Beneath a Midnight Moon - By Amanda Ashley Page 0,32

the ability to run tirelessly. The wolf’s nose picked up a myriad of scents: earth, trees, the smell of other animals, man . . .

And Kylene. He slowed as her scent was carried to him on the wind. She had passed this way not long ago.

At a trot now, he followed her trail, a low whine coming from his throat.

She had been here. He sniffed the ground and the air, howling with frustration. She had been here.

He followed her scent for miles, followed it to the edge of the woods. In the distance, set atop a shallow rise, he saw the stark outline of the Bourne Sisterhouse.

Sitting on his haunches, he stared at the high stone walls, a low howl rising from his throat as he heard the bells chime, calling the sisters to afternoon prayers.

Kylene’s head jerked up as she heard the wolf’s howl again.

It was him, she thought. Hardane. Somehow, he had followed her.

She shivered as another howl rent the stillness of the chapel. Never, never in all her life, had she heard a cry filled with such sadness, such anger, such despair.

She had arrived at the sisterhouse only a few hours ago, but it seemed as if she had been there forever. The ways of the Bourne Sisterhouse were different from the Motherhouse in Mouldour, and yet not different at all.

The same stillness permeated the rooms. The sisters wore the same look of serenity, their eyes filled with a deep inner peace. Their voices were soft, never raised in anger. They moved through the corridors on silent feet, accomplishing the tasks that needed to be done, feeding the hungry, the homeless, tending the sick, praying for those who were dying.

They had welcomed her with open arms, without question, apparently recognizing her immediately as one of their own.

The howl of the wolf came again, louder, closer. Kylene glanced around the candlelit chapel, but none of the other sisters seemed affected by the savage howling. Indeed, if they heard it at all, they paid it no mind, so caught up were they in their prayers, in their own private meditations.

Resolutely, Kylene clasped her hands and bowed her head in prayer, seeking the deep inner peace that had once been hers. But it remained out of reach, a shadow without substance, a chimera, like swamp gas on a cool summer night.

Desperate, her eyes damp with tears, she tried to find her own inner stillness, but it was gone, perhaps forever, shattered by the remembered touch of a man’s hands on her too willing flesh, and the heartrending lament of the wolf.

That cry, that haunting, lonely cry, followed her the rest of the afternoon and into the quiet hours of the evening, penetrating every thought.

That night, when she crawled into bed, she was determined to stay awake, afraid he would steal into her dreams and take her unawares, afraid that, if he but spoke the word, she would turn her back on all she had promised to be, to do, simply because she wanted so badly to indulge her fantasies, to feel his hands in her hair, his lips caressing her flesh.

Wicked, she thought helplessly; such thoughts were so very, very wicked.

She closed her eyes and tried to pray, but her ears were filled with the anguished sound of the wolf’s howl.

She remained awake as long as she could, but gradually her body’s need for sleep overcame her and she tumbled over the brink into oblivion.

In her sleep, she wept, because he was not there.

Chapter 17

“It was what she wanted, Hardane,” Sharilyn said gently. “The vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience are not given lightly, and, once given, must not be broken.”

“I know.”

He sat with his head cradled in his hands, his shoulders slumped. She had never seen him look so defeated, so thoroughly discouraged.

“Hardane . . .”

“I’m all right, mother mine. Don’t worry about me.”

Indeed, she thought. When had she ever done anything else? He had been an adventuresome child, walking when he was only eight months old, climbing, exploring. No matter how many times he fell, how many bumps and bruises he sustained, he never gave up. Nothing frightened him—not fire, not water, not threats of dire punishment. What he set his mind on, he achieved. And yet, for all his willfulness, he had never been mean or disrespectful. When he did something wrong, he admitted it and took his punishment without complaint.

Now, for the first time in his life, he wanted something and he couldn’t have it. Most