Highland Hawk: Highland Brides #7

by Lois Greiman

  “I am not an unwealthy man. I could give you much.”

  “In exchange for what?”

  He reached out to stroke her hair. His fingers brushed her arm before lifting a heavy coil to his lips. “Your companionship,” he murmured.

  “You already have my companionship, monsieur,” she said and tugged at the wanton lock that curled about his fingers, but he refused to release it. “Why not give me whatever prize you deem appropriate now and we can go our separate ways?”

  He stared at her in blank surprise for a moment then laughed. “I am not accustomed to such splendid wit.”

  “And there lies the difference between us,” said Cat. “You call it wit; I call it honesty. But I am Rom, a wanderer by nature and force. I’ve no time for subtlety.” Not unless it would aid her cause in some way.

  “Then I shall be forthright,” he said, sobering dramatically. “I want you in my bed.” He tugged her closer by the multihued length of her hair. “Indeed, I have wanted you since the moment I first saw you.”

  “Which was only a few short hours past.”

  “It matters not. You are in my blood.”

  ” ‘Tis lucky for you then,” she said, managing to tug her hair from his grasp while only losing a few strands. “For this way a part of me will be in your bed even though the rest of me is not.”

  “You say you are too weary for a hunt,” he said. “But I see ‘tis not true. ‘Tis simply a different kind of chase you lead. But I do not mind. In fact—” He reached out quickly, grabbing her arm again. “I will go to any lengths to have you.”

  She smiled, though the expression felt stretched as thin as her patience. “For all I care, you can go to—”

  “Princess Cat.” A man approached from her left.

  She turned with a scowl in the tiny space afforded her between the Frenchman and the wall—rather like the proverbial rock and hard place. But it was good that she’d been interrupted, for it seemed she might have inherited her grandmother’s unpredictable tongue after all.

  “We have not yet met,” said the man just entering. He bowed with a small man’s grace. De la Faire moved away a fraction of an inch, as if to get a better view of the interloper. “I am Lord Samuel of the clan MacKinnon.” His face was round, his hair bright as copper.

  “I have no wish to disturb you if you are otherwise occupied.”

  “Nay, not at all,” she said, glad for the chance to move out of the Frenchman’s reach, and sidle along the wall to the next window. “Monsieur de la Faire was kind enough to show me about the castle.”

  ” ‘Tis quite impressive, is it not?”

  “Aye.”

  MacKinnon smiled shyly, his teeth flashing against his short-cropped beard. “I will not keep you,” he said. “I only wished to say how I enjoyed your performance of the evening past.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “You reminded me of my daughters when they were wee small things.”

  “I am not that small, my lord.”

  “Nay. Just full of life and energy.”

  “How are your daughters?” de la Faire asked.

  “They are well. Well indeed.”

  “And your wife?”

  A shadow crossed MacKinnon’s brow. “Aisla died some months past.”

  “I am so sorry,” said the Frenchman. “I had not heard. An illness?”

  A moment of taut silence stretched between the two men.

  “An accident. Her horse threw her on the way home one eve.”

  “Home from?” de la Faire asked. But MacKinnon had already turned toward Cat.

  “Again, I beg forgiveness for my interruption, Princess.”

  “I am not really a princess,” she told him.

  “The title fits. Will you allow me to escort you back to the hall? Or to your chambers mayhap?”

  Out of the frying pan and into the fire, she thought. But the fire did not look quite as hot as the pan.

  “Catriona.”

  She raised her gaze to the doorway, only to find Rory striding toward her.

  “Grandmother needs you.”

  “Grandmother?” Her heart beat wildly. “Is she well?”

  “You’d best come,” he said, but she was already rushing toward the door, skirt hiked up in one hand.

  Rory strode alongside her into the hallway, down the long corridor.

  “What happened? Is she in the great hall?”

  “Nay. She is in your chamber. I helped her there when I saw you were not about.”

  “Is it her heart? Is she breathing well?”

  ” ‘Tis probably worry for you. Where have you been?”

  “Discovering the lay of the castle.”

  “It did not look as if that was all you were discovering.”

  She gave him a sidelong glance as she trotted down the stone stairs. “I have no time for your jealousy, Rory.”

  “But you have time for the Frenchman, and the round-faced laird?” he asked, but she was already at her chamber’s door.

  It creaked open beneath her trembling fingers and she rushed across the room. Marta lay on her side, one gnarled hand cushioned beneath her frizzled hair.

  “Grandmother!” Cat fell immediately to her knees. “Grandmother, what ails you?”

  The dark, ancient eyes opened. “What is amiss?” she asked, moving to sit up.

  “Nay. Lie back. Are you feeling better?”

  “Better?” She turned a baffled scowl on her granddaughter, then at Rory, who remained tense and unapologetic in the doorway. “I am as old as dirt and I long for a peaceful nap in my own cart. Yet I feel as well as can be expected,” she said. Turning her gaze back to Catriona, she softened her expression. “But what of you? Have you learned anything?”

  “Nay, Grandmother,” she said, refusing to acknowledge Rory’s duplicity. Forever and always he had been the jealous one. When in truth, that right should have been hers. “I have learned nothing, except perhaps…” She smoothed Malta’s white, crinkled hair away from her forehead. “Perhaps I have learned what is most dear to me in all the world.”

  The bead-bright eyes glittered. “There is little point to getting sentimental over a rumpled old witch like myself, child.”

  “I could not bear to lose you too.”

  Marta covered Cat’s hand with her own. Her fingers felt dry and smooth against her skin. “All will be well, little dove.”

  Tears threatened and weakness spilled over Catriona. “Are you certain?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Aye.” The old woman nodded jerkily. “I feel it in my soul. And when one is as old as I, God dare not fool her. Worry not, lass. We shall have the boy back.”

  Chapter 4

  Catriona tried to rest but daylight and terror conspired against her. And so she waited for the hunt trying to still her thoughts, trying to control the swirling worries that threatened to drown her.

  ‘Twas well past noon when she heard riders assemble in the courtyard. Horses nickered and iron-shod hooves rang against the cobblestones. Rising from bed, Catriona cast a glance out the window. ‘Twas a goodly group of hunters. Surely the castle would be almost empty. Careful not to waken Marta, she opened the trunk that housed her garments. From it she drew and then donned a simple costume, no more elaborate than the king’s servants wore. ‘Twas that fact that gave her hope of anonymity.

  From the courtyard, she heard raucous laughter. Tying on a grayish wig, she strode to the window. They were still there, so she paced, her bare feet silent against the worn grain of the floor, until finally she heard the riders depart.

  “Your bewitching charms will not help you in this, Princess Cat. For if you tell anyone of your plight, we shall know. Indeed, it might be that it is we whom you are trusting with your secrets. Scotland’s court is full of intrigue. And we shall be watching you.” Blackheart had laughed, a flowing breathy sound, but then he had dropped the object with which he had trifled all through that conversation. For a moment it had gleamed in the fir
elight, but she could not see what it was—not even when he bent to retrieve it.

  The next day she had crept back to that spot and found, crushed into the soft ground, the imprint of a medallion. Her hands had shaken when she’d traced that image onto a ragged piece of vellum.

  ‘Twas that medallion that she must find, for ‘twas that medallion which would tell her Blackheart’s true identity.

  In a moment she was hurrying down the hallway, the scrap of vellum tucked into the pouch that hung beside the simple bone dirk on her girdle. A serving maid passed with a nod, carrying a bucket.

  Catriona nodded back.

  The castle was immense, but she had some concept of its design now, and her plans were simple; find the medallion; find Blackheart. Perhaps he wore the piece around his neck, but she couldn’t afford to passively wait until she might chance to see it. She had to search for it.

  It would be wise to first check the rooms of the men who were gone on the hunt, but she had no way of knowing which rooms those were. Thus, she would begin at one corner of the castle and search each room, mentally checking off each chamber until she found that for which she searched.

  Another servant passed carrying a board and goblet.

  Catriona bobbed her head and hurried on. Nervous and uncertain, she glanced from side to side. Then, seeing no one, she stepped up to the nearest door and knocked quietly. No one answered. One more furtive glance to her left and she went inside. It was a narrow chamber. Without benefit of a window, it was quite dark. Nevertheless, she closed the door behind her and managed to ascertain that a pallet occupied the majority of the space. Two trunks vied for room, one in leather and one wooden. She searched the leather one first, since it was smaller and likely to hold the most valuable items. But it proved disappointing.

  The wooden one was no better, filled with nothing more than cloth and garments. The entire search took only a few seconds. Straightening quickly, she glanced about the room. There was little enough that would help her here. But…

  Hurrying to the bed, she snatched up a pillow and hustled back to the door. It opened noisily and closed the same. But the hallway was empty, and now she had a burden of sorts, a reason for hustling along the passageways.

  Acting as if she had a lively purpose, Catriona strode along until she came to the end of the hall.

  The chamber there proved to be larger than the first, boasting a tall narrow window and a fair-sized bed. Her search was quick and thorough.

  The next room was locked. This was a problem she had not considered. She must get inside.

  Then again, the medallion did not seem to be so priceless that it must be locked away. Blackheart had fiddled with it as if it were something he habitually kept with him. Of course, that might mean that he kept it tucked under his tunic. But she could hardly go about asking each guest if he possessed a medallion that bore six gem-stones surrounding intricate knot work. Thus, she would keep the locked room in mind and think of a way to breach its security.

  In a moment she was knocking at another door then slipping silently inside.

  The room was dark. She paused, letting her eyes adjust. It seemed as though she must be searching for a man of some wealth. Therefore, he would probably inhabit one of the larger rooms. Still, she could not afford—

  A shape rose out of the shadows.

  Catriona gasped and jerked back.

  “Forgive me! I—”

  The shadow materialized into a dark robed man who seemed to stumble toward her.

  “Forgive me!” she rasped again, and pivoting away, wrenched the door open and lurched into the hall.

  A matronly woman stopped dead in her tracks, her chin drawn back into the folds of her neck.

  “Good Christmas, lass, what be you doing?” she asked.

  “I…” Catriona searched blindly for an explanation. “Lord de la Faire said he was in need of a pillow.”

  “De la Faire!” The matron looked at her askance. “Then what you be doing in the holy man’s cell?”

  “Holy man?”

  “Aye. Blackburn’s very own saint, he is. ‘Tis said he has been here as long as the castle itself. He’s as deaf as a stone.” She scowled again. “Are you new here?”

  “Aye. Aye.” Catriona was still grappling to catch her breath and her wits. “I was asked to come and help out, what with the feast and all.”

  “Well, need you we do,” said the other. “But you mustn’t be wasting your time with pillows and whatnot. Not when… Ahhh…” She nodded with a clever expression, as if she’d just realized something that most would not. “Lord de la Faire! Might that be the fellow what thinks himself such a ladies’ man?”

  “Aye, I think that might be him.”

  “Uh huh, and you a bonny lass delivering a pillow upon his request. Come along. You may call me Mildred. And what be your name?”

  Catriona glanced frantically toward the door once more. “Mary,” she said. ‘Twas the first name that slammed into her mind. She welcomed it readily. “Mary of Kilchurn.”

  “Kilchurn?” asked the older woman, surprise in her tone as she herded her new ward down the hall.

  It was obviously too late for Cat to change her place of origin. “Aye.”

  “Might you know Duana?”

  “A… a stout maid with dark hair and a little mole just so on her cheek?” she guessed breathlessly.

  “Nay, nay,” said the other, waving an impatient hand as she hurried down the hall. “Duana is as slim as a reed with fine, fair hair.”

  “I fear I do not know her then,” murmured Cat, glancing behind. “But she sounds to be a bonny maid. Whose room is that?” she asked, motioning nervously toward the door she had found locked some minutes earlier.

  The matron shook her head. “I cannot keep them all straight in me mind. But I believe his name be Drummond. But this Duana, she is not bonny at all. Teeth like a braying ass, she has. ‘Tis a shame too, seeing what a prince she married. Might you know her Shay?”

  “I—”

  “Ooch, but you wouldn’t. Not if you have not met Duana. She gives her man not a moment’s peace. Just like Sophie, she is.” She waved her arms expansively and shook her head.

  Another hallway branched off to their left. Catriona stepped quickly into it as the other woman continued on.

  “Her man has to do for her every minute or ‘twill be hell to pay. In fact, ‘twas not a week ago when he had a pint or two, she—”

  Around the corner of the hall, Cat heard the matron’s voice come to a halt. Ducking into the nearest room, Cat pressed her back to the door. Breathing hard, she prayed that her talkative friend was not the type to hunt her down.

  “Mary?” The voice from the hall came nearer, footsteps meandering along. “Mary?” There was silence for a moment, then, “Now where the devil did that lass get herself off to?” A small gasp. “Supposed to bring de la Faire a pillow, indeed. ‘Twas probably the twit’s own ploy. Course he is not an unhandsome man.” Her footsteps turned away. “Come to think on it, I wouldn’t mind a bit of that myself.” She chuckled. “What would Sophie say of that? Always thinking she has the only…”

  The voice faded into oblivion.

  Catriona let out a deep breath and wilted in the darkness, but just at that moment she heard someone chuckle out in the hall. Against her side she felt the door handle move, and she jumped away as if it had come alive. Dropping the pillow and grabbing her skirts, she dashed wildly across the room, leapt onto the bed, and dived to the floor on the opposite side.

  The door groaned open.

  “Mon Dieu" a woman sighed. “So eager.”

  “Fayette.” A man’s heavy breathing rasped through the room. “I could not wait a moment longer.”

  “Truly?”

  “Aye. There is not another like you. You are temptation itself. I can no longer resist.”

  Dear God, they were approaching the bed. Cat crouched lower, eager to crawl underneath. But it took no great wit to realize that the space
was too small.

  “You need not resist any longer.”

  “How I longed to have you alone. To touch you. To cherish you.”

  Already, Cat could hear the rustle and scrape of fabric.

  “Cherish me now.”

  More rustling fabric, then a man’s rasped breath. “You are so bonny. Too bonny to hurry through like a cheap repast. I must take my time. Savor you like a succulent meal.”

  Nay, Cat thought fanatically.

  “Succulent.” Fayette rasped the word, and pulled a sharp breath between her teeth. “I have heard intriguing things about you. I wonder now—are they true?”

  “You shall know me in a matter of moments, my sweet. But first I will know every inch of you. Your neck, as shapely as a swan’s…”

  The woman’s moan was accented by the unmistakable sound of nails against clothing.

  “Your shoulders…soft as a lambkin.”

  “Poetry and big stones,” she moaned.

  “Breasts.” He whispered the word like a reverent prayer. “Like two roe deer.”

  “Take me, Matthew. Like a roe in the meadow.”

  “So sweet.”

  Crouched behind the bed like a whipped cur, Catriona heard his kiss, Fayette’s heated groan.

  “So full, like a cup of sweet wine.”

  “Taste my wine,” she rasped.

  “A sip.” There was a pause, an utter lack of sound for a moment, and then a moan of hopeless pleasure. “Just a sip, sweet lass. For there is so much more. I’ve no wish to ruin my appetite.”

  “Damn your appetite!”

  He chuckled. “Patience is a virtue.”

  “Patience be—oh!” The word was high-pitched and sharp. “Do that again.”

  “But there is more. Each perfect rib demands a kiss. Each…” He paused again as he, apparently, did as proposed. “Each tiny dip requires my attention.”

  “Aye.”

  “Your navel. Your belly.”

  Fayette moaned again, and just above her head, Cat felt the mattress shift as someone pressed into it.

  “Your hips.”

  The sound of a gown slipping to the floor seemed to swallow every particle of air in the room.

  “Your legs.”

  The mattress ropes groaned as Fayette settled onto it.