Beneath a Midnight Moon - By Amanda Ashley Page 0,4
gray mare.
Swinging aboard a big black stallion, he pounded his heels into the animal’s flanks.
The gray mare needed no urging. She raced after the other horse, almost unseating Kylene, who grabbed the saddle horn with one hand and the horse’s mane with the other, and held on for dear life. In truth, she had never ridden before; there had been no horses at the Motherhouse.
The Executioner glanced over his shoulder from time to time, no doubt to make sure she still followed him. She toyed with the idea of trying to get away from him, but it would be night soon, and she had no desire to ride through the forest alone. She would be easy prey for the many outlaws that roamed the countryside after dark.
After what seemed like hours, the Executioner drew his horse to a halt. Dismounting, he lifted Kylene from the back of her mount, tethered the horses to a sturdy tree, then led the way up a short steep cliff toward a small cave.
“We’ll stay the night here,” he said.
“And then what?”
“At dawn, we’ll ride for the Sea of Mouldour. My men have a ship waiting to take us to Argone.”
“Argone.” She spoke the word in the same tone she might have used if he’d told her they were going to Perdition’s flames.
“You object?”
“Would it do me any good?”
A wry smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “No, lady, it would not.”
He gathered a handful of leaves and twigs and carried them into the cave. Moments later, a small, cheerful fire chased away the darkness.
Kylene stood at the entrance to the cavern. The fire’s warmth beckoned her even as the Executioner’s ugliness repelled her.
He glanced at her, a hulking shape in the dancing shadows cast by the flames.
“Come, warm yourself.” He looked at her askance when she hesitated, one grizzled brow quirked in amusement. “You still do not trust me?”
“Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know.”
Rising to his feet, he walked slowly toward her. “Trust me, lady, I will do you no harm.”
Removing his fur-lined cloak, he placed it over her shoulders.
“Who are you?” Kylene asked. “Why are we going to Argone? Why have you brought me here?”
“I will answer your questions in good time, lady. For now, I would know who you are.”
“It is as I told the Interrogator. My name is Kylene, and I am a foundling. The Sisterhood has cared for me since I was a child. I want only to take my final vows and join their holy order.”
He shook his head in disbelief. He had saved her life and she still didn’t trust him with the truth. And yet, he could understand her reluctance. He was, after all, in the guise of a stranger.
“Why would a woman as lovely as you seek such an existence?” he asked, willing to play along for a moment.
“I wish to embrace their way of life, to know the kind of peace that they enjoy.”
“What kind of life is that? To hide yourself behind high walls for the rest of your days?”
Kylene lifted her chin defiantly. “It is my life. What is it to you how I wish to spend it?”
“You are a woman of rare beauty. They will clothe you in shapeless black robes, cut off your hair, and cover your face with a veil.” Slowly, he shook his head. “It is a waste, to hide such perfection in ugliness.”
Kylene felt her cheeks grow warm under his praise. She had little experience with men, still less with worldly compliments.
“So,” he mused, “you are not the rightful Mouldour’s daughter, but a foundling.”
Kylene went suddenly cold. Would he kill her, now that he was convinced she was not Carrick’s seventh daughter?
She stared at him, mute, wondering if she could buy a little more time by lying. A sudden weariness overcame her. Lifting her chin defiantly, she stared at the Executioner.
“I am not his daughter,” Kylene said. “I have seen Lord Carrick but once, and from a distance. If it is your intention to kill me, then do it, but, pray, do it quickly and be done with it.”
He grinned, amused by her unexpected show of temper. “Why did Lord Carrick offer you sanctuary?”
Kylene shrugged. “I am told he is a kind man.”
“Kind, perhaps, but you cannot rule a country and maintain a throne with kindness.”
He thought of the waste brought about through war with Mouldour, the lives sacrificed on the field of battle, the homes and crops that had been destroyed.