Highland Hawk: Highland Brides #7

by Lois Greiman

  All was as it should be. And yet, Haydan could not quite squelch the desire to look in on the lad for himself. With a nod to the guards, he stepped silently into the room, careful to make no noise. After all, the king was nearly a man now and no longer wanted to be coddled and watched. Indeed, he sometimes chafed at the confinement that royalty brought. As captain of the guard, Haydan realized that, yet he found he longed for the days when the lad was not too large to ride on his shoulders or to fall asleep in his arms on a long day’s journey.

  There were those at Blackburn who would be eager to say that it was not a guard’s place to become so enmeshed in the king’s life.

  Haydan only wished he could disagree. But as he neared the large, scarlet draped bed, he felt the familiar

  tug at his heart. A single candle splashed light across the room. Beneath the covers, young James slept peacefully.

  Haydan watched him in silence, remembering him as a tiny lad, a chubby handsome child with a mischievous grin and hair as bright as a Highland plaid. The sound of his laughter, the look of admiration on his gamin features as Haydan taught him one thing or another—how to perform a proper riposte, notch an arrow, or hood a restive gyrfalcon.

  Those days were dwindling so quickly now. Just the thought of it made him feel as old as the stone beneath his feet.

  Near the door, he heard the shuffling of a guard. Turning almost guiltily from the bed, Haydan paced back through the doorway.

  “Sir Hawk,” said Galloway, keeping his face turned forward and only moving his eyes as Haydan stepped alongside him. “Is something amiss?”

  “Nay, all is well,” Hawk said, and turned away.

  “Sir Hawk?”

  “Aye,” he said, glancing back at the lance-straight guard.

  “I wished to thank you for this post.”

  “Already you have thanked me thrice.”

  The lad’s stance stiffened even more, though Haydan would not have thought it possible. “I will not disappoint you, sir.”

  “I am sure you will not,” Haydan agreed, eager to be off.

  “And sir?”

  “Aye.”

  “My apologies regarding the incident outside the gates.”

  “The incident?”

  “With Lieutenant Brims and Wickfield. I did not know you had befriended the lass.” His brow puckered. “I should have escorted her safely to Blackburn, even though she is a Gypsy.”

  Haydan narrowed his eyes. “You do not like Gypsies, Galloway?”

  The young man swallowed hard enough to show the bob of his Adam’s apple. ” ‘Tis difficult not to like them, now that I have seen—”

  There was a whisper of amusement from the other guard.

  Galloway stopped abruptly.

  Haydan turned his gaze on the soldier called Cockerel by all those who knew him. Perhaps it was the wide, plumed hat he wore when off duty. Or perhaps it was simply his bearing that had initiated the name.

  “Something amuses you, Cockerel?”

  “Nay, Sir Hawk. Certainly not.”

  “Then why do you smile?”

  “I was merely thinking of the Gypsy lass, sir.” He paused, and the jaunty corner of his grin perked up a scant quarter of an inch. “She is rather… bonny. Is she not?”

  Haydan sharpened his glare. “I had not noticed.”

  “Truly? Then let me inform you, sir: Lady Catriona is, without a doubt—”

  “Not for the likes of you.”

  “What?”

  “You will not touch her,” Haydan said. “Do you understand me?”

  Though Cockerel struggled to conceal his surprise, he was not so judicious about his grin. “I believe I do, sir,” he said.

  Haydan glowered for a moment. ” ‘Tis good.” Turning abruptly away, he cursed the pain in his knee and his own grinding foolishness.

  He walked for some time down the endless maze of hallways, but the castle seemed to hold no air, no freedom, no peace. He finally strode for the ramparts, hoping the wind would blow the moldering worries from his mind.

  They were foolish worries. After all…

  He stopped, aware suddenly of a small scratch of noise.

  It was probably nothing more than a rat looking for a meal, but his nerves had already been on edge and now they were cranked as tight as a readied crossbow. Turning quietly down a darkened hallway, he followed his instincts, hoping he was heading in the right direction. Hoping—

  There! A shadow just ahead, hovering in front of a door. Hawk paused, ready to jerk back into a hidden alcove. But already it was too late. The shadow turned toward him, the face pale in the darkness.

  “Who goes there?” he asked.

  There was a squeak of surprise and suddenly, like a skittish colt, the shadow turned and fled.

  “Halt!” Hawk demanded. But the other was already fading into the gloom.

  Haydan slammed into motion, straining to see in the darkness as he thundered along in pursuit.

  Gone! He was gone! A hallway opened at each side. Hawk glanced in both directions. There!

  He shot into action, leaping after his quarry like a hound, eating up the distance between them. The stairs! He saw the shadow turn, saw him lunge up the stone steps, but Haydan’s stride was longer. He leapt after, swallowing several at a time. Close now. So close. He reached out to snatch the intruder back to him, but his fingers just brushed his tunic. There was a squawk of dismay. His prey burst up the last stair and around a corner.

  Haydan leapt after, ready to drag him to the ground. But the ramparts were empty. He flew to the parapets and glanced down. The bailey was a hundred feet below. Had the scoundrel jumped? But no, he couldn’t have!

  He was hiding in a crenel. He had to be!

  Haydan leapt on, peering into each gap of the stone battlements. But there was nothing. No one. He had disappeared—like smoke, like magic, like a wild figment of his imagination.

  The next morning, Haydan’s head groaned a complaint as he sat up in bed. His knee ached as he swung his feet onto the floor. He had spent most of the night pacing. After his frustrating chase, he had returned to the king’s quarters. But one quick glance had assured him all was well. He had then hurried back to the spot where he had first seen his quarry and swept the door open without knocking.

  A sleepy “What the devil are you about?” was hurled at him from the bed. It was obvious there was no trouble afoot there.

  After a half hour or so of fairly aimless wandering, Haydan had finally returned to his own room. But sleep was a fickle mistress, and refused to lie with him. Thus he had paced until the wee hours of the morning, until fatigue had finally pulled him under.

  Belting on his plaid, he slipped the blade of his sgian dubh, his black blade, into his boot so that only the antler hilt showed. These simple rituals made him feel better, and in a matter of minutes he sat in the great hall, trying to concentrate on his breakfast and ignore the knot of men that hovered near the corner of the noisy room. He knew why they congregated there; knew that hidden behind them was the lass called Catriona. But he would not care. If he had learned anything last night, either from his time in the infirmary or his time in the chase, he had learned that he was getting old.

  Good saints! He felt as if he had run a hundred miles, as if he had battled a dragon with nothing more than a prayer and the dull end of a quail bone. When in actuality, he had done nothing more than run up a few stairs. And lost his quarry.

  Frustration burned through him again. Who had it been and what mischief had he planned? Haydan would have been willing to believe there was no harm meant if the lad had stopped and explained his actions, but his flight had condemned him.

  Lad! The word had come to him unbidden. It had been a lad at the door. Haydan was sure of it suddenly, for the boy had moved with swiftness and dexterity, and although the darkness may have been distorting, the figure did not seem very large.

  Haydan glanced about the hall with a new perception. Among the servants, there were many
youths. Near the front door, for instance, there was a boy about the proper size, but… nay. He was a wee bit too small.

  Kitchen Elsie’s daughter appeared. She was a comely lass of about fourteen years, plump and… Could his quarry have been a girl?

  Haydan grimaced at the thought. He was not a vain man, but he had no wish to believe he had been outdistanced by a plump girl just coming into womanhood.

  Ah, there. Another lad, near the cluster of men determined to make fools of themselves. Haydan watched the boy offer wine and ale as he moved among the long tables. He was a graceful boy and quick. Dressed in tan, slightly stained hose and a too-large tunic, he went efficiently about his task. His head was covered in a gray cap that drooped down the side of his face, but Haydan was fairly certain he was Sara’s boy. A good lad, if a bit high-spirited.

  The boy turned slightly, granting Haydan a slanted view of his face. Ale splashed over the brim of Haydan’s mug and his curse was loud enough to make his tablemates turn toward him with quizzical expressions.

  Damn it all—the lad had done it again.

  “I tell you,” Catriona said, laughing at the latest jest. “I have no claim to a throne, here or elsewhere.”

  “But have you ever returned to your homeland?” asked the slight man with the crooked teeth and the unruly hair. He looked vaguely familiar, but when he had introduced himself as Arthur Douglas, Earl of Harrowhead, she did not recognize the name. He had a boyish habit of hugging his left arm against his side as if he were shy. Those around him called him Lord Hogshead, but he seemed to bear no ill will, perhaps because of the stunning amount of ale he had already consumed, or perhaps because of his own disarming and unassuming temperament.

  “Nay. I have never had the opportunity to return to Khandia,” she said.

  “That explains it then,” said another. “If they saw your face, they would surely hasten you to the throne.”

  “If they were still conscious after the first glimpse of her,” Hogshead said, and the others around him laughed.

  Nearly a dozen men surrounded her. She knew a few names. MacKinnon with the round, bearded face. De la Faire with the perfect teeth. Lord Drummond, a dark, handsome man who sat beside the pale girl called Roberta and who seemed engrossed by her every whispered word. ‘Twas he who kept his door locked, if Mildred had been correct.

  Could any of them have issued that evil ultimatum?

  “Widow Charmain,” someone said. “You look well rested.”

  “I have been told that there is nowhere like Blackburn to get… rested.”

  Catriona caught her breath. There was something about the purred tone of ‘rested’ that tweaked her memory.

  Fayette!

  Cat snapped her gaze to the woman, but though the lady turned to look at Catriona there was neither recognition nor horror in her eyes, but rather the hint of an emotion Cat could not quite read.

  “Lady,” said a lad who appeared beside her elbow with a pitcher. “May I offer you some ale?”

  “Nay, I fear I…” Cat began, but in that instant her gaze met the lad’s mischievous green eyes. “Your M—” she began, but he lifted a finger, unobtrusively to his mouth and motioned for silence.

  “No ale?” he asked, his lips crinkled in an impish grin. “But ‘tis an excellent brew.”

  “If… if you recommend it,” she said, and sat transfixed by the sight of the crowned king of Scotland in soiled britches and a droopy bonnet.

  He leaned close to pour. His cap dangled lower, threatening to be doused in her unrequested ale. “You promised me a ride,” he whispered.

  “Aye,” she agreed simply, tearing her gaze from his face.

  “Princess Cat,” crooned de la Faire from near her elbow. “I missed you on the hunt yesterday.”

  She turned toward the speaker, wondering with stunned awe if none other had recognized the lad. “I was quite fatigued,” she explained simply, and skimmed the faces that surrounded her. None was staring at the king in shocked dismay. “I fear I spent the afternoon in bed.”

  “An image to ponder,” someone murmured.

  There were chuckles.

  “In the stable,” James said softly. “Directly.”

  She nodded. He slipped away.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said, rising. “I must see to my grandmother.”

  “I hoped you might ride with me this day,” someone said, but she made her excuses and hurried away.

  Once outside the great hall, she turned left, trying to avoid anyone who might delay her. But just as she was about to escape, a priest in a black robe turned toward her.

  “Catriona of the Bairds,” he said. His hair was red, his voice soft, his hands hidden in the sleeves of his opposite arms. “I had hoped to meet you.”

  “Oh, Father, I…” She glanced down the hall she had planned to be escaping down even now. “I fear I have no time to delay. I received a message that my grandmother is feeling unwell.”

  He drew an expression of concern. “Mayhap I should accompany you.”

  “Nay!” Cat said quickly and searched frantically for an excuse. “Nay, Father,” she said. “If I brought a priest into Grandmother’s room she might imagine ‘twas her last rites you’d come to give, and not your good wishes.”

  He smiled, a warm expression on his kindly face. “Very well, but please, lass, be not ashamed to come to me if you should have a need of any sort.”

  “My thanks,” she said, and trying not to seem too impatient, hurried away.

  She took a circuitous course to the stables, glancing quickly over her shoulder now and again. Her heart thundered like a running horse. It was not time! There would be no purpose in riding yet.

  “You shall bring him to us. Alone and unarmed.”

  Not now. Not yet. That was to be her last resort, her final act if all else failed. If she could not determine Blackheart’s true identity. If she could not stop him. ‘Twas too early, and yet, it was not her place to refuse the king. She needed his friendship, required his trust, or all would be lost.

  The stable door creaked open under her hand. From a heavily beamed box stall to her right, a groom glanced her way then stood staring until she hurried past.

  “Hello,” she called softly.

  No answer.

  “Your Majesty,” she whispered.

  “Here.” The voice came from up above.

  She glanced up, just as James scurried down the leather-bound rungs of a slanting ladder. A smattering of straw rained down with his descent.

  “We must hurry,” he whispered, then glanced over his shoulder toward the stall that held the distant groom. “Most of the horsemen are breaking their fast. We’ve not much time.”

  “Time for what?” she asked, her heart still hammering in her too-tight chest.

  “Our escape.”

  “Escape!”

  “Shh. We’ve little enough time before someone realizes I am not in my chambers.”

  “You plan to ride out alone?”

  “Not alone. With you.”

  “With me?” Her stomach cranked into a hard knot. ‘Truly, Your Majesty, I do not think this is a good idea. What if—”

  “Shh,” he warned again, and grabbing her hand, pulled her toward the nearest stall.

  She stepped inside. He glanced nervously past her as he pulled the heavy door shut.

  “I’ve already saddled Courtier. Sir Hawk taught me how to—”

  ” ‘Twas a mistake.”

  James gasped and spun toward the voice. Catriona’s heart twisted tight as she did the same.

  “Hawk!” The name sounded like a reprimand coming from the rumpled, frowning lad.

  “Aye.” Hawk pushed himself from the wall where he had been resting. ” ‘Tis I. Were you expecting another?”

  “I was expecting no one!” James snapped, his mouth puckering in concert with his brow. “How did you know?”

  “I spied you in the hall and guessed your intent. When I saw that Courtier was saddl
ed my suspicions were rewarded.”

  “Well, it makes no difference,” James said. “I will have no guards this day.”

  The stable fell silent.

  “So you think so little of Scotland?” Sir Hawk’s voice was deep and quiet.

  “This has naught to do with Scotland!”

  “You are Scotland, lad. What befalls you befalls her.”

  The boy’s scowl deepened, but he dropped his head and gazed at his scruffy, oversized shoes. “I but wanted some time alone.”

  Hawk stepped closer. “With one companion,” he reminded.

  “Aye,” James admitted reluctantly.

  “I suppose it is but a coincidence that she is beautiful.”

  The words were no more than a murmur, but Catriona heard them.

  The boy flushed, but a grin lifted one corner of his impish mouth. He turned shyly toward her then hurried his glance away.

  “I am on the threshold of manhood,” he reminded Hawk quietly. “You said as much yourself.”

  “Aye, you are that. But I want you to step over the threshold and live in that room for a hundred score days before you do something so rash as this,” Hawk murmured.

  “Thirty score!”

  Looping an arm over the lad’s shoulder, Hawk urged him out of the stall. “How long would that be?” he asked.

  “A long time!”

  “How long?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “Perhaps I do not.”

  “Then why should I?”

  “Because you are the king.”

  “Then I do not wish to be king.”

  They stood in the wide aisle of the stable, James glaring up, Hawk staring down as they locked proverbial horns.

  “Then you shall not be,” Hawk said with the slightest French accent. “For this day, you will be naught but Jock, a merchant’s son who is assisting me in my duties.”

  The boy’s jaw dropped. “Jock? A merchant’s son?” The boy’s tone was awed.

  “Aye, Jock,” Hawk said. “Who did you think you were? The king of England? Now quit your lollygagging, lad. Fetch the lady’s mount and be quick about it, or I’ll give you a beating you will not soon forget.”

  “Aye.” He bobbed an affirmation, trying to be solemn, though his grin threatened to peek through. “Aye,” he said again and, spinning on his soiled shoes, thundered off down the hard-packed aisle.