Beneath a Midnight Moon - By Amanda Ashley Page 0,8
wane did they take any notice of Kylene.
As one, the men turned to stare at her.
“She’s a beauty, my lord.” The tall, bearded seaman spoke for them all. “You’re a lucky man.”
“This is not the Princess Selene,” Hardane said gruffly.
“Then who might she be?”
“Her name is Kylene, and you will treat her with the same respect you would have given to my betrothed.” His cool gray eyes rested on each man. “Is that understood?”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Let us be under way, then.” He glanced at Kylene, then started up the gangplank.
Kylene hesitated only a moment, her fear of water overcome by her fear of being left behind. Lifting her skirt, she hurried after Hardane.
She stood at the rail as the ship left the bay, her gaze sweeping over the shore. She was leaving Mouldour, leaving the only home she had ever known, perhaps never to return.
An hour later, her melancholy was forgotten, swallowed up in the sure knowledge that she was going to die. Her stomach churned, her throat burned with bile, and her head ached. She clutched the rail, afraid to move, afraid she’d be thrown overboard into the white-capped waves that sucked at the ship’s sides.
With a groan, she closed her eyes and prayed for death.
That was how Hardane found her a few moments later.
“Lady, are you ill?”
Kylene nodded, thinking that ill didn’t begin to describe how she was feeling. And then she brightened. Perhaps he’d brought good news. Perhaps the ship was going down. Drowning seemed a vast improvement over what she was feeling now.
Frowning, Hardane put his arm around her shoulders and eased her away from the rail. “Have you ever been on a ship before?”
“No.”
He grunted softly as he swung her into his arms and carried her down the sturdy ladder to his cabin. Gently, he placed her on the narrow bunk. She tried to bat his hands away as he began to unfasten the stiff collar of her high-necked brown dress.
“Lady, be still,” he admonished. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The sound of his voice soothed her and she ceased her struggles.
Closing her eyes, she gave herself up to his ministrations, sighing as he removed her sturdy black shoes and thick wool stockings, then sponged her face and neck with a cool cloth.
She heard him leave the cabin, but she was too miserable to wonder where he’d gone. The thought crossed her mind that if, by some miracle, she reached Argone alive, she would have to spend the rest of her life there, because she was never going on board a ship again.
Hardane returned a few moments later. Urging her to sit up, he thrust a cup into her hands. His face was near, his beautiful gray eyes filled with concern. Perhaps he didn’t hate her, after all.
“I’m sorry to be so much trouble,” she murmured groggily.
He nodded. “Drink the broth. There’s ginger in it. ’Twill make you feel better soon.”
She did as she was told, her gaze fixed on his. His eyes were as changeable as the sea, she thought, sometimes dark and stormy, sometimes soft and gentle.
“Rest now,” he said. Setting the cup aside, he drew a heavy blanket over her, tucking it under her chin. “You’ll get your sea legs in a day or two.”
“And if I don’t?”
His smile was kind. “Then you’ll probably wish you’d died at the hands of the Executioner.”
“What’s to become of me?”
“Lady?”
“When we reach Argone?”
He nodded with understanding. “No harm will befall you, lady. You may stay with us, if you wish. If not . . .” He shrugged. “You will be free to leave.”
Free, she thought. Would she ever be free again? She was a fugitive now. If she returned to Mouldour, she would be forever looking over her shoulder, waiting for the Interrogator to find her. And if she stayed in Argone, she would still be a prisoner of sorts, trapped in an alien land among alien people.
“Rest now,” Hardane said again.
And she obediently closed her eyes, seeking oblivion in sleep.
She was drowning. Salt water clogged her nose, burned her eyes. She opened her mouth to scream, and sea water filled her mouth and throat. She flailed her arms and legs in a wild effort to gain the surface, but her frenzied motions were of no avail and she felt herself sinking deeper, deeper . . .
“Kylene. Kylene!”
His voice penetrated her terror. Opening her eyes, she saw him leaning over the bunk, his face hovering over hers, his eyes hooded with concern.