Beneath a Midnight Moon

Hardane sat with his back against the cave wall, his gaze straying once again to the woman sleeping beside the fire. He had never seen anything so lovely, he thought, as Kylene's face in the firelight. Her hair was as red as the flames, her skin as smooth as Argonian silk. Her brows were delicate crescents, her lashes dark fans against her pale cheeks. And her lips . . .

He cursed softly as he felt a sudden tightening in his loins.

She is not for you. He repeated the phrase in his mind, over and over again, hoping to cool his rising passion, but to no avail. He had dreamed of this woman, yearned for her, imagined what it would be like to possess her. No matter that she insisted she was not the woman he thought her to be, he knew he couldn't be wrong. He couldn't be. . . . And yet, when he probed her mind, he knew she was telling the truth, that she was not Carrick's seventh-born daughter.

He stood abruptly, his hands curled into tight fists as he walked to the entrance of the cave and drew in a deep breath.

He had never had a woman. His life had been spent in studying, in training for battle, in the subtle nuances of ruling Argone so that he might be prepared to take his father's place when the time came. But a knowledge of women had been denied him.

He glanced over his shoulder, overwhelmed with a sudden urge to disregard all he had been taught and trained for, to run his hands over her skin, to taste the certain sweetness of her lips, to bury himself in her warmth and learn the hidden mystery of her femininity.

Body rigid with desire, he stared at her, at the steady rise and fall of her breasts, at the long, shapely outline of her legs beneath his cloak. The need to mate burned strong within him, and only the knowledge of what would be lost kept him from crossing the short distance between them.

With regret, he drew his gaze from Kylene. He was Hardane, heir to his father's throne, his country's only hope for a lasting peace between Argone and Mouldour.

He had been betrothed since birth to marry Lord Carrick's daughter. On the seventh day of the seventh month, he would take her to wife and plant his seed within her. According to prophesy, twin sons would be born of their union, sons who would one day rule the lands of Argone and Mouldour, thereby putting an end to the ancient feud.

He gazed at Kylene once more. Was Selene as fair of face and form? Was her hair as soft, her skin as translucent? Would his body burn for his betrothed as it burned for this woman who had pledged her life to the Sisterhood?

A soft oath escaped his lips as he left the cave, hoping the cold breath of the night wind would cool his heated flesh.

Kylene stared at the earthen ceiling overhead. Where was she?

A sound drew her attention and she saw Hardane outlined in the entrance to the cave. It all came back to her then, their wild ride through the night, his transformation, the knowledge that he had mistaken her for someone else. Strange, the pain that lanced her heart when she thought of him with another woman.

She stared at him, mesmerized by the sheer masculine beauty of the man. She'd had little contact with men. Those she had seen now seemed ordinary when compared with Hardane. Almost without exception, the men of Mouldour were fair of hair and skin. Few were as tall as Hardane; none wore their hair as long.

She fought an almost uncontrollable urge to go to him, to run her fingers through his thick black hair, to caress the broad expanse of bronzed flesh visible beneath the black leather vest that he wore. Black breeches hugged his long, muscular legs; soft black leather boots covered his feet.

Hardane endured her scrutiny in amused silence. Though he had little experience with women, he had no trouble reading the blatant admiration in Kylene's eyes. For one brief, unguarded moment, he let himself imagine what it would be like to take her in his arms. Would she fight him? Would he let her go if she did?

He shook the thought from his mind. There were women who would assuage his hunger if he couldn't wait until his wedding night. Thus far, he had managed to keep his baser needs under control. But Kylene's mere presence was a temptation he was hard-pressed to resist. The shapeless brown wool dress, with its high neck and loose-fitting sleeves, did little to disguise her soft, sweet curves.

"It's time to go, lady," he said, his voice strangely thick.

She ignored the hand he offered her. Scrambling to her feet, she groaned softly. A night spent on cold ground had left her stiff and aching. When she tried to give him his cloak, he shook his head.

"Put it on," he said tersely. And turning on his heel, he left the cave.

Kylene frowned, puzzled by his curt tone, and then she sighed. No doubt he was angry because he had put his life in danger to rescue her, only to discover that he had rescued the wrong woman.

Wrapping the cloak around her shoulders, she hurried after him. It wouldn't do to make him more angry than he was. She had no wish to be left behind, no wish to fall into the hands of the Interrogator once more. She wondered briefly what Hardane had done to the real Executioner. Had he killed the man? There were times when she looked into his eyes that she thought him capable of such a thing, and yet, at other times, he seemed the most gentle of men.

At the foot of the hill, he lifted her onto the back of the gray mare, then mounted his own horse, swinging effortlessly onto the stallion's back.

It took only a moment for Kylene to realize that sleeping on the cold ground hadn't eased the awful ache in her thighs, back, and buttocks. Every step the mare took added to her discomfort, making her wonder if she would still be able to walk when the journey was over.

It was an hour's ride to the Sea of Mouldour. Clinging to the horse's mane, Kylene closed her eyes, grateful that her torment would soon be over even though she dreaded the thought of a sea voyage, dreaded the thought of days spent upon the water, helpless, prey to wind and weather. She'd been terrified of the sea since childhood, though she didn't know why.

The Sea of Mouldour loomed ahead, a vast expanse of bright water sparkling in the sunlight. A small ship rocked gently in a quiet inlet.

Kylene felt a shiver of apprehension at the thought of spending days, perhaps weeks, aboard ship.

Numb in mind and body, she followed Hardane down the narrow winding path that led to the bay.

A half-dozen men hurried toward them when they reached the dock. Smiles wreathed the men's faces as they welcomed Hardane, slapping him on the back, shaking his hand, grabbing him in fierce hugs. Only when their exuberance began to wane did they take any notice of Kylene.

As one, the men turned to stare at her.

"She's a beauty, my lord." The tall, bearded seaman spoke for them all. "You're a lucky man."

"This is not the Princess Selene," Hardane said gruffly.

"Then who might she be?"

"Her name is Kylene, and you will treat her with the same respect you would have given to my betrothed." His cool gray eyes rested on each man. "Is that understood?"

"Aye, my lord."

"Let us be under way, then." He glanced at Kylene, then started up the gangplank.

Kylene hesitated only a moment, her fear of water overcome by her fear of being left behind. Lifting her skirt, she hurried after Hardane.

She stood at the rail as the ship left the bay, her gaze sweeping over the shore. She was leaving Mouldour, leaving the only home she had ever known, perhaps never to return.

An hour later, her melancholy was forgotten, swallowed up in the sure knowledge that she was going to die. Her stomach churned, her throat burned with bile, and her head ached. She clutched the rail, afraid to move, afraid she'd be thrown overboard into the white-capped waves that sucked at the ship's sides.

With a groan, she closed her eyes and prayed for death.

That was how Hardane found her a few moments later.

"Lady, are you ill?"

Kylene nodded, thinking that ill didn't begin to describe how she was feeling. And then she brightened. Perhaps he'd brought good news. Perhaps the ship was going down. Drowning seemed a vast improvement over what she was feeling now.

Frowning, Hardane put his arm around her shoulders and eased her away from the rail. "Have you ever been on a ship before?"

"No."

He grunted softly as he swung her into his arms and carried her down the sturdy ladder to his cabin. Gently, he placed her on the narrow bunk. She tried to bat his hands away as he began to unfasten the stiff collar of her high-necked brown dress.

"Lady, be still," he admonished. "I'm not going to hurt you."

The sound of his voice soothed her and she ceased her struggles.

Closing her eyes, she gave herself up to his ministrations, sighing as he removed her sturdy black shoes and thick wool stockings, then sponged her face and neck with a cool cloth.

She heard him leave the cabin, but she was too miserable to wonder where he'd gone. The thought crossed her mind that if, by some miracle, she reached Argone alive, she would have to spend the rest of her life there, because she was never going on board a ship again.

Hardane returned a few moments later. Urging her to sit up, he thrust a cup into her hands. His face was near, his beautiful gray eyes filled with concern. Perhaps he didn't hate her, after all.

"I'm sorry to be so much trouble," she murmured groggily.

He nodded. "Drink the broth. There's ginger in it. 'Twill make you feel better soon."

She did as she was told, her gaze fixed on his. His eyes were as changeable as the sea, she thought, sometimes dark and stormy, sometimes soft and gentle.

"Rest now," he said. Setting the cup aside, he drew a heavy blanket over her, tucking it under her chin. "You'll get your sea legs in a day or two."

"And if I don't?"

His smile was kind. "Then you'll probably wish you'd died at the hands of the Executioner."

"What's to become of me?"

"Lady?"

"When we reach Argone?"

He nodded with understanding. "No harm will befall you, lady. You may stay with us, if you wish. If not . . ." He shrugged. "You will be free to leave."

Free, she thought. Would she ever be free again? She was a fugitive now. If she returned to Mouldour, she would be forever looking over her shoulder, waiting for the Interrogator to find her. And if she stayed in Argone, she would still be a prisoner of sorts, trapped in an alien land among alien people.

"Rest now," Hardane said again.

And she obediently closed her eyes, seeking oblivion in sleep.

She was drowning. Salt water clogged her nose, burned her eyes. She opened her mouth to scream, and sea water filled her mouth and throat. She flailed her arms and legs in a wild effort to gain the surface, but her frenzied motions were of no avail and she felt herself sinking deeper, deeper . . .

"Kylene. Kylene!"

His voice penetrated her terror. Opening her eyes, she saw him leaning over the bunk, his face hovering over hers, his eyes hooded with concern.

"Kylene?"

"I . . . I had a bad dream. I was drowning . . ." She shuddered with the memory. "I'm all right now," she said tremulously.

Hardane nodded. He was about to leave the cabin when he noticed the fear that still lurked in the depths of her eyes. Her face was pale, sheened with perspiration. He could see that she was trembling beneath the blanket.

Taking a deep breath, he gathered her into his arms, blanket and all, and carried her to the big leather chair in the corner of the room. Sitting down, he cradled her on his lap as if she were a child.

"My lord . . ." Kylene tried to free herself from his hold, but his arms tightened around her.

"Go to sleep, lady," he said, his voice gruff. "Nothing will harm you while I'm here."

She stared up at him. She was still trembling, but it had nothing to do with bad dreams, and everything to do with the feel of his arms around her.

"Go to sleep, lady," he said again, and this time his voice was as soft as a caress.

His arms were comforting, the rocking of the ship soothing, now that she was no longer afraid. Her eyelids fluttered down and she snuggled against him, feeling as safe as a child in its father's arms.

Nothing could hurt her now.