Oh, his love was testing the limits of his belief in the natural world and blowing them wide open.
But if he conceded belief in such magic as time travel, what magic could he discard as too outrageous? None. He could discard no possibility, however unearthly, without thorough consideration.
Adam Black had been able to cure the previously incurable poison of Callabron. Adam Black always seemed to know too damned much. Adam Black admitted flatly that he had come to Dalkeith for revenge.
The Rom had moved far from the smithy’s forge. The Rom who believed the myths and legends.
And the Hawk, indebted to Adam for his wife’s life, had forced himself to overlook all the oddities, attributing them to his intense dislike of the smithy, convincing himself that he was seeing dragons in the puffy shapes of harmless clouds.
He would never let her go, but someone or something else could take her from him at a moment’s whim.
He would seek it, destroy it, and free her—on his life he vowed it.
For there was no life for him without her.
CHAPTER 27
ALTHOUGH THE HAWK INSISTED ON LEAVING EARLY THE NEXT morning, he also made sure they took their sweet time on the way back to Dalkeith. He sent half the guards to ride ahead and commanded the other half to stay well behind him and his lady, to allow them privacy. He would return to Uster and oversee the rest of the manorial courts in the future, after this battle was done.
Adrienne was thrilled by his urgency to return to Dalkeith to seal their vows. She was equally thrilled by the three-day journey, with long dalliances in chilly pools of bubbling spring water. Longer interludes of passion on springy moss beneath the canopy of brightly fluttering leaves. Moments in which he teased, coaxed, and taught her until the blushing virgin grew confident in her newly discovered womanhood, thrilled to feel a woman’s power over her man. She soon became expert in the subtle ways of touching or speaking, of wetting a lip and beckoning with her eyes. She knew the stolen caresses and the instant responses that turned her sweet, beautiful man into a throbbing, hardened savage.
She was mildly stunned to discover that autumn had painted the hills with the inspiration of a master; leaves in brilliant shades of pumpkin, bloodwine, and buttery amber rustled crisply beneath the horse’s hooves as they rode beneath boughs of harvest gold. Squirrels chirped and skittered through the trees with gravity-defying leaps. Scotland in all her majestic glory, airbrushed by love, colored the simple gifts of nature into a tapestry of miracles. Adrienne had never realized the world was such a wonderful place.
She would remember the leisurely return journey to Dalkeith as her honeymoon; a time of phenomenal passion and tender romancing. A time of blissful healing and loving. Quite simply, the happiest days of her life.
Late on the second day, as they lay on a Douglas tartan of blues and grays, an unaddressed hurt surfaced to poke at Adrienne and she couldn’t stay her tongue. Gripping the Hawk’s face between her hands, she kissed him hard, hot, and tempting, then pulled back and said, “If you ever forbid me from you again, my husband, I will tear down the walls of Dalkeith, stone by stone, to get to you.”
The Hawk shook his head, his thoughts completely muddled by the tantalizing kiss and further bewildered by her words. He claimed her lips in a long, equally fierce kiss, and when she lay panting softly beneath him, he said, “If you ever fail to see how I am faring after being wounded, I will add a stone tower onto Dalkeith and lock you in there, my captive love-slave, never to refuse me anything again.”
It was her turn to study him with a bewildered expression, her lips full and rosy from the heat of his kiss. “If you mean after you were injured by the arrow, I tried to see you. Grimm wouldn’t let me.”
Hawk’s gaze battled with hers. “Grimm said you never came. He said you were sleeping soundly in the Peacock Room with naught a worry in your mind, save how soon I would die and leave you free.”
Adrienne gasped. “Never! I was right outside your door. Arguing and fighting with him. Still, he swore you refused me entrance!”
“I have never refused you entrance. Nay, I opened my very soul and bade you enter. Now you’re telling me that you came to see me that night, and Grimm told you I had given orders that you were to be refused?”
Adrienne nodded, wide-eyed.
Dark fury flitted across the Hawk’s face as he recalled the agony he’d endured, believing she’d not cared enough to see if he still lived and breathed. Suddenly he understood his friend’s stiff behavior that night. The way Grimm’s gaze had not seemed quite steady. The nervous way he’d built up the already blazing fire and had poked aimlessly at the crackling logs. “Grimm, what mischief do you play?” he murmured. Could Grimm wish Adrienne ill? Or had Grimm only been trying to protect him, his friend and brother-in-arms, from further harm?
Regardless, his actions were unacceptable. No matter how long-standing their friendship, lies were never tolerable. And Grimm’s lies had driven a wedge between him and his wife, a wedge that had sent the Hawk rushing off to Uster. What if he hadn’t returned for Adrienne? How far might Grimm’s lies have taken them apart from each other? What might Adam have done to his wife if he hadn’t returned for her?
The Hawk’s mouth tightened. Adrienne laid her palm against his cheek and said softly, “Hawk, I don’t think he meant any harm. He seemed to be trying to protect you. He said I had brought you nothing but pain, and that it was all his fault.”
“His fault?”
“For wishing on a star.”
The Hawk snorted. “Wishes on stars don’t come true, lass. Any addlebrained bairn knows that.”
Adrienne cocked a mischievous brow at him. “But he did say he wished for the perfect woman.” She preened. “And I do fit the bill,” she teased.
“Aye, that you do,” the Hawk growled. With a wicked smile, he cupped one of her perfect breasts in his hand and pushed her back upon the tartan as their passion began once again. His last coherent thought before he lost himself in the beauty and wonder that was his wife, was that Grimm owed him some answers and his wife an apology. And, if he had to admit it, that for all he knew maybe wishes on falling stars did come true. Stranger things had happened of late.
On the last day, Hawk rode as if hell-bent. Stole three days, he mused darkly, holding his wife to his chest in his possessive embrace, his cheek brushing her silky hair.
In the woods he had felt safe, that whatever enemy threatened her didn’t know where she was at that moment. So he’d prolonged it and spun it out to make it last, keeping his worries away from his wife, wanting nothing to spoil her pleasure.
Besides, he kept collapsing into near slumber every time his demanding young wife had her way with him. Damnedest odd thing. He’d never fallen so replete and satisfied to the ground. Oh, but that lass had some serious magic.
But now his mind turned darkly to the matter that lay ahead. Until the feast of the Blessed Dead, Rushka had warned. The Samhain was tomorrow, the day after the Samhain was the feast of the Blessed Dead—or All Saints, as some called it.
The Samhain was a perilous time for any to be alone. It was rumored that the Fairy walked the earth in full glamour on such a night. It was rumored that wickedness abounded on the Samhain, which was why the clans laid the double bonfire of birch, rowan, oak, and pine, and carved deep trenches around it. There they gathered to a one, every man, woman, and child, and feasted together in the protective rim of light. Within that ring, he would pledge his life to his wife and try to make some magic of their own.
He could just feel it in his bones that something was about to go very wrong.
For nothing this wide universe I call,
Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.
SHAKESPEARE, SONNETS CIX
CHAPTER 28
ADAM HISSED AS HE LEFT THE FAIRY ISLE OF MORAR. TIME, usually of no significance to him, had flashed past him, day by precious day. When he played a mortal game, time became a nagging concern. For too long h
e’d neglected his doings at Dalkeith, but it had taken some time to convince his Queen that he was up to no mischief.
Now the far-seeing Adam turned his mind toward Dalkeith to study the changes in his game. He stiffened and hissed again. How dare they?
When his Queen had said the damning words sealing the Hawk’s fate, Adam had searched far and wide for the perfect tool of revenge. He had wandered through the centuries, listening, watching, and finally choosing the perfect woman with careful precision. Adam was not one to muck in the lives of mortals often, but when he did, legends arose. And Adam liked that.
Some called him Puck. A Bard would name him Ariel. Still others knew him as Robin Goodfellow. The Scots called him the sin siriche du—the black elf. Occasionally, Adam donned the visage of a charging and headless horseman, or a grim-faced specter carrying a scythe, just to live long in the memories of mortals. But whatever the glamour chose, he always won what he set out to win. And he’d been so certain of success this time! The woman had not only grown up in magical New Orleans, she’d sworn off men so vehemently that he’d heard her through the centuries. Adam had watched her for weeks before he’d made his careful choice; he’d studied her, learned everything there was to know about the fascinating Adrienne de Simone. Things even her beloved husband didn’t know about her. He had been convinced that she was the one woman guaranteed to hate the legendary Hawk.
Now, as Adam moved toward Dalkeith-Upon-the-Sea, his far-reaching vision revealed a blissful Adrienne, wedding plans lazing dreamily in her mind.
But the Hawk, ah…. the Hawk wasn’t so comfortable right now. He sensed something was wrong. He would be prepared.
Adam had brought Adrienne here to reject the Hawk, and of course, to claim the beauty for himself. Rarely was such a stirring mortal creature born as that woman. Even the King had commented on her perfection. What sweet revenge, to wed the Hawk to a woman who would never love him, while Adam made her his own. To cuckold the man who’d humiliated the Fairy King. But it seemed that he’d been as wrong about Adrienne as he’d been about the Hawk. Underestimated them both, he had.
She loved the Hawk as intensely as the Hawk loved her.
Adam drew up short, and grinned craftily as inspiration struck. What a tiny revenge that would have been to merely cuckold the Hawk.
A new and truly devastating possibility now occurred to him.
Lydia and Tavis were sitting on the cobbled terrace of Dalkeith when the Hawk and Adrienne arrived late that night.
Deep in the shadows, talking softly and sipping sweet port, they watched the younger couple ride in, dismount, and link hands as they moved toward the terrace. Lydia’s eyes shimmered with happiness as she watched.
Adrienne said something that made the Hawk laugh. When he pulled her to a lazy halt and kissed her, she tugged the thong free from his hair and flung it into the night. What started as a tender kiss deepened hungrily. Long moments rippled by as the kiss unfurled. Lingering and savage and hot, the laird of Dalkeith-Upon-the-Sea and his lady kissed. Beneath an almost full moon, on the lawn directly in front of the terrace, they kissed.
And kissed.
Lydia’s smile faded, and she shuffled in her chair uncomfortably. She forced herself to draw a deep, difficult breath and willed her heart to stop that ridiculous thundering. She’d thought her body might have finally forgotten such passion. Little chance of that.
“That’s quite a kiss, I’ll say.” Tavis’s rich brogue rolled over her.
“Qu-quite … a kiss.” Lydia swallowed. How long had it been since a man had kissed her that way?
Tavis moved imperceptibly closer and Lydia glanced sharply at him.
Then her gaze turned speculative.
Tavis MacTarvitt was one fine figure of a man, she noted. How did it come to pass that she had failed to see that before now? And why that secretive smile on his face? she wondered. “What are you smiling about?” she snapped.
“ ’Tis a fine night on Dalkeith, I’ll say,” he offered benignly. “They’ve come home. And it looks to me like we’ll be having wee bairns around here soon, and I’ll say that again.”
“Hmmph.” Lydia snorted. “Have you figured out how to make coffee yet, old man? I’d love to have a good cup for her in the morning.”
“Milady.” His gentle gaze chided her. “I’m a man of talented hands, remember? Of course I can make coffee.”
Talented hands. The words lingered in her mind a moment longer than she would have liked, and she stole a surreptitious peek at those hands. Good hands, they were, indeed. Broad and strong, with long, clever fingers. Able. They tanned soft hides and tenderly pruned young roses. They brushed her hair gently, and made tea. What other pleasures might those hands be capable of lavishing upon a woman? she wondered. Och, Lydia, you’ve been wasting many fine years, haven’t you, lass? the true voice of her heart, silent all these years, finally found its tongue.
Lydia subtly shifted closer to Tavis so that their arms rested lightly side by side. It was a soft touch, but it was meant to tell him many things. And it did.
Deeper in the night, when Tavis MacTarvitt laid one aging yet still strong and capable hand atop hers, Lydia of Dalkeith pretended not to notice.
But she curled her fingers tightly around his, just the same.
It was early in the morning, the time when the cool moon briefly rides in tandem with the sun, that Adrienne felt the Hawk slip from the hand-hewn bed in the Peacock Room. She shivered in the fleeting coolness before the covers draped snugly to her body again. The spicy scent of him clung to the blankets and she buried her nose in it.
When they’d ridden in last night, the Hawk had swept her into his arms and vaulted the stairs three at a time, carrying his blushing wife past gaping servants. He’d called for a steaming bath to be delivered to the laird’s bedroom and they had bathed in scented, sensuous oil that clung to their bodies. He’d made fierce and possessive love to her on a mound of tangled throws before the fire, and oiled by the fragrant blend, their bodies had slipped and slid with exquisite friction.
Adrienne had been claimed and branded by the man’s hand. Conquered and ravished and utterly devoured. She had willingly dismissed all conscious thought, become an animal to mate her wild black charger. When he carried her to the bed, she’d run her hands over his body, over his face in the sweet afterglow, memorizing every plane and angle and secreting that memory away in her hands.
But somehow between the magnificent lovemaking and the sleeping, a silence had fallen between the lovers. It lay there, a stranger’s gauntlet downflung in their bed. She had felt it grow into a fist of silence as she’d gotten lost in fears over which she had no control.
Desperately, she’d threaded her fingers through the Hawk’s. Perhaps if she held on to him tightly enough, if she was tossed back to the future, she might take him with her.
She had spent many stiff hours pretending to sleep. Afraid to sleep.
And just now, as he slipped from the bed, she felt the fear returning.
But she couldn’t hold his hand every minute of every day!
She rolled silently onto her side, peeped out from the pile of covers, and marveled.
He stood at the arched window, his head cocked as if listening to the breaking morn and hearing secrets in the cries of the wakening gulls. His hands were splayed on the stone ledge of the opening, the last rays of moonbeam caressing his body with molten silver. His eyes were dark pools of shadow as he gazed into the dawn. His stern profile might have been chiseled of the same stone used to build Dalkeith-Upon-the-Sea.
She closed her eyes when he reached for his kilt.
The silence unfisted and wrapped its fingers around her heart as he left the Peacock Room.
Hawk stood in the doorway on the second floor, his eyes dark with rage.
Rage at his own helplessness.
Bringing her back to Dalkeith had been a mistake. A big mistake. He knew it. The very air inside Dalkeith seemed charged, as if someone had sl
oshed lamp oil all over the castle and now lay in wait, ready to drop a lit candle and step back to watch their lives be devoured by the ensuing inferno. No question remained in his mind—Dalkeith was not safe for her.
But she’d disappeared in Uster too.
Then they’d just have to go farther away. China, perhaps. Or Africa. At least get the hell out of Scotland.
Damn it all! Dalkeith was his place. Their place.
Dalkeith-Upon-the-Sea had been his entire life. He’d endured so much to have this time. To come home. To watch their sons play at the cliff’s edge. To watch their daughters race through the gardens, little feet pattering across mosses and cobbled walkways. On a warm day, to bathe their children in a clear blue loch. On a balmy summer night, to seduce his wife in the fountain beneath shimmering stars.
He deserved to spend the remainder of his years walking with Adrienne over these hills and vales, watching the sea and the seasons’ eternal march across the land, building a home rich with love and memories and adventures. Every bit of it—damn it—he was a selfish man! He wanted the whole dream. Should have stayed away, Hawk, and you know it. What made you think you could fight something you can’t even name? He closed his eyes tightly and swayed in the dark. Give up Dalkeith for her? His head fell forward, bowed beneath the weight of crushing decisions. A sigh to extinguish bonfires shuddered through his body. Aye. He would wed her at the Samhain. Then he would take her as far away from here as they had to go. He’d already started to say his goodbyes in a strained silence. Goodbyes took some time, and there was much he needed to bid farewell at Dalkeith-Upon-the-Sea.
To risk staying where whatever forces commanded his wife? Patently impossible. “We can’t stay,” he told the silent, waiting room—the one room he needed to bid farewell most strongly. His nursery. “Running is the only intelligent thing to do in this case. ’Tis the only sure way to keep her safe.”
The Highlander Series 7-Book Bundle Page 24