by Lois Greiman
Still, he forced himself to remain as he was, to take her commands and be careful not to touch anything that wasn’t offered.
“What now?” he asked when they had tried the first portion of the trick several times.
“We will do the same thing again,” she said. “But this time, if all goes well, I will step onto your shoulders.”
He gave her a wry expression, but did as ordered. Again he squatted, and again she stepped onto his thigh.
They balanced for a moment, their hands clasped, and then she tentatively placed a foot on his shoulder. The slim muscle of her calf brushed his ear, but he remained as he was by the strictest of efforts, holding her hand as she turned to face the opposite direction and place her left foot on his, other shoulder.
“Can you straighten?” she asked.
He did so carefully, still holding her hand.
“So you see, Your Majesty,” she said, facing young James. ” ‘Tis no great feat.”
“But you have hardly launched over a man’s head and onto a steed,” he argued.
” ‘Tis a simple step from here to there. Surely you can see that it can be done.”
“Nay, I do not.”
She was silent for a moment, then, “Release my hand, Sir Hawk.”
But she was so high up. A hundred things might go wrong. What if she fell?
“Sir Hawk,” she repeated. “You may release my hand so that I can jump off.”
Jump! The very idea made him go cold.
” ‘Twas the plan at the outset,” she reminded him.
He knew that. But she was so light and young, with skin as soft as a cloud and… He released her hand abruptly.
She bobbled a little and fear spurred through him. He jerked his hand upward, catching her leg. It took him a moment to realize that his fingers had skimmed under her skirt to the gauzy pantaloon beneath. The fabric felt silky soft, the muscle beneath, delicate and slim.
His desire solidified to rock hard consistency. Beneath the heavy woolen of his plaid, he throbbed painfully.
“You can let go,” she said. “I am fine.”
Haydan ground his teeth in roiling frustration.
“Sir Hawk?
“What?” he asked, startled from his preoccupation with his own hard needs.
“You can let go.”
“Oh,” he said and snatched his hand away.
She hobbled again, but wildly this time.
He made a grab for her, trying to snatch her to him, to keep her safe, but she was already falling in a tangle of fabric and limbs. He grappled, twisting her about and cradling her fall as they tumbled to the earth together.
They landed facing each other with his hand gripping her arm in a panicked attempt to keep her unharmed.
“Are you well?” he rasped, finding his voice with difficulty.
“Aye. I am fine. Did I hurt you when I jumped?”
“You jumped?”
“Aye. ‘Twas—” she began, but her words stopped abruptly. Her gaze snapped downward.
It was then that Haydan realized their positions. She was cradled between his spread thighs with one leg bent beneath her and the other… Holy Christmas, the other was under his plaid. He could feel the slim muscles of her calf contract against the solid heat of his erection. And her ankle, thanks to his traitorous Highland garb, was pressed up warm and snug against his scrotum.
Their gazes snapped up and fused.
“Are you wounded?” James asked, hurrying up.
The sound of his voice snapped Haydan to his feet, but since he was still holding Cat’s arm, she was yanked along with him. Her leg skimmed the length of his desire for an instant then the pressure was gone.
“I am well!” Haydan rasped.
“I am well!” Cat gasped, but refused to meet his gaze.
The lad remained silent a moment, then scowled. “I think you should visit Leech when we return to Blackburn. You are acting strangely again.”
Strangely? Haydan thought in rare panic. He was acting like a raving lunatic!
“Mayhap you can teach him the trick some other time,” James suggested, turning his attention to Catriona.
“Nay!” Haydan answered.
“I think not,” she agreed.
James’s scowl deepened as he looked first at one, then the other. “But ‘tis my birthday.”
“I will do the trick later,” Cat said. “Perhaps with Rory.”
Against his will, Haydan turned to her. But still she refused to look at him.
“Do I have your vow?” James asked her.
“Aye. Before I leave Blackburn you shall see this trick performed,” she said, just as the first smattering of rain began.
In moments it was no longer a sweet spring shower, but a hard, cold deluge.
Haydan yelled orders to the nearest guards, and in a minute they had mounted and were returning posthaste to the palace.
The hour was late, but Haydan lay awake and restless. He should never have agreed to such foolishness that afternoon. He was the king’s captain of the guard, for God’s sake. He should have some pride. But thinking of Catriona in another’s hands…
Swinging his feet over the edge of the mattress, he rose to pace irritably.
Images of her flitted through his mind, but he swiped them out with a silent curse. But the memory of her hand against his chest, her leg against his…
He had to see her. Jerking about, he lurched toward the door. But either the pain in his knee or some belated spark of good sense stopped him.
He couldn’t go to her. Not only was she little more than a child; she was under his protection, his ward of sorts.
And if neither of those reasons were sufficient, she was sharing a room with her cantankerous great grandmother.
Frustrated by his own appalling lack of propriety, not to mention the hardening ache at the mere thought of her, he yanked his plaid from the mattress, hastily wrapped it about his waist, and stepped into the hallway.
A few words with the guards beside James’s door assured him all was well, and he headed downstairs for the kitchens. Perhaps a horn of ale would help him sleep. Voices drifted up to him long before he reached his destination, but when he stepped through the arched doorway, he saw only a handful of late-night revelers.
A trio of men sat drooped over their cups at a table not far from the banked kitchen fire, and some distance away, Marta remained slumped over her own horn.
Haydan stopped abruptly as reality crashed in upon him. If Marta was here, Catriona was alone. He almost spun about and galloped for her room then he stopped himself with a memory of her face. There was sadness there. Even when she smiled, he could feel it. She hardly needed another randy hound sniffing at her skirts. What she needed was an ally, a protector. But a protector from what? That’s what he needed to find out. And who better to tell him than the ancient crone that bobbed over her drink?
Near the gargantuan stone oven, a keg of ale was set on a thick timbered table. Haydan wandered over, dipped out an ample supply then made his way back between the rows of tables to Marta’s side.
” ‘Tis rather late for old folk like ourselves to be afoot, is it not?” he asked.
The old woman lifted her gaze to his. Neither surprise nor disorientation showed in her razor-sharp expression when he settled across from her on the trestle bench.
“You are calling yourself old?” she asked, her pebble-dark eyes small in her wrinkled face.
“If I am half so old as I feel, I am ancient beyond count.”
Marta snorted and drained her cup. “My toes have corns older than you, lad.”
He chuckled and, lifting his horn, filled hers nearly to the top with his own ale. “Then why have you come on this hard journey to Blackburn?” he asked.
Marta took a long quaff, then lowered the mug slightly and assessed him shrewdly over the rim. ” ‘Twas my granddaughter’s wish to come.”
“But perhaps ‘twas not the wisest thing.”
She drank again. “Mayhap you have not noticed, Haydan the Hawk, but my Catty has a way of doing as she will.”
He nodded, for he supposed there were few who could deny the maid anything. A journey through hell in search of bluebells would not seem such an arduous task. “She is a persuasive lass,” he admitted, “but could her cousins not have accompanied her?”
“Hertha is awaiting the arrival of another babe,” Marta explained. ” ‘Twas best for her to remain behind with her family.” Tilting up the mug, she scowled into the bottom, then mournfully licked the last drop from the rim.
Haydan stood, strode across the kitchen, hoisted the ale keg under his arm, and returned moments later to place the barrel beside him on the table. Dipping the wooden ladle into the brew, he drew out a bowlful and tipped it into her horn.
Marta gave him a nod, took a long sip, and sighed contentedly.
“How are Hertha and her daughters?” he asked.
“Here lad, drink up,” she said and sloshed a ladle of ale into his curved horn. “Hertha is well, as are her lassies. Though they miss the Cat, I am certain.”
“She is easy to miss.”
“So you have noticed?”
“I only assume,” he said.
Marta laughed, the sound low and rusty, like an old wheel. “Aye. Of course.”
Haydan frowned. “The maid is young enough to be my daughter.” He tried to sound offended, but the thought of Catriona only made him itchy and too warm, as if there weren’t enough air in the huge, drafty room. “No older than my nieces, in fact.”
“And I am old enough to be your grandmother,” she said and shrugged.
He scowled, uncertain of her meaning. “I only wish to protect her.” And feel her lie beneath him, and hear her sated sigh fall on his ears and…
“Untruths are most tiresome unless they are mine own. Lies do you little good,” said the old woman and sighed before she drank again.
He thought about protesting, but she had not called him a liar… exactly, and he had learned long ago that those who protest the loudest oft harbor the most guilt. “Oh?” he said, his tone calm.
She nodded. “Aye. What I cannot see with the gift I can guess through uncounted years.”
“And you think I do not wish to protect her?”
“Oh, aye. You do. But you have other wishes as well.”
He leaned back slightly to cross his arms against his chest and hoped to appear casual. “You think I am drawn to her?”
Her gaze smote him like dark fire, though her wrinkled lips quirked slightly with humor. “You would not be the first.”
“Then why am I here now, Grandmother? After all, the lass is alone in her room. I could go there and plead my cause.”
The old woman grinned. What few teeth she had left were hardly worth mentioning, but that did not impede her drinking, which she proved yet again with an impressive swig. “You are here to get me addled enough to tell you all I know of her,” she said, and draining her cup, held it out to be refilled.
He complied readily.
“And why are you here?” he asked.
She scowled. “It might be that I am considering getting you addled enough to take advantage of your person.”
He was not a man who was easily surprised, but he was quite certain his brows were firmly ensconced somewhere in his hairline. “Truly?”
“You’re a fine specimen, Haydan the Hawk,” she said. “But while the spirit is willing…” She sighed and shook her head. “The flesh is damnably tired.”
He chuckled. “Hear, hear,” he said and raised his mug in an informal toast.
She drank then watched him do the same. “Be warned though, lad, if I get pickled enough, I may yet have the will to drag you under the table and have my way with you.”
“If I get pickled enough I may not resist.”
She gave him a rusty chuckle. “I fear there are not enough spirits in all Christendom to gain that end.”
“You may well be surprised.”
“I rarely am, lad.” She drank again. “Fill me up.”
He did so then leaned his elbows on the table to watch the old woman in the ensuing silence. “She is sad,” he said finally, for indeed, there seemed little purpose in skirting the issue. And too, she had already drunk half a keg of ale. Surely it had loosened her tongue by now.
“I assume we speak of my granddaughter again,” Marta said, sipping the ale appreciatively, as if it were her first taste.
“Aye,” Haydan agreed. “She is sad sometimes. I but wonder why.”
“Think on it, Haydan the Hawk. Catriona has seen much hardship. She lost both her mother and her father long before she should have made that parting. ‘Tis doubtful she shall ever see the land of her forebears, and the man she once called beloved is…” She sighed and drank again. “He has disappointed her,” she ended simply.
“Rory?” Haydan guessed, ignoring the tightening of his gut.
“Aye. Rory.”
“Then why is he here?”
“For the same reason you are. He could not stay away. Here.” She shoved his horn toward him. “I do not care to drink alone.”
He joined her. “If she is disappointed with him why does she not find another? I do not think she would have any great difficulty.”
“Difficulties are drawn to the Rom like maggots to a dead ox,” she said, scowling into her cup.
A charming analogy. “What kind of difficulties?”
“Have you not been listening, lad?” she asked and nudged his hand with her empty mug.
He filled it dutifully. “Listening to what?”
“To her tales,” she said, sounding exasperated.
“Of Durril?”
“Of her kinsmen.”
Haydan watched her closely. Surely she wasn’t addled enough to believe the old wild tales. Just how intoxicated was she?
“Quite. But not yet intoxicated enough,” she said, answering his unspoken question then chuckling at his expression of surprise. “Do not give up hope, lad. I cannot remain lucid forever. As for yourself, Haydan the Hawk, do you think the maid looks as if she were born to Scotland?”
“Nay.” She looked as if she was born in heaven, but that seemed unlikely, even in his increasingly foggy state.
“Nay indeed,” Marta said and drank deep and long. “Nay indeed.” Her thoughts seemed far away, but she spoke finally in a tone so deep he could barely hear her. “Black as midnight were his eyes and when he looked at me ‘twas as if I were the only maid in all the world. ‘Martuska’ he would whisper and I would all but swoon with pleasure.”
Haydan had no idea what she spoke of, but there was a soft dreaminess to her tone that entranced him. He drank again, watching her all the while and wondering if she had, in her youth, had the same unearthly allure as her granddaughter.
“She has my eyes and my hands,” she answered. Had he asked the question aloud? “Her hair is like her mother’s, wild mane that it be. But her smile…” She sighed and drank. “Her smile is his.”
His being her great grandsire, Haydan assumed.
“When were you married?” he asked.
“For three years I was his first.” She tipped the horn to her lips, found it empty, and pushed it out for him to fill.
Good saints, she had a hollow leg.
“His first what?”
“His first wife.”
His brows, which had recently lowered, shot up again like a missile from a cannon. “He had others?”
“Seven.”
Haydan remained silent. “I cannot decide if you are extremely intoxicated or simply jesting.”
“You might ask,” she suggested and drank again.
“Your husband had seven wives?”
She gave him an expression of disgust. “I would have thought a man such as yourself capable of ciphering. Last I counted, seven plus myself made eight.”
Damn. He was drunk.
She laughed, supposedly at his expression of surprise the
n continued with her story. ” ‘Twas a common practice for a man to take more than one wife. Certainly a prince had that right.”
Prince Endorai? She must be jesting. And damned if she couldn’t drink like a swine herder. “So he took other wives and you had no hard feelings?”
” ‘Twas a different place and time.” She shrugged and winked. “And since then I have far surpassed his number of… partners.”
Haydan sat in silence, trying to quell the question, but it came nevertheless, probably washed up on a wave of ale. “And your great-granddaughter?”
“I have had her share too. Drink up, lad. You’re falling behind.”
He did as told then lazily considered how to rephrase the question.
“Ah, my Catriona,” sighed the old lady. “For many years I thought she might be a changeling, but now…” She eyed him with a narrow gaze. “I now think there may yet be hope.”
“What the devil does that mean?”
She stared at him a moment longer, then shrugged. “She has the Rom allure. You could hardly condemn her for accepting a few lovers, could you?”
His gut cramped. Too much ale?
“Could you?” she asked again, her eyes intense as she leaned toward him.
” ‘Tis hardly my place to condemn or condone.”
“Nay, ‘tis not. But most men do. When they themselves are as loyal as hounds on a hot scent.”
‘Twas true, of course. And yet, thinking of her with another…
“And what of you, Haydan the Hawk?”
Haydan’s elbow slipped on the edge of the table, causing his chin to bump down and his eyes to snap open. “Me what?”
“What woman lights your wick at night?”
“Lights my…” Some vague part of him wondered if he should be offended by her terminology. After all, he was a knight of the realm and the king’s personal guard. But somehow he could not quite dredge up the appropriate emotion, for all he could think of in his blurry mind was Cat—her laughter, her sadness, her softness, her strength…
“Ah, so you still want her, no matter who she has taken.” She nodded.
