Highland Hawk: Highland Brides #7

by Lois Greiman

  “Sir Hawk,” Brims interrupted, impatient and in obvious pain. “I fear we have lost the thrust of this conversation.”

  Hawk turned slowly back toward his lieutenant, his expression inscrutable. “And what is the thrust, Brims?”

  “I merely offered to escort the lady to Blackburn, nothing more.”

  Hawk shifted his attention back to her. Their gazes met.

  The memory of rattling fear swamped Catriona. But with it came the knowledge that she was the outsider here. She could ill afford to cause trouble among the ranks. Still, if she could not have justice, at least she would have truth. ” ‘Tis not what he offered,” she said softly.

  “Lying—” Brims rasped, but Hawk interrupted with a raised hand.

  “You will return to Blackburn, collect any monies due, and leave posthaste.” His tone was low and level.

  “But—”

  “And if your head has no wish to be separated from your body…” Hawk watched the lieutenant with silvery, deadly earnest eyes. “You will be gone before I arrive there.”

  For a moment Catriona thought Brims would argue, but he drew himself up and turned away.

  Not a soul spoke. Somewhere off to the side a man groaned, but whether it was Wickfield or Rory returning to consciousness, Catriona could not tell.

  “I owe you much, Sir Hawk,” she said softly.

  He watched her with unwavering intent. “Remember that,” he said, “when you reach Blackburn Castle.”

  Cat was no stranger to propositions. She was Rom, she was young, and she possessed an allure for men that she could not explain but had long ago accepted. She had learned at a tender age how to discourage men without lessening her own prospects. How to turn them aside while flattering them in the same breath. But this man had been nothing but distant and respectful since the first moment they had met, since she had rushed to Blackburn Castle so long ago to inform him of his beloved niece’s plight. Had the Hawk changed since then? Had he become like so many others?

  “You wish something of me, Sir Hawk?” she asked, her tone cautious and level.

  “Aye.” He nodded once, slowly. “I would ask that you not start a war until you leave our little keep,” he said, and turned away on the heel of his boot. No, he had not changed. His plaid flared and settled around corded thighs as he strode away—a quiet, kilted bear among yapping lap dogs.

  “Sir Hawk,” she said, screwing up her courage. “May I request one favor?”

  He turned back, his brows pulled low over his moon-mist eyes. “Does it involve any more of my men being broken or bloodied?”

  A flash of anger sparked through her. She had not asked to be propositioned or pursued. “Only if the men in question prove to be as foolhardy as the first.”

  Something in his eyes changed almost imperceptibly—a spark of humor, perhaps, though his lips remained immobile and stern.

  ” ‘Tis said, lass, that a bonny face can make a fool of any man.”

  “Then ‘tis hardly my fault, is it? For this is the face I was given.” She felt indescribably weary suddenly, far older than her twenty-two years. “In truth, it has caused me far more trouble than joy.”

  “Indeed?” He did smile now, though the expression was wry and fleeting as he gave her a shallow bow. “Then I must do what I can to lighten the load of your beauty, Lady Cat. In what manner can I assist you?”

  Chapter 2

  Catriona took a step into the great hall. Her heart thrummed in her chest, and her muscles felt taut, like brass wires stretched too tightly along the neck of a gittern. But these sensations were nothing new, only sharpened with the urgency of this impromptu performance.

  “I cannot do it,” she had said. But Blackheart had only laughed. “The Princess Cat unsure of herself? Surely not. Nay, you shall deliver the young king to me, and when you do… Well, your reunion with your wee brother shall be quite touching, I am sure. “

  Off to her right, a young nobleman noticed her and turned from his conversation with a pale young woman dressed in pink. His lips parted, but his words had ceased. The drinking horn slipped from his fingers to clatter noisily to the floor. Around him, heads turned toward her. The hall fell to whispers, then to silence. ‘Twas then that the music of a lute began, softly at first, then rising like a musical moon. As if from nowhere, it trilled around her.

  She took another step forward, balanced on the balls of her bare feet. One step and then another. More heads turned her way. A path was cleaved in front of her. She twirled once, then again. Her skirt, crafted of fabric as light as air and as bright as holly berries twirled with her, billowing away from the dark, cuffed garment beneath. Stretching her arms overhead, she danced for a moment then tipped her body over, positioned on her hands for an instant before finding her feet again. Her flaring skirt made a continuous arc through the air, and when she landed—voila—there was a goblet in her hand. A goblet filled with wine and not a droplet spilled.

  She handed it off to a nearby gentleman and danced on. One stride, then two. From the corner of her eye, she saw the raised dais in the center of the gargantuan room.

  The rhythm of the music sped along. Not far away there was a space between two men who sat on the table’s benchlike seat. She leapt easily into that opening, her feet a light patter against the wear-smoothed wood as she spun again and again.

  In an instant, she was atop the table. Platters and saltcellars and goblets and food crowded the great wooden expanse. But it was no great feat for her to avoid the clutter, to dance across the surface, to scoop up a tart, somersault from the table, and offer the dessert to the nearest bystander. No great feat to twirl and dance and mesmerize until she fell forward in a heap of gauzy fabric at the foot of the king’s chair.

  The music fell away. The hall was as silent as a mausoleum. She sat up slowly, lifting her arms above her head, unfolding like a flower to the sun. And with her movement came the birds, fluttering from her on delicate yellow-green wings.

  She watched the king lift his freckled face to the ceiling, watched him giggle with glee, before finally turning back toward her.

  “Lady Cat.” His voice had deepened somewhat since her last visit there, but the smoothness of his cheeks still evidenced the features of a lad. “You have returned.”

  “Aye.” She rose to her feet amid raucous applause, bowed low, and smiled. “Did I not say I would?”

  “Aye. But it has been forever and beyond.”

  She laughed. “Mayhap to a lad, but surely not to a king,” she said softly.

  “Am I not a person first, and a king second?”

  “Aye. That you are, Your Majesty,” she said. “And a young man, I see. You are twice the height you were when last I saw you.”

  “I am nearing twelve years of age.” There was excitement in his voice. “The day of my birth approaches.”

  “Does it?” She held her breath, awaiting his next words.

  “Aye. There will be much merrymaking. You must come.”

  She could feel her heart knock against her ribs in thrumming relief. “But, Your Majesty, I have—”

  “Nay, you must!” he said. “I insist. You will perform at the festivities.”

  Thank you, God. “A simple Rom lass at such a lavish festival? What will your council say?”

  “They will say…” He scowled and cast a mischievous sidelong glance toward Lord Tremayne, his most senior and most unbending, advisor. “These gypsies are the very devil incarnate and must be cast from our midst.’ “

  “Will they?”

  “Aye. And I will say…” He raised his chin and flipped a casual hand. “Accept my friends or forfeit your heads.”

  “Can you say that?” she asked, making certain her tone bore the proper awe.

  He shrugged and leaned close to whisper. “Oh, aye, I can say it, but thus far no heads have actually been forthcoming.”

  She laughed. ” ‘Tis good to see you again, Your Majesty.”

  “Say you will perform for my b
irthday.”

  “Or I must forfeit my head?”

  Beside her, Sir Hawk strode up and bowed slightly.

  “Why did you not tell me she had come?” James asked.

  “Mayhap I did not know,” Hawk said, but the king scoffed.

  “A maggot could not enter this keep without your knowledge. Nor can I breathe without your consent.”

  Hawk tilted his head. The black plume in his deep green bonnet bobbed. “I am but trying to keep you safe, Your Majesty.”

  “Then I would suggest keeping me informed as to our guests,” said a voice at Cat’s elbow.

  She turned. Lord Tremayne looked no different than he had at her last meeting with him. He was a man of indeterminate years with cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood. He stared at her with pale, watery eyes and pursed lips that blended into the parched color of his face.

  ” ‘Tis a pleasure to see you again, my lord,” she lied.

  He raised a single brow. “Explanations, Sir Hawk,” he said, without turning his attention from her.

  “Catriona of the Bairds is a friend of clan MacGowan and a friend of the throne,” Hawk said, his low voice not reaching past their small ring of listeners.

  “But I did not give permission for her presence here,” Tremayne said. “Therefore—”

  “Who is this person?” asked another gentleman, elbowing his way forward. He was a good hand shorter than Tremayne, though his increased girth made him appear considerably less. He struggled to free something from a pouch at his side. “And why is she here?” he asked, still .wrestling with the recalcitrant pouch.

  “My apologies, good sir,” Catriona said, curtsying gently. “The fault for my rude interruption is entirely mine.”

  “It is…” began the man, but just at that moment, he managed to fish out his wire spectacles. Behind the curved glass, his eyes grew wide before he blinked like a blinded owl. “Who is she?” he asked again, but the question was asked in a breathy whisper now.

  “She is Catriona of the clan Baird, Your Grace. Some call her Princess Cat. ‘Tis naught but a courtesy name, for her origins are humble, unless you believe the wild tales about her antecedents.” Hawk’s tone was parchment dry. “And Lord Tremayne is correct, of course; she should not have been allowed to disturb this royal assemblage. Off with you now,” he said, turning dramatically toward Cat.

  “Surely you jest,” argued a gentleman who pushed through the crush. Dressed in mustard-yellow hose and a slashed crimson doublet, he was the very picture of polite refinement. “We can hardly toss the lass out on her ear. ‘Tis practically the midst of the night. She needs a place to retire.” Reaching for her hand, he bowed smoothly over her knuckles, bestowing on them a lingering kiss. While the duke was squat and balding, this man was narrow and refined, with bonny features and perfect teeth. “Marquis de la Faire,” he introduced himself. “But you may call me Boswell the Fair.”

  “I did not say we should toss her out,” insisted the myopic duke. “I but meant…” For a moment he floundered for words and perhaps for breath itself, then, “After all, we would not want the king to be thought of as uncharitable.”

  “But what of his safety?” Hawk asked.

  “Safety!” The stout man scoffed, turning his gaze back to Catriona with a labored sigh. “What harm could one wee lass do? And such a…” He paused as he examined her more closely—her face, her bodice, laced tight to keep all the necessities in place, her waist, and then down to where her hands clasped each other beneath her slashed red and black sleeves. “Such a delicate thing at that.”

  She had just catapulted from the table and into their midst. “Delicate” did not seem a fitting description, but Catriona was not one to argue when things were going her way.

  “Aye,” said Sir Hawk, his dry tone suggesting he had forgotten neither Wickfield’s agonized moans nor his lieutenant’s purple nose. “She is indeed a delicate lass.”

  “She is perfection of form,” said de la Faire.

  She smiled, trying to encompass the gathering of lords and ladies that crowded in for a better view.

  “Had I realized the cordiality of Blackburn Castle, I would have come sooner,” she said.

  “You have never been to our fair keep before?” asked de la Faire.

  “Long ago,” she said. “And then only for a short visit.”

  “Then I must show you about,” said the Frenchman.

  “I know the castle as well as any,” argued the spectacled duke. “Therefore—”

  “As much as I appreciate your kind offers,” Catriona interrupted. ” ‘Twas a long and arduous journey. Truly, I desire nothing more than a bed and—”

  “I’ve got a bed,” piped a young noble with crooked front teeth and a lopsided grin.

  “And solitude,” Cat finished. Ignoring the crestfallen expressions of the men around her, she turned toward the king. “Your Majesty, I thank you for your kind audience.”

  He rose from his chair with the energetic haste of youth. “Tell me you shall stay and perform for my birthday.”

  She turned her eyes toward Tremayne and his nearsighted counterpart. “I’ve no wish to cause rancor amongst your loyal advisors.”

  “Nay, nay,” crooned Lord Spectacles. ” ‘Tis a royal request. What can we do but comply?”

  Tremayne said nothing.

  “Then I shall gladly agree,” Cat said.

  “I have been practicing my horsemanship since last we met,” James said.

  For a moment she wondered what he meant, but then she remembered their time together—the young king’s grave efforts as he tried to achieve a few of the simpler tricks she had shown him.

  “You must demonstrate when next we ride.” She curtsied. “My thanks, Your Highness,” she said and turned away.

  “I shall see you again then surely,” said the duke, tottering along after.

  In all honesty, that depended on if he had his spectacles close to hand.

  “Can I see you to your chambers?” asked the Frenchman as others pressed close behind him.

  “Sir Hawk promised to escort me,” she said, glancing toward the huge soldier.

  He raised a single brow a fraction at her lie, but stepped up with a bow.

  “Do not forget me, then, if you wish for a tour,” said de la Faire.

  “How could I?” she asked and tucked her hand beneath the Hawk’s elbow. Against her fingers, muscles honed by years and battle jumped to life as he bore her through the pressing crowd.

  “Mourning the sad state of your beauty again?” he asked quietly, not looking down at her as he pulled open the hall’s heavy door.

  She smiled, nodding once at a young gentleman who cocked a knee and bowed to her. “I but said it gave me more trouble than joy,” she reminded him. “I did not say that I was too proud to use it.”

  “Then use it to your best advantage, lass,” he said, “for the king’s celebration begins in less than a fortnight. And I doubt Tremayne will tolerate your much bemoaned beauty after that.”

  “A fortnight!” The words caught in her chest.

  “Aye.” He glanced sharply down at her. “Is something amiss?”

  “Nay. ‘Tis just that there is much to plan if I am to entertain for such a grand assemblage. Costumes, routines…”

  “Your performance tonight was quite impressive.”

  She couldn’t tell if he referred to her acrobatics or her conversation afterward, but his next statement answered her unspoken question.

  “The Catriona I remember was not so designing.”

  “I was younger then.” Far younger. Indeed, she felt as old as the curving stone stairs up which they climbed. “Is there something so dreadful about wanting to perform at the king’s celebration?”

  “Not at all. But you might have simply asked.”

  “Who? You or Lord Tremayne?”

  He acknowledged her point with a simple nod. ” ‘Tis lucky that the Duke of Ramhurst is not entirely blind, or your ploy might well hav
e failed.”

  She laughed as they reached the door of the chambers she had been given to use. ” ‘Tis good for me to flex my manipulative muscles now and then.”

  “I fear I do not understand.”

  ” ‘Tis because you are not an entertainer.”

  “True. I am naught but a—” he began then turned in surprise as a pair of greenfinches fluttered up the stairs toward them. They flitted to her shoulder and squabbled, but she opened the door and shooed them inside. “You were saying?”

  “I was saying I am but a scared old warrior.”

  “False modesty, Sir Hawk?” she asked.

  “Painful honesty,” he countered.

  “I think you underrate yourself,” she said, glancing up through her lashes.

  “And I think you should find younger game on which to hone your hunting skills.”

  She laughed aloud and pulled her fingers from his arm. Her knuckles brushed his chest, and for an instant she almost thought she heard him draw in a sharp breath. “I think you would make a fine entertainer, Sir Hawk. In truth, being able to judge your audience is an important asset. It seems you would do well in that regard; and you would look quite dashing with your fierce scowl. Perhaps a sweeping cape to add to the drama.”

  “But…” She shrugged. “Mistress Hawk might take offence.”

  He said nothing.

  She cleared her throat and eyed him askance. “Mayhap you do not know the rules of this game,” she said. “I am asking, and quite subtly I might add, if you are wed.”

  “Marcele died some fifteen years past.”

  “Oh.” She suddenly felt very foolish and rather callow. “My apologies.”

  The silence stretched uncomfortably.

  ” ‘Twas a marriage arranged between her family and Lord Beaumont.”

  “A Frenchman?”

  “He was my liege lord for some years.”

  “And you impressed him with your skill and loyalty.”

  He did not deny it. “I should have refused. She was…” he began then paused.

  “What?”

  “Fragile,” he said. “She died carrying my child.”

  “And so you have no children… except for the king, of course.”