Blood Moon Page 9

  Pain exploded inside her head, sending bright, white lights through the darkness that settled over her like a cloak even as she flew backwards and struck the wall. Stunned by the blow, it took her several moments to fight the darkness off, to roll onto her knees. Even the certainty that he would follow the blow by an attack was not enough to will strength into her limbs. Finally, however, she managed to stagger to her feet and look around.

  Dimly, outside, she heard the sounds of a struggle. Crawling across the floor, she found a leg of the table and, after several aborted attempts, managed to get to her feet. Weaving like a drunk, she focused on the door and made her way across the cottage, slumping against the door frame as she reached it, surveying the area outside. Algar, she saw to her immense relief, had vanished. Kale was struggling to get to his feet.

  He looked up at her, studied her for a long moment. A smile tugged at his lips. “I hope you don’t mean to use that on me.”

  Aslyn blinked, looked down at the table leg in her hand. “He’s gone?”

  The smile vanished. A grim look took its place as he turned and stared off into the darkness that shrouded the land. “Yes. Unfortunately.”

  Aslyn’s knees buckled, and she sat abruptly.

  Kale was on his feet in an instant, striding toward her. Without a word, he scooped her into his arms and carried her inside, kicking the door closed with his foot. After surveying the damage inside the cottage, he moved to the hearth. Kneeling, he sat her so that her back was against the wall nearest the fireplace. “Don’t move.”

  Striding across the room, he lifted the mattress from the broken bed frame and returned. Setting it in front of the hearth, he scooped her up once more and settled her carefully on top of it. “Where are you hurt, sweeting?”

  Stunned as she was by all that had happened, the endearment warmed her, perhaps more so because he didn’t seem even to realize that he’d said it. “I’m not hurt,” she said shakily. She was shivering, her teeth trying to clatter together despite her efforts to control the jerking in her jaws. Dimly, she was aware of a dozen or more areas on her body that throbbed dully with pain, but she knew they were bruises only, nothing serious enough to claim as wounds.

  “Don’t try to be brave. Tell me.”

  Aslyn shook her head, fighting a sudden urge to burst into tears. “I’m not at all brave. He frightened me half out of my wits. But, I’m not hurt. Truly. It’s nothing more than bruises.”

  He ignored her disclaimer, searching her for any sign of cuts or broken bones. Finally, he sat back on his heels, studying her bruised face, and renewed fury leapt into his eyes. “I will kill him by inches when I find him.”

  Aslyn grabbed his hand when he made an abortive movement, as if he would rise. “Don’t! Please don’t go. Not tonight. He might come back. Besides, you’re hurt. I need to see to your wounds.”

  He shook his head. “It is nothing. Scratches that will heal quickly enough.”

  “At least let me see so that I might be easy in my mind.”

  He studied her a long moment and finally shrugged. “When I return. I need to see to my horse first. I won’t be gone long.”

  Anger surged through her as she watched him leave. He was bleeding. The wounds might not be severe, but she would have far preferred to check them before he went to see after his horse.

  Of course, it would be cruel to leave the poor, dumb beast outside indefinitely, but surely his own needs should come first?

  Or did he mean to go after Lord Algar, despite the fact that he’d told her he would not?

  Anxiety quashed the anger. She bit her lip, tempted to rush after him, but in the end she merely rose and bolted the door. Turning, she surveyed the shambles of the cottage. It contained very little now that was not broken.

  It hurt to walk, to bend, to lift … even bending her head created a fiercer pounding inside her skull, but the shattered remnants of the furniture and crockery represented any number of ‘traps’ for the unwary. Slowly, moving like an old woman, she collected the broken pieces of wood that were the remains of bedstead, table and chair, and piled them beside the hearth to burn. Her own meager belongings were scattered about the room. She made a pile of the broken crockery near the door and collected her belongings, tying them in a bundle and leaving them near one wall, out of the way. She’d just collected the last fragments of crockery that she could see and started toward the door when someone tried the door, then rapped on it sharply.

  “Who is it?” Aslyn called out in a breathless squeak.

  “Who are you expecting?” came the dry reply.

  Dropping the crockery on the pile beside the door, Aslyn unbolted it and pulled the door open. Kale strode inside, surveyed the room and turned to her as she bolted the door behind him.

  “You are a stubborn woman.”

  She smiled tiredly and, on impulse, threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly. “I thought you would not come back,” she said in a voice muffled against his chest.

  His arms came around her briefly, but then he pulled away, guided her back to the mattress on the floor and made her sit. She was about to protest when he joined her. She reached for the ties of her shirt. “Here. Let me see to your hurts.”

  His brows rose, but he didn’t argue as she loosened the ties and pulled his tunic over his head. To her surprise, but with a great deal of relief, she saw he had not underestimated his injuries. There were a number of scrapes, along his ribs, and on his arms, but none deep enough to require attention. Already, they had closed and ceased to bleed. He had a number of bruises, as well, on his chest and back, and a long, dark mark on his shoulder that made her wonder if she’d struck him with the table leg when she’d thrown it.

  She relaxed. Realizing she was still shaking, she pulled her cloak more snugly about her and shifted closer to the fire. “You are no more hurt than I, thankfully.”

  He frowned, looked around the cottage. After a moment, he rose and took the rolled quilt from the pile near the wall, pulled the ties from it and returned, shaking it out and wrapping it around her shoulders. “Which I owe to skill, and you to pure luck,” he responded coolly. “It was foolish of you to endanger yourself needlessly.”

  Aslyn frowned at him, but discovered she simply didn’t have the energy to argue with him. Giving in to her aches and pains, she lay down on the mattress, trying to ignore the throbbing in her cheek. “I should’ve allowed you to fight him alone, I suppose, but I was not entirely confident that you could beat him and thought it best to add my poor efforts to yours, lest I be left to fend him off again, alone.”

  He chuckled.

  She opened her eyes, a little surprised that he had taken the insult to his manhood so calmly. He shifted until he was laying beside her. “Next time, make certain I am not in the line of fire before you begin throwing the furniture.”

  Aslyn stiffened slightly as he pulled her into his arms and settled her against his chest, but as his warmth seeped into her, she relaxed once more. “I missed you,” she mumbled.

  “More accurately, I ducked,” he murmured in a voice laced with amusement.

  She shrugged. “I still missed you.”

  “True.”

  She sniffed, finding she had to fight the urge to burst into tears. “I lost my dagger.”

  He shook. When she opened one eye a crack to look at him, she saw that he was trying to suppress a chuckle. “He took it with him, I’m afraid. As much as I appreciate your efforts to defend me, that was most ignoble of you to stab him in the back.”

  Again, Aslyn shrugged. “Is it my fault he didn’t turn around?”

  “He had his back to you to begin with.”

  Aslyn lost interest in the subject. “How came you here?”

  “Upon a horse.”

  She shook him, weakly. “Do not jest.”

  “It’s truth.”

  “I know you came upon a horse! How came you here, now?”

  “Ah. We had been tracking the wolf pack for nigh a week wh
en it occurred to me that they appeared to be moving in a broad circle. I left the men to follow them and returned to Krackensled in case they were doubling back as I suspected.”

  Aslyn shuddered, felt tears well in her eyes. “They did. They killed a child. Poor little John Halard. His father had taken him into the woods to help him gather firewood.”

  Kale’s arms tightened around her. “I’m sorry, sweeting.”

  The words seemed to rupture a dam of grief inside her. Aslyn wept until finally, completely exhausted, she drifted off to sleep.

  She swam upwards toward awareness sometime later to the sensation of warmth generated by Kale’s hand as he stroked her back soothingly. The effect upon her, however, was anything but soothing. Her breasts, pressed tightly against his chest ached with need, as did her woman’s place between her thighs. She moved restlessly against him, uncertain of exactly what it was that she needed to quell the ache, but certain that Kale could assuage the need.

  He stilled her movements. “Sleep, Aslyn.”

  She was too hot and achy to sleep. She nuzzled her face against his bare chest, pressed her lips there. He jerked at the touch of her mouth as if branded. Reaching down, he cupped her chin and urged her to look up at him. “Don’t tempt me. I’m a man, Aslyn. I’ve only so much resistance. You’re hurt. Rest.”

  Aslyn sighed, feeling a sense of defeat wash over her. Finally, she snuggled against him and drifted away once more.

  Kale was gone when she awoke.

  Chapter Nine

  Aslyn woke to a sense of well being, although she wasn’t certain what had evoked the sensation. When she stretched, however, an involuntary groan of agony tore from her, bringing her wide awake. She sat up slowly, painfully, and looked around as memory flooded back.

  The sense of well being, she finally realized, had come from curling next to Kale during the night. It had given her the sense of being protected and cared for … something she’d lost so long ago she had ceased even to realize how much she missed it.

  That sense vanished the moment she realized she was alone.

  Rising with an effort, she made her way to the door and around the side of the house to the necessary, not really surprised when she saw no sign of Kale, but vastly disappointed.

  When she returned, she stoked the fire and pushed the cook pot, filled with snow, over it to warm while she searched the cottage for food. She hadn’t eaten in so long, she felt dizzy and weak, although she supposed a part of the dizziness and weakness was from the battle the night before. The cheese and meat she’d sliced for her journey had fallen on the floor when Kale had crushed the table, and thereafter been stomped into the dirt. Opening her bundle, she took the pieces she’d carefully wrapped and looked around for her knife before she recalled that she’d lost it in the scuffle. Finally, she had to settle for gnawing bites from the edges of the food. When she’d eaten her fill, she carefully wrapped the food again, bundled it into her pack and removed her spare gown and shift.

  The water, when she tested it, was tepid on the surface, and the next thing to scalding nearer the bottom. Stirring it with a stick, she lifted the pot from the fireplace, sat on the mattress and bathed. Not surprisingly, she was filthy from the scuffle. She blushed when she thought about offering herself to Kale when she must have looked completely unappealing--battered, bruised and filthy, her hair a tangled mat.

  She was glad he’d left while she was still sleeping. At least he’d spared her the humiliation of waking up and facing him after that little episode.

  He’d also been kind enough to tell her he didn’t want to hurt her when she was already hurt. She remembered that. It was one of the things that had made her feel so protected and secure. Fortunately, she’d been too groggy with sleep, and suffused with animal lust to figure out that what he’d really meant was that he couldn’t bring himself to give her a roll when she’d already been wallowing in mud. “I will die of embarrassment if I ever have to see the man again,” she muttered to herself.

  And that wasn’t even the worst of it. When she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the water she gasped in horror. One whole side of her face--the side where Algar had clobbered her--the side that still throbbed almost as badly as it had the night before--was horribly bruised and swollen.

  She looked like a monster.

  The thought made her cringe inside.

  She was a monster.

  Damn Algar to hell!

  She covered her face with her hands. All these years she had wandered, searching for a cure that didn’t exist! And Algar, damn him, had taken her life away from her, killed her betrothed—made her unfit for any decent man.

  The image of John’s battered little body popped into her mind and she shuddered. Shying away from it, she got up abruptly.

  Kale, she knew, had gone after Algar. His men had not yet returned. Now was the time to leave if ever there was one. She simply could not face Kale again, not after what had almost happened between them the night before—not when she knew now without a shadow of doubt what she was.

  Nothing good could come of staying.

  Moving purposefully now, ignoring the multitude of aches and pains, she gathered her belongings and left the cottage. It was still early, the streets deserted.

  She frowned, wondering why no one else was about, but then remembered that most of the villagers had gone out to search for the wolf pack. God alone knew how many had returned, or in what condition, but she could not allow that to concern her. She had her own survival to consider.

  She glanced around. New snow had fallen during the night, making it difficult to discern the tracks from the night before, but it appeared that Algar had headed north. She was tempted to head south, but thought that might be too predictable. Kale had told her the soldiers had tracked the wolf pack in a wide circle that seemed to be heading back toward Krackensled … which meant going west was out, since there was too much danger of running into the soldiers.

  She decided to head east, but just in case Kale got it into his head to follow her, she turned south when she left the cottage, following the main road until she found a cross road that was almost as well traveled.

  It took her almost an hour to reach the forest east of town. To her relief, she encountered no one, but she was still a mass of nerves before she reached the tree line. There she waged another, brief, inner debate. She could make better progress if she followed the road. The snow was almost as high, and worse, it had been churned up by the passing of several carts, but there were no deep drifts to worry about, no possibility of stepping inadvertently into a trough.

  If anyone came to look for her, however, she would be all too easy to spot and have no hope of escape. She left the road and entered the forest, struggling through soft snow that came almost to her knees. She was sweating with effort and breathless even before she had traveled far enough that she could no longer see the village. She glanced up at the weak sun, trying to gauge the amount of time that had passed and saw that the sun was already high in the trees.

  Cursing, she forced herself to move faster, refusing to stop to rest, but only slowing when she was so winded she could hardly catch her breath. She began scanning the forest ahead of her, choosing a landmark that looked to be a quarter of a mile, or a half a mile away, and then counting her miles as she reached them. By the time the sun was overhead she thought she had gone at least five miles, but it was a rather dismal projection. A man on a horse could travel that distance, even in the snow, in less than a quarter of the time it had taken her.

  She stopped, briefly, to eat a few bites of cheese, bread and meat, washing them down with the remains of the bottle of wine she and Kale had shared the night before. There was hardly enough to make it worth the effort of having carried the bottle, but it helped to chase the chill from her bones.

  When she’d finished, she dug a hole in the snow, buried the bottle and carefully smoothed the snow over it again. She glanced back over the trail she’d left behind her when she’d
finished, realizing that she might as well have saved her strength. She’d left a trail behind her that a blind man could follow. Kale was a huntsman. Were he so inclined, he would have no difficulty whatsoever in tracking her down.

  Tired as she was, she looked around until she found a fallen branch and began to work her way backwards, smoothing over her footsteps as she went. It took her twice as long to manage half the distance she had traveled earlier. Her back began to feel as if it was going to crack and break in two, but she persevered until she thought she had traveled at least two miles, then changed directions and began to move in a south easterly direction.

  By late afternoon Aslyn felt she had put sufficient distance between herself and Krackensled to consider stopping for the night. In truth, she was afraid she had little choice in the matter. It was the time of the dark of the moon. If she had been traveling by road, the stars might have shed enough light that she could have kept going, but she had elected to take to the forest. Granted, many of the trees were bare, but it was an old forest and the trees were huge, growing closely together with branches intertwining overhead.

  She would have to build a fire. It was far too cold even to consider doing without one, regardless of the dangers inherent in doing so. While she trudged through the snow, she’d had no difficulty staying warm, but once she stopped she would begin to freeze without one ... unless she was fortunate enough to discover an unoccupied burrow or den she could squeeze into.

  Hopefulness surged through her when she came upon a steep slope above a frozen stream. Like any natural stream, it meandered, but it ran in a general north/south direction. Cautiously, she made her way down to the surface of the stream and began to follow the bank south, studying the banks for any sign of a cave or even a crevice deep enough to offer some shelter. She was so intent upon her search that it was some moments before the rhythmic sound she heard fully registered as being one not of her own making.