Highland Hawk: Highland Brides #7

by Lois Greiman

  “You will be careful?”

  “Aye,” Cat said and forced a smile for her grandmother’s worry. ‘That is exactly what I shall do.”

  Lightning slashed against the iron-bound window. Fractured light burst in the darkness then subsided, throwing Catriona’s life back into blackness. From the direction of the great hall came a burst of raucous laughter. The sound itself seemed to blow Catriona toward the nearest door. The inhabitant of this room was yet in the hall. That much she knew, thus her reason for being here.

  His door opened noisily under her shaky hand, but she was inside in a moment. The chamber was bathed in darkness, but she risked no lamp. There was no sound but the noise of her own breathing, rapid and harsh as she hurried to the far side of the room. But the floor was cluttered and she tripped.

  Startled, her heart, beating like a wild drum, she turned to determine what had tripped her up, and in that moment she realized the truth.

  ‘Twas a person on the floor! She recoiled. A servant had been left behind to wait in the darkness. But perhaps she hadn’t awakened him. Cat turned to rush for the door, but lightning cracked across the ebony sky. Forks of silver slammed brightness into the narrow room, illuminating that space like the light of day and showing a narrow rivulet of blood on the face of—

  “Lachlan!”

  Catriona hissed his name in horror, and in that moment she awoke, but the nightmare pursued her.

  Lightning crackled like the lash of a whip outside her window. She jerked wildly to her feet. Thunder snarled.

  She whimpered at the sound as the image of her brother’s bloodied face ripped through her mind. She must find him!

  Flying across the room, she yanked open the door and launched into the hallway.

  “Catriona!”

  She heard the voice but did not stop. There was no time. Every moment counted. The floor flew beneath her bare feet.

  “Catriona!” Something snagged her arm. She fought it off, but her captor was strong.

  “Nay! Let go! I must—”

  “You must what?” Haydan asked, his voice deep.

  Reality slashed across her consciousness. “I must…” Words deserted her. Only fear remained; the rancid taste of terror on her tongue.

  “What? You must what, lass?”

  She winced, remembering. “I had a dream,” she whispered.

  “You shall be his only hope and you shall not fail him. Nay, you are the Princess Cat, willing to sacrifice all if needs be.”

  She shivered as dreams and reality melded in a confusing swirl of uncertainties.

  “Dreams cannot harm you, lass. All is well.” Haydan’s hand felt warm and unearthly strong against her skin. “I will see you safely back to your room.”

  “Nay!” Lightning crackled outside. Fear exploded within her again. “Nay.” She calmed her tone, but her heart still raced and in her mind she saw the door again. But now she realized that the hinges were twined with unruly vines. ‘Twas not a room inside the castle at all, but the door of a crofter’s cottage that she had seen. “I cannot go back just yet Please.”

  Up ahead and around the corner a man murmured something indistinguishable and another chuckled.

  Haydan scowled and paused a moment, then, draping his arm around her, he herded her away from the on-comers. It took only a few minutes before they stepped inside a small room. He closed the door behind her. Candlelight flickered in the draft.

  Catriona trembled again.

  “You can remain here for a wee bit of time,” Haydan said.

  “Is this your chamber?”

  “Aye. ‘Tis.” His tone was low, the candlelight soothing.

  The dream receded a mite, but she shivered again nonetheless.

  “Are you chilled?”

  “Nay. I—” she began, but he had already fetched a blanket to wrap about her. His fingers brushed her shoulders, sending a bit of warmth through her. Surprised by the shiver of feelings, she lowered her gaze and caught her breath. “Why were you at my door?”

  He drew away to pace restlessly across the room, a huge man with a gigantic shadow cast in flickering detail upon the far wall. “I could not sleep, so I decided to make certain no one bothered you this night.”

  “I…” Lightning flared again. She drew an unsteady breath, glad that on her nights of searching, she exited the window. “I do not need a guard, Sir Hawk.”

  He clenched his hands into fists. “Mayhap ‘tis my own need that I answer.”

  “Your need?” She raised her gaze, but he shifted his away.

  In the corner of his room stood a narrow table. He went to it and brought her a horn mug.

  “Drink,” he insisted. ” ‘Twill calm your nerves.”

  She did so and felt heat course through her in tingling waves.

  “What was your dream?” His voice was deep, quiet.

  “There was a door. Entwined in leafy vines it was. And inside…‘twas Lachlan,” she whispered. Mayhap she should not tell him. But she was scared and lonely, and deep inside she needed to share the terror. “I dreamed he was wounded behind that door.”

  “Thus you rushed into the hallway to save him?”

  She nodded. Hearing the foolishness of her actions made the terror less real, still, fear gripped her.

  “Do you think the dream was an evil omen?”

  Catriona raised her gaze sharply to his. Why did he not dismiss her nightmare as idiocy? ‘Twould have seemed the likely thing for a warrior of his stature.

  “Have you had premonitions in the past?” he asked instead.

  She shook her head and exhaled softly, blowing a ripple into the surface of her ale. “Nay. Grandmother is the seer.”

  “Was her sleep disturbed?”

  Catriona scowled, thinking of her own dark room, her grandmother’s soft breathing. “Nay. She slept well.”

  “The dreams were naught but the monsters of sleep, then.”

  “What?”

  “When I was small I would oft call nightmares the monsters of sleep. ‘Twas the Rogue who said they were not really monsters at all, but sniveling cowards, afraid of many things. Light. Laughter. The warm touch of a loved one.”

  A loved one. Her heart wisted. Whom did Hayden the Hawk love? ” ‘Tis hard to imagine you as small.”

  “Good.”

  She laughed shakily at his emphatic tone, then sobered and glanced back into her drink. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “I have done nothing.”

  “You have reminded me that all is well.”

  “Is it?” His voice was as deep as the night beyond his window.

  “Grandmother assures me it is. ‘Twas just a dream,” she said. “Nothing more.”

  “Then why do you tremble?”

  “Does nothing make you tremble, Sir Hawk?”

  He was silent for a moment, watching her, his face solemn in the flickering light. “Many things make me tremble, lass.”

  “Truly?” she asked. Intrigued and soothed, she wrapped her hand about the smooth surface of the drinking horn. “Name one thing.”

  “You.”

  The room was as silent as death, his gaze steady on hers, and she laughed, though her eyes were filled with foolish tears.

  “The day I make you tremble is the day I die.”

  “Do not say that.” His tone was gruff, startling.

  The candle sputtered.

  “Why?” Her voice was barely audible to her own ears.

  For a moment she thought he would answer, but instead he turned away.

  “Perhaps you should return to your room. Your grandmother will worry,” he said.

  “Why do I make you tremble?” she whispered.

  A muscle jerked in his jaw. “I think you know.”

  “In which case there would be no harm in telling me.”

  ” ‘Twould do no good to hear it said aloud.”

  She watched him in the uncertain light. “I think you are wrong.”

  “Nay. I am not.”r />
  She stepped toward him, and though she thought he might retreat, he held his ground.

  ” ‘Tis not as easy for you to dismiss my presence as you say,” she whispered.

  His scowl deepened.

  “Is it?”

  “Would you have me say that I am no different than the others?”

  “I would not believe it, for you are nothing like the others.”

  “I am a soldier,” he said. “The captain of the king’s royal guard. Do not confuse my position with concern for you.”

  “So you watch me only in an effort to keep the king safe?”

  He scowled. “The king commanded me to keep you from harm. Don’t you remember?”

  “I remember two men who accosted me outside Blackburn. I remember their intent,” she said and shivered.

  He reached out but drew his hand back immediately.

  “I remember you saved me,” she added.

  ” ‘Tis not how I remember it. It seems to me you had already saved yourself.”

  “Then why do you continue to look after me, if I have proven my ability to do so on my own?”

  “Mayhap I hope to ingratiate you, lady, to win my way into your…” He paused.

  “Heart?” she guessed.

  “I was going to say ‘bed.’ ‘Heart’ implies that I have feelings for you, instead of using you for my own carnal pleasure.”

  She laughed.

  His brows lowered even more over his ice-blue eyes, and she noticed that his hands were clenched tightly at his sides. “Something amuses you?”

  “You do.”

  The candle hissed.

  “Oh?” he said, his tone dark.

  “Think on it, Haydan the Hawk.” She said his name distinctly, reminding them both who he was. “I have all but forced myself on you and still you avoid me—except to save my life now and again, of course. It seems a strange way to coerce me into your bed.”

  “Why?” The single word was tortured. “Why are you here? In this room? Why me?”

  “Mayhap to lose myself for a short span of time,” she whispered. “Mayhap to forget. Would that be so terrible?”

  “Forget what?”

  “Everything.” She exhaled sharply.

  He ground his teeth. “That your beloved has been unfaithful? That—”

  “My beloved?”

  “Rory.”

  She grasped the excuse with tardy desperation. “He has betrayed me a hundred times. So why should I not—”

  “Why me?”

  Because he was everything a man should be. Tough and tender, wise and witty. “Do I have to have a reason? Can I not simply…” Words abandoned her. “I need you this night,” she finished weakly.

  He reached out slowly. His fingers touched her cheek.

  She shivered at that simple caress and closed her eyes.

  He stepped closer. She could feel his nearness like the brush of a warm breeze, and then he kissed her lids, softly, tenderly before gently wrapping her in his arms. His strength surrounded her like a coat of armor. His warmth touched her like the light of the sun.

  “Do not tremble,” he whispered and lifted her into his arms. His strides were sure and steady. His chest felt firm and broad beneath her hand. The mattress sighed as he laid her on the bed. He watched her for a moment, his face shadowed and illumined by the fickle light.

  But Catriona could not bear the separation, for her dreams were still monsters without him near. Slipping her hand behind the broad strength of his neck, she kissed him, then drew back to watch his eyes.

  Against her hand, his muscles felt as tight as rope. She sensed his battle with himself, but she could not condone his cause, and so she kissed him again.

  It was he who trembled this time. She felt him quiver, and then he was beside her, his fingers splayed through her hair, cradling her scalp.

  His kisses strayed from her lips, traveling down her throat. She arched her back, granting him better access, letting the feelings take her.

  His hands skimmed down her throat, over the swell of her breast and down to her waist, pulling her closer, drawing her nearer. His palm swept over her buttocks, curving her into him, and she slipped her leg between his. Flesh against flesh. Warmth against warmth as their garments pushed upward. He eased her leg closer, snuggling her against him, sliding his hand down her thigh. She pressed into him, wanting more, her hands restless against his back.

  “Too many clothes,” she murmured against his neck.

  “Aye,” he agreed and slid her nightgown slowly over her hips. But she was already tugging at his tunic.

  “I meant yours.”

  Her lower body was bare, but she did not feel chilled, for his hands smoothed over her, warming, stimulating, caressing; arousing a thousand feelings left dormant too long.

  His fingers slipped down her buttocks and brushed her hidden core. Catriona sucked air between her teeth and pressed hard against him. He played her gently, and she thrummed beneath his caress.

  “Haydan,” she rasped, her own fingers tangled in the folds at the back of his tunic. “Take me.”

  ” ‘Tis not time yet,” he argued. Cupping her buttocks again, he pulled her closer still.

  ” ‘Tis,” she said. Even through the bunched wool of his plaid she could feel the hard proof of his desire. Tightening her grip, she pulled his tunic free from his belt and slid her hands underneath.

  He sighed, but, “Nay love. ‘Tis not,” he said and kissed her lips until the world spun wildly. “I have not even removed my boots.”

  ” ‘Tis not a problem,” she whispered.

  He chuckled and the sound curled smokily into her belly. “I will not be making love to you with my boots on,” he murmured.

  “Then for God’s sake, take them off!”

  He kissed her again and she felt his smile in his caress. “You will have to loosen your grip on my tunic then, lass.” He nudged her arms gently, but her fingers were firmly tangled in his shirt.

  “Oh.” She loosened her hold and he drew her hands between their bodies and up.

  Gently, ever so gently, he kissed each knuckle then opened her hands to kiss the hollow of one, then the other. “I shall be back shortly,” he promised and turned away.

  Cold panic splashed through her. She rose to her knees with a jolt, already clutching his arm. “Where are you going?”

  “Just here.” He turned to say the words over his shoulder as he reached for his first boot.

  “Oh.” She relaxed slightly, but her hand had fallen against his shoulder and she felt the intriguing bunch of muscle there. “Oh,” she repeated and slid her fingers over that muscle and beneath his arm. Her breasts crushed gently against his back as she stroked the mounded muscles of his chest, and against her sensitized fingers she felt his nipple harden. His head dropped back slightly.

  “Please lass, I—”

  But she had already slid her hand lower onto the corrugated strength of his abdomen.

  He sucked air through his teeth.

  She kissed the side of his neck.

  “Lass,” he growled. “I’ve no wish to rush you. But I fear—”

  “Rush me!” She breathed the words against his throat. “I have waited two and twenty years. I think that’s sufficient time to—”

  “What?” He twisted slightly toward her so that the tendons in his throat stood out hard and tight, and his gaze captured hers.

  “I said I’ve been waiting—”

  “You are a virgin?”

  She scowled at his dark tone. “Why do you ask?”

  He gritted his teeth. “You said…” he began, then scowled and paused.“Your grandmother implied… Damnation!”

  Catriona drew a deep breath. “You are not going to be difficult about this, are you?”

  “Nay!” he said. “I am going to return you to your grandmother’s tender care.”

  Chapter 20

  “I will not return to my chamber,” Cat said.

  Haydan tried to
rise to his feet, but Catriona had a firm grip on his tunic. He slumped forward and swore with reverent feeling.

  She scowled at the back of his neck. “I thought virginity was a problem easily remedied.”

  “I have vowed to protect you. Not…” He groaned. “Not deflower you.”

  “Deflower.” She sighed. “A silly word, when in truth…” Wrapping her arm about him, she slid her hand beneath the hem of his tunic and up. The muscles of his chest danced against her fingertips. “I do not feel like a flower at all.”

  “Lass!” He said the word like a warning.

  “What?”

  “Don’t do that!”

  “What? This?” she asked and skimmed her fingers light as air over his nipple.

  He gritted his teeth.

  She circled his body with her other arm and pressed up tighter against him.

  “Please, lass!” he rasped, but as he turned toward her, she found his mouth with hers.

  Heat seared her, burning a path from her lips downward. He moaned against the kiss. She heard the muffled clump of his boots as he kicked them to the floor. Then he broke away to face her.

  “Not even Rory?” he asked. “Not even your betrothed?”

  “Must I lie to convince you to make love to me?”

  “It might assuage my guilt.”

  ” ‘Tis not such a terrible thing,” she whispered and kissed the scar at the corner of his mouth. “You were a virgin once too. Were you not?” she asked and slipped her hand back under his tunic.

  He closed his eyes as her fingers touched his ribs. “I do not recall just now.”

  “Think hard,” she said and slipped her tongue, slow as midnight, across his lower lip.

  “Where does a virgin learn such things?” he rasped.

  ” ‘Tis not so great a secret, Haydan. It takes no training. Not like…” She paused as she kissed the corner of his mouth. “Not like Latin or ciphers,” she whispered and slid her hands in tandem up his torso. The tunic followed. He lifted his arms grudgingly, breathlessly. She slid her fingers over his heavy biceps, releasing him from that bondage as she slipped the garment over his head and away.

  He sat before her half naked, every sinew taut with tension, a massive man with arms and chest hewn hard by years of battle.

  She stared at him, forcing her lungs to fill with air, and then, ever so slowly, she smoothed the flats of her hands over his pectorals. His eyes dropped closed. A scar ran from his sternum to his shoulder. Touching it with her ring finger, she gently followed its course then slid sideways along the hard edge of his collarbone. Another scar began at the mounded muscle of his upper arm, slicing diagonally toward his back.