Blood Moon (9 page)

Pulling the old quilt from the bed, she
spread it near the hearth, placing the cheese, her knife, the
cracked earthen mugs and plates that seemed the least damaged and a
bottle of wine near the center. Lastly, she found a dish to hold
one of the candles Algar had sent to her, lit it, and set it next
to the bottle of wine. She was just finishing the last when Kale
returned, knocked briefly, and entered carrying a load of wood
before she could respond.

His dark brows rose as he surveyed the
‘picnic’ cloth before the hearth. Until that very moment, Aslyn had
not considered the ‘table’ she’d set might be construed as
seductively intimate. She was appalled when she realized that that
was exactly what it looked like … a blanket before the fire,
candles--wine.

She glared at him, lest he conceive the
notion that that was her intention. “I apologize, but I’m afraid I
have little to offer visitors. Rather than suggest we take turns at
the table, I thought we might share the blanket.” She could have
bitten her tongue off the moment the words were out of her mouth.
It took no imagination at all to twist those words into a far more
intimate invitation than she’d intended. One look at Kale’s face
was enough to assure her that he’d not missed the, seeming, double
entendre.

A faint smile curled his lips. “I
should be delighted to share the blanket with you,” he responded
and continued to the hearth, dropping the pile of wood he carried
beside the hearth, and then carefully placing a few branches on the
fire.

Aslyn blushed. At least a part of it
was irritation. If he had openly acknowledged the inadvertently
suggestive nature of her comment, she could have set him back on
his heels. As it was, he had merely turned it back upon her so that
she could not even take exception to his response.

But she knew very well that he had not
missed the connotations.

It was even more irritating that he had
only to give her that piercing look of his and she began to feel
exceedingly warm all over and as breathless as a giddy young
maiden. She was more than a little inclined to think it was his
fault that she could not open her mouth without uttering something
witless.

He left again when he’d turned the spit
over the fire. This time when he returned, he was carrying a lute
and it was Aslyn’s brows that rose. “Do you play?” she asked in
surprise.

A slow, infinitely appealing smile
curled his lips. It did something drastically disturbing to her
heart. “I’ve a modest skill with it. Mostly I carry it to charm the
ladies at court and convince them that I’m a man of breeding and
sensitivity.”

Caught off guard, Aslyn chuckled. “I
had not pegged you for a rogue.”

His dark brows rose at the comment. He
took her hand, assisting her to take a seat on the edge of the
blanket. “Do not let this boyish countenance disarm you. I’m
considered one of the blackest rogues unhung.”

Aslyn eyed him skeptically
as he settled himself opposite her with his back to the wall and
began to tune the instrument. There was nothing the least boyish
about his face. It was all man--harsh, angular, and dangerously
appealing. Nor could she imagine him as a seducer of innocents—he
seemed far too controlled for that, far too honorable a man--though
she had no difficulty at all imagining any number of young
‘innocents’ casting lures in his direction, hopeful of
being
seduced.

If her own life had not changed … but
there was no point in allowing her thoughts to take that direction.
Her life had changed. It would never be the same. And if it had
not, then she would have been wed long since and very likely have a
babe at her breast by now.

In any case, she was very doubtful that
his intentions toward her were of a seductive nature … however
treacherously her body interpreted every word, look, and gesture he
bestowed upon her. Possibly, he viewed that as a potential bonus to
his efforts, but it was not the ultimate goal. Of that she was
fairly certain. His behavior toward her had been that of a
gentleman from the very first. Unlike Lord Algar, he had made no
attempt to take advantage of her situation.

“A breaker of hearts, perhaps,” she
responded finally, teasingly. “But I cannot see you as a seducer of
innocents.”

The comment was rewarded by one of his
rare grins. “I never said it was true, only that it was rumored …
and, in any case, I don’t recall that I suggested it had to do with
the seduction of innocents at all.”

Aslyn’s jaw went slack. “But …
uh….”

He chuckled at the look on her face.
Instead of commenting, however, he began to pluck a tune and sang a
ballad. Regardless of his claims, his skill was far more than
merely modest. He played well, and he sang even better, his voice
deep and rich, reaching down into her soul, curling a tight fist
around her heart that made her yearn for all those things she’d
missed in her life … husband, hearth, and children … the passion of
a man she could love who loved her in return. She was so enthralled
she forgot her guard, clapping enthusiastically when he’d finished,
smiling at him warmly. “That was beautiful!”

He bowed his head slightly. After a
moment’s thought, he played another tune. The ballad he sang,
however, was completely unfamiliar to her. It was hauntingly sad,
and spoke of a people hunted, misunderstood, despised.

When he’d finished, he set the lute
aside and moved to check the meat.

“What is this ballad? I’ve never heard
it before.”

He shrugged, intent upon his task.
“It’s from a legend as old as mankind … as old as Uthreana, the
Earth Mother.”

“This is about a people that lived long
ago?”

He turned to look at her, his
expression unreadable. “Many believe they still live among
us.”

Aslyn frowned, thinking back to what
she remembered of childhood lessons, but she could not recall ever
having heard a tale anything like it. “I don’t think I’ve ever
heard about them.”

He returned his attention to the meat,
cutting into it experimentally to check it for doneness. “It’s the
legend of the werefolk—the beast people—or, as they prefer to call
themselves, the brethren, who appear as ‘normal’ as you and I much
of the time, but who are virtually immortal, and change themselves
into beasts and roam the night. According to legend, there are
those born into the clan, and those fortunate enough to be … chosen
as mates.”

A dizzying rush of fright washed
through Aslyn as she studied his back, realizing this was no idle
conversation. He knew, or he suspected. In either event, her
situation was far more dire than she’d supposed. The realization
threw her mind into such turmoil that it took a supreme effort of
will to force herself to consider how one not guilty, as she was,
would react to the story. Should she dismiss it? Or would it be
best to express some interest in the subject? Would it be dangerous
to show any interest at all?

In truth, despite her fear, the tale
held more promise of her possible salvation than anything she’d
learned in all her years of travel. If there was any truth at all
to it, and surely there must be, she wanted—needed to know whatever
he might know about it.

She decided it wouldn’t be safe to
appear too intrigued and forced a scoffing chuckle that sounded
hollow even to her own ears. “Werewolves? But these are just
stories simple folk frighten themselves with. In any case, I
wouldn’t think being ‘chosen’ a very desirable thing. Who would
willingly give up their humanity to become some savage
beast?”

Coming onto her knees, she focused her
attention on cutting slices of cheese and bread as she sensed him
turning toward her once more since she had no confidence that he
would not read everything in her face—her fears and her
hope.

“Do you prefer your meat red? Or
brown?”

Aslyn glanced up at him and then looked
at the half cooked slice of meat he had skewered on his knife. A
wave of nausea washed through her. “Brown,” she said with an
effort, wondering if he thought he was testing her by offering the
meat virtually raw.

He dropped the chunk of meat onto the
nearest plate and returned his attention to his task. “A pity. It’s
far more succulent when not overcooked.”

Aslyn stared at the piece of meat and
repressed a shudder.

“But I was referring to werefolk—not
specifically werewolves,” he continued the previous
discussion.

Aslyn met his gaze. This time, however,
she truly was confused and had no need to pretend.
“Werefolk?”

“They are not limited to taking the
form of wolves.”

Intriguing as that was Aslyn realized
it was far too dangerous to pursue any further. His piercing stare
unnerved her to such an extent that she was certain she would give
herself away somehow, if she hadn’t already. To her relief, he
dropped it and focused upon the meal once he’d placed a slice of
meat on her plate.

Uncorking the wine bottle, he poured a
measure into each of the earthen mugs she’d set out. “You seem …
surprisingly well educated,” he commented, just as Aslyn had begun
to relax and enjoy the meal.

She almost choked on the bite of bread
she’d just taken and had to take a gulp of the wine before she was
able to speak. “I had the good fortune to be reared by a lady of
good breeding but no fortune.”

He cocked an inquisitive brow. “I
thought your father was a sea captain?”

Aslyn did choke that time. When she’d
recovered from her coughing fit, she glanced up at him through
watery eyes. “Yes. He was. But, naturally, I did not sail with him.
I was referring to the woman who kept house for us.”

He nodded. Before he could think of
another question, Aslyn asked, “And what of you?”

“A younger son of an impoverished
gentleman—no prospects,” he responded coolly.

Aslyn colored, felt irritation surface.
It took an effort to curb the urge to slap him. She had not been
fishing for information of that type, or for that reason, and he
damned well knew it. “Which is of no interest to me as I’ve no
interest in attaching a husband,” she said tartly. She’d been
sorely tempted to say ‘you’ rather than ‘a’, but decided he was not
so thick skinned as to need anything more pointed.

His eyes gleamed. “No?”

“I plan to enter the nunnery when I
finish my pilgrimage and return to Mersea,” she said tightly. Let
him stew on that!

He frowned. “You must have loved him
very much.”

The comment threw her for a curve,
particularly since she could tell from his expression that the
thought displeased him far more than he liked, or than he was
willing to allow her to see. Unfortunately, she wasn’t altogether
certain what it was that she’d told him before that had provoked
the comment. She stared at him, trying to remember exactly what
she’d told him about herself. It was the pitfall of deceit. One
must lie to suit the occasion, which meant if one stayed in one
place too long, one could begin to hang oneself with
lies.

She must have mentioned her
betrothal, she finally decided, either to him or to someone he’d
questioned. She had never been inclined to elaborate, however—she
was at least wise enough to realize her limitations and she
couldn’t help but wonder what her exact words had been to lead him
to this conclusion. Regardless, there could be only one answer.
She’d already told him she would enter a convent. She had to
have
some
excuse
for choosing to do so. She looked down at her food to keep from
giving herself away by her expression. “Yes,” she lied.

He refilled her cup. “You are far too
young … and far too beautiful to hide yourself from the world in a
convent. Your destiny lies elsewhere.”

Aslyn wasn’t about to allow herself to
be sucked in by his flattery. With his probing questions and
comments, he’d made it clear enough that his only interest in her
was in discovering if she had anything to do with the attacks. How
could he imagine her as some sort of hideous beast capable of such
ferocity and yet so simple as to fall for the grains of flattery he
sprinkled out between his probing questions? Or, perhaps, believing
her to be of the werefolk, he thought her mind could only be
simple?

She smiled dismissively and turned her
attention to her meal, trying to show enthusiasm she did not feel.
In truth, she’d lost her appetite long since, which was a shame
considering he’d provided the best meal she’d seen in many
months.

“You surprise me.”

“How so?”

“In virtually every way, in truth. More
specifically, I’d expected either a coy prompt for more flattery,
or a denunciation … or a polite ‘thank you’.”

Aslyn didn’t look at him. She was doing
her best to curb her temper. “Was I rude?”

“Surprisingly.”

She glanced up at him then. “Perhaps I
didn’t consider it a compliment?”

“You thought, perhaps, that it was mere
flirtation?”

She did not care, at all, for the
feeling that she was being toyed with, as a cat might play with a
mouse. Anger made her incautious. “I did not make the mistake of
thinking it a ‘mere’ anything. I am curious, however, to know why
you pretend an interest in me that you obviously do not
feel.”