by Lois Greiman
Still, for a moment, she had thought he had felt the same breathless emotion as she. But she had been wrong. Indeed, ‘twas only his good manners that had made him suffer her caress at all. In fact, he had been nothing but eager to spring from her touch at the first possibility.
What had he found so repulsive? Was it her mixed blood? She knew she did not possess the characteristics that most called beautiful. Her skin was not the smooth alabaster of a proper lady. She was too tall and strong. Few men would call her delicate. But—
Behind her, a boy laughed. The sound cracked through her, charging her with shame. How could she worry about such foolish matters when her only brother’s life hung in the balance? It made no difference whatsoever if Haydan the Hawk cherished her or detested her. She was here for one reason only—to learn who had taken Lachlan. And until that goal was met, nothing else mattered.
The day wore on, and the birds were flown—merlins, falcons, peregrines, and goshawks, a wide array of handsome birds whose handlers were determined by their social rank.
There were too many rules for Catriona to try to understand them all. She knew, however, that James was the only one allowed to keep the great golden eagle he had received as a gift from the king of Spain.
Lord Tremayne and Lord Spectacles both flew saker falcons, and Haydan had brought a peregrine—a sharp-beaked bird with a gray speckled breast and eyes that pierced you in one glance, not unlike its handler.
Aye, the birds were breathtaking when they flew, but Catriona had little time to watch them. Instead, she stood on the outer edges of the assemblage and studied every man present, whether he was yeoman or duke. Blackheart could be anyone, but he was there. She felt it in her soul, so she listened and watched, studying every mannerism, every expression; every nuance of gesture or tone.
Lord Hogshead was talking to Lady Fayette somewhere behind her. A noblewoman and her small daughter were searching for wildflowers. Half a dozen others carried on conversations around her. On a distant hill, young Roberta of Perth leaned her head toward her mother’s in earnest conversation.
“Have you never been hawking before?” asked Lord MacKinnon. He had brought a northern goshawk that was waiting nervously on its portable cadge, its wings sweeping wildly in the sweet spring air.
“Nay,” she answered, and carefully watched his reaction. “Do not be so surprised. After all, is it not a sport reserved for the gentry?”
“Aye, it is.”
She canted her head. “And I am not gentry.”
” ‘Tis not what I have heard.”
She laughed. “Then you have heard incorrectly, good sir.”
Rory had accompanied the crowd out into the meadow. She could feel his disapproving gaze on her, but it made no difference. She would do what she must.
MacKinnon’s smile expanded shyly. “Gentlewomen are allowed to fly merlins. But a princess? ” He shrugged. “Since I have never met one before I am not certain, but I myself think even a gyrfalcon would not be too bold-a creature for you.”
“Shall I take that as a compliment or simply deny any link to nobility once again?”
“Would a compliment have any hope of winning my way into your good graces?” he asked.
“It may.”
“Then might I ask you to accompany me to supper this eve?”
“I—” she began, but a noise turned her attention aside.
Lifting her gaze, she saw a lark streak through the sky. In the next instant a merlin grabbed it with its hungry talons. The hapless lark let out a piteous squawk and fell wounded and dying toward the earth.
In the next crackling seconds Catriona drew in perceptions like fragments of dreams. There was a gasp from the small girl, a soothing word from the mother, tears in Fayette’s eyes, a twisted expression on Hogshead’s face, a rumble of approval from a group of men behind her.
And then the bird was dead. Life seemed to return to normal speed. Several men came forward to retrieve the lark and move away, praising the merlin’s flight and their own birds.
The little girl was weeping softly, wrapped in her mother’s arms.
“Lord Harrowhead,” Fayette said, turning from the sight. “Are you well?”
“Aye.” The young earl’s voice was gruff. “Aye, I am fine,” he said, but his tone sounded strange as he turned and walked away.
“Tears are naught to be ashamed of,” Fayette said, her voice drifting off as she followed him.
Silence settled onto the hillock. MacKinnon cleared his throat. “Scotland’s noble families,” he said, his voice very low. “God save us all.”
Catriona turned toward him with a scowl.
MacKinnon glanced away, but finally caught her gaze again. “Madness runs rampant.”
“Are you saying that Lord Hogshead is mad?”
“In truth…” He smiled but the expression did not reach his eyes. ” ‘Twas myself I was speaking of. Douglas is but—” He stopped abruptly.
“Is but what?”
Anger flashed for a moment in MacKinnon’s eyes.
” ‘Tis said the parent determines the child’s worth. And indeed, the eldest son was as evil as the father.”
“I do not understand,” Catriona said, glancing surreptitiously toward Douglas. His head was bowed, but Fayette was still speaking to him as they wandered toward the woods.
MacKinnon’s lips narrowed almost imperceptibly as he watched the couple disappear into the trees. “It serves him right that his scrawny youngest son gained the earldom.”
There was something in his tone—anger, bitterness. Might Blackheart hide his true identity beneath such an innocuous facade?
“Who?” Catriona asked, nearly breathless with anticipation.
“What?” He turned toward her as if surprised to find her still there.
“It serves who well?”
He drew a deep breath. “Harrowhead’s father was a hard man and cruel, preaching self-discipline and sacrifice while all the while…” He paused a moment, then said, “He was found dead some months ago. Stabbed a half dozen times.”
“How terrible!”
“Do you think so?” he asked, glancing at her.
“Regaling the lady with tales of your family, MacKinnon?”
Catriona and MacKinnon turned in unison.
“Lord Drummond,” MacKinnon said in a taut tone.
The handsome, narrow-faced man bowed shallowly, his dark half-lidded eyes alight with an unspoken humor. “Lady Catriona.” Reaching for her hand, he brushed a kiss across her knuckles. Then, tightening his fingers over hers, he grinned. “I have not yet had the pleasure of your acquaintance, and here my chamber companion is already sharing his terrible woes.”
Without Roberta to prompt his charm and hold his attention, his eyes were spooky and unmoving. Was there evil in their depths? She must find a way to search his locked room.
“Chamber companion?” she asked, pretending she did not know their sleeping arrangements.
Drummond laughed. “I suppose it is a hopeful sign that he has not yet informed you that he shares a room with me here at Blackburn. But then, you would have little reason to take her there, aye, MacKinnon?”
“Quiet, Drummond,” warned MacKinnon, “or you shall regret your words.”
Lord Drummond raised his hand to his heart and widened his eyes as if terrified. “You are frightening me. Indeed, I think perhaps the horrid rumors may well be true.”
Catriona held her breath.
“Mayhap they are,” MacKinnon said. “And mayhap I shall tell young Roberta why your past two betrothals did not come to—”
Laughter snared Catriona’s attention. It came from somewhere behind her and traveled up her spine like a ghostly scream, raising the hair at the nape of her neck. Blackheart had laughed just so, as if her brother’s life were no more important than the weather. She jerked toward the source.
A large group of men had congregated on a sheltered hillock some distance away, but who had laughed?
“I suspect she is not so easily disturbed as you think. Are you, Catriona?” Drummond asked, but she had no time to waste.
Without a word of apology or explanation, she rushed away.
Nearly two dozen folk were gathered on the distant hill, five women among the men. Catriona catalogued them in her mind, trying to place names with faces, to remember what she had heard of each, to analyze each man’s movements and voice patterns and manner.
But all that endless afternoon, she never heard the laughter again, and for that she chastised herself. She should have stayed with MacKinnon and Drummond, for surely there was evil there. But among the wealthy and well-dressed gentry of Blackburn, there seemed to be evil everywhere.
Still, the more she dwelled on it, the more Drummond’s movements reminded her of Blackheart’s—how he had lifted his hand to his chest, as if fondling some precious medallion. But though she had studied him often, it had done her no good, for she had no answers.
Finally, frustrated and tense, she watched as the last bird was called in, hooded, and returned to her cadge.
Bending to secure his falcon to its perch, Haydan caught her eye suddenly and stiffened.
“Lady Catriona,” he said, his tone low and formal. “Is something amiss?”
For some reason she could neither discern nor explain even to herself, she found it difficult to force out a lie, but she had little choice. “Nay, all is well.”
He straightened with a scowl and took two quick strides toward her. Her stomach fluttered.
His eyes met hers in a gaze no less piercing than that of the falcon he had just left.
“When a bird sings like a thrush but flies like a kite, which is it?” he asked, his voice deep and low.
“What?” she breathed.
He stopped only inches from her. “Your expression says that all is not well.”
“Oh.” She nodded once in concession to his riddle. ” ‘Tis a thrush.”
He continued to watch her, his brows pulled low.
She countered with a smile. “You must believe the song, for a bird has no reason to lie,” she said, and turning rapidly away, retreated.
The assemblage was preparing to return to Blackburn. Finding her steed, she tightened Celandine’s girth. She could still feel Haydan’s gaze on her. The heat of it all but scalded her back, but when she finally allowed herself to turn, he was gone.
‘Twas good, she told herself, for the Hawk was certainly dangerous to any thrush.
“May I assist you, lady?”
For one heart-jolting moment she thought Haydan had approached her, but she turned to find Blackburn’s dark-robed priest at her elbow. His face was shadowed by the lowering sun. She would have liked to refuse his offer, but there was something familiar about him—and until she learned what it was, she would turn aside no clues.
” ‘Tis good of you to offer, Father. Thank you,” she said, and gathering the reins over Celandine’s flaxen mane, allowed him to boost her into the saddle.
His hand rested on her leg for a moment, but his gaze lingered much longer on her face.
“Is there aught I can do to soothe your melancholy, my lady?”
“Melancholy?” She laughed. Since when had her emotions become so obvious? She could not afford such honesty. ” ‘Tis not the case,” she assured him. “I am naught but fatigued.”
He was silent for a moment, but finally nodded. “Then I would wish you rest,” he said, and walked away.
James rode up beside her. “Did you see the gyrfalcon’s stoop when the fox was flushed out?”
“Nay, I did not,” Cat said, turning her mare behind a line of guards.
” ‘Twas magnificent,” James raved. “She would have gotten him had the cowardly beast not ducked into the brush.”
Fatigue wore at her. “Perhaps you would be cowardly too, if a huge bird chose you for its prey.”
James grinned. “Is it always your way, Cat, to see things from a different angle?”
“If I do, ‘tis simply because I come from a different place,” she said.
The sun was sinking toward the western horizon, etching the sky in vibrant hues of magenta and scarlet. Beneath their horses’ hooves, Scotland rolled away in verdant hills and dales.
“Still,” James said, settling back against the high can-tie of his saddle. “You must admit the birds are beautiful.”
“I will admit it readily if you will grant me one favor.”
“What favor?” he asked.
“I am a simple Rom lass who has been tending myself for as long as I can recall. I am not comfortable with a guard at my door at all hours of the night.”
He stared at her. “Again because you come from a different place?”
“Mayhap.”
“A freer place,” he said.
She glanced at him, feeling a sharp twist in her gut for the deception that she must deal. “Would that I was in your place now,” she murmured.
“Nay.” He shook his head. “You could never give up your freedom, Lady Cat.”
Up ahead, the guards nudged their mounts into the hustling burn that cut across their path. Catriona watched the water wash over the horses’ hocks then rise to their bellies. They struggled a bit against the current.
“You might well be surprised what I would give up,” she said.
James laughed as his steed stepped into the water. At eleven years of age, all of life was still an adventure. “Not your freedom,” he insisted. “You are the wind.”
“I am naught but a stagnant breeze.”
Their mounts sloshed deeper. The waves rose higher in curling, frosted swells. Catriona lifted her feet from the stirrups, attempting to keep her slippers dry.
“The wind,” James repeated with a grin mischievous. “Come to blow me free.”
“What?” she asked, suddenly realizing his thrust.
He grinned charmingly. “Sneak me away from Blackburn,” he said, “and I will call off the guard.”
The earth disappeared from beneath her horse’s hooves, and suddenly Cat was falling. Water, cold as Highland snow, slapped against her. Celandine scrambled for footing, but the current was strong.
She heard James’s hiss of surprise and someone’s gasp, but there was no time for another single thought, for suddenly she was snatched away from her mare’s thrashing hooves and lifted into the air.
She turned in shock and gratitude to stare into Haydan’s icy eyes.
“Sir Hawk!” she rasped.
“Are you hurt?” His voice was as deep as the sea, his arm about her waist as steady as stone.
“Nay. ‘Twas…” For a moment she could find no words, for there was something indefinable in his eyes. ” ‘Twas foolish of me to take my feet from the stirrups.”
“Did she strike you?” he asked.
Beneath her, Haydan’s stallion shuffled, stirring the water restlessly. The world seemed nothing more than a jumble of colors and sounds. “She?”
“Your mare.”
“Oh.”
He loosened his reins, allowing the stallion to make his way toward the opposite shore. Halfway across his hoof struck a stone, and he stumbled.
Cat hissed a sharp breath through her teeth, and Haydan’s arm tightened protectively, drawing her against the granite wall of his chest. A cauldron of emotions stirred at the impact, swirling in her belly, tingling to her breasts.
In an instant, the stallion found his balance and soon they were across.
“Were you struck?” Haydan asked again.
“Nay. I do not believe so.”
A bevy of folk were gathered about, talking and staring and jostling for a better view.
“Sir Hawk,” said Galloway, his youthful face bright with emotion as he rushed across the burn toward them. “My apologies. I should have been watching her.”
“Nay.” Haydan pulled his gaze from hers to stare at the soldier. “You should have been wat
ching the king, as you were.”
But still Galloway scowled. ” ‘Tis my fault. Therefore she must ride my mount.”
“I will ride my own mare,” Catriona said. She felt foolish and strangely breathless.
“I fear not, lady,” Galloway argued, nodding toward Celandine, who stood on the grassy bank, one foreleg bent to rest naught but her toe on the new grass. “She seems to be lame.”
“Nay.” Cat tried to slip from Hawk’s grip, but his arm only tightened, bunching his corded biceps against the side of her breast.
“Andrew,” he said to a nearby soldier. “You shall stay behind and bring the lady’s mare in at a cautious pace.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Nay, I—” she argued, but her words were cut off by a nearby soldier.
“I would be happy to take the lass with me, Sir Hawk.”
” ‘Tis good of you to offer, Duncan” said the one they called Cockerel. “But I’ve no wish for you to strain yourself. The lady can ride with me. My steed is better suited to bear an extra load.” His mount flicked back a nervous ear and pranced.
Duncan scowled, first at Cockerel, then at the restive black. “I would not put an Englishman on that twit of yours. My mount is much better—”
“She rides with me!” Hawk interrupted darkly.
Duncan raised his brows. Cockerel grinned.
“Close ranks about the king,” Haydan ordered. “And wipe that foolish expression off your face, Cockerel. I am her guardian. Nothing more.”
“Aye, sir,” Cockerel said, but the grin remained.
Catriona said nothing as they passed by the onlookers, nor did she glance at them, for she felt clumsy and conspicuous in the huge knight’s embrace.
The company turned and hurried along behind them.
A breeze skimmed past the edge of a copse of rowan. Though it was chill, it felt good against her warm face. She cleared her throat.
“I did not mean to be a burden,” she said, not looking up at him, but watching the country roll away in shades of winter browns and spring greens.
Haydan said nothing. Beneath them, the big stallion strode along in a heavy-footed walk. Even that easy gait jostled her, pressing her firmly up against Haydan’s chest. From a barren rowan, a thrush trilled, his cheerful song in sharp contrast to Haydan’s silent disapproval.