Beneath a Midnight Moon

Lord Kray's body lay in state for three days and three nights while people came from near and far to pay homage to their fallen liege. Hardane had sent a runner to advise his sister of her father's illness as soon as they had reached Argone; another runner had been sent to advise her of his death.



Sharilyn, clad in a dress of charcoal gray, her head and face covered with a gossamer black veil that hid the dark shadows beneath her eyes, greeted the farmers, the townspeople, the curious, and the grieving who came to pay their final respects to her husband. Dry-eyed, she accepted their words of sorrow, their embraces, their tears.



Food was provided for the mourners; beds were offered to those who needed shelter until after the interment.



Hardane's sister, Morissa, arrived late in the afternoon on the day before the funeral. She was a lovely woman with curly black hair and light brown eyes.



Morissa welcomed her new sister-in-law into the family with a warm smile and a hug, immediately putting Kylene at ease.



"I'm so pleased to meet you at last," Kylene murmured, feeling as if she'd known Morissa for years instead of a matter of moments. "I only wish it could have been under happier circumstances."



Morissa nodded. She wrapped her arms around her swollen girth as she apologized for her absence at the wedding.



"I understand," Kylene said. "When is your baby due?"



"At the end of the month." Morissa placed her hand over Kylene's stomach. "And yours?"



"In late spring, I think."



"I'm glad my time is almost here." Morissa pressed a hand to the small of her back, a brief look of pain flitting across her face.



"Is something wrong?" Kylene asked anxiously. "Maybe you should sit down?"



Morissa sighed heavily. "I'm fine. Just a twinge. Eben wanted me to stay home, but I couldn't. I couldn't." She blinked the moisture from her eyes. "I can't believe Father is gone."



"He was a fine man," Kylene said sympathetically. "I wish I had known him better."



"He was always so good to us. To Mother."



Kylene glanced across the room to where Sharilyn stood talking to several mourners. "How's your mother doing, really?"



Morissa shook her head. "I don't know. I haven't had any time alone with her. No one has, except Hardane. He's always been her favorite, you know."



Kylene made a vague gesture, not knowing what to say.



"It's all right," Morissa said. "I don't mind. None of us do. Hardane and my mother have always shared a special bond, but Mother's never given any of us reason to be jealous. I . . ."



Morissa's words trailed off as her husband came up beside her and slipped an arm around her waist.



"I think you should go upstairs and get some rest," Eben suggested. "The funeral is set for tomorrow morning."



Morissa inclined her head in Kylene's direction. "It was good to meet you at last, Kylene. See if you can't persuade Hardane to go to bed early. He looks tired."



Kylene nodded. "I'll try."



She watched them out of sight, her thoughts wandering. Lord Kray had passed away, but his daughter would soon give birth to a new life. And in a few months, Hardane's sons would be born. It was an endless cycle, life and death. She wondered if Morissa was as apprehensive of childbirth as she was.



At length, the last visitor had paid his respects and all the house guests were bedded down for the night.



Sharilyn refused to leave her husband's side. She stood there, her face wan, her eyes dry, as Hardane and Dubrey closed the lid of the carved oak coffin and covered it with a cloth woven in bloodred and black, the colors of the House of Argone.



"Mother," Hardane said, "you should go to bed."



Sharilyn shook her head. "No. I can't leave him here alone, not tonight."



"We'll stay with you, then," Hardane said, indicating his brothers, who had gathered around.



"No. I want to be alone with him."



Dace laid a hand on his mother's. "You shouldn't be alone now."



"Leave her," Hardane said.



Dace immediately lifted his hand from Sharilyn's arm and, after giving his mother a kiss on the cheek, left the hall. One by one, the other brothers embraced their mother and then followed Dace from the room.



Hardane was the last to embrace Sharilyn. He held her for a long moment, one hand stroking her hair, and then he took Kylene by the hand and led her out of the room, leaving his mother standing beside the casket, alone in the Great Hall.



The morning of the funeral dawned dark and cold. Heavy black clouds lowered in the sky, promising rain before the day was through.



It was fitting, Kylene thought, for the dreary weather matched the mood of everyone in Castle Argone.



The funeral was held in the Church of Alysha, half a league from the keep. Named after the wife of one of Argone's former rulers, it was an enormous edifice, made of huge blocks of pink-hued stone and black oak. The double doors were ten feet tall. The windows, of every shape and size, were of stained glass.



Inside, beneath an arched window, was an altar three feet high and twelve feet long. Huge candlesticks were set at intervals along the outer aisles.



The Wolffan priest who had officiated at the Temple of Fire stood behind the altar. He was clad in a hooded white robe tied with a crimson sash. Kylene had thought it odd that a Wolffan priest would conduct the service until Hardane told her that Kray had embraced the Wolffan religion in the belief that, if he did so, he would be united with Sharilyn in the afterlife. It was fortunate, Kylene thought, that the people of Argone respected a man's right to worship as he saw fit.



When everyone was seated, Hardane and his brothers carried the coffin into the chapel and placed it at the foot of the altar.



The service was not overly long. Prayers of consolation were uttered, a choir of monks clad in somber black sang a dirge in a language Kylene did not understand. And then each member of the immediate family went forward and laid a white winter rose upon the casket.



Hardane was the last to approach the altar. Reverently, he placed his rose upon the cloth-covered coffin and then, to Kylene's horror, he drew a dagger from inside his shirt and cut a shallow gash in the palm of his right hand.



Turning to face the mourners, Hardane held his bleeding hand over the casket. Bright drops of blood splashed over the white roses.



"By my blood here spilt, I vow to avenge my father's death."



There was a long silence, and then the priest began to chant softly, and as he did so, he sprinkled Hardane's head and shoulders with ashes.



Stunned, Kylene stared at Hardane, at the blackened ashes scattered over his head and shoulders, at the blood dripping from his hand.



He had lied to her. He had promised he would not leave her to avenge his father's death and now, before half the countryside, he had vowed to avenge Lord Kray.



There was a final prayer, and the funeral was over. The mourners, somber in their silence, filed past the coffin and out of the chapel.



A gentle rain was falling; a cold, bitter wind blew from the north as Hardane and his brothers carried the casket into the graveyard behind the church.



The grave had already been dug. The earth waited to receive its own.



Kylene stood beside Sharilyn, her mind and heart numb as Hardane's words echoed and re-echoed in her ears: By my blood here spilt, I vow to avenge my father's death.



The church bells began to ring as the coffin was lowered into the ground.



It was then that Sharilyn's outward composure cracked. With a sob, she fell to her knees and buried her face in her hands.



The sound of her tears rose above the wail of the wind.



It was a sound that Kylene knew would haunt her dreams for days to come.



She watched as Hardane drew his mother to her feet and gathered her into his arms.



By my blood here spilt . . . Kylene shivered as an image burst upon her mind, an image of another coffin, Hardane's coffin, being lowered into the ground.



Choking back a rush of nausea, she left the graveyard and returned to the church. Inside, she dropped to her knees in front of the altar and began to pray.



It was Dubrey who found her there. Dubrey who took her home.



Kylene sat in the bedchamber she shared with Hardane. Sitting in the window seat, she stared into the darkness, the ache in her heart too deep for tears.



He had lied to her, had let her believe that he meant to forgo his quest for vengeance. She had trusted him, and he had betrayed that trust. He was going after the Interrogator, to kill or be killed, and she would never forgive him. Never.



For the first time since their marriage, she felt no joy at the sound of his footsteps approaching their room, nor did she run to the door to greet him.



She heard him enter their chamber and close the door, heard him cross the floor toward her, felt his hand caress her shoulder.



Without turning around, she pushed his hand away.



"What's wrong, Kylene?"



"Wrong?" She drew her hurt around her like a cloak. "Why should anything be wrong simply because you lied to me?"



"I never lied to you."



"You did!" She whirled around to face him. "You promised me you wouldn't go!"



"I never promised any such thing."



"You did," she insisted. She tried to remember that night, tried to recall exactly what he'd told her, but she was too hurt to think clearly, too steeped in despair to bandy words with him now.



"It's late," Hardane said quietly. "Come, let's go to bed. You'll feel better in the morning."



"No." Rising, she folded her arms over her breasts. "I wish to sleep alone."



"Kylene . . ."



"Get out."



"Listen to me."



"No, I listened to you before, and you lied to me. You let me believe that I meant more to you than some useless need for vengeance."



"How could you have believed I would let my father's death go unavenged? How could I live with myself if I didn't try to bring Renick to justice?"



"Justice! What do I care for justice? Will justice feed my children if you are killed? Will justice warm my bed?"



"Kylene, please try to understand."



He reached out to take her in his arms, but she darted past him, anger and hurt warring in her heart. "Leave me alone!"



"Damn, lady, be careful you don't say something you'll regret."



"The only thing I regret is trusting you."



He took a step toward her, one hand outstretched, but she backed away from him, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "Don't touch me!"



Hardane stared at her for a long moment, his gray eyes turbulent, and then, without another word, he left the room, quietly closing the door behind him.



In the fortnight following the funeral, Kylene rarely saw Hardane except at meals. It seemed there were always people crowding into the Great Hall. Some were merely anxious to see their new ruler, but most of them came with problems: a land dispute, stolen cows or pigs or sheep, a need for help of one kind or another. She'd never realized how much time and effort went into the running of a country.



Under other circumstances, she might have resented the many hours he spent away from her. But not now. She was hurt and angry because he was determined to avenge his father's death no matter what the cost.



For the first time, she was glad that she had a room of her own where she could hide and lick her wounds.



How could he be so uncaring of her feelings? How could he even consider doing something that would put his life in jeopardy when he would soon be a father? Was shedding the blood of the Interrogator more important than being there for his sons?



And what would she do if he were killed? Argone was not her home. Much as she loved Sharilyn, as much as she adored Hardane's brothers, she had no desire to remain in Argone without Hardane. In spite of everything, Mouldour was her home.



She spent long hours with her father, expecting him to console her, to take her side. Instead, Carrick urged her to be forgiving, to try to see things from Hardane's point of view. His father had been killed. His mother had been held captive. Hardane, himself, had been imprisoned and badly abused. Even Kylene had felt the wrath of the Interrogator. Did she truly expect her husband, a man born and raised to be a warrior, to ignore such treachery?



"Yes!" Kylene had exclaimed. "I should mean more to him than revenge."



"He's a man, daughter," Carrick had replied quietly. "A man of courage and honor. He must do what he thinks is right."



Right! Kylene had stamped her foot, too angry for words. What difference did it make if avenging Lord Kray was the right thing to do if it cost Hardane his life?



She had sought out Dubrey, certain he would take her side, certain that he could make Hardane understand how she felt, that Dubrey would speak to Hardane and make him see things her way.



But Dubrey had agreed with Carrick. And so had Hardane's other brothers. Every one of them.



Most shocking of all was the fact that Sharilyn also thought Hardane was in the right. And that bewildered Kylene. How could Hardane's mother even think of letting Hardane go off to Mouldour to avenge Kray's death? Sharilyn had just lost her husband. Did the possibility of losing a son mean nothing? Did the Wolffan put vengeance above everything else?



Now, sitting in the window seat of her chamber, Kylene rubbed her temples in an effort to ease the throbbing in her head. She was lonely and unhappy. She wanted to be in Hardane's arms, to feel his strength, to bask in his love, but she couldn't bring herself to go to him. And he wouldn't come to her. Not after the way she'd behaved the night of the funeral.



Night after night, she'd gone to her lonely bed only to lie awake, staring into the darkness, wondering how she could miss him so much when he'd lied to her. Knowing he had no intention of keeping his word, he'd promised he wouldn't seek revenge, and then he'd broken his pledge and vowed to avenge his father's death.



Hadn't he? She tried to remember what he'd said when she'd begged him not to go after Renick. Slowly, the words he'd spoken came back to her.



Lady, he'd said, you don't know what you ask. He'd never promised her anything, she realized. She'd only heard what she wanted to hear. The realization had filled her with a deep sense of shame and an ever-growing need to apologize.



Knowing he could read her thoughts, she had silently begged him to come to her. Each time she heard his footsteps in the adjoining chamber, she had hoped he would open the connecting door, that he would sweep her into his arms and beg her forgiveness, that he would forget his blood vow and put aside his need for vengeance.



And night after night, the door between his bedchamber and hers remained closed.



And her arms remained empty.



One night she had tried to walk in his thoughts, but his mind had been closed to her, as solid as the door that shut her from his presence.



With a sigh, Kylene wrapped her arms around her belly, now burgeoning with new life. Closing her eyes, she let the tears fall, weeping with regret for the harsh words she had spoken in haste and in anger, crying because she was lonely and unhappy, because she couldn't bring herself to swallow her foolish pride and beg his forgiveness, because she wanted him to come to her.



The tears fell harder, faster, as she imagined the days and weeks slipping by while the abyss between her and Hardane grew ever wider, ever deeper, until bridging it became impossible.



Perhaps it was already impossible.



The hours slipped by. The moon rose in the sky, shedding her bright white light on the gardens below, inviting Kylene to come outside and wander in the moon-dappled night.



Rising from the window seat, she made her way down the staircase and out into the darkness. The fragrant scent of winter roses filled the air, reminding her of the hundreds of white velvet petals that had covered their bed on the night of their wedding.



"Hardane, forgive me," she murmured as she plucked a white rose and breathed in its sweetness. "Please forgive me."



Lady, come to me.



His voice, low and resonant, whispered like a nearly forgotten melody in the quiet corridors of her mind.



Lady . . .



The flower fell, unnoticed, from her hand as she turned to follow the siren call of his voice, her pulse racing with hope and trepidation.



She found him in the heart of the maze, standing beside the small stone bench beneath the ancient willow tree.



Her heart gave a little leap of joy at seeing him. He was so tall, so incredibly handsome. The moonlight played in his hair, that long black hair that she so loved to touch. He wore a forest green shirt that complemented the color of his hair and skin. Fawn-colored breeches clung to his legs, outlining his muscular thighs. Knee-high kidskin boots covered his feet and hugged his calves. Never had he looked more masculine. More unapproachable.



Her gaze was drawn to his face. To eyes that were deep and dark and gray. Eyes that had once held secrets she longed to know. Eyes that had once viewed her with warmth and affection. Now, they regarded her without expression, and that was more frightening than anything else.



The silence stretched between them. Kylene plucked at the folds of her skirt, conscious of the gentle bubbling of the crystal geyser, of the sweet scent of the marsh flowers that grew in rich profusion around the edge of the maze. Tall green and gold ferns swayed to the music of the breeze.



He continued to watch her, his arms folded across his chest, his dark gray eyes unfathomable. Was he waiting for her to break the silence?



"You summoned me, my lord?" she said at last.



"Aye, lady."



"I'm here."



He nodded, his gaze sweeping over her from head to heel, missing nothing. "Are you well?" he asked gruffly.



"Well enough."



Hardane ran a hand through his hair, then released a heavy sigh. "I've missed you, Kylene."



"Have you, my lord?" she asked tremulously.



"Aye, lady," he replied quietly. "More than you'll ever know."



"Why didn't you come to me?"



"Why didn't you come to me?"



"I was afraid you'd send me away . . ."



"Kylene . . ."



"You shut me out of your thoughts." She made no effort to conceal her pain, or to stem the tears that welled in her eyes. "I thought you didn't love me anymore. I wanted to go to you, but my pride . . . I was too proud, too afraid . . ."



Too afraid he'd reject her. "Lady . . ."



The word was laced with sorrow and self-reproach. Each tear she shed was like a knife in his heart. On the night of their wedding, he'd made a solemn promise that he would never cause her pain, and now, only a few months later, he had broken that vow. He could see the anguish in her eyes, hear it in her voice, read it in her thoughts.



His throat grew thick with unshed tears as he held out his arms.



"Forgive me, Kylene," he murmured. "Please forgive me. I never meant to hurt you."



Feeling as though a crushing burden had been lifted from her heart, she crossed the short distance between them, and when his arms folded around her, it was like walking out of darkness into the light.



She wept then, copious tears that washed away all the hurt of the past.



"Forgive me?" he asked again.



"Aye, my lord wolf, if you'll forgive me."



"There's nothing to forgive, Kylene. You were right to be angry with me."



"Then you won't . . ." She bit back the words, afraid to make him angry by mentioning the Interrogator.



A muscle worked in Hardane's jaw. How could he let his father's death go unavenged? Truly, she didn't know what she asked. And yet . . . how could he leave her? He let his mind walk in hers, reading the deep-seated fear that she had not acknowledged. She was afraid he would leave her, as her father had left her. Afraid of being alone and unloved.



He gazed into her eyes, seeing the love, the fragile hope. Was she really asking so much?



Hardane drew her up against him, taking pleasure in her nearness, her warmth. His hand slid between them, resting on the warm swell of her stomach. And there, beneath his callused palm, he felt the life stirring within her.



His sons. He had no right to do anything that might deprive his sons of a father's love and protection. No right to put his need for vengeance above the needs of his bride.



"I won't go after Renick," he said quietly.



It was the hardest decision he'd ever made.



Kylene gazed into his eyes, her expression solemn. "But what of your vow?"



"The vows I made to you in the Temple of Fire on the night we wed are more binding, Kylene. My place is here, with you. I'll not leave you to bear our sons alone while I seek vengeance against Renick. I swear it to you on the lives of our unborn children, and on my love for you."



Humbled by his words, by the depth and strength of his love, she buried her face against his chest so that he couldn't see her tears. She had cursed him and wrongfully accused him of lying to her, refused him his place in her bed, and he had begged her forgiveness.



"I'm sorry, Hardane," she sobbed, "so sorry."



"Don't weep, lady," he murmured. "Please don't weep."



Feeling helpless, he lifted her into his arms and carried her out of the maze toward the keep, and all the while he whispered that he loved her, would always love her, that nothing had changed between them.



Up the winding staircase, through the long narrow corridors, to his bedchamber, he carried her, absorbing her nearness, welcoming the weight of her in his arms.



His room was dark, but he moved unerringly toward his bed. Lowering her gently to the mattress, he stretched out beside her and drew her into his arms.



"Promise me," he said urgently, "promise me we'll never again sleep apart."



"I promise."



"Tomorrow I want you to move your things in here. We can use the other room as a nursery, if you like, but I don't want you to have a room of your own anymore."



"Whatever you wish, my lord wolf."



"Tell me you love me."



She stroked his hair, his cheek, traced the line of his jaw. "I love you."



"Kylene . . ."



Whispering her name, he covered her mouth with his, drinking in her sweetness, savoring the taste of her on his lips, his tongue.



Kylene ran her fingers through his hair, loving the way it felt in her hands. She reveled in his easy strength, in the power that flexed and relaxed at the mere touch of her hand. His arms and legs were long and corded with muscle; his belly was hard and flat.



Their clothing fell away and she let her hands explore every inch of his hard-muscled body, reacquainting herself with the width of his shoulders, the contours of his broad back, the springy black hair on his chest.



She murmured his name as she pressed kisses to his lips, his brow, his fine straight nose, his strong square chin. And when she was on fire for him, quivering with need and desire, she wrapped her legs around his waist and guided him home.