Son of the Morning

by Linda Howard

  She breathed a sigh of relief. The “detective” could have been legitimate, and could also have been one of Parrish’s men rechecking Kris’s story. Kristian had pulled it off, protected by his computer wonk persona. No one meeting him would think him involved in anything beyond bytes and programs.

  “Where are you?” he asked again.

  “It’s safer for you if you don’t know.”

  “Yeah, well, so what?” He sounded older than before, tougher and more assured. “I know you didn’t do it, so if you need help, all you have to do is ask.”

  His unquestioning faith hit her so hard that it was a moment before she could speak past the knot that formed in her throat.

  “You’ll be breaking the law if you help me.” She felt compelled to warn him, because her conscience was still nagging at her for calling.

  “I know,” he said calmly. “I broke the law by not telling them everything I knew about that night, and I broke the law when I got into the bank’s computers so you could get your money out. What’s one more felony between friends?”

  She took a deep breath. “All right. Is there any way you can get into the Foundation’s computer system without setting off any alarms?”

  “Sure,” he said, completely confident. “I told you, there’s always a back door. All I have to do is find it. But if it’s a closed system, I’ll have to go on-site to get in. Any problem there?”

  Grace took a deep breath, trying to remember what she’d seen of the computer system the times she’d been in the Foundation’s offices, which actually hadn’t been that often. “I think it’s a closed system.”

  “Are we going to do some midnight breaking and entering?” He sounded eager; Kris was a true hacker, willing to go to any lengths to perform his illegal art.

  “No.” Harmony hadn’t given her any advice on getting into a secured professional building without setting off its alarm system, but she had given her some pointers about hiding in plain sight. “We’ll go in during the day, as part of the maintenance crew. I don’t know how we’ll get onto the floor without being seen, but we’ll think of something.”

  “I keep telling you,” Kris said. “There’s always a back door.”

  Chapter 14

  WHEN NIALL RODE IN FROM PATROL, SIM MET HIM WITH A worried expression. “Artair and Tearlach havena returned from hunting,” he reported.

  Niall looked at the darkening sky. The short winter day was fading fast, and the lowering gray clouds promised more snow. The wind whipped at his hair, blowing it across his face, and impatiently he tossed it back as he jumped from the horse.

  “Bring Cinnteach,” he ordered. The gelding was as steady as his name, and had the stamina of two horses.

  “Done.” Sim nodded to a stable lad approaching with the big bay. “I’ve had the other lads make ready, should ye want them also.”

  “Only you and Iver,” Niall said. The two men were Creag Dhu’s best archers, save himself. Perhaps he was foolhardy to take only two with him, but he was always mindful of leaving the castle well protected. Winter had cooled the Hay’s raging blood feud with Creag Dhu; over a month had passed without attack. Still, Artair and Tearlach were both accomplished hunters, and could read the weather well; if naught was amiss, they would have returned by now.

  Artair and Tearlach had gone out with the dawn, intent on a fiadh, a deer, whose tracks they had cut in the snow twice before, but the wily beast had escaped each time. Tearlach had slowed with age but was still the castle’s best tracker. Artair had a gift for silence, Tearlach one for patience; they worked well together. Niall suspected Artair liked to hunt in winter because the wild, empty, snow-dusted mountains somehow reminded him of a cathedral, vaulted and holy. Creag Dhu had a chapel but no priest, for holy men sought safer duty than being confessor to wild renegades, and the chapel had long stood empty. Niall preferred no reminder of the Church or God, but Artair deeply felt the absence and sought his sanctuary in nature. He had thought it safe enough to replenish the castle’s larder.

  Niall rode out again five minutes later, having taken only enough time to wolf down a bit of bread and meat, and drink a cup of hot ale. The cold snapped at his face, but he was warm enough in wool and fur.

  They rode in a slow circle about the castle, picking up Artair’s and Tearlach’s tracks where they went into the wood. The tracks were plain enough in the snow, and were easily followed.

  Niall’s head lifted, his nostrils flaring and his mouth grim as he surveyed the stark black and white wood. The snow deadened sound, so that they were surrounded by a silence unbroken except by the noise of their own passing, and that was slight enough. He sensed trouble, and there was a prickling between his shoulder blades.

  “Ware,” he said softly, and Sim and Iver moved apart from him, spreading out so that an ambush would be less likely to trap all three of them, and also that they might better use the cover available to them.

  The day’s patrolling had not revealed the tracks of either man or Highland pony coming onto Creag Dhu land, but if the Hay were determined enough, and sly enough, he could have sent in his men a day or more before the snow, and had them wait for their best opportunity. Given a small cave, Highlanders could easily survive the cold and snow in relative comfort. Hiding their mounts would be more difficult, and not even the Hay was stupid enough to send out his men afoot. They would also need running water.

  “If any Hays are aboot, they’ll be hard by the burn.” He kept his voice low, but pitched it so both Sim and Iver could hear. They both nodded, their eyes moving restlessly, not pausing on any detail for more than a split second.

  But Niall didn’t sense any presence in the wood, despite his feeling of danger. He knew well when someone watched him, for he’d felt it often enough these past months. At times the eyes on him belonged to a Hay; other times, he knew it was she, the woman, the spirit. He didn’t know why she watched or what she wanted, but ofttimes he could feel her gaze on him as he fought, feel her anxiety at his danger and her relief when he emerged victorious, and unscathed. Be damned if that wasn’t less unsettling than sensing her near while he was abed with, and most like atop, a warm, willing woman. He was growing more and more irritable with her; if he ever got his hands on the wench, he’d be tempted to throttle her.

  She watched him at the most inconvenient times, but now he rode through the darkening wood alone. Snowflakes swirled downward, brushing his face with their icy kiss. He could barely make out the tracks in the snow.

  Cinnteach’s ears pricked forward, and Niall held up a warning hand, slowing their approach. Naught moved before them, but the wind brought a scent, faint and unmistakable. Sim’s mount shifted restlessly, tossing his head.

  Niall dismounted, his right hand closing around the hilt of his sword. His acute senses felt the sudden brush of a gaze upon him, as definite as a touch, and he whirled to the side just as his ears caught the singing whisper of an arrow and sharp metal bit into his left shoulder with solid force.

  He went down on his knee behind cover of a large tree. Looking around, he saw both Sim and Iver also behind cover, their faces grim as they watched him. He signaled that he was all right and motioned for them to change positions, moving out and forward to catch the intruders between them.

  His shoulder burned like seven hells, but he had taken the precaution of wearing a silk undertunic, something he insisted all his men do. An arrow couldn’t pierce silk, something all Templars knew. The most damage from an arrow didn’t occur on entry, but when it was removed. If one was wearing silk, the fabric went into the wound and twisted around the arrowhead, preventing debris from entering the wound and causing infection, and also allowing the arrow to be safely removed by covering the barbs.

  He reached inside his shirt, grasped the silk around the arrow, and jerked. The weapon popped free of his flesh, though not without effort. He ground his teeth against the pain; silk might lessen the severity of an arrow wound, but he reflected that it still wasn’t pleasant. Fr
esh blood streamed down his shoulder, wetting his shirt.

  Pain had always made him angry. His eyes narrowed until they were nothing more than midnight slits as he slid to the ground and crawled forward behind a fallen log. Every move jarred his shoulder and he became even angrier.

  The snow was falling faster, almost obliterating what little light remained. Both Sim and Iver were in position now, waiting for a target, but nothing moved. Niall dug his fingers under the snow, searching for a cone or rock. A pebble would suffice, for a subtle noise would be more effective than a great crashing.

  Ah, there; a cone, mushy with wet and rot. Without rising from behind the log he tossed the cone in the direction from whence the arrow had come and it landed with a soft scraping noise, as if a careless shoulder had brushed against a snow-laden branch and caused it to spill its burden.

  An archer rose swiftly from behind a rock, bow drawn, hunter’s eyes locked on the target area. That singing whisper came again, and Iver’s arrow pierced the archer’s neck. His nerveless fingers released the bow tension and the arrow sank into the dirt before him. Eyes widened, teetering on tiptoe, he clawed at his throat. A choked, gurgling sound issued from his mouth, followed by a rush of blood, and he collapsed in the snow.

  From the other side Sim released an arrow. He had no definite target so he sent it flying into a thick bush capable of providing concealment. His guess was correct, because a cry of pain split the cold air.

  Niall took advantage of the distraction to move yet again, sliding behind another tree, much closer than he had been when caught by the arrow. His white teeth gleamed as he tilted back his head and loosed a bloodcurdling roar. He erupted from his cover like a lion springing for its prey. Four men sprang from concealment, startled by the bloody apparition that was suddenly upon them, huge sword flashing. One man managed to get his own sword up and metal rang against metal, but he went down under Niall’s greater weight.

  Sim and Iver each loosed one more arrow, then sprang forward screaming their own cries. Niall thrust his dagger up under his man’s ribs and slashed sideways until he hit bone. The man arched and convulsed and Niall swung away from him, dropping to one knee under the rushing attack of a second foe and jabbing upward with the bloody dagger. The sharp metal sliced into the soft belly and Niall held the dagger steady while the man’s momentum hurled him forward, eviscerating himself with his own motion.

  Niall surged to his feet, but Sim and Iver had taken down their own men and only the three of them remained standing, panting softly, wisps of steam rising from their heads.

  “Yer shoulder?” Iver asked, nodding at the wound.

  “’Tis minor enough.” That was true, but it burned like hell for all that. Niall strode furiously to reclaim his horse. He was certain now that he’d not find Artair and Tearlach alive. The Hay clansmen had planned well, skulking close and hiding until they could ambush those fewer in number than they, the whoreson cowards.

  He found his men a minute later. Artair lay on his back, his blue eyes open and empty as he stared sightlessly upward. Niall dismounted and knelt beside his old friend, touching his face, lifting his hand. He was already cold, his limbs stiffening. The arrow had entered his heart.

  He had not suffered, Niall thought, drawing Artair’s plaid up to cover his face. His expression was almost peaceful, as if he’d at last quit a life in which he had no place.

  “Adieu, mon ami,” he whispered. French was the language in which he had been schooled as a Templar, and it was in that tongue he bid good-bye to his last friend from that time. They were all gone now, all the Knights who had sought sanctuary at Creag Dhu. Some had died on the battlefield for Scotland, some had died natural deaths, others lived on in quiet places. Some had taken wives, had children; some still held to their vows. But they were Knights no longer; only he remained in service to the Order. It had been so for fourteen years, and yet so long as Artair had been with him he had felt the kinship. Now there was no one left at Creag Dhu who had even a glimmer of understanding.

  “Tearlach lives,” Sim said, pressing his tough, blunt fingers deep into the wounded man’s neck. Surveying the amount of blood on the snowy ground, he shook his shaggy head. “He’s near bled out, though. He’ll no last ’til morn.”

  Niall stood and lifted Artair’s body over his shoulder. “Perhaps,” he said. “But if he dies, ’twill be among friends.”

  He sat alone in his chamber that night, unable to sleep, drinking raw spirits that burned down his throat. He was drunk, but the raw ale had done nothing to lift his mood. His shoulder throbbed; it had been rinsed with the same ale he drank, and bound with a poultice to draw out any putrefaction. He was hot with fever, but he didn’t fear it; the fever had come soon after each wound he’d ever received, and he had noted that he seemed to heal faster than those whose fevers came on later. The wound had been clean, the ale fierce; in two days, he’d scarce feel a twinge in the shoulder.

  The heat from the fireplace washed his bare shoulders and back. His plaid was draped about his hips, but except for that he was naked.

  He stared across the chamber at nothing, his expression grim. Damn the Hays; if he had to wipe out the entire clan, rid the Highlands of their stinking presence, he would have vengeance for Artair. The time would come soon enough, when winter lifted its icy hand from the mountains.

  But for now he was drunk, feverish, and alone with his thoughts. There was no one watching, no one near, when he needed to feel her with him.

  He closed his eyes, aching inside with the loneliness. For all his life he had been forced to hide parts of himself from the world. Always his kinship with the Bruce had been hidden, even before the Bruce was king. Later, with the Knights, he had been forced to deny his own nature, though he had gone to sleep every night with his arms and loins aching with need. Now he could give free rein to his lusts, but he must hold secret his years as a Knight, though those eight years had done much to shape him into the man he was now. Even from Robert, who knew all those things, he must conceal his true role as Guardian, and the cursed vow that ruled his life.

  Only with her was there nothing to hide. Whoever and whatever she was, he sensed that she knew him as no one else had ever done, knew his body bone-deep and his mind even when he slept. When he took her in his arms, when she came to him in the dark silence of the night, she knew all of the man he was and still she clung to him, offering her body and herself.

  Niall inhaled through his teeth as lust hit him hard. He wanted her, but not in a dream. He wanted her real and warm under his hands, her sweet scent fresh in his nostrils as he took her.

  He could almost feel her, his longing was so sharp. His hands curled into fists, trying to capture the sensation of her silky skin under his palms.

  The fever and ale and longing combined, and suddenly she was there, her hands sliding lightly over his bare shoulders. He felt her concern as she touched the pad covering his wound, but her concern wasn’t what he wanted. Fiercely he caught her to him, and held her on his lap while he stripped away the small scraps of clothing that were all she wore. He couldn’t quite see her face, but she was here and that was all that mattered. He put his hand on her cool belly, warming her with his touch, feeling the muscles beneath contract as she drew in her breath. Her small nipples beaded, as he had known they would. She responded to his slightest touch; he knew that if he slid his fingers between her legs to the delicate opening hidden there, he would find it wet, ready for him.

  Instead he smoothed his hand up to her breasts, cupping them, rubbing his thumb over her nipples, then bending his dark head to take the tightened buds in his mouth and gently suck. She shivered in his arms, trying to press closer to him. Such lovely, plump little things her breasts were, small and delightfully round, so delicate and sensitive he knew it would pain her if he handled them roughly as some women liked. She was more finely made than any woman he had ever known, both fragile and strong, her skin like translucent silk.

  He couldn’t wait an
y longer. He needed her too much. Swiftly he turned her, laying her back on the bench. He shoved his plaid aside and straddled the bench, spreading her thighs open and moving between them. He watched as he entered her, his thick shaft too large, too brutish, for the soft flesh that stretched under his pressure, but she took him, her back arching, her cries those of pleasure. He gritted his teeth as the tightness of her sheath enveloped him and he crouched over her, thrusting long and slow and deep, almost delirious with fever and drink and the sensations boiling through him, but needing her so much he couldn’t stop. Her arms curled around his neck and he felt her passion matching his, her need as great as his, her acceptance of everything he was; and he knew he wasn’t alone anymore—

  But he was.

  His eyes opened and the fantasy shattered. He sat there, breathing hard as he silently cursed her. Damn her for taunting him like this, tantalizing him with a whisper of her presence, then disappearing when he needed her most. His aloneness crashed down on him and he hunched his shoulders against the burden. His head dropped down on his chest and he closed his eyes, trying to regain her presence, but it was gone as if she had never been there at all.

  “So where are ye now, lass?” he murmured.

  Grace bolted out of bed, grabbing for the pistol. Someone had spoken right beside her, the voice almost in her ear. She stood with her back against the wall and the pistol locked in a two-handed grip, swinging from point to point in search of a target, but nothing was there. The room was empty, dark, lit only by the streetlights filtering through the drawn curtains.

  She sagged back, gasping. A dream. Only a dream, and for once not of Niall—or was it? The voice that had jerked her awake had been deep, burred, and she’d heard the word lass.

  Yes. Niall. She closed her eyes, breathing deep and slow in an effort to calm her racing heart. After a few moments she was more relaxed, but far from drowsy, and she mentally replayed that voice in her ear.