by Lois Greiman
“Mayhap ‘tis naught but your need to mother me that troubles me,” she said.
He was silent for a moment. “You could ask any of my men,” he said finally. “I am not the mothering type.”
“Then why do you haunt my every move?” she asked. Reaching her door, she turned to face him.
They stared at each other, his brows cliffed above his raptor eyes.
“Why are you not abed?” he asked again.
His power, his maleness, the very timbre of his voice called to her. But she could not come. Frustration screamed through her.
“Maybe I search for companionship,” she snapped.
He leaned closer. His nostrils flared for a moment. “If such is the case, methinks you would not have far to search.”
Breathless tension snapped between them. Against her will, she took a step toward him. For a fraction of an instant he remained as he was, and then he turned and stalked away.
Chapter 14
The stables were dark and quiet when Catriona stepped inside. Midnight had long ago come and gone, but still she could not sleep. Her footfalls were quiet against the hard-packed earth, the light of her lamp feeble against the surrounding darkness. In the rafters overhead, a pigeon took flight, startling her with the noise.
But one glance assured her that all was well. In a moment, she was inside a roomy, high-walled stall.
Celandine turned her bonny head, nickered low in her throat, and stumbled a few painful steps toward her mistress. Never did she fully straighten the foreleg that was bandaged just above the fetlock.
“Celandine!” The name caught in Cat’s throat. She hurried forward to stop the mare’s progress with a hand on the animal’s sleek neck. The steed turned soft, worried eyes to her mistress. “Nay,” Cat whispered, tears choking her as her fingers tangled in the flaxen mane. “Not you, too.” She was losing everything, everything she loved. Stepping closer, she wrapped her arm around the mare’s neck and closed her eyes. The weight of the world seemed as heavy as a millstone upon her shoulders, and she wanted nothing more than to curl up in the shadows and forget it all.
“I am sorry.”
Cat caught her breath and straightened abruptly. Lifting the back of her hand to her cheek, she dashed away her tears then turned with hard-won composure to find Haydan filling the open doorway.
“Sir Hawk. Again. And I thought James had called off the guard.”
She tried to lighten her tone, but his expression didn’t change. His face remained in chiseled sobriety, limned and shadowed by the flickering light.
“It seems that everything you cherish has been compromised,” he said.
“Compromised?” She forced nonchalance. “Whatever do you mean?”
“First your steed. Then the bird,” he said finally, his tone deep.
“Oh.” Relief flooded her with such strength that she had to turn aside. He knew nothing of her deepest troubles. Nothing of Lachlan’s abduction or the horrible ultimatum. “A bird and a horse,” she said, her tone flippant, though her fingers were still tangled in the mare’s mane. ” ‘Tis hardly everything I cherish.”
“There is your brother.”
She turned numbly toward him, unable to breathe as their gazes caught and fused.
“He is well?” Haydan asked.
“Aye.” She tightened her fingers in the mane. “He is with his cousins, as I have told you.”
Hawk took a single step forward, then clenched his fists and stopped. Silence echoed around them. “Why will you not tell me?”
“Tell you what?” She forced a smile.
“Tell me what worries you.”
“Celandine is lame, and Caleb broken. Is that not enough for a little sadness?”
He stared at her, his gaze as steady as winter ice. But in a moment, he drew a deep breath and relaxed a mite.
“Aye. ‘Tis enough, I suspect. But if you are concerned for the mare’s well-being you had best help me see to her leg.”
“Was it you who bandaged her?”
“I only made certain it was done,” he said distractedly. “‘Tis a small wound for such a swelling.” Reaching past the door, he retrieved a leather halter and a wooden bucket.
Water sloshed nearly to the brim as he stepped forward and placed it in the straw. In a moment, he had the halter fastened in place. Smoothing a hand over the mare’s forelock, he straightened it between her seal-soft eyes.
Catriona watched him from close proximity. His brows were drawn low. His hand, which looked as if it had been crafted for naught but battle, seemed just as right here, soothing, stroking, as it slid down Celandine’s throat and along her neck. How would that hand feel against her own flesh? How would it feel to be soothed and caressed by this man among men? Her breath stopped in her throat as she watched him.
Bending slightly, Haydan smoothed his fingers over the chestnut’s forearm. The mare flinched and jerked it away in anticipation of pain.
Even from the side, Cat could see the tendons tighten in Haydan’s neck, could see the fleeting expression of frustration that crossed his face. But not a harsh word did he speak. Instead, he drew the mare back toward him with a gentle hand.
“You are wise to be cautious, lass,” he crooned, his words so soft they were nearly lost in the darkness.
It took Catriona a moment to realize the truth.
“Surely you know Celandine’s injury is not your fault,” she said.
He did not turn toward her, but she saw the telltale muscle flex in his jaw.
“Sir Hawk?”
“Aye?”
” ‘Tis not your fault,” she said.
“Then what is my purpose?” he asked, the words clipped and terse as he turned toward her.
“Your purpose?”
“If not to guard and protect?”
She laughed a little, startled not only by his response, but by the intensity of his emotion. “Is it, then, your place to guard everyone, everything?”
“Nay. Only those within my reach.”
She was within his reach. But she shoved the traitorous thought aside. “You take too much on yourself.”
“Nay, I do not.” His expression was solemn, intense. “I could do more.”
Their gazes fused, and though he did not say the words, she knew he was asking again for her trust.
But ‘twas a trust she dare not give. She turned abruptly away. “What is it we do with this water?”
For a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer, but finally he spoke. “We soak the leg to reduce the swelling.” He sounded disgusted; then added, as if to the mare, “Lady Fiona would never be content with such a mean attempt. A few herbs and a prayer, and you would again bloom like the flower for which you were named.”
Catriona tried to disavow the feelings his words evoked, tried to ignore the shiver of emotion that shook her. “The king’s fierce captain of the guard—a poet?” she asked.
“Nay. Naught but a frustrated old warrior who dreams of tossing Physic into the moat.”
“The water was his advice?” she guessed.
“Aye, and even that hard won. It seems he is not commissioned to treat the familiars of a—” He stopped, his brows lowering still more as he realized what he had been about to say.
Catriona only shrugged. “He was indeed enamored with me.”
Hawk’s expression softened with a hint of humor “You cannot expect every man to swoon at the sight of you, lass.”
Not him, at least. He was not for her, and yet she was tempted almost beyond control to reach for him. “You said I could,” she argued, careful to keep her tone light.
“It may surprise you to know that I can be wrong. It seems, in fact, that there are two among the crush who are not enthralled.”
“Two counting you? Or two others?”
“Surely you do not begrudge me some dignity, lass. ‘Twould not be right for me to act the fool when my very own nieces are no older than you. Quite unseemly for me to bobble about like a pin-f
eathered gosling in your wake.”
Her throat hurt. “I think it would not kill you to bobble a bit.”
The words came out without thought.
For a moment, Hawk stared at her in mild humor. “I will say this, wee Cat, I’ve not met another quite like you.”
So little comfort there. In the past, she had found men’s adoration little more than annoying, but now all seemed different. Changed.
She lifted her chin slightly and set her mouth. “So if you were not so… ancient, you might find me appealing?”
His lips remained unbowed, but his eyes smiled. “Fear not, lass, there be scores of swains, both lads and men alike, who are breathless at the thought of a mere glance from you.”
“I am indeed relieved.”
” ‘Tis good,” he said. Their gazes met. Feelings as potent as fine wine swamped Catriona, but she swept them away as she fumbled to find the bucket.
He did the same thing at the same time. Their fingers brushed on the leather handle and they froze, naught but their eyes moving as their gazes met and their breathing stopped. Catriona’s heart banged like a restive steed against her ribs.
“Here now,” he said, his voice a deep rumble in the stillness as he drew away. “We had best be started. Can you hold the mare steady while I remove the bandage?”
“Aye,” Cat said, while eager to set her attention elsewhere.
Not another word was spoken as he untied the bandage and began unraveling it from Celandine’s leg. After a bit, it was adhered to itself. Drawing out a short, broad-bladed knife from his boot, Hawk carefully cut away the cloth, then dipped a rag from the bucket and began to wash the fetlock.
The wound was obvious, a patch of torn flesh about two inches long. But Hawk was right; it did not seem severe enough to cause the mare such swelling.
“Might there be something else that is troubling her?” Catriona asked.
“I have looked,” Hawk said, bending still lower as he ran his fingers past the horny ergot hidden in the fetlock’s center. “But I cannot find—” The mare flinched. His words stopped abruptly as his fingers probed. Celandine recoiled and tried to pull away.
“What is it?” Cat asked.
“A small wound, no more than the size of your wee finger. But it has scabbed over.”
“Might that cause the swelling?”
“Aye, if it does not drain properly. Once I was stabbed by a Spaniard’s thin blade. ‘Twas naught but the tiniest hole, and it seemed to heal quickly. But my arm swelled up tight as a ripening gourd…” He glanced up. Perhaps it was her expression that stopped him. “Mayhap you do not need to hear the whole tale.”
“Perhaps not,” she agreed, frowning at him. What the hell right did he have not to be enamored with her? Not that she harbored any great feelings for him, but he was large and hard and so unreasonably masculine that… She turned her thoughts abruptly away. “How does the story end?”
“I still have my arm.”
“So I noticed.” Her flippancy was becoming strained. “What was the cure?”
“Lady Fiona lanced the thing then packed it with hot cloths.”
Cat winced and slipped a protective hand down the mare’s neck.
“I do not think we shall have to do the same here. The wound is low down, so once the scab is removed it should drain well. But in truth, the lady’s scolding was near as bad as the lancing. She took it quite personally that I would be neglectful after she had toiled so long to see me healed in the first place.”
“Healed?”
“I was frail,” he said, and after washing his hands in the backet, dried them quickly on his plaid.
She stared down at the tremendous width of his back and felt that now-familiar ache of desire. “I forgot.”
“Aye, well, she has not. To this day she asks if I am eating sufficiently.”
Cat laughed at the image, and Hawk straightened to stare at her.
“What is it?” she asked, made breathless by the intensity of his attention.
He squatted by the mare’s leg again. “It has been a long while since I last heard honest laughter from you.”
“I…” Tension knotted her. He was so close, as solid as the earth, as kind as the sunshine, and she wanted nothing more than to be held in his arms, to lay her fears at his feet, to trust him with her body and her soul. “The mare is dear to me. I am glad to know she will mend.”
“You have had her long?”
“For some years. She was flighty and half starved when I first saw her. I thought ‘twas surely a fool’s errand to take her in trade. But Lachlan—” She stopped, her voice catching.
Haydan was on his feet in a moment, his hands warm as they wrapped about her arms. “What of Lachlan?”
“He…” She struggled with every weakness that was in her. She could not bear the worry alone, and yet she could not tell him the truth. “He insisted I could save her. He was forever like that—so certain all would be well.”
“Was?”
“Is.” Oh God, she was going to cry. “He is like that,” she insisted.
“Lassie,” he crooned. “What is it?”
“I just…” She was afraid. So afraid and alone and without hope. “I just miss him, is all,” she lied.
“Please. Tell me.”
He must believe the lie. “I have never been parted from him before. Since our mother’s death he has been everything to me—the closest kin I have. I did not realize…” Tears tore at her throat. “I did not realize how I would miss him.”
“Catriona—”
“Hold me.” The words came out without volition. “Please.” She squeezed her eyes closed and fought back the worry, but it gnawed at her like an evil beast. “If you could just hold me.”
He hesitated for a moment, but finally his arms folded about her back and she was drawn against his chest. She didn’t try to be strong. Indeed, she no longer could. Instead, she let her arms slip around him as she pressed her face to the hard, molded wall of his chest. And there, against the wear-softened fabric of his tunic, she cried.
But tears can only flow for so long, and hers finally dried. She sniffled without much charm, and realized he was stroking her hair with one broad hand; His touch felt like sunlight and peace. She drew in a few quivering breaths and let herself relax against the strength of his chest again.
Minutes ticked slowly by, but he never stopped stroking her.
She drew another shuddering breath and cleared her throat. ” ‘Tis I who should apologize now.”
“Aye. ‘Tis quite a hardship to hold a wee lass like yourself against me.”
She smiled against his chest. “Is it?”
“Aye. Hard on an old man’s heart.”
“How old?”
He chuckled then tilted her chin up to stare into her eyes. “Old enough to resent your asking.” The world went quiet. “Is it the truth, Catriona?”
She nearly winced at his words. “What?”
“You only miss Lachlan? Is that all that—”
She rose up on her toes and kissed him. Not a hard kiss or a passionate kiss, but a kiss of tenderness and thanks.
“Lass.” His voice broke when he said the word.
“Aye?” Her own was throaty. It seemed the kiss was not so innocent as she had intended. Indeed, even now, she felt desire unfurl in her belly.
“I cannot…” He paused for a moment. His fingers had slipped to her throat and remained there against the thrum of her pulse. “I cannot bear to see you hurt.”
“Then kiss me back,” she whispered.
For one frozen moment she thought he would refuse. But finally he bent his head. His lips touched hers. Pleasure and hope and longing seared her. She tightened her arms about his waist, but he did not hurry the kiss. Instead, he drew back to wipe away the tears with his thumb, to kiss the corner of her mouth, her cheek, her eyelids.
It was she who found his lips again, who pressed up tighter against him, who longed for more.
And with that increased pressure, she felt the muscles in his back flex, felt his kiss slant harder against her mouth.
His hand slid down to her waist, pulling her closer. She answered with all the desperate longing that was in her.
“Lass!” He pulled away, his breathing harsh, his tone deep as midnight. “I would not take advantage of you.”
“Why the devil not?” she asked. Frustration tore at her. All her life men had attempted to take advantage of her. Now when she wanted one to, he refused.
He was holding her arms, just as she was holding his. But his were thick-muscled and powerful.
” ‘Twould not be right. You are so young. So—”
“I am aging every minute,” she said and kissed him again.
She felt him try to hold back, but she had no mercy, for she needed him, needed his strength, his kindness, his nearness. Finally he wrapped her in his arms again and gave himself to the kiss.
His lips burned hers, and then they were moving, touching her cheek, her ear, traveling down the length of her throat. But it was not enough. She needed to feel, to drown, to be lost in his heat, and so she tugged at his tunic, longing to feel the warmth of his skin beneath her hands.
“Haydan, I want…” For a moment she lost all words as his lips met hers again. “I need to feel you.”
She could not decipher his expletive, though it sounded like a plea to God.
“Take off your tunic. Please.”
In a moment his torso was bare. She pressed her palms to his chest. It was hard as marble beneath her fingertips. She slipped her hands lower. Muscles danced, rippling beneath her caress as she worked her way down his abdomen.
“Lass…” His voice quivered.
“Aye.” Her own was throaty.
She heard him draw a deep breath but did not raise her gaze to look at him.
“I thought I told you I was not enamored.”
“You did,” she said and pressed her ear to his heart.
“I am old and scarred and—”
She kissed his chest. He sucked air through his teeth in a sharp hiss.
“And disciplined and—”
She brushed her lips across his nipple.
“Well controlled,” he rasped, and she suckled gently.
