Darton seemed to pale a bit, and Tadd felt a sense of satisfaction. From the moment he’d stepped into the great hall, he had felt manipulated, but now he had the upper hand.
“Your father would demand this?” Darton said, recovering a bit.
“My father is dead,” Tadd said firmly. He managed a thin smile and drank Hagan of Erbyn’s choice wine. Things were going better than he’d hoped because he’d finally understood Darton’s motives—oh, he’d hidden them well, but Darton of Erbyn was not the first man entranced by Sorcha. Nor was he the first man to ask for the hand of the savior of Prydd. ’Twas foolish. And to Tadd’s advantage. “I am now the Baron of Prydd, and my honor as well as the honor of both my sisters has been trampled upon, and the truce has been broken. For this I demand payment of the castle. ’Tis not too much to ask. Sir Darton, you will end up not only with peace, but my sister as well. Yea, you will be married to the savior of Prydd, and that’s truly what you want, is it not?”
“ ’Tis time,” Hagan said, lifting her onto his destrier and climbing behind. Dawn had broken, and through the clawlike branches of the trees overhead, Sorcha saw the sky, dark and somber. Gray clouds with purple bellies rolled across the sun, threatening rain, causing the forest to close around them.
With one arm wrapped possessively around her waist and the reins clenched tightly in his other hand, Hagan urged his horse forward along the seldom-used road. The white palfrey followed behind, content to stay with the stallion.
Sorcha tried to ignore the heat of Hagan’s body and the intimate fit of her buttocks as they wedged against his thighs. She didn’t think about the strong band of his arm surrounding her just below her breasts, but as the horse cantered and she rubbed up against him, she felt her blood stir with desire and she was reminded of their lovemaking within the cracked walls of the old cottage.
She told herself that her heart wasn’t involved, that though she was attracted to him, she hadn’t fallen for this man she suspected to be her enemy, but deep in her soul, she knew differently. Though she hated to admit the horrid fact, she was beginning to care about this dark baron and his gruff ways. She’d been fighting her feelings of love for days, and now, in the gray light of morning, she could no longer lie to herself. She loved him. ’Twas simple and foolish, but the truth. She could deny it to everyone else, but deep in the most secret recesses of her heart, she knew that she would never feel the same about another man.
’Twas a curse; just like the damned birthmark that had gotten her into this mess in the first place. Yes, but had you not the birthmark, you would never have met Hagan.
Her throat closed in upon itself, for she could not think of being without him.
She should hate him. Hagan had left his castle to be guarded by his twin, and Darton had only wreaked havoc. ’Twas under Darton’s orders that Henry, Gwendolyn, and Keane had been killed, and Darton had kidnapped Leah and raped her. No matter how Sorcha’s wayward heart felt about Hagan, she could not forget the pain his brother had caused her family and Prydd.
“We’ll be home soon now,” he whispered against her ear.
Home. Erbyn was not her home. And yet she’d begun to feel at ease in the yellow stone walls of the great keep. Th
e peasants and servants, once suspicious, had grown friendly, though some who had heard of her powers still viewed her with a wary eye. Her heart filled with anticipation of seeing the stone dragon of a castle standing proud on the ancient cliffs.
The horse raced through the woods and the wind shifted, blowing cold against her face in an icy blast. The stallion’s black ears pricked forward, and Sorcha felt the slightest hesitation in his gait. The mare whinnied nervously, and when Sorcha looked over her shoulder, the palfrey stood nose to the wind, nostrils extended, and didn’t budge.
“Hagan … ?” A premonition of dread slithered down her spine, and Hagan tensed, his fingers pulling back on the reins, his other hand reaching for his sword.
Wind slowed to a trot.
An arrow whistled through the air.
Instinctively Hagan wrapped his body over hers.
Thump!
Hagan flinched, his body bracing against a burst of pain. “Christ Jesus!” he swore, yanking hard on the reins, forcing the beast to wheel.
Oh, God, he’d been wounded! “Hagan—”
“Run, you demon,” he cried, kicking the horse so desperately that the destrier took flight, his great legs stretching into a hard gallop, mud flying from beneath his heavy hooves. The air sang past them, cold and dry, blinding Sorcha as the bare trees flashed by.
A horrid, blood-chilling whoop erupted from somewhere in the shadows. More arrows sizzled through the air, and the startled white mare galloped through the woods.
Thwack! Hagan’s entire body convulsed, and she knew he’d been hit yet again.
Where were they? The attackers—where were they hiding? Sorcha felt the rigidity leave Hagan’s body. He slumped against her. Please God, don’t let him die!
“You must go on,” he said, his voice a wheeze, his breathing shallow and labored against her ear.
He was leaving her? Not as long as she had a breath of life in her body. “No, Hagan—”
“I cannot stay. ’Tis not safe for you—”
“Hang on!” she insisted. What was he saying? That he was going to give up? She felt his body slipping off the horse and she clung to his arms, forcing them around her. “I will get you to Erbyn. The horse knows the way.”
Another horrid whoop curdled the air.