by Lois Greiman
He pulled away. Grasping the front of Rory’s tunic, Haydan pulled him to his feet.
“You will leave this place.” His voice was deep, unwavering, beyond rage. “And you shall not see the lass again.”
“She is mine!” Rory snarled.
Hawk’s opposite hand streaked out, grasping the other’s throat. But in a moment he had gained control and when he spoke his voice was level once again. “You shall not see her,” he ordered. “Not for the entirety of your miserable life. Do you understand?”
Rory managed a croak of agreement.
Hawk drew back his hands and Rory wilted against the wall.
“You will leave now,” Haydan said.
“You shall regret this,” Rory vowed, clutching his throat.
“I regret her mercy already. Go while you can,” he ordered, and Rory fled, stumbling away toward safety.
The hallway went quiet.
“My God!” someone gasped. “He’s wounded.”
“Nay.” Haydan turned abruptly. ” ‘Tis the Rom’s blood on me.”
“Come, Lady Catriona, I will see you to your chamber,” he said, and taking a lamp from the nearest man, touched a hand to her back.
Her door opened silently. They stepped inside together.
“Rory didn’t bleed,” she said, shifting her gaze to the blood smeared across his abdomen.
“What?” he asked, skimming the room before returning his gaze to her face.
“You are wounded.”
“Do not worry. ‘Tis naught.”
“Another scar. Because of me.” A quavering sob rasped between her clenched teeth, and because he could not bear her pain, he cradled her chin in his palm and tilted her head up.
“I shall never think of scars the same,” he murmured. “Not after your ministrations.”
“You’re delirious. I am no healer.”
“On the contrary,” he said. “You have healed my very heart with—”
Marta suddenly awoke with a snort and a start.
“Catty. So you are finally returned,” she said, then narrowed her pebble-bright eyes and sat up. “What happened here?”
Haydan dropped his hand and straightened. “I fear your granddaughter has been molested.”
“Molested!” The old woman swung her legs off the bed with amazing speed. Her nightrail shimmied up, baring legs as scrawny as a peahen’s. But she seemed to neither notice nor care. “Molested by whom?”
“Rory,” Cat answered. “Rory was waiting in the hallway for me.”
“God help us,” said Marta, hurrying toward them while she pinned Haydan with a dark glare. “And you let this happen?”
“I am sorry,” he said, guilt gnawing at him.
” ‘Tis not his fault!” Cat insisted.
“Where are you hurt?” Marta asked, ignoring her defense.
“I am well. ‘Tis Haydan who is wounded.”
“Nay, I am fine.”
“Good God! What a pair of brave souls. Give me a coward any day,” she muttered, waving vaguely toward the bed. “Sit down the both of you.”
“I cannot stay,” Haydan insisted. “The gossipmongers will—”
“Gossipmongers! What are they to say? That you seduced the lass while I was yet in the room?”
No one spoke.
“You would not do that, would you, lad?” she asked, her eyes ungodly bright in her wrinkled face as she stared at him.
“Nay.”
“Just as I thought,” she said in disgust. “Sit down.” He did so. “You too, Catty,” she ordered, but stopped Catriona with a hand on her arm. “He struck you?”
“Aye.”
The old woman shook her head. “I should have known. I should have felt it in him. ‘Tis me own fault. Me own cursed old age,” she said and sighed. “Sit.”
Cat did so, settling meekly beside Hawk on the bed.
Marta stared at Haydan. “Blood,” she said, shaking her head. “I do not like blood. Did he stab you?”
“Aye, but—”
“Quiet. Stay there. I go to fetch a few necessities.”
“Truly, I am-—” Haydan began, but she stopped him with a glare.
“Would you rather I fetch Leech?”
“Nay.”
“Then there is a little hope for you at least,” she muttered and tottered from the room, closing the door behind her.
Catriona expelled her breath and closed her eyes. Sitting there, she looked like a wee weary angel. “I am sorry,” she murmured.
“Nay. ‘Tis I who should apologize.”
“You?”
“Damn him,” he said, his soul tearing at the sight of her panicked eyes. “I should have killed him.”
“How badly are you hurt?” she whispered.
“A cut. Nothing more,” he said, but he kept his left arm pressed to his side so that she could not see the wound. “I should have escorted you to your room. Why did you not awaken me?”
She met his gaze then reached up. Her fingers felt like healing balm against his cheek. “If I woke you it would not have been to walk the halls,” she whispered.
“Lass,” he began, but at that moment she kissed him, gently at first. Then desire struck fear like flint to steel and passion flared.
He could not help but kiss her back. Her hand slipped behind his neck. He quivered beneath her touch and slid his arm about her waist, drawing her closer.
“Damnably slow!” They jerked apart as Marta stormed into the room. “Is that all you got accomplished?” She carried bandages and a bottle. “What a foolish waste of a good bed. Had I moved that slow, Catty’s grandmother would be yet unborn.” She shuffled closer. “Here, then. Lift your arm.”
“Truly—” Haydan began.
“Lift!” she ordered.
He did so.
“Ah. Well…” Uncorking the jug, she took a swig before dumping a bit onto a cloth. “The lassies like the scars, aye?” she said and slapped the cloth to his wound.
He gritted his teeth against the sharp slash of pain and straightened abruptly.
“There now. We’ll have no fainting,” she reprimanded.
“I was not about to faint.”
“We’ll have no weeping, either. ‘Twould be embarrassing.”
He scowled at her. “I’ll not cry.”
“Nay?” she asked and dabbed harder at his injury.
“Nay,” he said, remembering her implication of Catriona’s vast sexual experience. “But I am thinking of tossing you out yonder window.”
She stared at him for an instant, then threw her head back and laughed. “You’ve got spunk for a wee lad.”
“And you lie like a Persian rug,” he said with feeling.
She leaned closer, staring into his eyes, and then she grinned and nodded. “I needed to know if you would cherish the prize even if you thought it less than perfect.” The grin increased. “Apparently you did,” she said, then nodded toward Catriona and took another swig of whiskey. “Bandage him up. He will live.”
But when Catriona reached for the strips of cloth, the old woman touched her cheek and frowned.
“Put a cold rag on it, lass,” she said quietly. “And remember this. Life is short.” With that, she tottered over to the far side of the bed, set the whiskey on the floor, and stretched out on the mattress with her face to the distant wall. In a matter of seconds she was snoring.
“I had best leave,” Haydan said, beginning to rise.
But Cat placed a palm against his chest. Warmth radiated from his skin to hers, taking her breath for a moment, but finally she found her voice. “Nay. Let me see to your wound.”
“What of the gossips?”
“We have a chaperone.”
He gave Marta a slanted glance. “She is asleep.”
“They will not know that.”
“They will know she is odd.”
Catriona laughed and Haydan leaned forward to cup her chin and kiss her lightly.
“Sleep well,” he said, and r
ising quickly, left the room.
Rain slanted into Haydan’s face, driven by a cold wind that whistled from the north.
“Did you see which way the Rom went?” he asked the guard at the bridge.
“Nay, Sir Hawk. What with this damnable weather blowing out the torches, I only know he has left Blackburn.” The guard fidgeted. “Is something amiss?”
“Nay. Nothing,” Haydan said, then paused. Damnable weather indeed. “Open the portcullis.”
“What?”
“Open the portcullis. I have business in the village.”
“Business? At this hour of the night? Oh…” said the guard and grinned. He’d lost a tooth since Haydan had last seen him. “Business. Aye.” He winked. “The nights, they do get lonely, do they not? Especially with that Gypsy lass forever about, aye?”
Haydan lowered his brows. Temper and fatigue and burning pain were contriving against his usual effervescent humor.
“Not to worry,” added the guard as he rapidly raised the iron gate. “I’ll tell no one of your… business.”
“See that you don’t,” Haydan said, and wrapping his dark cloak about him, rode into the storm.
‘Twas a simple enough task to find the Rom’s wagon even in the dark. They had unhooked the narrow cart in plain view of Blackburn, in a bonny spot by the burn. But when Haydan opened the wee door at the rear, ‘twas clear Rory was not there. There were, however, fast-fading tracks leading from the contraption.
In the gray light of dawn, Haydan followed the tracks toward the village. But once there, the footprints veered off, tramping across the vale and into the woods beyond.
Beneath the shelter of the trees, Haydan’s task became more difficult. He damned himself for his delay. He should have questioned the Rom before banning him from the castle. But it had been all he could do to keep from killing the man, and mayhap this was best, after all—for perhaps the Rom’s destination would tell a greater truth than his words ever would.
Sometime in midmoraing, the rain began again. The clouds lowered until they seemed to envelop the entire world in grayness. The trail faded into oblivion. Haydan rounded back, searched again, and finally found a place where the Rom had slipped and fallen.
The woods thickened. Rain dripped off the edge of Haydan’s hood, finding its way with chilly fingers down his neck.
The footprints disappeared again. Haydan swore with growling verve and searched hopelessly. The forest was dense and dark here. Vines grew in wild profusion, choking a weathered hawthorn then twining horizontally across a grayish branch. But when he reached that spot, he found that ‘twas not a branch that supported the vine. It was a wooden door set in a cottage so ancient it was nearly lost in the foliage.
Silently drawing his sword, Haydan waited beside the door for a moment, then lifted the latch and stepped inside.
The place was empty. Haydan’s disappointment swelled. But upon further examination, he realized that someone had been there. A leafless vine crossing the inside of the door had been torn asunder, and the years of dust on the floor had recently been disturbed.
So the Rom had been there, Haydan deduced. Judging by the scattering of dust near the door, he had rested there for a time. But why? Why here?
Sheathing his sword, Haydan returned outside to search for more tracks. But the raw, wilding weather, seeming determined to foil him, came harder until finally there was nothing he could do but return to Blackburn to nurse his knee and his foul mood.
Chapter 22
Nearly two full days had passed since Haydan had held Catriona in his arms. He stood in the lea of the stables now, watching as she turned Celandine loose inside a stone yard. The mare was healing well and frolicked now, kicking up her heels before running to the far side of the enclosure to call to the horses that were even now bringing their riders back from a hunt.
“What do you mean, your partner has left?” James asked. “You promised he would assist you with the trick.”
More riders trickled back to the bailey. Laughter wafted on the afternoon breeze that had blown away the wilding weather, leaving sunlight in its wake.
“I am sorry, Your Majesty,” Cat said, but kept her face averted even as a greenfinch flitted from the stable wall to a branch to her shoulder. “His departure could not be avoided.”
“Of course it could be avoided. I am king.” James pouted. “You must call him back and—”
Haydan stepped away from the building. ” ‘Twas a matter of life and death, Your Majesty,” he said. And indeed, it had been, for his hand had felt so right against the Rom’s throat.
Catriona turned abruptly toward him, her eyes too wide and the satiny skin beneath them dark with fatigue.
“Whose life and whose death?” James asked.
Haydan pulled his gaze from Cat with a solemn effort. “‘Twas a family emergency,” he explained. “I am certain you understand. After all, the king of the Scots must always concern himself with his people’s needs first.”
“I understand naught but that you are keeping something from me again.”
“What is it you would like to know, lad?” Haydan asked.
James frowned as if stymied by this rare show of compliance. “Who is going to perform the trick with Lady Cat?”
“As she said, the…” Haydan paused, hopelessly searching for a word more appropriate than “bastard” and trying to force his muscles to relax. “The Rom has gone.”
“Then you must perform.”
“I cannot.” For she was lying, keeping something from him, planning something! What, he did not know, but he dared not let himself be distracted. And Catriona Baird was the very breathing essence of distraction. One touch of her flesh against his and all hope of coherent thought was lost.
“Then I shall have to choose another partner for her,” James said and glanced toward the assemblage of hunters.
Haydan’s gut clenched anew as he too skimmed the distant crowd. Drummond: with his devilish, half-lidded eyes and rumors of cruelty. Lord Hogshead: soft and undisciplined, but the only surviving heir to a wealthy title. MacKinnon, watching her with his mournful expression, while scandals whispered around him like malevolent ghosts. Shortsighted Ramhurst. Bitter Tremayne. Twisted Physic. Damnation! There wasn’t a man among them that he’d trust with Catriona.
But the truth was darker still. ‘Twas simply that he could not bear the thought of having her touch another.
“Well? What say you?” James asked.
Haydan turned his gaze to the king’s, and deep in those mischievous eyes he saw an understanding far beyond the boy’s meager years. So the lad was not so naive as he sometimes acted. He knew Haydan had feelings for Catriona, knew he could not bear to see another touch her.
“I say, such blatant manipulation is beneath your lofty station, Majesty,” Haydan said.
James grinned. ” ‘Tis sadly true, I know,” he agreed. “But ‘tis my birthday.”
Their gazes held. Seconds ticked away, and then James skimmed the crowd again. Haydan tensed like a drawn bow.
“Cockerel,” James called finally.
Haydan lifted a dubious brow.
“You have need of me, Your Majesty?” Cockerel asked, hurrying up.
James shifted his attention from his captain to his guard. “Aye. I thought you might wish to perform with the Lady Cat at my birthday celebration.”
The guard’s dark eyes gleamed. A spark of a smile tilted his generous lips. “Perform?” he asked, glancing at Catriona. “Might you clarify—” he began, but in that instant Haydan cleared his throat like a menacing growl.
Cockerel shifted his gaze to Hawk’s eyes. A moment
of frozen silence passed between them, and then ‘twas Cockerel’s turn to clear his throat.
“My apologies, Your Majesty,” he said with a practiced bow. “But I fear I must decline.”
“You cannot decline.”
“I will not be able to join the festivities. ‘Tis my…” Cockerel scrambled for an
appropriate excuse. “My grandmother. She is ill.”
“Then we must rush her to Blackburn for healing.”
Cockerel winced. Hawk glared.
“I have injured my… knee.”
” ‘Tis a great coincidence. Sir Hawk has the same malady, and he was nearly able to perform the trick, even in his dotage.”
Haydan shifted his glare from the guard to the king, then back.
“My arm!” Cockerel crowed, nearly giddy with the idea as he yanked up his sleeve to reveal a superficial wound on his forearm. “Galloway was too zealous during practice. I can barely lift it.”
Silence echoed around them.
“That is the most pathetic excuse I have ever heard,” James said.
“My apologies,” Cockerel said, almost grinning again. “‘Tis the best I can do under the circumstances.”
James sighed as he turned toward Haydan, but beneath the boy’s martyred expression was the shadow of an impish grin. “And who now is manipulative, Sir Hawk?”
Haydan inclined his head. “I have learned what I can from my king.”
The lad’s grin widened. “Then you’d best learn what you can from the Cat—for ‘tis up to you to perform with her, Highland Hawk. And I’ll expect it to be spectacular,” he said and pivoted away.
The silence seemed heavy after the departure of the lad and his guards. From the top of a nearby rowan Cat’s greenfinches piped up.
“I was worried about you.” Catriona’s voice was soft.
“Me?” Haydan turned toward her, but if she could feel his perusal, she didn’t lift her face to his. “Why?” he asked.
“I did not see you all day. I feared your injuries may have been more grievous than you had let on.”
Emotions burned through Haydan. She was a wee lass, barely more than half his weight and age, and yet she worried for him. There were dark shadows under her eyes, and he knew why she didn’t turn toward him. She was hiding the reddened bruise that swelled above her ear and into her hair.
Anger sizzled through him like a wind-blown fire. Damn it to hell! He should have killed the Rom bastard while he had the chance.
But no, that would not have banished the sadness in her eyes. So what would? With aching tenderness, he remembered the night they had shared. For a short time she had been relaxed, content. He would give much to grant her that again.
