by Lois Greiman
The day had been long and wearing. The night promised to be the same, but for now she would rest and let the castle settle into silence.
Her gown slid down her legs and onto the floor. Her undergarments followed. She rolled her shoulders and stepped from the rumpled linen. The night air felt soft against her skin, like a lover’s caress.
But she had no lover. Even now, when her mind should be occupied with a thousand other details, she could not help but remember the intensity of Hawk’s eyes when he had questioned her about that. She should have told him that she had no lovers, but pride was as fickle as the wind and could blow in any direction. He had called her troublesome, and she had no desire to confirm or deny his belief with tales of her innocence, especially when his very nearness confused and titillated her. When his voice evidenced the same raspy quality as Fayette’s partner. But where Matthew had been pink and narrow, he would be dark and thick. Catriona’s nippies tightened at the thought, puckering in the cool night air and plunging her back into reality.
What the devil was wrong with her? she wondered, and turned, angry and frustrated, toward the bed.
A shadow rose from the floor on the far side of the mattress. “So,” said a voice. “You have finally arrived.”
Chapter 8
“Lord de la Faire!” Catriona gasped.
“Aye.” He leered at her then let his gaze slip sloppily to her nipples. “I see you are ready for me, Princess.”
Backing away a step, Cat snagged her dark chemise from the trunk’s edge and whisked it in front of her.
“Nay.” He staggered forward a step or two, but didn’t manage any more. “Do not cover yourself. I have been waiting here for an eternity.”
“Waiting?” she stalled and glanced quickly to the right in search of some kind of weapon. But the knife she’d taken to dinner had been dropped to the floor with her discarded gown.
“Aye. I knew you would eventually break away from the crowd. So I waited here on your bed.” He waved wildly at the mattress he had just managed to skirt.
She shook her head. “I did not see you.”
“Well, in truth, I may have slipped onto the floor.” He grinned. ” ‘Tis a wild pallet you keep, Princess Cat.”
“Aye.” She nodded at his nonsensical words. ” ‘Tis indeed a wicked bed. Mayhap you’d best leave and find your own.”
He chuckled. “A wild pallet for a wild wench, I am thinking. But I believe myself up to the task of taming them both.”
He stepped forward. Catriona stepped back.
She had dealt with intoxicated men before, and while they were often disoriented and ungainly, they were also sadly immune to good sense.
“My lord de la Faire,” she began, still holding the gown in front of her, “You should not be here.”
“You are right. I should be in yonder bed. I am certain that together we can wrestle it into submission,” he said, and grinned crookedly at his own brilliant wit.
“The truth is, sir, that I am a friend of the king.”
Nothing but a blank expression.
“He is my guardian of sorts, and I would do nothing to cause him distress.”
“Ah, well, I will not tell if you don’t,” he said and stumbled forward.
Catriona glanced sideways. She could edge along the wall and try to escape, of course. But there was little point of putting him between her and the door.
Thus, she had no choice. She would have to dart into the hallway and hope she had a chance to wrestle the gown over her head before anyone saw her. One more tiny step backward and she eased her fingers onto the door handle.
“But regardless if I tell James or nay, he will surely find out,” she said, giving reason one last chance. “And he will be angry.”
Apparently those words managed to penetrate the Frenchman’s foggy brain, for he stopped for a moment, eyeing her blearily. “So you…” He halted briefly and grinned. “You’re laying the lad?”
His accusation stunned her.
“Nay,” she rasped, but in that instant, de la Faire leapt.
His fingers snagged in her chemise, tearing it out of her hands.
Spinning around, she lunged for the door, but he grabbed her about the waist.
She grappled wildly, trying to fight her way free.
“Relax. Relax, little wildcat,” de la Faire hissed. His arms wound tightly about her midriff, his hips pressed into her buttocks. “Do not fret.” He swiped a kiss against her neck, but her hair was in the way. “I’ve no intention of ruining your place with the king. In truth, I rather like the idea of tarrying where His Majesty has been. And ‘twill do you good to remember what it is like to be with a man fully grown.” With those words he ground his member into her backside. She stiffened. “Feel that?” he crooned. “Big as a log, it is. I have been ordered to stay away from the stallions, lest I make them feel inferior.” He laughed at his own humor. “Come now, lass,” he whispered, and managed to plant a kiss on her neck this time. “Let us tame yonder wild bed.”
Squeezing her eyes closed, Catriona forced her muscles to relax, and her stomach to settle. “Are you certain James will not find out? He is so young and tender.”
De la Faire chuckled. “I am certain he has heard of my prowess,” he said. “Surely he will understand your weakness.”
“I only hope you are right,” she said, and snapping her knees up, thumped her feet against the door with all her might.
De la Faire careened wildly backward, landing on his rump. She landed on his belly.
The air whooshed from his lungs in an audible rush, and she scrambled away on all fours.
But he was already after her. His fingers brushed her ankle. She squawked in bursting terror, kicked him in the jaw, and lunged forward. She couldn’t reach the door and she knew it. Scrambling for her gown, she dipped her hand beneath it, found the knife, and spun toward him.
He slammed into her, pinning her back against the wall and forcing the air from her lungs with the weight of his body.
“My God, I love your fire!” he rasped. “You make me feel like a great destrier called to battle.”
“De la Faire,” she said. Fighting for breath, she raised her hand just slightly. It shook like a reed in the wind, but her voice was steady. “If you do not loose me, you will look more like a lopped donkey than a horse of war.”
He chuckled. “I—” he began, but in that instant, he felt the prick of her blade against his groin. His eyebrows rose and his baby-soft mouth went round. “You have a knife?”
“Aye.” She said the word through gritted teeth and steadied her hand. “And—”
The door burst open.
Catriona snapped her head sideways and found herself staring into Sir Hawk’s icy eyes.
For a moment the entire world seemed silent, then, “Catriona,” he said, nodding shallowly as he skimmed his gaze down to the knife in her hand. “I came to make certain you were well before I found my pallet.” His gaze moved back up to settle on her face. The hard tension of his body lessened a small bit. “But I heard a noise and thought you might need assistance.” A pause of several heartbeats, then, “I did not realize you were entertaining.”
Either anger or fear made her tremble. She wasn’t certain which, but the blade wobbled against de la Faire’s groin. “You may find this entertaining, Sir Hawk. I do not.”
“Truly?” Hawk stared at her, his expression inscrutable. “Do you mean to say that you’ve found some trouble after all?”
She could not even manage a nod.
“So de la Faire is here uninvited?” Hawk’s voice had lowered even more.
“Aye.”
“Then…” Hawk turned almost regretfully toward the young lord who stared wide-eyed and immobile at the king’s notorious captain of the guard. “You should prepare for pain, my lord.”
“This was not my idea. I thought this was my room. The wench came in and disrobed,” de la Faire rambled. “I told her I had no wish to lie with her. Bu
t she grabbed a knife and insisted—”
Hawk raised hand. The motion looked peaceful, but something in his eyes was not. “I fear I must stop you before you dishonor yourself further.” Grabbing the back of the Frenchman’s doublet in one fist, he thumped the marquis’s head against the nearest wall.
For a moment de la Faire’s face expressed absolute astonishment, and then, like a soggy rag, his head dropped forward onto his chest and his legs went lax, spilling him to the floor.
Catriona stared in dumbstruck astonishment. “Is he dead?”
“Nay,” Haydan replied. “Fools do not die that easy, even if they are gentry.”
The room went silent. Catriona raised her gaze nervously to Haydan’s. “I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble.”
She watched the scar beside his eye twitch slightly. Watched his chest expand and his shoulders lower a mite, as if he endeavored to relax.
“One cannot bring a wildcat to his table and expect it not to bite. Are you well?”
“Aye. I am fine.”
“You’re trembling,” he said, and taking his cloak from his shoulders, swirled it around her back. It settled in deep folds about her ankles. His fingers brushed her throat as he drew the cloak together beneath her chin. “Are you hurt?”
“Nay.”
“Scared?”
“Nay, I…” she began, but realized suddenly that the knife wobbled in her uncertain grip.“I just…” She could find no words, and suddenly his hands were on hers, warm and strong against her cold fingers. Urging the blade from her grip, he tossed it into her trunk. “Come,” he said.
She tried to follow him, but her legs refused to cooperate. Turning back, he lifted her into his arms. Cradling her against his chest, he bore her toward the bed, then stopped only inches from her mattress and gazed down into her face. For a moment she thought he would place her on the pallet, but she trembled again, and so he turned and sat with her in his lap, his arms firmly fitted about her.
Silence filled the room. Beneath her, his thighs felt as firm and large as oaken boughs. Against her shoulder, she felt the rise and fall of his massive chest, and across her back, his arm was tight and broad. His strength surrounded her just as surely as his cloak did, holding her close, keeping her safe. And for the first time in as long as she could recall, she felt she could give up the fight, could relax and let another meet her battles.
‘Twas a weakness, she knew, a weakness she should not give in to. But it felt so good, so easy to sink into his strength, his kindness, and for a moment she wished it could go on forever—that she was not who she was, that she had not come to Blackburn to ruin his life and perhaps to forfeit her own.
Catriona squeezed her eyes closed. Her throat felt tight and her chest ached with a pain that was indefinable. A tiny mewl of self-pity crept up. His arms tightened, and though the change was almost imperceptible, she recognized the movement as pity.
She cleared her throat and straightened slightly. “I am sorry.”
It took a moment for him to respond. “Of all the people in this place, I think you should be the last to apologize.” His soft rumble made her feel small and strangely nurtured.
She tried to fight the feelings with every weapon in her armory. “Oh?” The word that was supposed to sound flippant barely managed to be audible. “And who should be the first?”
Silence again, as deep as the night outside her window.
“Me.”
His answer startled her, and she turned to stare into his eyes, but he didn’t look toward her. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on the wall ahead.
“You?” she asked. From such close proximity, she could not help but notice that his eyes were clefted like a hunting falcon’s, and the scar on his jaw twitched. “You were the one who saved me.”
“Saved you!” The words were little more than a growl, and though she expected more, he did not continue.
“Aye,” she said softly. ” ‘Twas you.”
He jerked toward her suddenly as each sinew and muscle was pulled tight with increasing emotion. His eyes sparked silver light and one corner of his mouth twitched. “I am a guard,” he said succinctly. She merely stared, waiting for him to go on. “I am a guard,” he repeated, “by nature as much as by command.”
She shook her head. “I do not understand your—”
“What good have I done here but make certain you did not kill him?” He glanced angrily toward the limp form on the floor. A pulse ticked in his temple, just below the dark sweep of his hair. “Truly,” he rumbled, “I do not think I’ve done the world any great favor.”
“Then the favor was for me alone,” she whispered, and reaching up, she laid her fingers against his cheek. The stubble of a day’s beard felt rough against her skin, and beneath that, the muscles in his cheek were taut. “Thank you,” she whispered, and because the emotion was as weakening as strong wine, she leaned forward and kissed him. Not passionately, not full on the lips, but softly, gently placed at the corner of his mouth as her breast pressed intimately against the hard wall of his chest.
He felt as still and solid as Blackburn itself.
“It seems that again I owe you,” she said.
Beneath her fingers, a muscle in his cheek ticked. His nostrils flared.
“Nay. You owe me naught. Now, ‘tis best that I remove the rubbish before it awakes,” he said and shifted his weight, jostling her slightly.
His cape, untied and unfettered, slid sideways, slipping insidiously from her shoulder.
Catriona twisted about to pull it back into place, but his hand was already there. Their fingers met with a fire-bright shock of emotion. She drew her breath in sharply as their hands trailed in tandem across her shoulder. His fingers touched the tiny dell at the base of her throat. Their gazes met and fused, and suddenly there seemed to be nothing standing guard between her body and his. She felt hot and alive and naked, nestled in the warmth of his cocoon.
“Catriona,” he rasped.
“Aye?” she whispered.
“In truth,” he said quietly,” ‘tis I who owe you.”
“Oh?” She could barely force out that single word, for the heat of his body seemed to be seeping through her thighs into her very soul.
“Aye. ‘Twas my duty to protect you, and I failed.”
She tried to keep breathing, to keep thinking. She was no newcomer to desire. For as long as she could recall, men had wanted her. But for the first time she felt it herself, and it surprised her that in twenty-two years, she had never truly understood their need until this very instant.
She tried to shake away the feelings, for she had no place for them, no time.
“You have hardly failed,” she said, trying to sound casual. “There is little harm he can do asleep on my floor.”
“Had I been alert he would never have breached your chambers.” The muscle danced in his jaw again. “A wee lass like you…” He paused for a moment, swept his heated gaze down her body, then drew a sharp breath and continued. “You should not have been put in such a position.”
She was not a small woman. Nay, she was tall and strong and, by direst necessity, independent. But in his arms she felt fragile and feminine and adored. “What position is that?” she asked softly.
“This position.” His gaze swept over her. “Naked and…” He drew his cape more firmly about her shoulders as the seconds ticked away. “I will not be so lax next time,” he said, his tone dire.
“You will not let me disrobe?” she asked.
His gaze snapped to hers. They stared at each other from inches away, neither breathing.
” ‘Tis no laughing matter, lass,” he said.
But the temptation to do that was very strong. For regardless of his emotionless tone and rock-steady gaze, it felt as if he cared for her. As if, after the long line of men who had pursued her, one had arrived who cared for her and not just the pleasure of her body. “I am well, Sir Hawk. The man was drunk and none too bright. And I have been defending
myself for many years.”
“Many years!” He growled the words, then narrowed his eyes and steadied his voice again “My plaid is older than you and—”
His cloak was slipping away again. He snatched at it, catching it just before it fell into infamy.
“And why the hell won’t this damned thing stay up?” he snapped, grasping it roughly beneath her chin.
She couldn’t help but laugh.
“Is there some jest I might be privy to?” he asked, his tone deep as the night.
“Nay.”
“Then why do you laugh?”
Because honesty was as much a part of her as the air she breathed, she said, “More than a few times men have tried to remove my clothes. Never have I known one so determined to keep them on.”
“I am a guard, not a man,” he said.
“I did not realize it had to be one or the other.”
His scowl deepened, and though she knew he meant to intimidate her, she only felt more protected, more sheltered in the blast of his glare.
“In fact,” she whispered, feeling his blood pulse hot and strong beneath her thighs. “I would have sworn you were both.”
His fist still held the cloak pulled tightly at her throat, but for a moment his grip faltered, and in that moment, she acted.
Chapter 9
Catriona pressed her lips to his. Desire burned through Haydan like the flare of a torch. He tried to retreat, to push her away. His fist tightened in the cape with the intention of doing just that, but suddenly his hand was inexplicably lost beneath the garment’s folds.
She was as soft and warm as an eaglet, her waist as small as the hilt of a fine sword. He pulled her closer.
The cloak slipped away. Like the walls of a fortress, it tumbled down, and suddenly her breasts were pressed warm and soft against his chest, and he trembled. The king’s bodyguard trembled!
It was that shiver of weakness that strengthened him, that snapped him back to reality. He drew away, breathing hard and feeling as though his very heart were being torn from his chest.
