by Lois Greiman
“So many injuries,” she whispered.
His eyes remained closed. “You should have some bonny young swain, lass. Not a scarred and jaded—”
She kissed the scar that marred his shoulder, and his words rasped to a halt. “Who were you protecting when you received this one?”
“I do not know.”
“Come now,” she chided, the reprimand breathy against his arm.
“My sister’s daughter has a gift for finding trouble.”
“Ah.” Catriona moved on, kissing the old wound at the center of his chest. Muscles danced on either side. “And this one?” she asked.
He set his teeth against the feelings. “The Rogue sometimes forgets to watch his back.”
She slid her fingers slowly down his midsection. Muscles quivered to life in their wake. But a circular scar just below his ribs drew her notice. “This?”
” ‘Twas a blade meant for the old king.”
Bending down, she kissed it tenderly, then straightened. “I think you are bonny, Haydan the Hawk,” she whispered.
He opened his eyes and his quicksilver gaze struck her with the intensity of flint against steel. The room was silent, then, “I would love you, Catriona, if you will let me.”
She considered telling him that had been her plan for some time, but no clever words escaped her, for at that moment he kissed her. Her stomach coiled with hot desire. His hand cupped her chin; his kisses touched her cheek, her throat, the fragile hollow between her collarbones.
The laces of her nightrail sighed open and he kissed her shoulder. His hand slipped with satin tenderness down her body, over every quaking curve until it reached the hem of her gown. His fingers touched her skin and pushed the linen up before them, caressing her thigh, curving over her hip. She let it come, let his other hand join the quest, let the garment slip over her head until she was naked and vulnerable before him.
Catriona Baird was not a shy lass, and yet it was not easy to raise her eyes to his. Still, she did so, but his were lowered, skimming with slow consideration over her candlelit body. She shivered beneath his perusal.
“You are beauty itself,” he said, his voice low and quiet. “Beyond words. Beyond imagination.”
And she wanted him with burning desperation. She reached for his belt, but he caught her hands.
“Nay, lass, not yet,” he said, urging her back onto the mattress.
“Are you certain?” she asked.
“Aye,” he said and kissed her. His caresses were unimpeded by clothing now. His kisses slipped lower, down her neck, over the rise of her breast to touch her nipple.
She bucked beneath him as feelings hot as coal burned through her. “Now?” she gasped.
“Nay.” He whispered the word against her breast but in a moment his kisses moved on. She held her breath as he skimmed her belly, only stopping for a moment to touch his tongue to her navel.
She writhed beneath the caress. But he was already moving on, his splayed hand shadowing his kisses, soothing and exciting, warming and chilling. It scooped around her hip as his lips touched the upper regions of her private hair. She froze in place, waiting. His movements slowed as he worked his way lower, and she arched appreciatively, wanting more, needing more. His lips skimmed her hair and touched the nub of her desire.
She sucked air into her lungs. “Now!” she demanded, but he did not even respond. Instead, he slipped lower still, his mouth warm against her thigh, her knee.
His fingers splayed around her calf, stroking, soothing as the other hand massaged her buttocks.
She groaned in an inexplicable combination of agony and ecstasy. “I am sure it should be now,” she moaned and thought she heard him chuckle.
His breath tickled her toes.
She curled them toward her soles and tried to draw up her leg, but he held it firmly by the ankle, and now, with excruciating care, he kissed each digit. She tried to yank her foot away from the intensity of the feelings, but he would not relent. Then his right hand slid slowly down her backside to join his left.
Catriona wriggled against his concerted onslaught, but he had captured both her ankles and began to nibble his way up. Not an inch missed his ministrations—not her arches, or her shins, or her calves. The backs of her knees were massaged and her thighs encircled as he crept higher. Finally he reached the apex of his climb. His lips touched her inner thigh.
“Now!” The word escaped on its own.
His hands slid under her knees to ease them up and out. His lips touched her swollen desire. She rasped a jagged breath, but his tongue had joined the assault, and she could no longer speak.
Instead, she pressed against him, beyond caring for anything but the feelings, beyond thought and concern and worry.
Her fingers found his hair. She pulled him closer, but he came too far. His kisses left her aching need and slipped slowly up her belly.
“Nay. Nay,” she moaned, trying to urge him back down. But the hard expanse of his belly was already pressed between her legs. She pushed against the undulated muscle. “Well… yes,” she sighed, but in a moment his lips took hers with bruising force. Fire burst from her loins to her belly to her lips.
“Now?” he whispered.
She panted against his mouth, squirming wildly. “I said ‘now’ a lifetime ago.”
“I feared you were only trying to flatter me.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. She turned hungrily toward his lips, but he had already drawn back a few horrendous inches. “Just trying to make me feel good.”
“I am trying to make me feel good,” she rasped.
He chuckled. The deep laughter came from down low, the sound curled through her like sweet wine.
“Now,” she whispered.
He drew slowly away, rising to his knees, his huge body shadowing her. She watched his hands open his belt, watched him unwrap his plaid; watched his erection rear into view.
The air left her body in a hard rush.
“Are you well?” he asked, concern in his voice as he dropped back over her.
His nipples brushed hers.
“Aye. Aye. ‘Tis just that I… didn’t imagine you would be so… well proportioned.”
He leaned closer. “Are you certain you’re not simply trying to flatter me?” he asked.
“Quite certain,” she rasped.
He pressed the thick blade of his desire against her and she stopped her breath and squeezed her eyes closed.
“Truly I…” She swallowed hard and wriggled just so, searching for the perfect fit. “I cannot bear much more or…”
“Or what?”
“Or… I do not know,” she said, wriggling again.
He gritted his teeth against her artless movement, then rolling over, pulled her atop him.
Her legs spread, positioning her knees beside his hips and her groin over his.
“Oh, aye,” she breathed.
“Now,” he murmured and lifting her hips off his, slid inside.
She opened like a blooming rose, pulling him into her garden, throbbing with pleasure, bursting with anticipation until he was planted deep inside her.
She shivered wildly against the earthy feelings, then, placing her hands on his chest, she began to move, squeezing her legs against his hips as she arched into him.
It was his turn to gasp. He gritted his teeth against the bursting sensations and pressed slowly against her motion.
Pleasure bloomed, opening, budding as he gripped her tighter and increased the rhythm. She dipped her head back and rode the wind of desire, galloping madly along the cliffs of raw pleasure.
His hands tightened on her thighs, pulling her closer, making them one. She leaned down. Her hair cascaded onto his chest, melding with his. Her breasts draped over him and he raised his head and closed his mouth over her nipple. Razor-sharp desire sliced through her. Gasping for breath, she pressed into him with new intensity.
Haydan arched into her with taut need. Harder and harder they rode, gripping, gliding, slidin
g upward toward the crest of desire until, with one final gasp, Catriona found the pinnacle and fell, trembling against his chest.
‘Twas only then that he drew out and pulsed his own need between their bodies.
Against her ear, Catriona felt his heart, like the beat of great wings. Panting, she curled her hand over the taut mound of his biceps and closed her eyes.
Peace sifted over her.
“Did it work?” His voice was a low rumble. She could feel it reverberate against her ear.
“What?” she asked, sleepy and sated against the heat of his body.
“Did you forget?”
“Forget what?” she murmured. Then, “Haydan?”
“Aye?”
She felt him stroke her tangled hair, and closed her eyes against the beauty of the feelings. “Is it always like that?”
“Sometimes it—” he began then stopped. “Nay. Never.” He sighed and skimmed his hand down her back and over her buttocks. “Not until you. Though I would like to think I have learned something in my doddering old age.”
“How old?” she wondered, but whether she said it or merely thought it she was never sure, for in a moment she was asleep.
Catriona awoke in deep shadows. The candle had sputtered out, pitching the room into darkness. But she needed no light, for she could feel the Hawk beside her.
He was breathing deeply, the sound soft and lulling, his warmth soothing. Here in the darkness, sheltered by his strength, soothed by her memories, she could almost believe that all was well. But it was not, of course.
She had been weak and for a time she had borrowed his strength, his caring. He was like a mighty ship on a tempestuous sea. But she must learn to swim.
Moving slowly away, she tried not to disturb him, but he mumbled something and reached for her. She remained for a while, lying in the darkness, content to be with him, comforted by his presence as long as she could be. But finally she could wait no longer.
Easing carefully backward, she edged off the bed then dropped to the floor to search blindly for her nightrail. She found it tangled in the blankets and extracted it carefully. Slipping it over her head, she tied the laces and glanced once more toward Haydan’s pillow. But the kindly candlelight that had illuminated the room earlier had long since sputtered out, and the lightning had been doused, giving way to a soft, steady rain. Thus, she had no choice but to slip out with nothing more than the shallowest glimpse of his face.
The hallway was even darker than his room. But she knew her way well by feel, for ‘twas not the first time she had traipsed these halls without the aid of a light. She felt more rested than she had for a long while. Rested and hopeful, and up ahead, from around the corner, the sconce beside her chamber glowed faintly in the night. All would be well. She felt it in her soul. She but needed to find the abductor and then—
“So there you are,” said a voice from the shadows.
Catriona jerked, startled and breathless, toward the voice. But the flickering shadows cast by the distant candle would not part to reveal the man who spoke. “Who is there?” Her voice cracked shamefully. “Don’t you even recognize me, Catriona?”
“You will not know us.”
“Who’s there?” she asked again, panic ripping through her.
Chapter 21
“‘Tis me.”
“Rory?” Cat asked breathlessly as she peered into the shadows.
“Aye.” He stepped out of an alcove. Muted light shone off the brass wires of the lute he’d balanced against the wall. ” ‘Tis me. Did I frighten you?”
“Aye. What are you doing about at this time of night?”
“I could not sleep, knowing you were not abed. Is something amiss?”
“Nay.” She glanced toward her room and tried to relax. “All is well.”
” ‘Tis good.” He sighed. “In truth, Catriona, I do not think I could bear it if some ill befell you.”
“Rory—”
“Nay.” He stopped her with a wave of his hand. “Do not bother to tell me again that you are not for me. I know. And indeed, ‘tis my own fault.”
She said nothing, for there was sorrow in his voice, and deep remorse.
“But it does not stop me from caring about you,” he added.
“You needn’t worry. I am careful.”
“Are you?”
“Aye. But I have little choice,” she murmured. “I must learn who has taken Lachlan before it is too late.”
“Is that where you were then? Searching for the culprit?”
She hesitated for a moment as she remembered Haydan’s hands against her skin. “Aye.” Twas a poor lie, but the best she had.
“Does it take so long in every room?”
She scowled. “What—” But the truth dawned before she finished the question. “You were watching my room. ‘Tis how you knew I was not abed.”
“Aye.” His voice sounded strained. “I watch you, and why should I not?”
“Because you are not my betrothed, Rory.” Anger and frustration were building inside her. “Because if you cared, you would be aiding my cause, not worrying where I spend my time.”
“So you admit it.” He took a step toward her. “You were with him. I was your betrothed, your beloved, but not once, not once did you deign to lie with me.”
“You did not need me, for you had others. Still have others,” she said, remembering how he had looked at Fayette.
“Others?” He sounded stunned. “Do you speak of the widow? She means nothing to me.”
Tense and suddenly weary, she only stared. It seemed now that they had had this conversation a thousand times.
“I only went to her because I cannot have you—the woman I love, the woman I will love for all time.” His voice had gone soft. He reached for her hand. His felt cool in the darkness.
” ‘Twas always you, Catriona. But seeing you, being near you—I cannot bear having no one beside me at night, not when you are so alluring, so… magical.”
She exhaled sharply, relaxing a little. ” ‘Twas a time when I believed that was true,” she said softly. “A time when I hoped that if I gave myself to you, you would stray no more.”
” ‘Tis true. Even now I can prove it, Cat, if you will let me. Say you will be mine and I shall make everything right for you. Everything. Give me a chance.”
“I gave you many chances.”
“Chances!” he said, his tone harsh before he soothed it. “‘Tis no chance at all when you tease with your beauty, then deny me all but the most meager of kisses.”
“I am sorry.” And strangely, she truly was, for he was wounded. She could hear it in his voice, feel it in the air. “But I cannot live like that, Rory. Mayhap I am too selfish. But I need someone who will be true.”
“And so you go to him?” he asked, his voice rising.
She tensed.
“You go to him? That great, towering oaf? It may be he was the one who has taken your beloved brother.”
She tried to pull her hand free, but he did not release it. “Let me go, Rory. I am tired.”
“But not too tired for him, are you?”
“I told you I was searching.”
“And you found it, did you not?” he snarled. “Was it as big as you had hoped?”
She jerked away and dashed for her room, but he lunged after her. His fingers tangled in her hair and she was yanked to the floor.
“You are mine!” he growled, pulling her to her feet.
She stumbled upright and fear mingled with her rage. “I was never yours!” she hissed. “And I never shall be.”
Lightning exploded inside her head. She reeled backward, crashing against the wall.
“Get up!” he growled. He came for her, leaning close, his handsome mouth twisted in a sneer. She tried to scoot away. Suddenly there was a wild bellow and Rory flew sideways. The wall shook beneath his weight.
And then she saw Haydan. His chest and feet were bare, his plaid haphazard about his muscular waist.
> Rory rose with a scream of rage and threw himself forward. The lute struck Haydan’s ear and he reeled against the wall. Rory dodged in, swinging again.
Cat scrambled to her feet and lunged at Rory’s back.
He swung at her, slamming her sideways, and then, even in the uncertain light of the hallway, she saw his knife.
She tried to scream, but Rory was already charging.
“She is mine!” he growled and struck.
Haydan gasped and jerked.
“Nay!” Cat cried, but in that moment Haydan’s arm swung wide. The knife clattered against a door, and suddenly Rory was pinned to the wall by Hawk’s hand on his throat.
Rory scrambled wildly, arms milling and legs pistoning, his feet inches from the floor. His strangling rasps became louder, like those of a rabid dog.
Footsteps pattered toward them, bearing lights and gasps of horror. But Cat’s attention was skewered to the two men by the wall. Hawk’s eyes were deadly cold, Rory’s popping wide as his face turned pasty blue.
“Good God, he’s going to kill him!” someone gasped.
“Stop him! Hey there!”
Rory bucked again, but weaker now, and it was that weakness that snapped Catriona into reality.
“Haydan!” She ran to him. “You must not kill him! You cannot!”
“On the contrary.” His voice was as cold and deadly steady as his eyes. “I can and I shall.”
“Haydan!” She grabbed his arm, but the muscles there were as hard as hewn granite, unrelenting, unforgiving. “Please, have mercy.”
“Why? Why mercy?” he asked flatly.
“He is my kinsman.”
For a moment, she thought he had not heard her, but finally his arm quivered and withdrew.
Rory fell to the floor like a broken puppet, grasping his throat and wheezing for breath.
“Are you well?” Haydan turned slowly toward her.
“I—” She was shaking and nauseated. “I am fine. But you…” She reached for him.
