Son of the Morning

by Linda Howard

  “Then why have you watched me?” he asked grimly, releasing her to cross swiftly to the unconscious guard. He looked briefly at the young man’s bleeding head, then at the iron candlestick lying beside him, before taking both sword and dagger as if he felt the need to be armed in her presence. The dagger disappeared inside his soft leather boot, and he turned to face her, eyes narrowed and watchful. “How have you come to my bed so often I know the very smell of you? How came you to be with Huwe today? I heard your voice, I know you were there.”

  “They c-captured me, too.” The unsteadiness of her voice annoyed her, and she took a deep, irritated breath. She was mortified that he had shared those erotic dreams with her; she didn’t know how it had happened, but everything about this went beyond the normal and there was nothing she could do about it.

  “A likely tale. You hardly bear the look of mistreatment.”

  “Huwe intended to ransom me, I think.”

  “That would not keep him from rutting on you, sweetings.”

  She blushed again, unable to control the heat in her cheeks, but it seemed as much in response to the rather biting endearment than to his crude words. “No. I kept him from that.”

  “How did you accomplish that feat? A spell?”

  “I am not a witch! I gave him a drink that made him sleep. He was drunk, anyway.”

  “And all the others?”

  “They are all asleep from drink. They think you safely locked away, and that your men will not dare attack while they have you.”

  “No, but they will be nearby.” He didn’t seem as angry now, though his gaze was still hard when he looked at her. “You have not yet answered my question. Who are you?”

  “Grace St. John.” She said it in English, because she didn’t know the specific Latin applications.

  He repeated her name as she had said it, slowly duplicating the pronunciation, his tongue sure on the syllables with the deftness of someone who spoke several languages. Then he stepped closer to her, the sword still in his hand, so close that his big body blotted out the light of the flickering torch. “And how have you watched me?”

  “I haven’t.” She made a helpless gesture. “I dreamed.”

  “Ah. More dreams.” He was still angry, she could feel it, but his voice had taken on that low, seductive note again, making her shiver as she fought the pull of it. “In your dreams, sweetings, was I inside you?” he whispered, moving even closer, his left arm sliding about her waist and slowly, inexorably, pulling her against him. “Were you beneath me in my bed, did I ride you hard?”

  Grace struggled to breathe. Her lungs weren’t working properly, only drawing in fast, shallow breaths. She braced her hands against his chest, feeling the incredible heat of his body through his rough linen shirt. She felt hot, too, restless and panicky, her skin almost painfully sensitive.

  His gaze was sharp and hot, startlingly aware. His lips parted slightly, his own breathing coming a little too fast as the hard arm around her waist urged her even closer, closer, until her breasts touched him. “I’m a fool,” he murmured, this time in Scots, but somehow she understood him. “I’ve no time for more, but I’ll at least have the taste of ye.”

  He lifted her, turning to pin her against one of the cell doors. His big, iron-muscled body ground against her from shoulder to knee, and her breath snagged at the fullness of his arousal. Instantly he took advantage of her parted lips and set his mouth to hers. His kiss was ravaging, not in force but in effect. Her blood surged wildly in response, and her body instinctively molded to him. His taste was hot, tart and uncivilized, shatteringly familiar. He used his tongue with soul-searing skill, demanding her response, then deepening his advantage when she helplessly gave it. His hands moved over her body, cupping her breasts, her bottom, moving her against him. His long fingers slipped between her legs, feeling her through her gown. Grace had a second of warning, an almost painful inner tightening, and frantically she pushed against him but it was too late. Sensation splintered into a thousand piercing shards, and with a hoarse cry she arched into him.

  She felt his surprise as his mouth muffled her cry, then he gathered her tighter while her climax pulsed through her, those devilishly knowledgeable fingers gently rubbing to give her a full measure of satisfaction. The spasms finally slowed, diminishing to tremors, and she sank weakly against him.

  She jerked her mouth from his and pressed her head hard against his shoulder, her face hot with mortification. She had never been so embarrassed and humiliated in her life. Reaching climax in a dream was unsettling enough, but to do it in front of him, with no more stimulation than a kiss and a bold caress—she burned with shame.

  “Lass,” he said, his voice low and husky, almost a whisper. His lips pressed briefly to the exposed curve of her neck, the touch hot and tender. His breath came in soft, short pants as he let her slide to her feet, all down the length of his body.

  She would have kept her head down but he cupped her chin, lifting her face so he could see it. His thumb swept over the soft bloom of her mouth. His own lips were swollen and shiny, his eyes narrow with lust. “A pity I must go,” he whispered in Scots. “Ye burn a man to a fair crisp, but I’d turn to ash wi’ a smile on my face.” He bent and brushed her mouth with his, then patted her bottom and set her away from him.

  Shaking, Grace leaned against the door, her mind a blank and her knees like water. He moved so fast that he had already reached the stairs before realization sank into her brain. She struggled upright, her eyes wide. “No, wait!” she cried. “Take me with you!”

  He didn’t even pause, his powerful legs taking the stairs two at a time. He tossed her a grin. “I give you thanks for my liberty, but gratitude doesn’t make me a fool,” he said, returning to Latin, and he disappeared upward into the darkness.

  Oh, damn! She didn’t dare call out again. She launched herself after him but her legs were still shaking, and she barely had the strength to climb the stairs. There was no sign of him when she emerged from the dungeon.

  She couldn’t sound an alarm, for after all she didn’t want him recaptured. Nor did she herself dare to remain. She collected her bag and tiptoed toward the kitchen, thinking that the most likely avenue of his escape. If there were a guard there, Niall would have taken care of him. She had to get out of this grimy hold and find him again. He wasn’t a hero, damn him, no knight in shining armor. He was just a man, though bigger than most, more bold and vital. He was arrogant and rude, and he was her only hope.

  Chapter 21

  GRACE WAS A LITTLE GRATIFIED TO REALIZE SHE HAD GUESSED right. Outside the kitchens she found a guard’s body, slumped on the ground in the boneless attitude of death. There was an uproar in the stables, torches being lit, men running and cursing. Niall must have stolen a horse and escaped through the postern gate. There was no chance of her stealing a horse now, and the keep was coming awake behind her. She dodged into a small storeroom, little more than a shed built against the side of the keep. It was evidently the granary, for the dusty smell of oats made her stifle a sneeze.

  She heard rustlings in the oats that made her grit her teeth. Where there was grain, there were rats. She was acutely aware of the vulnerability of her legs beneath the long skirts. What she wouldn’t give for her jeans and boots!

  But she stood grimly still, even when the noisy search discovered the guard’s body just outside her hiding place. Even though she couldn’t understand the words, she could grasp their anger and agitation. Their chieftain couldn’t be roused; the dungeon guard was injured, perhaps dead; both captives were gone, though only one horse was missing. She only hoped they would assume she was with Niall, that somehow they had simply failed to see her, because otherwise they would begin a thorough search of the keep.

  Damn Niall, she thought violently. Why couldn’t he have taken her with him? Even if he refused to take her to Creag Dhu, he could at least have gotten her away from Huwe. Gratitude didn’t make him a fool, indeed!

  The uproar event
ually died down. They couldn’t pursue Niall in the dark, and without Huwe they weren’t inclined to take action anyway. She waited, rustling her feet whenever the munching rats seemed to get too close, sending them squealing and scurrying. She would never forgive Niall for this.

  At least security would be lax, now that their prisoner was gone. The Hay stronghold wasn’t very strong anyway, from what she had seen. There had once been a wall around it, but it hadn’t been maintained and the mortar had crumbled, leaving big gaps. Unfortunately, someone would still be watching the horses.

  His tough luck, she thought when she finally crept out of her hiding place. She didn’t know the time, so she didn’t dare wait much longer. Dawn could come at any time, and with it her only opportunity to escape.

  A soft mist was falling, not much more than a heavy fog. Her heart sank. That was probably why they hadn’t pursued Niall, because they couldn’t see in this pea soup. Unfortunately, she didn’t have any choice, even though she didn’t know where she was. She had carefully noted the direction from which they had come the day before, but the fog greatly increased her chances of getting totally turned around.

  She walked quietly into the stable. A guard snoozed against a pile of hay, a small candle with a protective globe over it guttering by his side. What was she supposed to bash him with? She looked around and spied a rough pitchfork, its handle made of a sturdy length of wood. She picked it up, gripped it like a bat, and gave it a healthy swing. The wood swatted him in the side of his head and he jerked once, then fell heavily limp.

  “I’m going to go to hell,” she whispered into the night. That made two innocent men she had knocked in the head tonight, and for all she knew she had killed both of them. Severe head injuries in medieval times likely resulted in death. If Niall had taken her with him, hitting this last guard wouldn’t have been necessary.

  She bit her lip, looking at the curious equine heads surveying her. She knew how to ride, because it was a convenient skill to have when out on a dig, but she wasn’t an expert and in any case hadn’t been on a horse in more than two years, except for being held in front of Huwe on his horse yesterday, and that didn’t count.

  “Pick a horse, any horse,” she muttered to herself. Geldings were always less fractious than stallions or even mares, but in the darkness she couldn’t tell anything about her available choices except their size. She settled on a brown horse that was neither the largest nor the smallest, hoping that moderation was the key to success.

  The horse stood quietly as she saddled it, and followed obediently when she led it to a keg. She stepped up on the keg, then mounted the horse. After tying her bag securely to the saddle, she clicked her tongue to the animal and carefully rode it out of the stable. Behind her, she heard a quiet groan as the guard began reviving. She was glad he wasn’t dead, but that meant she had only a minute or so to get away before the alarm was raised.

  She rode the horse at a walk to one of the gaps in the wall, and let it pick its own way over the tumbled rock. In the dark and the fog, the run-down keep was soon out of sight.

  The safest course would be to find a place to hide, and wait until dawn when both she and the horse would be able to see. But if she remained close by, that increased the chances the Hays would recapture her and she doubted she would escape abuse so easily again.

  When she saw Black Niall again, she was going to throttle him, even if she had to climb on a stool to do it.

  She clicked to the horse and nudged it with her heels, but she let it pick its way at its own cautious speed. She could barely see past the horse’s nose, so it seemed wiser to trust the animal’s instincts; it at least had its feet on the ground. Still, she hoped sunrise wasn’t several hours away.

  To be fair to Niall, she hadn’t tried to explain herself or her presence. Part of her reticence was pure caution, because as Guardian his duty was to protect the Treasure from all threats, including herself. If he discovered she knew the procedure for time travel, he might feel it necessary to kill her. If she could get the Treasure herself, without his assistance, she preferred to do so. If she found she needed him, then would be the time to confess.

  But all the logical reasons for remaining quiet weren’t what had kept her from telling him. She had simply been too shocked, first by the embarrassing discovery that he had shared the dreams with her and then by the way she had humiliated herself in his arms. She had been hard put even to speak, much less launch into a detailed explanation.

  Her cheeks burned again as she remembered what had happened, and she lifted her face to the chilly mist.

  She had been agitated from the moment she had arrived back in time, nervous, excited. She hadn’t thought that agitation could so swiftly convert into sexual response, but it had. It was as if her body had been numb for a year, but something had happened to her during the time transition and now she felt everything too much.

  Niall had fascinated her from the moment she had first read his name. She had spent so much time concentrating on him, dreaming about him, it was no wonder all her senses had been so acutely focused on him. All those hours she had been so aware of his actual presence that it had been difficult for her to think of anything else, her skin hypersensitive, prickly. She should have recognized the sexual charge underlying her jitters, but she hadn’t. While she had accepted and rationalized the sexual aspect of her dreams, it hadn’t occurred to her the physical attraction would be as strong in reality.

  It wasn’t. It was stronger.

  She had been unfaithful to Ford in every way except the actual act, but she couldn’t find any solace in that detail. If circumstances had been different, if they had been alone in a safe place, she had no doubt Niall would have had her. But now that she recognized her weakness, she could safeguard against giving in to it. She must never let Niall so much as kiss her again.

  But as she rode through the night, she was uncomfortably aware that if Niall wished to kiss her or do anything else to her, her defenses were very weak indeed.

  Creag Dhu was a massive stone castle, the rock from which it was built as dark as a stormy sky. Unlike the Hay keep it was in excellent repair, with thick stone walls surrounding four huge towers. The big main entrance was guarded by two sets of gates twenty feet apart, and the men who guarded it looked healthy, well clothed and armed, and well trained. Everyone who entered was stopped and questioned, and no carts or bundles went through those gates without being thoroughly inspected.

  Grace knew she should have expected as much, given Niall’s military background, but when she looked at Creag Dhu she felt overwhelmed by the task she had set herself. Just getting in looked impossible; how on earth would she manage searching it?

  She had to stay hidden, because a stranger would be immediately noticed. The castle was busy, having attracted its own small village as people moved closer to safety, but everyone would know everyone else. She was hungry, and tired from having ridden for two days. She had wandered off course in the fog, and a journey that shouldn’t have taken an entire day had instead taken two.

  At least the horse was content, because there was plenty of grass and water.

  The animal was a gelding, blessed with a calm and forgiving nature. If it hadn’t been, Grace was certain she never would have survived. She ached from head to foot, and her bottom was so sore she didn’t think she would be able to climb back into the saddle even if Huwe of Hay suddenly appeared in front of her.

  She had tethered the horse in a copse of forest, while she assessed the situation, which wasn’t promising. Perhaps she should just walk up to the gates and ask to see him. He might not be pleased, but she had freed him from the dungeon; if she told him she was hungry, could he turn her away?

  Of course he could, she thought. He was the Guardian. He wouldn’t let anything as paltry as gratitude stand in the way of his duty.

  She had to think of some way to get inside the castle.

  She couldn’t smuggle herself inside by hiding in any of the carts she
saw going in; all the carts were searched, even when the guards obviously knew the owner and they chatted genially together while the goods or produce were inspected. She didn’t even speak the language, so when they asked questions she wouldn’t be able to answer. She could try speaking Old English, but that wouldn’t win her any friends here in Scotland; the two countries had been at war for years. She could understand most of the Scots dialect, but speaking it was useless because the parts of it she understood were English, so she wouldn’t gain anything.

  Even if she did manage to get into Creag Dhu, what then? The castle inhabitants would certainly know one another far better than they knew the village folk, so there wouldn’t be any way she could escape notice by mingling with the crowd. Exploring the castle would take time; she needed to be able to come and go without being questioned. Grimly she arrived back at one inescapable conclusion: even if she got into the castle, she would need Niall’s permission to stay.

  She decided to face one problem at a time, and found herself back at the beginning: how to get into Creag Dhu?

  She began making her way back to the horse, stumbling over rocks and roots, catching her skirts on bushes and twigs and having to jerk them free. She was becoming more and more irritated with the nuisance of a long gown. To tell the truth, she was irritated with everything, but at least her ill humor had distracted her from the humiliation of what had happened with Niall.

  By the time she reached the horse, she was sweating from the effort of fighting her way through brambles and bushes. The wool surcoat, which felt good on cold nights, now suffocated her. Irritably she stripped it off and tossed it over the saddle, sighing in relief as air seeped through the lighter cotton kirtle. She loosened the laces that held the neckline and sleeves tight, pulling the neckline completely open and then pushing up the sleeves as far as she could, which was only to the middle of her forearms. Under the scarf, her hair was wet with sweat. Off came the scarf, and she unwound the heavy knot of her hair, running her fingers through it and letting fresh air reach her scalp. She had expected Scotland to be uniformly chilly even in May, but that wasn’t the case today.