The Hawk crossed swiftly to his desk. He opened a carved wooden box and extracted the chess piece. He rolled it in his fingers, studying it carefully.
When he raised his eyes again they were blacker than midnight, deeper than a loch and just as unfathomable. "The Lady Comyn believes it brought her here?"
Grimm nodded.
"Then it could take her away?"
Grimm shrugged. "Lady Comyn said Adrienne didn't seem to remember it. Has she ever mentioned it to you?"
Hawk shook his head and looked thoughtfully, first at the black queen, then at his brightly burning fire.
Grimm met Hawk's gaze levelly, and Hawk knew there would never be words of reproach or even a whisper of the deed, if he chose to do it.
"Do you believe?" Grimm asked softly.
* * * * *
The Hawk sat before the fire for a long time after Grimm left, alternating between belief and disbelief. Although he was a creative man, he was also a logical man. Time travel simply didn't fit into his understanding of the natural world.
He could believe in the banshee, who warned of pending death and destruction. He could even believe in the Druids as alchemists and practitioners of strange arts. He'd been raised on childhood warnings of the kelpie, who lived in deep lochs and lured unsuspecting and unruly children to their watery graves.
But traveling through time?
Besides, he told himself as he stuffed the chess piece into his sporran for later consideration, there were other more pressing problems to address. Like the smithy. And his willful wife, upon whose lips the smithy's name sat far too often.
The future would allow plenty of time to unravel all of Adrienne's secrets, and make sense of the mass delusions at the Comyn keep. But first, he had to truly make her his wife. Once that was accomplished, he could begin to worry about other details. Thus resolved, he stuffed away the unsettling news Grimm had brought him, much as he had stuffed away the chess piece.
Plans of just how he would seduce his lovely wife replaced all worries. With a dangerous smile and purpose in his stride, the Hawk went off in search of Adrienne.
* * *
CHAPTER 13
adrienne walked restlessly, her mind whirling. Her brief nap in the sunshine had done nothing to dispel her wayward thoughts. Thoughts like just how capable, not to mention how willing, the Hawk was of providing babies to fill that dratted nursery.
Instinctively she avoided the north end of the bailey, unwilling to confront the smithy and those unnerving images still fermenting in her mind from when she'd been ill.
South she strayed, beckoned by the glimmer of sun off a glass roof and curiosity deep as a loch. These were no barbaric people, she mused. And if she didn't miss her guess, she was walking right toward a hothouse. How brilliant was the mind that had fashioned Dalkeith-Upon-the-Sea. It was impenetrable on the west end due to the cliffs, which presented a sheer, unscalable drop to the fierce ocean. Spreading north, south, and east, the keep itself was sealed behind monstrous walls, all of seventy to eighty feet high. How strange that the same mind which had designed Dalkeith as a stronghold had made it so beautiful. The complicated mind of a man who provided for the necessity of war, yet savored the times of peace.
Careful, getting intrigued are you?
When she reached the hothouse, Adrienne noticed that it was attached to a circular stone tower. During her many hours of surfing the Internet she'd been drawn time and time again to things medieval. The mews? Falcons. It was there they kept and trained falcons for hunting.
Drawn by the lure of animals and missing Moonshadow with an ache in her chest, Adrienne approached the gray stone broch. What had Hawk meant about treating her like one of his falcons? she wondered. Well, she'd just find out for herself, so she'd know what to avoid in the future.
Tall and completely circular, the broch had only one window, which was covered by a slatted shutter. Something about the dark, she remembered reading. Curious, she approached the heavy door and pushed it aside, closing it behind her lest any falcons be tempted to escape. She wouldn't give the Hawk any excuse to chastise her.
Slowly her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom and she was able to make out several empty perches in the dim light. Ah, not the mews, this must be the training broch. Adrienne tried to recall the way the trainers of yore had skilled their birds for the hunt.
The broch smelled of lavender and spice, the heavy musk from the attached hothouse permeating the stone walls. It was a peaceful place. Oh, how easily she could get used to never hearing the rush of traffic again; never having to look over her shoulder again; never seeing New Orleans again—an end to all the running and hiding and fear.
The walls of the broch were cool and clean to the touch, nothing like the stone walls that had once held her prisoner in the gritty dirt of a New Orleans prison cell.
Adrienne shuddered. She'd never forget that night.
The fight had begun over—of all things—a trip to Acapulco. Adrienne hadn't wanted to go. Eberhard had insisted. "Fine, then come with me," she'd said. He was too busy, he couldn't take the time off, he'd replied.
"What good is all your money if you can't take the time to enjoy life?" Adrienne had asked.
Eberhard hadn't said a word, he'd simply fixed her with a disappointed look that made her feel like an awkward adolescent, a gauche and unwanted orphan.
"Well, why do you keep sending me on these vacations by myself?" Adrienne asked, trying to sound mature and cool, but her question ended on a plaintive note.
"How many times must I explain this to you? I'm trying to educate you, Adrienne. If you think for a moment that it will be easy for an orphan who has never been in society to be my wife, think again. My wife must be cultured, sophisticated, European—"
"Don't send me back to Paris," Adrienne had said hastily. "It rained for weeks, last time."
"Don't interrupt me again, Adrienne." His voice had been calm; too calm and carefully measured.
"Can't you come with me—just once?"
"Adrienne!"
Adrienne had stiffened, feeling foolish and wrong, even though she'd known she wasn't being unreasonable. Sometimes she had felt like he didn't want her around, but that didn't make sense—he was marrying her. He was preparing her to be his wife.
Still, she'd had doubts___
After her last trip to Rio, she'd returned to hear from her old friends at the Blind Lemon that Eberhard hadn't been seen in his offices all that much—but he had been seen in his flashy Porsche with an equally flashy brunette. A twinge of jealousy had speared her. "Besides, I hear you don't work too hard while I'm gone," she had muttered.
The fight had begun in earnest then, escalating until Eberhard did something that so astonished and terrified Adrienne that she fled blindly into the steamy New Orleans night.
He hit her. Hard. And, taking advantage of her stunned passivity—more than once.
Crying, she flung herself into the Mercedes that Eberhard leased for her. She stomped the accelerator and the car surged forward. She drove blindly, on autopilot, mascara-tinted tears staining the cream silk suit Eberhard had chosen for her to wear that evening.
When the police pulled her over, claiming she'd been driving over one hundred miles an hour, she knew they were lying. They were Eberhard's friends. He'd probably called them the moment she'd left his house; he knew which route she always took home.
Adrienne stood outside her car with the policemen, her face bruised and swelling, her lip bleeding, weeping and apologizing in a voice that bordered on hysteria.
It didn't occur to her until much later that neither of the policemen had ever asked her what had happened to her face. They'd interrogated an obviously beaten woman without showing an ounce of concern.
When they'd cuffed her, taken her to the station, and called Eberhard, she wasn't surprised at all when they replaced the receiver, gazed at her sadly, and sent her to be locked up.
Three days she'd spent in that hellish place, just
so Eberhard could make his point.
That was the night she'd realized how dangerous he really was.
In the cool of the broch, Adrienne hugged her arms around herself, trying desperately to exorcise the ghosts of a beautiful man named Eberhard Darrow Garrett and the foolish young woman who'd spent a lonely, sheltered life in an orphanage. Such easy prey she'd been. Did you see little orphan Adri-Annie? Eberhard's little fool. Where had she heard those sneering words? On Rupert's yacht, when they thought she'd gone below for more drinks. She shivered violently. I'll never be a man's fool again.
"Never," she vowed aloud. Adrienne shook her head to ebb the painful tide of memories.
The door opened, admitting a wide swath of brilliant sunlight. Then it closed again and blackness reigned absolute.
Adrienne froze, huddled in on herself, and forced her heart to slow. She'd been here before. Hiding, waiting, too terrified to draw a breath for fear of alerting the hunter to her exact location. How she'd run and hid! But there had been no sanctuary. Not until the streets of obscurity she'd finally found in Seattle, and there had been an eternity of murky hell down every winding backroad between New Orleans and the haven of the Pacific Northwest.
Bitter memories threatened to engulf her when a husky croon broke the silence.
The Hawk? Singing? A lullaby?
The Gaelic words rumbled husky and deep—why hadn't she suspected he would have a voice like rich butterscotch? He purred when he talked; he could seduce the Mother Abbess of Sacred Heart when he sang.
"Curious, were you? I see you came of your own accord." His brogue rolled through the broch when he finished the refrain.
"Came where?" she asked defiantly.
"To be trained to my hand." His voice sounded amused, and she heard the rustle of his kilt as he moved in the inky darkness.
She would not dignify it with a response.
A long pause, another rustle, then, "Know you what qualities a falconer must possess, my heart?"
"What?" she grumbled in spite of herself, moving slowly backward. She stretched out her hands like little makeshift antennae in the darkness.
"'Tis an exacting position. Few men can be quality falconers. Few possess the temperament. A falconer must be a man of infinite patience, acute hearing, and uncanny vision. Possessed of a daring spirit, and a gentle yet forceful hand. He must be constantly attuned to his ladybird. Know you why?"
"Why?" she whispered.
"Because falcons are very sensitive and excitable creatures, my heart. They are known to suffer from headaches and all manner of human ailments, so sensitive are they. Their extreme sensitivity makes them the finest and most successful huntresses of all time, yet can make them most demanding as well. And the haggard… ah, my sweet haggard, she is the purest challenge of all. And by far the most rewarding."
She would not ask what a haggard was.
"'What is a haggard,' you ask, deep in that stubborn, silent soul of yours, my heart?" He laughed richly and it echoed off the stone walls of the suddenly balmy broch.
"Quit 'my hearting' me," she muttered as she moved back oh so cautiously. She had to find a wall. The broch was round, so a wall would guarantee a door at some point. She may as well have been blind in the abysmal blackness.
She heard his footfalls upon the stone floor. Dear heavens, how could he see her? But he was heading straight for her! She backed away slowly, stealthily.
"I am no stranger to the darkness, lass," he warned. "I will find you. I am the finest of falconers."
She said nothing, made no sound.
"A haggard is a wild, mature falcon," he continued, a hint of a smile in his voice. "Usually a falconer is reluctant to assume the challenge of training one, but sometimes, upon a truly rare moon like the harvest moon we had last eve, the falconer espies a bird of such brilliance, such magnificence, that he casts all caution aside and traps the haggard, vowing to bind her to him. Vowing to make her forget all her wild free past—whether in darkness or in light—and give herself freely only to her future with her falconer."
She must not answer him; he'd follow her voice.
"My sweet falcon, shall I tell you how I will tame her?"
Silence, absolute. They were circling in the darkness like wary animals.
"First I seel my lady, which is to deprive her of vision, with a black silken hood."
Adrienne smothered an indignant gasp in her shaking hand. The folds of her gown rustled as she sidestepped quickly.
"Then I blunt her talons."
A pebble skittered across the floor a mere yard away. She backstepped, clutching her skirts to keep them still.
"I fasten jesses and dainty bells to her ankles so that I can be aware of her every movement, for I am in the dark too."
She drew a labored breath—almost a pant—then cursed herself for slipping, knowing he would track her traitorous gasp. She knew his strategy was to keep talking until he provoked her into revealing herself. And then what? she couldn't help but wonder. Would the Hawk make love to her here and now in the darkness of the broch? A shiver coursed through her, and she wasn't certain it was fear. Not certain at all.
"Then a leash to tether her to her perch until I no longer need leash her. Until she becomes leashed of her own free will. And the best part—the long, slow process of binding her to me. I sing to her, the same sweet song until she grows accustomed to the sound of my voice and mine alone…"
And his butterscotch rich voice began that same husky croon of a lullaby, melting her will.
Adrienne stepped slowly backward; she actually felt the breeze of him passing by her, mere inches away. Where was that wall?
She almost screamed when he found her in the blackness, struggled a long moment against his iron grip. His breath fanned her face and she struggled in his grasp. "Be still, sweet falcon. I will not harm you. Not ever," he whispered huskily.
Adrienne felt the heat of his thighs burning through her thin silk morning gown. She was enveloped in the heady scent of musk and man. Oh beautiful man, why couldn't I have known you before my last illusion was shattered? Why couldn't I have met you when I still believed? she mourned. She fought against his arms, which embraced her, cradled her.
"Let me go!"
Hawk ignored her protests, drawing her closer into the steel of his embrace. "Aye, I'll simply have to have you seeled. Or perhaps I should bind your hands and hood your eyes with silk, and lay you across my bed, stripped bare and laid wide open to pure sensation until you become accustomed to my touch. Would that tame you, sweet falcon? Could you grow to love my touch? Crave it as I crave you?"
Adrienne swallowed convulsively.
"A falcon must be wooed with relentless and rough love. By taking away her light, by seeling her, she learns to understand with all her other senses. Senses that don't lie. The falcon is a wise creature, she believes only what she can feel, what she can hold in her talon or her beak. Touch, scent, hearing. By slowly being given back her sight and freedom, she is bound to the hand that restores these things to her. If she fails to trust in her master and doesn't grant him absolute loyalty by the end of her training—she seeks to flee at every opportunity." He paused, his lips a scant breath from hers. "None of my falcons have ever flown my hand without returning," he warned.
"I am not a stupid bird—"
"Nay, not stupid, but the finest. A falcon is the only other bird that can match a hawk for flight, accuracy, and speed. Not to mention strength of heart."
She'd been lost to him the moment he'd started singing. And she didn't protest further when his lips brushed hers lightly. Nor did she protest in the next instant, when Hawk's hands on her body turned hard, hot and demanding. Coaxing. Claiming.
"Would you soar for me, sweet falcon? I'll take you higher than you've ever been. I'll teach you to bank heights you've only dreamed existed," he promised as he scattered kisses across her jaw, her nose, her eyelids. His hands cradled her jaw in the darkness, feeling every curve, every plane and silken
hollow of her face and neck with his hands, memorizing the nuances.
"Feel me, lass. Feel what you do to me!" He pressed his body against hers and rocked his hips, making sure she felt the swollen manhood that rose beneath his kilt and teased the inside of her thigh.
And there was the wall; it had been just behind her back all the time. Cool stone to her back and the inferno of the Hawk searing her through the front of her gown. She raised her hands to pummel him, but he caught and pinned them above her head against the wall. His strong fingers splayed her grip, twined with and teased her hands. Palm to palm, flat against the stone.
"My sweet falcon," he breathed against her neck. "Fight me as you will, it will come to naught. I have set my mind on you, and this is your first time to be seeled. In this blackness you will come to know my hands as they touch every silken inch of your body. I will not take from you any more than that. Just that you suffer my touch, you needn't even see my face. I will be patient while you grow gentled to my hands."
His hands were liquid fire, sliding her gown up and over her thighs and oh! She hadn't had the faintest idea where to look for undergarments this morning. His hands, his strong, beautiful hands were kneading her thighs, pushing them gently apart to slip the heat of his muscled leg between them. He purred, a rich husky growl of masculine triumph, when he felt the betraying wetness between her thighs. Adrienne flushed furiously; despite her intentions her hands fluttered up to rest upon his shoulders, then slid deep into his soft, thick hair. Her knees, already weak, went limp when he eased the bodice of her gown aside and dropped his head to her breasts, licking and grazing the swollen peaks with his tongue, then his teeth.
She scarcely noticed when he pushed his kilt up; but she definitely noticed when his hard, hot, heavy arousal rose against her thigh. Adrienne made a throaty sound: half whimper, half plea. How had he done this to her? Merely by touching her, the Hawk had somehow managed to unravel every ounce of resistance she'd so painstakingly woven into the cloak of aloofness she wore.
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