and she nearly lost her breath.
“Nay!” Darton? Marry Darton? Become his wife? Warm his bed? Her stomach rolled and she glared up at Hagan. “I would rather roast in hell for eternity than marry into the house of Erbyn.”
Hagan’s eyes flashed and his nostrils flared slightly. “I know, you have more noble intentions. If ’twas up to you, you would marry the stableboy.”
“I will marry whom I choose, Lord Hagan.” She tossed her hair defiantly. “Make no mistake.”
“And what if I decree that you will marry my brother?”
Though she felt cold inside, she managed a thin smile. “Do not test me, Hagan, for the next time I sneak into your chamber, I’ll certainly do more than wound you.”
He laughed and glared down at her. “Careful, Sorcha, or I might demand payment on that bargain.” With a laugh, he twirled her in his arms and didn’t notice Darton’s eyes following his every move.
The knight’s clothes were in tatters, his face streaked with mud, and he looked as if he hadn’t eaten in a week. Tadd barely recognized Bayard, his father’s most trusted soldier, one of the men who had ridden off to battle with him.
The castle was cold, the fires of the new day not yet lit, and Tadd thought of his warm bed and the wench, Mab, who was waiting for him there. He had no worry that she would flee as he’d secured her to the bed with leather straps. Aye, he’d much rather be next to her frightened warmth than in the dark listening to an old man whose ribs stuck out.
“I come with grave news,” Bayard said, his voice a bare whisper. They were in the great hall, alone, as it was before dawn when Tadd had been roused from his bed. Only a few servants were about, getting ready for the day, though some of Tadd’s men were lying on the floor wrapped in their cloaks and snoring noisily or standing guard and trying not to doze off.
The yule log had burned down to red embers, and only a few candles had been lit. In the darkness, Bayard’s face appeared nearly fleshless, little more than a bony skull. He coughed and his chest rattled. He was not long for this world, Tadd decided, but felt no pity for the loyal knight.
“What is it?”
Another horrid cough rattled through Bayard’s lungs, and Tadd curled his lip in disgust. “ ’Tis the lord, Baron Eaton,” Bayard rasped, and his lip quivered a bit. “He …he was killed in battle.”
Tadd stopped fidgeting. What had the old soldier said? His father was dead? His heart began to beat crazily and he had to repress a smile. “What?”
“ ’Twas a horrid battle and your father fought bravely, putting his life before the king’s, but—” Bayard’s voice cracked with the strain “—he took an arrow near the heart, and the wound was mortal.”