Highland Hawk: Highland Brides #7 (12 page)

He felt as still and solid as Blackburn itself.

"It seems that again I owe you," she said.

Beneath her fingers, a muscle in his cheek ticked. His nostrils flared.

"Nay. You owe me naught. Now, 'tis best that I remove the rubbish before it awakes," he said and shifted his weight, jostling her slightly.

His cape, untied and unfettered, slid sideways, slipping insidiously from her shoulder.

Catriona twisted about to pull it back into place, but his hand was already there. Their fingers met with a fire-bright shock of emotion. She drew her breath in sharply as their hands trailed in tandem across her shoulder. His fingers touched the tiny dell at the base of her throat. Their gazes met and fused, and suddenly there seemed to be nothing standing guard between her body and his. She felt hot and alive and naked, nestled in the warmth of his cocoon.

"Catriona," he rasped.

"Aye?" she whispered.

"In truth," he said quietly," 'tis I who owe you."

"Oh?" She could barely force out that single word, for the heat of his body seemed to be seeping through her thighs into her very soul.

"Aye. 'Twas my duty to protect you, and I failed."

She tried to keep breathing, to keep thinking. She was no newcomer to desire. For as long as she could recall, men had wanted her. But for the first time she felt it herself, and it surprised her that in twenty-two years, she had never truly understood their need until this very instant.

She tried to shake away the feelings, for she had no place for them, no time.

"You have hardly failed," she said, trying to sound casual. "There is little harm he can do asleep on my floor."

"Had I been alert he would never have breached your chambers." The muscle danced in his jaw again. "A wee lass like you..." He paused for a moment, swept his heated gaze down her body, then drew a sharp breath and continued. "You should not have been put in such a position."

She was not a small woman. Nay, she was tall and strong and, by direst necessity, independent. But in his arms she felt fragile and feminine and adored. "What position is that?" she asked softly.

"This position." His gaze swept over her. "Naked and..." He drew his cape more firmly about her shoulders as the seconds ticked away. "I will not be so lax next time," he said, his tone dire.

"You will not let me disrobe?" she asked.

His gaze snapped to hers. They stared at each other from inches away, neither breathing.

" 'Tis no laughing matter, lass," he said.

But the temptation to do that was very strong. For regardless of his emotionless tone and rock-steady gaze, it felt as if he cared for her. As if, after the long line of men who had pursued her, one had arrived who cared for
her
and not just the pleasure of her body. "I am well, Sir Hawk. The man was drunk and none too bright. And I have been defending myself for many years."

"Many years!" He growled the words, then narrowed his eyes and steadied his voice again "My plaid is older than you and—"

His cloak was slipping away again. He snatched at it, catching it just before it fell into infamy.

"And why the hell won't this damned thing stay up?" he snapped, grasping it roughly beneath her chin.

She couldn't help but laugh.

"Is there some jest I might be privy to?" he asked, his tone deep as the night.

"Nay."

“Then why do you laugh?"

Because honesty was as much a part of her as the air she breathed, she said, "More than a few times men have tried to remove my clothes. Never have I known one so determined to keep them on."

"I am a guard, not a man," he said.

"I did not realize it had to be one or the other."

His scowl deepened, and though she knew he meant to intimidate her, she only felt more protected, more sheltered in the blast of his glare.

"In fact," she whispered, feeling his blood pulse hot and strong beneath her thighs. "I would have sworn you were both."

His fist still held the cloak pulled tightly at her throat, but for a moment his grip faltered, and in that moment, she acted.

Chapter 9

Catriona pressed her lips to his. Desire burned through Haydan like the flare of a torch. He tried to retreat, to push her away. His fist tightened in the cape with the intention of doing just that, but suddenly his hand was inexplicably lost beneath the garment's folds.

She was as soft and warm as an eaglet, her waist as small as the hilt of a fine sword. He pulled her closer.

The cloak slipped away. Like the walls of a fortress, it tumbled down, and suddenly her breasts were pressed warm and soft against his chest, and he trembled. The king's bodyguard trembled!

It was that shiver of weakness that strengthened him, that snapped him back to reality. He drew away, breathing hard and feeling as though his very heart were being torn from his chest.

Her eyes were the first things he noticed. They were dark pools of emotion, the pupils so wide and deep that he felt he might drown in their mystery.

"I am..." He tried to clear his head, to find his wits. "My apologies."

Her lips moved. He could not help but notice, for they looked as ripe and succulent as forbidden fruit. "Apologies?" she breathed.

"Aye." His gaze slipped lower, down the velvet skin of her throat, over the soft, sweet swellings of her breasts. She was mesmerizing, enchanting, bewitching. All soft and firm and warm and cool. A thousand diametrical elements swirled together to make this magic. He reached out to touch her, to feel her against him. But thirty years of discipline stopped him. He swore in silence and snapped to his feet. She cried out and tumbled sideways.

There was nothing he could do but save her, catch her, bring her safely to her feet. Then she was naked and silent in his arms as she stared into his eyes. Her hips were pressed intimately to his and her thighs, long and cool as river water, cradled one of his own.

He closed his eyes for a moment as he grappled for control. But Catriona and control were not good bedmates. Desire roared through him like a pitch fire.

"Catriona," he whispered, meaning to tell her he must go, but finding that her name came out with the reverence of a prayer.

"Aye?" Her voice was as soft as the whisper of butterflies.

"I am..." Weak! God, so damnably weak! He could not resist her. After a hundred battles and a thousand hard-learned lessons, still, he could not resist this one burning temptation. But there were exemplary reasons that he must.

He was the king's captain of the guard. He could not afford to be distracted by her magic.

He had promised James he would guard her, not seduce her.

He could not bear to hurt her. And yet... She was not Marcele. She was neither small nor frail, but strong and vibrant. And though it could not be possible, she seemed attracted to him. So perhaps—

From the floor, de la Faire moaned, breaking Haydan's introspection.

"You are what?" Catriona whispered.

Haydan snapped his gaze frantically back to her. "I am sorry. I must go," he rasped, and tearing himself from her, strode across the room to yank the Frenchman from the floor.

He had one fleeting impression of Cat's stunned expression before he slammed the door shut behind him.

“I am sorry. I must go," he had said.

The words grated in Haydan's mind. Good saints, he had made it sound as if he were apologizing for leaving, instead of apologizing for having put her in such a position.

What the hell had he been thinking? She was an enchantress. Young, gifted, alluring beyond imagination. What would make him think she would be interested in a jaded old warrior with a broken nose and a limp?

The rain pummeled him harder. Good, he thought, leaning lower over his mount's withers as he urged the steed into the slanting rain. Maybe it would wash the insanity from his brain.

He had begun riding before dawn, visiting every garrison of soldiers that guarded Blackburn. He could not be too careful. Every road must be watched, every defense seen to.

He had to keep her safe.

Him!
Haydan corrected angrily. He must keep
the king
safe.

But James's face was barely imaginable in his mind, for every bit of his concentration was swallowed up by Catriona. She was there, like a dream dreamed so many times it was now part of his very soul.

He must keep her safe. But she did not need him. Nay, though she sometimes seemed soft and vulnerable, she was clever and strong.

Still, he wanted nothing more than to hold her again. Maybe it was her very strength that made him wish to protect her. Certainly it was her softness that made him hard.

Damnit all—he still ached for her! Even now, after ten hours in the saddle. It wasn't a healthy condition. Certainly not at his age; he was supposed to know better. But when he had seen her threatened...

For one fateful moment, he had had every intention of killing de la Faire. Indeed, if she had been hurt, if he had found the merest scratch on her, he might have.

But there had been nothing marring the perfection of her skin. It was flawless, feather soft, and—

He was doing it again! Daydreaming over her like a lovesick lad who had yet to know his first woman; when it had been more than twenty years since he'd given up his virginity. And there had been countless women since.

Well, perhaps not countless. A score maybe. A dozen for certain. Well, at least five.

He winced. How long had it been since he'd been with a woman?

It wasn't as if there weren't women who were interested or who interested him.

There was Lorna. She was bonny and bright and had made it more than clear that she did not find him repulsive. But she was young and healthy and deserved marriage to a man who would see to her needs today and three decades from now. His loyalty was to the king, and 'twas a dangerous position he was in. He might not live to see the morrow. 'Twould not be fair to such a lass.

Lady Aileen, on the other hand, was widowed and knew the ways of men. Indeed, she was wealthy enough to support herself and had never seemed to find either his occupation or his size a problem. He could visit Aileen now, but her manor house was nearly an hour's ride from Blackburn. Dusk was fast approaching and 'twas his job to make certain all was safe for the night. Indeed, Catriona might very well need...

He sighed at his own loss of will. Apparently, neither the ride nor the weather had washed her from his mind. And apparently there was no hope that either would.

Turning his steed away from the hard angle of the rain, Haydan gave himself over to fate and the rapid rush of desire that smothered him at the thought of her.

It had been raining all day. Catriona turned her gaze away from the window and back to the audience that surrounded her. With so many folk confined to the great hall, the day had been filled with tales and games and ballads. She had contributed her own stories, and they had been well received by all, especially the king, whose eyes lit with her tales of adventure. With the Hawk no longer hovering overhead, she had been certain to make her life of freedom seem wondrous and exciting. It was good that he was gone, and yet...

She lifted her gaze to the arched double doors. Where was he? She hadn't seen him since he had left her room on the previous night. Nor had she seen Lord de la Faire. But while she was thrilled with the cocky lord's absence, the hall seemed strangely empty without the Hawk's protective presence.

From a dark, gargantuan beam, Calum and Caleb hopped about to survey the crowd below them. Unwilling to venture out the window and into the rain, the birds had set to bickering, and so Catriona had allowed them to follow her down to the hall. James had been thrilled.

"Tell us another, Lady Cat," he said now.

She forced a smile. "Surely there are others here with more intriguing tales than my own."

"But none so charmingly told," said the black-robed priest. He seemed a good man, but there was something familiar about him. Something that she could not quite place. Something that niggled at the edges of her consciousness and made her slightly nervous.

"Indeed," said a man whose name she could not recall. "You cannot refuse the lad."

"Nay," agreed James. "I am the king."

The audience laughed. Catriona glanced at her grandmother. She sat beside Rory on a cushioned spot near the wall and nodded at her granddaughter's unspoken question. Catriona would spin her tales and Marta would "feel," hoping to find the source of the evil that had taken Lachlan.

"Very well then," Cat began. "I shall tell you a tale of Durril."

"Who is Durril?" someone asked.

"He is the greatest entertainer of all time," James said, and Cat smiled.

"Indeed, but he was more."

The hall went quiet.

" 'Tis said he could communicate with the beasts of the field and the birds of the air."

"And 'tis said that ale can cure insanity," Lord Hogshead said, raising a goblet so quickly that ale slopped over the brim. "I've seen no evidence as of yet. But I am still testing the theory."

All around him gentry glanced his way and chuckled.

Some yards away, Lady Fayette settled onto the seat next to Rory. Her gown was ivory in hue, flattering in design. She tilted her head toward his, and he laughed, his eyes already brightened by the thought of a possible conquest.

Something tightened in the pit of Cat's stomach. Surely not jealousy, she thought. But who could say for certain? Logic had no place in matters of the heart. For many years she had thought of Rory as her betrothed.

"I do not believe any man could communicate with the beasties," Lord Spectacles said.

Catriona drew her attention back to the business at hand. If Lady Fayette had abandoned the anonymous Matthew for Rory, she had nothing to say in the matter. "You are most probably right, Your Grace," Catriona agreed. "Even though Durril killed the leader of the wolves with no weapon, 'tis no reason to believe he was then granted the power to—"

"He killed a wolf without so much as a dirk to aid him?"