Fire Raven

by McAllister, Patricia

  “Here she is, milord.”

  Kate heard Winnie’s skirts rustle as she executed a curtsey. The woman departed, and Morgan’s greeting warmed her to the core.

  “Faeilean. You look exceptionally fetching today.” He took her hand and she felt a lingering kiss upon it. “I trust you slept well.”

  “Quite well, thank you. Is the earl with you?”

  “No, he left long before sunup. I’m delighted you agreed to join me on a morning ride. ’Tis my usual custom to go a’hawking before the mists rise.”

  “Falconry? Hunting with birds, is it not?” She turned with interest in his direction. “I’ve always wondered how it worked. Alas, I fear I shall not be able to appreciate the sport as I wish.” She ruefully indicated her eyes.

  “Perhaps the sight of a kill would distress you,” he suggested.

  Kate thought a moment about it. “Nay. I feel I’ve been hunting before. Knowing you, however, I suspect this excursion is not merely for sport.”

  “The meat is given to those less fortunate in my demesne,” Morgan admitted. The sound of horses’ hooves drawing close caused her head to turn.

  “Here’s Lloyd, now, with our mounts. The place I wish to go hunting, Madoc’s Craig, is inaccessible by coach. With your permission, I’ll lead your mare behind my steed. She is the gentlest of the lot, the most surefooted as well.”

  Kate offered him a serene smile. “I trust you completely, milord.”

  “Morgan,” he reminded her.

  “Morgan,” she echoed. They had reached an understanding again. There was a brief silence. Kate sensed him studying her intently. She welcomed the distraction of a third presence.

  “Ailis,” Morgan exclaimed. “What brings you out of your domestic domain?”

  He whispered aside to Kate, “Ailis has been in charge of Falcon Lair kitchens for nigh the past century. She rarely wanders from her lair. ’Tis but the second time in as many years, I vow.”

  She suppressed a giggle. The other woman spoke. Ailis’s thick Welsh accent was tart and dry.

  “Heavens, milord, I was fit to be tied, I was, when I saw ye fixing to ’ead off wi’out so much as a pasty,” Cook declared. “Why, what if something should go awry? There’s nothing like the comfort of good food on the road.”

  “Now, Ailis,” Morgan said with fond exasperation, “we’re headed out for a morning ride, not a fortnight’s journey.”

  Cook sniffed. “Duw, I won’t have it said I don’t keep ye well fed, milord.” There was a rustling sound as she handed something to her master. Kate heard Morgan’s good-natured chuckle as he passed it on to Lloyd Carey so it might be secured to one of the saddles.

  “Thank you for the basket, Mrs. Taggart,” Morgan said, by way of dismissal. Then, seeing Cook was not about to budge until introductions were made all ’round, he presented Kate.

  “Croeso I Cymru, Mistress Kate. Welcome to Wales.” The woman’s greeting in the old Cymric tongue was friendly, but inquisitive. Kate sensed a pair of eyes taking shrewd stock of her. She knew it was important to earn Cook’s approval.

  “What a thoughtful gesture, Mrs. Taggart,” she said. “I should dearly love to sample more of your delicious cooking. It has been a genuine comfort to me from the moment I arrived.”

  Ailis warmed to the compliment. She sensed it was sincere. “Thank ye, milady. If ye have any favorite dishes, I’d be right pleased to make them for ye.”

  Kate thanked her again, and Ailis seemed satisfied, for she then departed. After Cook left, Morgan apologized for his retainer’s curiosity.

  “Oh, I don’t mind. They’re all such lovely people here. I feel as though I’ve come home.”

  Morgan did not reply, though she sensed he was pleased. When Kate felt his hands lift her to the mare’s back, she thought they were a tad tighter about her waist than propriety decreed, and a bit possessive, too. She settled in the saddle and arranged her skirts.

  “You’ve ridden before,” Morgan observed, seeing in Kate’s relaxed posture and good bearing, the natural confidence of one raised with horses.

  “Have I?” she mused. “Yes, I’m certain you’re right. It feels familiar to me.” She leaned forward to stroke the mare’s neck. “What is the horse’s name?”

  “Patches, I believe.”

  “What color is she?”

  Morgan studied the mare for a moment and chuckled. “I believe her name accounts for most of the colors.”

  “Then I may assume she is kept for her good nature, rather than her beauty?”

  “Assume what you wish but, rest assured, Patches is not so sore a nag that you would be ashamed to be seen upon her,” he said. “Lloyd selected her for you because she is of a mild disposition, and well complements my stallion.”

  Kate tilted her head towards the second pair of hooves impatiently raking the cobbled drive. “He sounds high-spirited.”

  “He is. Patches here shall keep Idris content, long enough for you and I to relax and enjoy our morning ride. They are mates, you see.”

  Kate heard the creak of saddle leather as Morgan swung up on the stallion. His deep, steady voice soothed the animal. When Patches lapsed into a slow walk, Kate cupped her hands around her own high pommel for extra security.

  Even though she was still blind, Kate could tell it was a beautiful morning. Winter’s last kiss nipped her cheeks, and she felt it teasing several curls loose from her chignon. She raised her face to the delicious warmth of the sun. The variations in light and dark were becoming more distinct, as was her excitement. She dared hope she would see again, and soon. The first person she intended to look at was Morgan. She would not be content until the man of her dreams had a face and a name.

  They rode in companionable silence until Morgan announced their destination: a high mountain meadow wreathed with mist, framed by the bosom of Madoc’s Craig. He described the great, slate-colored mountain rising before them, a lonely behemoth upon the valley floor.

  To reach the mountain, they were forced to ride along a narrow cliffside precipice. Morgan was confident of the trip. He told her he had made it many times.

  Morgan described the meadow and the wild Welsh countryside to Kate with all the enthusiasm and natural talent of a bard. Thanks to his colorful description, Kate easily imagined the harsh gray cliffs rising above a frothing blue sea and Cader Idris towering in the distance like a white volcano.

  Spring saffron, lavender, and the pungent scent of wild fennel lining the path up the mountain added to her mental picture of paradise. Only the image of Morgan remained indistinct, a blurred vision of heaven she knew she must be content to wait for.

  Morgan was lost in thought, as well. Frequent glances over his shoulder reassured him of Kate’s safety, yet also had an underlying motive. He never tired of drinking in her natural beauty; the half smile playing about her lips seemed provocative. Kate was enjoying herself, he saw. She seemed fearless today, utterly trusting in him. The realization swept a wave of emotion over him.

  When a sweet peal of her laughter rang out, Morgan doubted this dour place had heard its equal in centuries. Kate’s laughter warmed his blood. He smiled a little, his spirits lifting.

  Mayhap he was falling in love? Morgan quelled the mad notion at once. He assured himself he was merely desperate to snatch up the first crumbs of kindness any woman tossed him. He felt a tic of irritation tug at his cheek and wrenched his hungry gaze from Kate. From then on, he gazed steadfastly ahead.

  “DOWN YOU COME, FAEILEAN.”

  Hands on Morgan’s shoulders to steady herself, Kate leaned into him as he lowered her to the ground. He did not immediately release his grip on her waist. He steadied her against his chest, and she felt the butter-soft velvet of his doublet beneath her palms. Then the mare jostled them and restored reality, and Morgan set her down.

  “I’ll lead you over to the rocks. I’m sure you’d prefer to sit, whilst I ready the bird.”

  Kate had all but forgotten about the hawking. She felt brea
thless from the moment she was in Morgan’s arms. “Aye,” she agreed, wishing she might amend the word when his hand released her waist. He took her hand instead and guided her to a large boulder where she might perch out of the way.

  She reached out and felt warm stone beneath her fingers. It felt delicious to sit under the blessed warmth of the sun; it seemed she had been so cold for so long. Despite the pleasure of the outing, she discovered she missed Morgan’s company when he left to ready his falcon.

  Kate heard him secure the horses nearby. Then a faint, harsh scream raised gooseflesh on her arms.

  “I call her ‘Ironbreaker,’ “ Morgan said. Kate realized he referred to his bird. “She broke free of the manacles her former owner kept her in. Not once, but twice. The second time, I found her on my property, suffering from abrasions and a broken wing. When the owner turned up to claim her, I sent the brute packing. She’s a devil, this bird. I wager it makes her a proper Trelane.”

  “Nay,” Kate protested. She heard the gyrfalcon scrabbling for a hold on his leather glove, and imagined its proud, fierce glare swiveling in her direction when she spoke. Mayhap the bird was blinded by a hood, unable to see her, yet she sensed its presence strongly.

  “You’re no devil,” she added, for Morgan’s sake. Though he was silent, she knew he heard what she said. “No devil would care few a complete stranger as you have me.”

  Still, Morgan did not reply. Instead he turned to concentrate upon the day’s hunting. He did not trust himself to respond to Kate’s observation. There was no true generosity in his heart, he knew — merely selfishness. The same selfishness kept him from searching too urgently for Kate’s family or her true identity. He wanted her here, with him. Heaven curse him for his actions, but he could not bear to let her go. Not yet.

  He spotted his quarry: a brace of red grouse in a nearby copse. He signaled Ironbreaker with a high-pitched whistle and tore the hood from her head. The magnificent predator let out a shrill cry as she rose from his hand and unfurled her golden-buff wings. True as an arrow, the gyrfalcon soared toward the sun, higher and higher in a dizzying spiral, until she gazed down upon her hapless prey.

  Morgan watched with mixed emotions. Usually the hunt exhilarated him, entertained his mind long enough for him to avoid any more painful forages into his memory. This time, he was distracted. His gaze slid from the bird to Kate seated nearby, her skirts spread out over the mossy rock in a violet pool. She held her face to the sky as if she watched the hunt in progress. A smile danced upon her lips. Damme those lips. They haunted him day and night. As he already well knew, they were red as snow berries and twice as sweet …

  High above them, Ironbreaker let out a triumphant scream. Morgan saw Kate shiver at the sound. He did not know her spasm of fear issued not from the sound itself, but rather from the sudden memory it evoked.

  A man’s agonized face flashed before Kate’s mind. She saw his hands thrashing about as he tread water, his mouth gaping open in a terrible plea. Help me, colleen …

  She rose from the boulder, trembling violently.

  “Faeilean?” she heard Morgan ask with concern. Yet his voice came to her as if from far away, fading fast into the background. Memories rushed down on her like the screaming bird above them, tumbling her about in a surf of invisible agony. She gasped for air as her hands paddled frantically against the rising water in her mind.

  Rain! It was raining, a vicious downpour from angry black skies. Her weary arms churned the icy waves, as wooden boards and loose debris from the ship smashed against her from all sides. She saw a head bob to the surface beside her, heard a man’s faint cry as his hands flailed in her direction. Help me … !

  Morgan saw Kate’s hands rise to her own throat, as if she fought for each breath of air. She made strangled, choking sounds. He ran towards her. She managed a faint scream as he grabbed her and held her in his arms. A terrible wail issued from her throat.

  “Rory!”

  Her cry shook him to the core. It was full of despair — a terror so great, he almost shuddered at the intensity of it.

  “Kate, what is it?”

  She fought off Morgan’s restraining hands. She did not hear him at all. Her mind was elsewhere, caught up in a spinning vortex of icy water and burning fire.

  In her tortured mind’s eye, she fought against the surging waves of sea water separating her from another man.

  “Help me! I dinna know how to swim, Kat ...”

  “Rory,” she cried again. The sea water was cold, so frightfully cold. Gradually her desperate battle against the brutal waves ebbed to cramping pains instead.

  “Nay,” she screamed, over and over. She reached in vain towards the drowning man, watching helplessly and horror-stricken as the waves closed one last time over that beloved auburn head. Rory’s flailing hands slipped beneath the churning seafoam — forever.

  Morgan supported her as Kate crumpled to her knees. Deep, wrenching sobs wracked her. He could do little more than hold her tightly as he joined her there, kneeling on the grass.

  Who was Rory? Morgan wondered again, when she quieted and nestled like a quivering fawn against him. Her brother? Father? Husband? The last possibility sent a jolt of pain through him. It would make her a widow, at any rate. Fair game. Morgan was chagrined and ashamed by his own thoughts.

  “Kate, what do you remember?” he demanded when he determined she was calm enough to respond. “Tell me what you saw.”

  The reminder sent another shudder through her. She raised her tear-streaked face to his, her green eyes glittering like peridot.

  “I remember,” she whispered, and was silent long enough for him to become frightened, “I remember watching him drown.”

  Morgan swallowed hard. Dear Jesu. Yet he had to know. “Who, Kate?”

  “Rory. That’s all I know. His name, his face. Sweet Jesu, his face.” She shut her eyes and he watched tears seep beneath her lashes. “I remember he called me ‘Kat.’ Not Kate … Kat. ’Tis similar to the name you’ve given me, for lack of any other.”

  Morgan did not answer her. She forged on, choking on her tears.

  “’Twas horrible, Morgan. Rory begged me to help him. He couldn’t swim well, you see, but I couldn’t … couldn’t hold him up …” Her words rose to a keen of pure agony, a sound to rend the heart of the heartless. “Ahh, Jesu, why did I fail him?”

  “Ssh, Faeilean, it does no good to blame yourself,” Morgan murmured as he stroked her head. Her shaking subsided at the sound of his voice. He had the power to calm her thus. Trelane magic, they might have called it centuries ago; now it was nothing less than a curse. Morgan’s voice thickened with emotion as he continued speaking to her in a soothing vein.

  “The sea is a beautiful yet fickle mistress, so man is always at her mercy. Even today, when she seems benign and peaceful, there is always the chance she will turn on him and render both he and his measly ship afloat.”

  “Yea, I know it. There is something more to this, I fear — something evil,” Kat said. She clutched the front of his doublet as if he might save her from drowning, as well. Gently, Morgan pried her hands free and held them in his grasp.

  “Listen to me. You are starting to remember the accident. I vow, it will come back to you, whether you want it to or not. You will be frightened, you may be beyond terror at some point. Yet you must always come to me. I want you to promise me … Kate, Kat, my precious cariad. Come to me.”

  “Aye,” she whispered, relieved. “Yea, Morgan, I will.”

  Chapter Seven

  KAT’S LIPS PARTED, EVER so slightly. She tilted her head back in an obvious invitation to a kiss. With aching tenderness, Morgan touched his mouth to hers. He felt her sag with utter trust and relief against him. Her breasts pressed against his doublet, violet wool and forest-green velvet the only barriers between them.

  Sweet. So sweet. Morgan’s mind whirled with emotions, agony chief among them. Jesu, she looked ripe for loving. He claimed her mouth with rising urgency, lo
wering them both into a grassy pool speckled with wildflowers. Her hands molded his face as they kissed. Morgan forgot the bane of his face, forgot all but the piercing waves of pleasure slamming over him.

  When he raised his lips from hers, her eyes were slitted in cat-like fashion against the bright light

  “Oh, my love,” she whispered. There was awe and great joy in her voice. “I never imagined —”

  “Nor I,” Morgan said, gazing with hunger upon Kat’s serene face, wanting to memorize forever how she looked at this moment. He knew it was all he would ever have. His hand moved along her shoulder, slid down to her hip, and nestled comfortably in the curves nature had provided.

  “Morgan,” she murmured. “Kiss me again.”

  It was both a demand and a plea. He decided if a single day must last him a lifetime, he might as well make the most of this one.

  “With pleasure, cariad.” She was no longer just his lost seagull; she was his beloved, as well. His mouth slanted down upon hers, and passion swiftly rose again, so powerfully that he was helpless against its onslaught.

  Morgan’s fingers trembled as he unhooked Kat’s bodice. A sheer lawn camisole hardly concealed her breasts from his gaze. If ever woman was perfection, she was. He ducked his head to capture a rosy nipple through the material and worried it with his teeth. Kat gasped, arched up against him with the newly found pleasure. Her fingers threaded through his hair as she urged him onward with hungry little cries.

  “Aye!” Her tone was urgent, pleading. “Love me, Morgan.”

  He had every intention of doing so. From shattering grief to pure ecstasy, they both might fly as swift and true as Ironbreaker, now. Morgan eased down the lacy straps of the camisole, freeing her breasts to his admiring gaze. They were lovely, flawless, as was the rest of her. He painted them with his tongue. With his teeth, he drew upon the nipples until they were hard as rubies and twice as red and throbbed as insistently as his own maleness.