Beneath a Midnight Moon - By Amanda Ashley Page 0,92
cautiously through the night. The darkness made it impossible to see the man’s face, impossible to tell if it was friend or foe, though he doubted he had many friends left in Mouldour.
He closed his eyes for a moment, one hand pressed to his chest. He was still weak from the blood he’d lost, but he was determined to have his revenge, to plunge his knife into Bourke’s traitorous heart, to feel the man’s blood on his hands. He had endured exile and betrayal at the hands of those he had loved and trusted, and he would have his moment of vengeance if it was the last thing he ever did.
Tonight, he thought. Tonight he would destroy Bourke, or die trying.
Hardane paused in the shadows of Castle Mouldour, his eyes and ears attuned to the slightest movement, the slightest sound. He had left Jared offshore in a small boat; the Sea Dragon sat at anchor out of sight behind a high promontory.
On silent feet, he made his way to the back of the castle and through an ancient wrought-iron gate that was heavily overgrown with vines.
He paused every few feet to sniff the wind, to listen to the sounds of the night.
At last he reached the rear door that led into the dungeons. Using a bit of wire that Jared had given him for just this purpose, he unlocked the door and stepped into the musty darkness.
For a moment, he transformed into the wolf, using the animal’s superior senses to locate his father’s whereabouts. Then, assuming his own shape once more, he made his way down the dark corridor until he came to the cell that imprisoned Kray.
Hardane shrank against the wall as he saw a light coming from the opposite direction, swore softly as he saw Renick and an armed guard halt outside Kray’s cell.
“Open the door,” the Interrogator ordered imperiously.
Hardane held his breath as the cell door swung open and the Interrogator and the guard stepped inside. Then, drawing his sword, Hardane rushed forward, closed the prison door, and took the key from the lock.
The guard swore as he whirled around.
“Hand me your sword,” Hardane ordered.
“Do as he says,” the Interrogator commanded.
“Are you sure, my lord?” the guard asked, his gaze fixed on Hardane.
“Quite sure,” the Interrogator said.
With a look of disgust, the guard handed his sword through the bars.
Instantly, Sharilyn took on her own shape.
“Mother!” Hardane gasped.
“My son,” she replied with a smile.
Hardane stared at his father, who lay unmoving on the cold stone floor, his hands and feet shackled to the wall.
“Is he . . . is he dead?”
“No, only unconscious.”
There was no need for further discussion. Sharilyn used her sash to tie the guard’s hands behind his back, then stuffed her kerchief in his mouth. When that was done, Hardane unlocked the door, removed the shackles from his father’s hands and feet, then slung his father over his shoulder and led the way out of the dungeon.
When they reached the top of the stairs, they paused a moment to listen, and then Sharilyn opened the door and stepped into the darkness beyond the dungeon.
As soon as she stepped outside, a heavily muscled arm wrapped around her neck, choking off her breath.
Hardane, still hidden in the shadows, carefully lowered his father to the ground, then drew his sword and pressed the point between the shoulder blades of the man holding his mother.
“Release her.”
“Drop your sword, or she’s dead.”
“Release her,” Hardane repeated, putting pressure on the sword so that it slit the man’s shirt and pierced his flesh.
The man gasped as the point of the blade split his skin, but his arm remained around Sharilyn’s throat.
“A deal, then,” Hardane suggested. “I’ll put up my sword and you let the woman go.”
“Your word?”
“My word in exchange for yours.”
“Done,” the man agreed.
With more than a little reluctance, Hardane lowered his blade.
A moment later, and with just as much trepidation, the man released his hold on Sharilyn and whirled around to face Hardane.
“Bourke!” Hardane exclaimed as he saw the man’s face. Raising his sword again, he placed the point in the hollow of the man’s throat.
“You fool,” the man said, his voice thick with contempt. He gestured at his clothes, which were ill-fitting and covered with mud. “Has Lord Bourke taken to dressing in rags these days?”
Hardane frowned. “If you’re not Bourke, who are you?”
“His brother, Carrick. Rightful ruler of Mouldour.”
“Carrick is dead,” Sharilyn remarked, coming to stand beside Hardane.
“Not quite, madam,” the man replied with a low bow.