by Lois Greiman
Oh hell! Who was he fooling? He’d give his right eye just to feel that heaven himself. Temptation made him reach out. Good sense made him draw back. There was something afoot here, and he dare not miss it.
“Nay, I am well,” he said, crunching his hands into fists by his sides. “And you?”
“I am fine.”
She was not. She was scared. Of what? He’d kill to know. But he turned away. There was no hope of forcing her to tell him. And getting Marta drunk had not been one of his more stellar ideas.
“I need to speak to you,” he managed.
She stared up at him, her eyes as mysterious as Highland mist.
“Regarding the other night,” he added, yanking himself from the bottomless depths of her gaze.
“Aye.” Her voice was breathy.
” ‘Twas—” There were no words for what they had shared. There was no description. And yet he could not do it again. He could not! Not until he learned the truth, solved the riddle, saved her. But from what? ” ‘Twas wrong of me to take advantage of you.”
“Advantage?” she repeated, and in her tone there was a breath of shock. Indeed, seeing her standing there as straight and tall as a reed, ‘twas difficult to believe she was the sort to be taken advantage of. And when he remembered how she had touched him—seized him really… God help him!
“Aye. You were…” He cleared his throat and tried to ignore the tightening in his loins. “You were lovely—lonely,” he correctly quickly, closing his eyes against her beauty for an instant. “You were lonely. I was but available.”
“Is that what you think of me, Sir Hawk? That every time I am lonely I find an available lover?”
“Nay!” Nay, indeed—she had been a virgin! The very idea that he had been her first made him shudder. All her wit, all her unearthly allure, all her breathtaking bold innocence had been his and his alone. He remembered the feel of her skin, the sound of her moan in his ear, the taut contraction of muscles around him, the—
He should not have lain with her, for now he could think of nothing but doing so again. And there was much else to ponder. “I place no blame on you, lass,” he said. “I but meant…” He drew a deep breath. ” ‘Twas wrong of me, and I will not press myself on you again.”
“Oh.” She stared as if lost and disoriented, then, “Oh,” she said, her voice stronger. “You are right, of course. We must not. I am sorry.”
“Sorry?” The word escaped on its own. In his mind, she kissed him. The touch of her lips was an intoxicating as wine. “Would that I could be sorry.”
“What?”
He straightened his spine and hardened his discipline. “I said, would you like to start?”
“Start?”
“Practicing the trick.”
“Oh. Aye.” Pulling the mare’s rope from the post, she toyed with it for a moment. ” ‘Tis not a difficult feat, but ‘twill take a bit of time. Shall we return to the glen where we practiced before?”
“Nay!” Haydan rasped. Damnit all, he would be lucky to withstand her charms here on the castle grounds with others about. If he were alone with her, God only knew what might happen. “Nay,” he said, lowering his voice and feeling ungodly foolish. “There is an open area in the gardens where we can practice undisturbed.”
“Good,” she agreed.
They returned Celandine to her stall then walked together toward the garden. As luck would have it, they passed the guard who had lifted the portcullis when Haydan had gone to search for the Rom, but he said nothing, only stared in wide-eyed admiration.
They reached the relative privacy between the gardens and there the torture began with a few soft directives, a few quiet suggestions. ‘Twas easy enough to lift her. ‘Twas letting go that was hell. Each time his fingers brushed hers, it felt like unbidden fire. Each time he looked at her, the flame was fanned. Foolishness. Idiocy! He could not touch her, yet he could not stay away.
She slipped and he reached out, quickly cradling her waist in his palm in a wild attempt to catch her, to save her, to hold her safely against his heart.
Their gazes fused.
“Haydan!” She said his name in a breathy whisper.
He drew back with a snap. “Aye?” His voice sounded panicked, like a guilty lad fearing punishment.
“I have to go.”
“What?”
“I must…” She wrung her hands then lifted one to her forehead. “I have a terrible ache in my head. I’d best lie down.”
“Oh. Aye. You rest. I will see you to your chamber.”
The journey to her bedroom was as silent as their journey to the garden had been. In a moment, they stood before her door.
He turned to face her. “Sleep well.”
“What?” She looked disoriented again and nervous.
“Sleep well.”
“Oh. Aye. My thanks.”
He almost asked her again what was wrong, but he would not. Nay, ‘twas his task now to find out on his own, so he forced himself to turn and walk away. But once around the corner all nonchalance left him. He hurried along, his mind rushing in concert with his steps.
He had very little time. In a moment he was in the barracks, beside Galloway’s bunk.
“Wake up!”
The young guard sat upright like a launched arrow. “My lord captain. What—”
“I need you to watch the lady’s door.”
Galloway turned groggily toward the window. “The lady’s—”
“Catriona! Watch her door. But do not stand directly by it. Stay in the alcove down the hall.”
Galloway nodded. “In the alcove,” he said and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress.
“And if she leaves,” Haydan added, narrowing his eyes, “follow her.”
“Follow her?”
Haydan leaned closed to the young man’s face. “Is there some reason you keep repeating my words?”
“Repeating—nay. Nay, Sir Hawk,” he stammered.
“Good. Then go.”
Galloway stumbled to his feet.
“And lad,” Haydan said quietly. ” ‘Twould be best if you did not fail me in this.”
Galloway swallowed and hurried away. Haydan turned to do the same, but noticed Cockerel’s dark, broad-brimmed hat hanging on a peg on the wall. Grabbing it up, he left.
Back in his own room, Haydan threw open his trunk and dragged a pair of dark hose from the depths. In a moment he had kicked off his boots, dropped his plaid to the floor, and replaced it with the hose. Then he glanced down at his shirt. ‘Twas not a distinctive tunic, but still, she was accustomed to seeing him in it.
He dug inside his trunk again to produce a red doublet. It was slashed and puffed and ostentatious, and he felt like a crazed jester when he wore it. But it had been suitable for the king’s coronation and it would do now.
Slipping it over his tunic, he fastened it in place then tugged on his boots.
In a matter of moments, he was stepping into the alcove beside Galloway.
“Is she still in there?” he murmured.
Galloway started. “Sir Hawk?” he asked, trying to gaze past the shadow of the hat’s broad brim.
Haydan scowled. ‘Twas good to know his disguise was suitable, but rather disconcerting to find out that the man he’d trusted to guard Catriona was an idiot. “Has she left yet?”
“Nay.” Galloway shook his head and dragged his gaze from Haydan. “Nay. Where is she going?”
“I do not know.”
“Then—”
“You may leave now.”
“Aye, sir—” he began, but just at that instant Catriona’s door opened. Haydan slapped his hand over the other man’s mouth.
Galloway turned wide eyes toward his captain and froze, but Hawk only noticed the girl. One slim hand was set to the door handle as she glanced down the hallway. Hidden against the wall of the darkened alcove as they were, she failed to notice them. In a moment she slipped from her room, off in the opposite direction and around
the corner.
Haydan dropped his hand from Galloway’s mouth and strode after her, but in a moment he heard footsteps behind him. Turning rapidly, he glared into Galloway’s wide eyes. Haydan lowered his brows and sunk his head between his shoulders. ‘Twas a stance that had served him well through the years. Galloway backed up a quick step.
“I’ll just…” he whispered, nodding vaguely behind him. “I’ll just return to my bed.”
Haydan nodded once, then pivoted on his heel and continued on. When he reached the corner, he paused a moment before glancing around the turn. But the hallway was already empty, making him hustle to-catch up.
‘Twas some heart-thumping minutes later when he spied her next and darted back behind a wall to prevent being seen. But eventually, with spurts and starts and a few well-placed windows, he saw her heading toward the stable. He hurried down the steps to find a circuitous route to the same destination.
Stepping quietly through a side door of the stable, he strode quickly down the hard-packed aisle and into a stall not far from Cat’s gelding. Once there, he remained absolutely still, listening until he was certain Catriona was in a stall. She crooned a few words. Metal jangled. So she was planning to ride, he deduced. He would have to hurry to saddle his own steed in order to follow her, but when he stepped from the stall, he found her door was already swinging open. Turning his back quickly, he strode purposefully in the opposite direction.
Haydan did not know whether she saw him, but in a moment he was rushing off to saddle his own mount. It took him a few seconds to realize the folly of that idea. There was little point in changing his attire if he did not change his mount. In a matter of minutes, he was astride Cockerel’s steed and trotting toward Blackburn’s looming gate. Guards stood with their backs to the towering stone wall as Haydan stopped his mount inches from the pair.
“Did the Gypsy maid pass this way?”
“The—Sir Hawk?” the guard said, belatedly seeing through the disguise. “Sir Hawk, is that you?”
Haydan ground his teeth. “Did the Lady Catriona come this way?”
The guard grinned. “Business in the village again, Captain?”
Haydan straightened to his full height. Beneath him,
Cockerel’s stallion chafed and pranced like an emperor’s cocky destrier.
“When was the last time you were on duty to clean the garderobes, lad?”
The guard looked duly affronted. “The king’s guards do not clean the latrines, Captain.”
“Keep that in mind,” Haydan said and lowered his brows, though he feared the full effect of his displeasure may have been lost beneath the wide brim of his borrowed hat. Still, apparently the man grasped his meaning for he straightened and nodded sharply.
“Aye, Sir Hawk. As for the maid, she passed here only minutes ago.”
“Which way did she go?”
“Toward the village.”
Haydan nodded grimly. ‘Twas the same path Rory had taken, he thought bitterly, and setting his heels to the chafing steed, set off after her.
Chapter 23
Restive and temperamental, Cockerel’s stallion half reared before dropping back into a high-stepping trot. The bridge rattled as they crossed. Haydan’s teeth did the same.
“Calm yourself, you flea-bitten nag,” he ordered, but the steed shook his head, tossing his heavy mane and breaking into a snapping canter.
Haydan settled back into the saddle and resigned himself to the ride.
‘Twas not many minutes before he caught sight of Catriona. She was riding bareback, hence the speed with which she had managed to leave Blackburn. Her skirts were spread over the mare’s croup as she cantered down the beaten trail. He pulled in his mount, but the stallion only cranked his neck down and kept up his pounding speed.
Haydan tightened the reins until finally the recalcitrant beast slowed to a decent pace, allowing the girl to stay well ahead of him. A copse of wild chestnuts and hawthorn crowded the road, which wound and curled like a dark ribbon through the verdant countryside. ‘Twas some minutes before he came to the top of a sweeping hillock. Slowing his mount to an unwilling walk, Haydan searched the road ahead. It branched off below him, the right fork mostly hidden behind a copse of trees as it led to the village, the left more visible on its course to the woods beyond. He should be able to see her in a minute, and ‘twas to be hoped that he did, for he wanted to know exactly where she entered the forest.
But the minutes ticked by, and he saw nothing but empty road.
The truth dawned on him abruptly. She was not following the Rom’s path at all, but had turned off for the village.
With a soaring heart, Haydan loosed the reins and swept down the hill after her.
The noise and bustle of Burnsvale struck Haydan immediately when he passed the wooden palisade. He hurried his gaze about the crowded streets. A tow-headed lad was pulling a two-wheeled cart. A stooped gentleman was squabbling with a cobbler over the price of shoes. All around him, vendors were closing up shops and packing away their goods.
Haydan skimmed his gaze over the cobbled street. Just past the mill he thought he caught a flash of chestnut hide. Concentrating on that spot, he set his heels to his mount and followed. But by the time he reached it, Catriona and her mare were out of sight. He wended his way along, Cockerel’s hat pulled low and his gaze ever moving, until he saw a hostler leading a flaxen-maned mare into the stable.
“Celandine,” Haydan breathed. The stallion nickered and pranced like a one-horse parade.
Haydan swore in silence then glancing rapidly about, hurried into the stable. It was dark inside, for the sun had begun its dip past the western horizon and cast long shadows into the musty dimness. He had no time to delay.
In a moment he was free of the horse and scanning the crowd again. It did not take him long to find her, for she was like a princess among peasants. Poetry in her motion, magic in her wake.
He just had to keep her in sight while pretending not to. ‘Twould surely not be such a difficult task, he thought, but suddenly he saw a familiar face.
Tipping his head down, Haydan pretended to examine the nearest wares until Blackburn’s priest had passed.
“In need of a new chemise?” asked the wench behind the counter. Haydan glanced up. Above her own chemise, her bountiful breasts threatened to escape from the tight laces that pressed them high. Her hands were on her plump hips and there was wry humor in her eyes as she motioned toward the feminine garments. ” ‘Twould complement your hat, my lord.”
“Nay,” he said, and glancing sheepishly at the priest’s disappearing back, he hurried on with the sound of the maid’s chuckle following him.
For a few panicked moments, he feared he had lost Catriona, but finally he spied her stepping into the blacksmith’s shop. He paused, but it was dark, and he could see nothing but the glow of coals in the open hearth.
Catriona stepped farther into the smithy’s shop. All was dark and still but for the coals that glowed orange amid black in the circular hearth. Outside, she heard the friendly hum of townsfolk bound for their own firesides. Her soul cramped with longing. What she would give for the warmth of normalcy.
“So you have come.”
Catriona jerked at the sound of the voice.
“Nay! Do not turn around. Not if you wish to live out the day.”
She froze, her heart beating like a wild hare’s in her throat.
“I have come,” she said. “As you knew I would.”
“Aye.” She felt him step closer. “We knew. So…” She flinched as his fingers brushed her hair. “So eager is the Cat to please if one pulls the proper strings.” His hand brushed her shoulder. She jerked, but his fingers clasped there. “The Cat is curious? Now you want to become acquainted. But ‘tis too late for that, for the reward will come later.” His breath hissed hot against her neck. She shivered, her stomach twisting. “Greater even than the promise of burying ourselves… burrowing deep… deep inside you. Soon, if we are resolut
e, we shall have the power we so richly deserve. Still…” He leaned closer, panting. She felt his face brush her hair, heard him inhale, and trembled at the sound. “Still, we are tempted.” His hand slipped lower, over the curve of her waist and onto her hip. “What is your magic? Are you a witch?”
“Nay!” Her own voice was scratchy with fear, her legs wooden.
“Then why can we not forget you?” he asked, and curved his palm slowly over her hip and onto her belly.
She jerked out of his grasp but dared not turn around. “Mayhap ‘tis because you have abducted my brother.”
His chuckle was breathy. “Aye, we have your brother.”
“Is… is he well?”
There was a pause, then, “Aye, he is well.”
“How do I know that? How do I know you are not lying?”
“You do not.”
“Then why should I deliver the king at all?” she whispered.
“Because you are the lad’s only hope, and you cherish him above all others.”
“I am no martyr.” A sob burned her throat but she refused to loose it. She must concentrate, must think. “And I shall not deliver the king unless you swear he is safe.”
Silence. She shivered.
“Swear it on your father’s name.”
“On our father’s name,” he said and laughed. “Aye. We swear it. He is safe.”
“I do not believe you.”
“He said you would not.”
A tiny spark of hope glimmered in Cat’s breast. She dared not breathe, lest she blow it out. “He did?”
“Aye. Bold little thing, he is. He said you would never believe he was unmolested, and that I should bring back a herring pie from the village, so we could feast together before I turn him free.”
He was alive. He was well. Her hands shook with her certainty.
“We suspect we should beat him for his insolence, but he is such a pretty boy.” He crooned the words. “And the guards think him quite clever. Indeed,” he said, stepping close again, “They may regret hurting him. But if you fail…” His hands were on her hair again, stroking, caressing. “If you tell anyone… If you do not come alone… he will suffer in ways that you can only imagine and that I can only enjoy.”