Irish Moon (30 page)

Something she had said must have rung true
for him not to fight her further. She wondered what it was.

“Strange that seven years can feel like a
glimpse now and one more than eternity.” A soft ballad penetrated
through the doors and walls and cloaked the damp night air.

Breanne hugged herself against the flutter
inside of her. He was hers. To protect. Ashlon Sinclair was hers.
He just did not know it yet. This was his home. He just had not
discovered that yet. But, he would with her help.

Breanne watched the play of frustration in
his eyes and could see it was not from feelings of impotence alone.
He was fighting something else, as well. When he turned and met her
eyes, she no longer wondered what he fought. It read there
clearly.

He wanted her. She needed to distract him
from any further wanton thought fast or he’d have her pinned and
lost in heated bliss again with somebody certain to catch them.

“Gannon O’Shannon is the most clever man I
know. I gave the script to him.” She meant not just to distract him
but to reassure him, as well. “He may have it solved now but, of
course, we must wait nonetheless, for the full moon and last
guests. It will be safest.”

Ashlon’s eyes narrowed on her. “You gave the
book to another to translate? Is the book not so private and
important as you led me to believe then?”

“Nay. It is both. I only gave Gannon the
lines, rewritten and told him it was a riddle, a challenge. He will
not understand the connection it has to you or even to me, let
alone the chest.” Though her words came well, they seemed to be
worsening the look of things rather than improving them.

“You do not understand what it is you’ve
shared, what it is you’ve put at risk. If any learn of this chest,
if it is lost to me again, I will lay the blame at your feet.”

Breanne gasped. “There is no need to become
angry. I swear to you here before God and the universe that I do
understand the gravity of your quest well. I might even understand
it better than you yourself do.” Outrage swelled inside of her. How
dare he? From the start, she had done naught but aid him and
without reward or gain.

“I can hardly see how that is possible. Life
and custom may differ here than in the rest of Europe, but make no
mistake that the knowledge I carry goes past the depth of an Irish
lass.”

Breanne’s fists balled tight. She couldn’t
believe the gall of the man. “Absolutely unbelievable--.”

“Exactly my feeling, my lady, unbelievable.
If I were in a different position than at your mercy, I would
demand to see this man and repair the damage you’ve inevitably
done.”

“You speak from the wrong end, sir,” Breanne
said, her arms crossed. “I am far more clever than you can
comprehend due to the closed-minded mentality all English appear to
favor.”

“If I counted myself as one, I might take
exception to such an insult, but since I do not, you have wasted
your breath.” Ashlon shrugged but his eyes shined with ire.

“Alas, I forgot, you are a man without a
country, a noble knight without a cause, no more’n a bounder who I
will be happy to see leave here.”

Ashlon half-smiled. “Well, you have only to
wait so long as you see fit. Go now, my lady, fetch your errand boy
and let us be off to find the chest you claim to have found. Ah
yes, I forgot, you only know the place and not the way.”

Angry tears stung Breanne’s eyes. She
wouldn’t let him do this to her. She would not let him see her cry.
She had half a mind to show him exactly how clever and capable she
was but couldn’t think of a single trick at that moment. There
weren’t exactly a pile of unlit candles lying about the yard.

Behind Ashlon, the doors opened. A handful of
flushed guests joined them to cool in the night air. Ashlon took a
step back from her and though he still appeared angry, smiled for
the benefit of the others.

Breanne did the same. A breath later, Quinlan
appeared with Rhiannon on his arm. They looked handsome together,
glowing from the dance they must’ve shared. Breanne turned to go
inside before they saw her among the crowd.

Ashlon managed to bend close enough to
whisper, “It appears yours is not the only hand, Quinlan is
interested in, Breanne.”

She inhaled sharply and looked at him. Ashlon
knew she meant to marry, then? Did he also know her impending
choice was at Niall’s behest? So be it. She should have realized
that he would ask of her, being forced to depend on her as he was.
Breanne strode toward the door then stopped and faced him. She
would not let him get the best of her.

“You make it clear how little you know of an
Irish woman’s heart, Sir Ashlon. I have no need to compete with
another. The man I set sights on will fall to my feet in love and
make no mistake, will never take interest in another.” She squared
her shoulders and resumed her return.

At the doors, Breanne pressed her lips to her
hand in a kiss. She let a small flame dance on her open palm then
blew it out as if blowing him a kiss. She didn’t linger to enjoy
the astonishment that lifted his features but the mere glimpse made
the rest of her night worth dancing away.

Chapter Eighteen

Ashlon woke at dawn with more than a headache
from over imbibing. His chest ached as well. An uncomfortable
weight had settled there during the course of last evening. But, he
did not blame Breanne. He blamed himself.

He had gotten too close to her and to here.
It must account for his dread and sadness rather than the elation
and anticipation he should feel. They would leave tonight to
retrieve the chest and within mere hours of its discovery, his
seven years of surreptitious living would end. He would be free of
the burden Jacques left him.

So, why wasn’t he feeling well, light and
hopeful? He raked his hands through his hair and gave up on getting
any more sleep. His mind was too tense. What he needed was a
distraction.

Last night, the dancing and drinking turned
out to be a poor attempt to keep his mind off the bewitching
creature, Breanne. Today, the effects only worsened the strange
longing he felt for her. Even in heated argument, his body
responded to her. Something about her lit his soul on fire, so much
so that his mind played tricks on him.

She’d garnered assistance and he should trust
her in the decision’s wisdom. She’d done naught that would make him
believe her otherwise capable and honest, yet he’d attacked her.
Last night, he was sore to admit it, but in the growing gray light
of another Irish spring day, the truth came more readily to
him.

It was not the idea of her asking for help.
It was that he felt enormously useless in his own quest. He hated
his dependence on not only her but a stranger’s charity, as well.
His independent and self-sufficient nature found the ongoing
dependence more than distasteful. He found it abhorrent. But, he
had no choice.

Also, though he’d never say the words aloud,
under torture even, he’d been jealous. It was the fact that she had
asked a man. Women and men did not make good friends in his
experience. Which meant that she had more than Quinlan in mind for
her betrothal.

First, walking upon her and Quinlan ready to
embrace. Then to find out another suitor wooed her, one she trusted
enough to beg a favor. It went beyond the grain.

Ashlon stood and shoved his boots on. Aside
from his mantle, he’d left all clothing on before passing out on
his pallet. And though his head now ached, he was thankful for the
oblivion the drink had given him.

If he lay another night torturing himself
with images of her mouth and body pressed wantonly into his, he
might go mad. One single day, and he would be gone. Once the chest
was laid in its rightful and permanent rest, he could go completely
raving mad, could entertain ridiculous thoughts of love and family,
of settling down. Until then, he must remain sane and busy. The
thought should have offered comfort. Instead, it made his chest
feel all the heavier.

After breaking his fast, curing his weak
stomach, with a biscuit and dried meat, Ashlon headed toward the
O’Donnell keep. The wedding was tomorrow. A shame he would not be
here to witness the celebration. He didn’t doubt it would well
shadow those he’d already participated in. Damned but the Irish
knew how to live.

Not a single soul went without a hearty
dance, singing, and clapping, and laughing. The energy of the music
and joy had pulled him in and lifted him up. So much so that he
forgot his anger and thoroughly enjoyed the remaining evening.

Breanne had been mesmerizing. She only rested
a moment here and there to wet her lips on wine and water then
returned to dancing. She oftentimes was the center of the dance,
being hailed and applauded as was well deserved.

She had an angel’s grace and a devilish
spark.

Ashlon shook his head. He needed her out of
his mind, fogging it up with her draw.

Few men were about at the early hour, likely
sleeping off their own night’s worth of drink and cheer. Aside from
a few servants, fuidir, Quinlan had called them, Danny was the only
other person in the bailey yard. He sat leaned against the stone
wall, a black and gray striped cat at his feet, and ate a pear. He
was talking to himself.

Ashlon chuckled and approached as silent as
possible though he was in plain view. He hoped Danny was distracted
enough in daydreams and pretend that Ashlon might give him a bit of
a scare.

“Dead wrong you are there, Finn. Breanne
cannot be in love. She hardly seems to like Sir--.”

“Gotcha.”

Danny nearly shot straight up into the air
and did knock his head against the stone in a hard thump. Ashlon
chuckled but felt badly when the lad rubbed his head and appeared
more than perturbed with him. He looked a mite panicked.

“Sir Ashlon. I did not see you.”

“Aye, I know it. Are you all right? I did not
mean to scare you unconscious.” He knelt before Danny, touched his
head gently.

“I’m fine. You got me good, though. I did not
hear or see you at all.”

“I could tell. You were talking to yourself,
arguing with yourself in fact.” Ashlon took a seat on the ground
and leaned his head back. It deservedly throbbed.

“To myself? Oh, aye, I sometimes do. When, no
one else is about to hear it. What is it I was saying, that is,
what did you hear?”

“Naught to blush about, Danny. It sounded
like you were considering Lady Breanne’s affections. And you
referred to the name Finn.”

“Finn is the cat, Breanne’s cat. When I talk
to myself, I use him to do it is all.” Danny spoke fast.

Ashlon winced inwardly. He hadn’t wanted to
make the boy feel awkward. “I’ve done the same myself. But, I chose
a horse to speak to myself with. A fine stallion I was forced to
sell some years past.”

Danny smiled wide. The cat named Finn,
swished its tail in the dirt. It narrowed disturbingly light green
eyes on him and seemed to look right into Ashlon. Feeling silly at
the notion, Ashlon reached to scratch behind its ears. It ran,
hissing a stream on its way.

Danny laughed. “He’s not a friendly one,
Finn.”

“No, I’d say he’s not.” Ashlon pushed Breanne
from his mind. “Seeing as we’re both about with not much to do, is
now a good time to see to your swordsmanship, Danny?”

Danny leapt to his feet. “Aye, Sir Ashlon, it
is.”

By the noon hour, Danny was worn out and
Ashlon was warmed up. His head’s pain dulled considerably and the
exercise had done a fine job of preoccupying his mind. The
continuance of Niall’s games, kept it that way.

By the third round, five warriors remained:
himself, two of the O’Doherty clan, two of the O’Donnell clan, one
of which was Quinlan.

Ashlon had not heard Quinlan’s name announced
the previous eve, but was not surprised to see the man join the ten
that began the day’s battles. They’d had only time enough to
exchange a nod of acknowledgement before Niall called the games to
commence.

The crowd today seemed twice as big and ten
times as loud. Ashlon took each man on with vigor. He did not mean
to win, only to wear down the ache inside. Every time he felled a
blow, blocked a stab, sidestepped a thrust, the heaviness dwindled.
In its place a wonderful numbness took residence.

The hours swept by him. So, when Quinlan came
to stand before him, and Niall announced theirs would end the day’s
competition round, Ashlon was surprised. Not because his newfound
friend remained a contender, for Quinlan had done well yesterday
against him, but because the day was gone.

He would meet her within hours, he realized.
And for the first, he allowed Breanne back into his thoughts. The
ache was gone. Only new anticipation filled him as he lifted his
sword ready.

“You’ve done well, Ashlon. I should have
asked your help in swords, rather than in love.” There was a subtle
edginess to Quinlan’s statement.

“Would it be such an upset to have an
outlander win out?” Ashlon half-smiled and brought his sword down
onto Quinlan’s.

“Ashlon, you should know by now, that you are
counted as one of us. You have only to petition for your official
status to call yourself an O’Donnell clansman.” He blocked the blow
well and swooped down one in return.

The clang of metal rang in the yard and the
crowd was more than usually hushed. He could tell Quinlan then and
there that he meant to be gone before morning light but saw no
reason to. Better to sever clean and quick. If any knew aside from
Breanne, many would try to stop him.

Ashlon grunted as Quinlan parried and turned.
The day’s work began to show. His movements were a degree slower,
his arms heavier. Quinlan must be equally fatigued, but his blows
came without sign of it. In fact, they, too, held an edginess to
them.