Beneath a Midnight Moon

Chapter 33


Kylene sat on a chair near the hearth, watching as Lord Kray paced the floor of the Great Hall. Sharilyn sat on a low-backed couch, a bit of needlework lying forgotten in her lap, while they tried to decide on a plan of action to rescue Hardane.

Stubbornly, Kylene had insisted that whatever strategy they devised, she be allowed to accompany them.

“No, no, no!” Kray said, wheeling around to face Kylene. “No matter what we decide, your coming along is out of the question. I won’t hear of it.”

“I’m going,” Kylene replied quietly. “Nothing you can say will stop me.”

Lord Kray’s face softened at her show of bravado. “You love him very much, don’t you?”

Kylene nodded, unable to speak past the rising lump in her throat. Ever since Hardane had assumed her shape and gone off to decoy the Interrogator, she’d been plagued with dark visions—faint images of Hardane being abused, tortured, locked in the very cell that she had once occupied in the bowels of the Fortress. He was in danger, hurting and in pain, and she had to go to him.

When Lord Kray and his sons had returned from Chadray two weeks earlier, she had expected them to set sail immediately for Mouldour to rescue Hardane. And that had, in fact, been their intent.

They had formulated several plans: they would sail in under colors not their own; they would hire the Norco-nian pirates to infiltrate the dungeon and smuggle Hardane out of Mouldour; Jared would go to Mouldour alone on the chance that one man would not be noticed; Dubrey and his brothers would disguise themselves as members of the Mouldourian Guard, walk boldly into the Fortress, and spirit Hardane away in the dead of night.

Kylene had thought each plan had merit; Lord Kray had found a flaw in each one. His most convincing argument against rushing into anything was the very real fact that, since the Isle of Coriantan had allied with Mouldour, Bourke had twice the number of fighting men at his disposal, twice the number of warships, as well.

And there was something else to be considered, Lord Kray had reminded them. To attack Mouldour now would only serve to break the tenuous peace that had formed between the two countries while they took time out to lick their wounds and regroup from their last brutal encounter.

And there was one more thing to be considered, Lord Kray had remarked the last time they’d discussed the subject, and that was the fact that, as far as the Interrogator knew, he had captured Kylene. If she were to go to Mouldour, it would put both their lives in danger.

And so the days passed, and no decision was made. And then, that very morning, Dubrey had announced that all unauthorized ships were being turned away from the coasts of Mouldour. One ship, not heeding the warning, had been destroyed. And since there was no way to approach the island of Mouldour except by ship, the odds against rescuing Hardane now seemed insurmountable.

“So, what are we going to do?” Kylene asked, her gaze shifting from Lord Kray to Sharilyn and back again.

“We’ll wait,” Kray decided, though the inactivity was driving him to near madness, as it was everyone else. “The Interrogator must want something. A ransom, perhaps. Until we know what it is, we’ll wait, and hope for the best.”

A small cry of despair rose on Kylene’s lips. Rising, the needlepoint in her lap falling unnoticed to the floor, Sharilyn crossed the room and put her arms around her daughter-in-law’s shoulders.

“You must take better care of yourself, child,” she admonished softly, kindly. “You do Hardane no good by refusing to eat. You need to keep up your strength, especially now.”

Kylene nodded as she wrapped her arm around her belly. Everything Sharilyn said was true, but she had no appetite for food, and sleep offered no rest, only nightmare images of Hardane being tortured. Sometimes, she heard him crying her name as the Interrogator flayed the skin from his back, and sometimes, mired in a web of dreams and memories, it was her own screams that echoed down the corridors of her mind, her own back that cringed under the lash.

She ran from the room as nausea rose in her throat, nausea that had nothing to do with the fact that she was pregnant with Hardane’s child, and everything to do with the awful images that had haunted her day and night since he’d been gone.