Highland Hawk: Highland Brides #7 (22 page)

But one glance in her direction told him no. He was a battered old warrior with little to show for his scares. While she...

She was magic.

"Sir Hawk." Her voice was soft with that lyrical mixture of deep sensuality and youthful innocence. "I did not mean to draw you into this. Indeed, I did not plan to perform this trick at all. But if I must, I can practice it with another."

No, she damned well couldn't. Not while he watched, at any rate. "I have no wish to see one of my men faint," he said. His voice was admirably steady. Unfortunately, he feared the same could not be said about his hands.

"Faint?" she said. Her lips curved up in a devilish bow.

"You know exactly why," he said. " 'Tis little reason for you to act coy."

"Ah, 'tis because of my astounding allure."

"Just so."

"But you are immune?"

Memories of the night in the stable popped into his head. And with it came a sharp ache in his loins. "I'll try to remember my age," he said dryly.

"Which is?"

"I would tell you, but I've no more wish to see you faint, than my men."

"It might well get you out of this performance."

The truth was, he'd rather pit his discipline against her beauty than reveal his age. Pride was a damnably heavy burden. "I fear your unconscious state would only delay the trick," he said. "James might very well wait for you to awaken then insist that the show go on. Stubbornness is a hallmark of the Stuart line."

"Is that why you cherish him so? Because he reminds you of yourself?"

"Are you implying that I am stubborn?"

She canted her head at him. "We shall see if you accomplish this task."

"Let us not confuse stubbornness with foolishness."

"I never do. Squat down."

His stomach twisted at the mere thought of her touch. "Your pardon?"

"Squat down so that I may step on your thigh."

There were many things he would like her to do to any number of his body parts. Stepping on his thigh was not among them. "My thigh?" he asked.

"Aye. I will step on your thigh, then up to your shoulder."

"Ah. And then?"

"Then you straighten."

He gave her a narrow glance. "Forgive me. But I am uncertain what that will accomplish."

"Eventually you will straighten quickly enough to launch me from your shoulders and into the air."

"Ah yes. Something I've been longing to do since the beginning of time."

She laughed. " 'Tis for the king. Remember?"

"Nay," he said dryly. "But my forgetfulness may very well be caused by my astounding old—"

"Thus far I am quite unimpressed," James interrupted, scowling at them from some yards away.

"Squat down," Cat ordered.

Haydan did so, feeling his knee crunch and knowing he was a fool for refusing to refuse.

But her bare foot touched his thigh, torching a hundred hungry nerve endings and bumping his pulse rate into a gallop. She reached for his hand and he took hers. Her face skimmed past his. He felt her breath, warm against his cheek, felt her fingers tighten in his, felt her skirt brush against a hundred sensitized regions. But in a moment she stepped down.

He released her hand with an effort. Their fingers parted. He managed to breathe.

"You have..." She paused, but went on in a moment.

"You have uncommonly good balance," she said, wiping her palms on the skirt of her gown.

"Did you imagine that I might crash over like a felled oak?" It was more difficult to speak than he would have imagined. Indeed, he had done nothing more stimulating than hold her hand, and yet it seemed that the very scent of her was enough to set him aquiver. It was that realization that made him only more determined to act nonchalant.

"I did not know," she admitted, "since you refuse to give me your age." She stared at him expectantly, but he only scowled back, breathing in and out, in and out.

"Are we going to do this trick, or did you only begin this in the hope of seeing me topple over?"

"I do not think you would topple over if I weighed a hundred stone."

But she didn't. She seemed to weigh little more than one of her foolish birds.

'Twas not true. Haydan reminded himself. She was no delicate lass. Indeed, she could not be and have accomplished what she had in her meager lifetime. And yet... it seemed, in his demented state, that she was as fragile as a feather, and when she stepped back onto his thigh, the need to take her into his arms was almost overpowering.

Still, he forced himself to remain as he was, to take her commands and be careful not to touch anything that wasn't offered.

"What now?" he asked when they had tried the first portion of the trick several times.

"We will do the same thing again," she said. "But this time, if all goes well, I will step onto your shoulders."

He gave her a wry expression, but did as ordered. Again he squatted, and again she stepped onto his thigh.

They balanced for a moment, their hands clasped, and then she tentatively placed a foot on his shoulder. The slim muscle of her calf brushed his ear, but he remained as he was by the strictest of efforts, holding her hand as she turned to face the opposite direction and place her left foot on his, other shoulder.

"Can you straighten?" she asked.

He did so carefully, still holding her hand.

"So you see, Your Majesty," she said, facing young James. " 'Tis no great feat."

"But you have hardly launched over a man's head and onto a steed," he argued.

" 'Tis a simple step from here to there. Surely you can see that it can be done."

"Nay, I do not."

She was silent for a moment, then, "Release my hand, Sir Hawk."

But she was so high up. A hundred things might go wrong. What if she fell?

"Sir Hawk," she repeated. "You may release my hand so that I can jump off."

Jump! The very idea made him go cold.

" 'Twas the plan at the outset," she reminded him.

He knew that. But she was so light and young, with skin as soft as a cloud and... He released her hand abruptly.

She bobbled a little and fear spurred through him. He jerked his hand upward, catching her leg. It took him a moment to realize that his fingers had skimmed under her skirt to the gauzy pantaloon beneath. The fabric felt silky soft, the muscle beneath, delicate and slim.

His desire solidified to rock hard consistency. Beneath the heavy woolen of his plaid, he throbbed painfully.

"You can let go," she said. "I am fine."

Haydan ground his teeth in roiling frustration.

"Sir Hawk?

"What?" he asked, startled from his preoccupation with his own hard needs.

"You can let go."

"Oh," he said and snatched his hand away.

She hobbled again, but wildly this time.

He made a grab for her, trying to snatch her to him, to keep her safe, but she was already falling in a tangle of fabric and limbs. He grappled, twisting her about and cradling her fall as they tumbled to the earth together.

They landed facing each other with his hand gripping her arm in a panicked attempt to keep her unharmed.

"Are you well?" he rasped, finding his voice with difficulty.

"Aye. I am fine. Did I hurt you when I jumped?"

"You jumped?"

"Aye. 'Twas—" she began, but her words stopped abruptly. Her gaze snapped downward.

It was then that Haydan realized their positions. She was cradled between his spread thighs with one leg bent beneath her and the other... Holy Christmas, the other was under his plaid. He could feel the slim muscles of her calf contract against the solid heat of his erection. And her ankle, thanks to his traitorous Highland garb, was pressed up warm and snug against his scrotum.

Their gazes snapped up and fused.

"Are you wounded?" James asked, hurrying up.

The sound of his voice snapped Haydan to his feet, but since he was still holding Cat's arm, she was yanked along with him. Her leg skimmed the length of his desire for an instant then the pressure was gone.

"I am well!" Haydan rasped.

"I am well!" Cat gasped, but refused to meet his gaze.

The lad remained silent a moment, then scowled. "I think you should visit Leech when we return to Blackburn. You are acting strangely again."

Strangely? Haydan thought in rare panic. He was acting like a raving lunatic!

"Mayhap you can teach him the trick some other time," James suggested, turning his attention to Catriona.

"Nay!" Haydan answered.

"I think not," she agreed.

James's scowl deepened as he looked first at one, then the other. "But 'tis my birthday."

"I will do the trick later," Cat said. "Perhaps with Rory."

Against his will, Haydan turned to her. But still she refused to look at him.

"Do I have your vow?" James asked her.

"Aye. Before I leave Blackburn you shall see this trick performed," she said, just as the first smattering of rain began.

In moments it was no longer a sweet spring shower, but a hard, cold deluge.

Haydan yelled orders to the nearest guards, and in a minute they had mounted and were returning posthaste to the palace.

The hour was late, but Haydan lay awake and restless. He should never have agreed to such foolishness that afternoon. He was the king's captain of the guard, for God's sake. He should have some pride. But thinking of Catriona in another's hands...

Swinging his feet over the edge of the mattress, he rose to pace irritably.

Images of her flitted through his mind, but he swiped them out with a silent curse. But the memory of her hand against his chest, her leg against his...

He had to see her. Jerking about, he lurched toward the door. But either the pain in his knee or some belated spark of good sense stopped him.

He couldn't go to her. Not only was she little more than a child; she was under his protection, his ward of sorts.

And if neither of those reasons were sufficient, she was sharing a room with her cantankerous great grandmother.

Frustrated by his own appalling lack of propriety, not to mention the hardening ache at the mere thought of her, he yanked his plaid from the mattress, hastily wrapped it about his waist, and stepped into the hallway.

A few words with the guards beside James's door assured him all was well, and he headed downstairs for the kitchens. Perhaps a horn of ale would help him sleep. Voices drifted up to him long before he reached his destination, but when he stepped through the arched doorway, he saw only a handful of late-night revelers.

A trio of men sat drooped over their cups at a table not far from the banked kitchen fire, and some distance away, Marta remained slumped over her own horn.

Haydan stopped abruptly as reality crashed in upon him. If Marta was here, Catriona was alone. He almost spun about and galloped for her room then he stopped himself with a memory of her face. There was sadness there. Even when she smiled, he could feel it. She hardly needed another randy hound sniffing at her skirts. What she needed was an ally, a protector. But a protector from what? That's what he needed to find out. And who better to tell him than the ancient crone that bobbed over her drink?

Near the gargantuan stone oven, a keg of ale was set on a thick timbered table. Haydan wandered over, dipped out an ample supply then made his way back between the rows of tables to Marta's side.

" 'Tis rather late for old folk like ourselves to be afoot, is it not?" he asked.

The old woman lifted her gaze to his. Neither surprise nor disorientation showed in her razor-sharp expression when he settled across from her on the trestle bench.

"You are calling yourself old?" she asked, her pebble- dark eyes small in her wrinkled face.

"If I am half so old as I feel, I am ancient beyond count."

Marta snorted and drained her cup. "My toes have corns older than you, lad."

He chuckled and, lifting his horn, filled hers nearly to the top with his own ale. "Then why have you come on this hard journey to Blackburn?" he asked.

Marta took a long quaff, then lowered the mug slightly and assessed him shrewdly over the rim. " 'Twas my granddaughter's wish to come."

"But perhaps 'twas not the wisest thing."

She drank again. "Mayhap you have not noticed, Haydan the Hawk, but my Catty has a way of doing as she will."

He nodded, for he supposed there were few who could deny the maid anything. A journey through hell in search of bluebells would not seem such an arduous task. "She is a persuasive lass," he admitted, "but could her cousins not have accompanied her?"

"Hertha is awaiting the arrival of another babe," Marta explained. " 'Twas best for her to remain behind with her family." Tilting up the mug, she scowled into the bottom, then mournfully licked the last drop from the rim.

Haydan stood, strode across the kitchen, hoisted the ale keg under his arm, and returned moments later to place the barrel beside him on the table. Dipping the wooden ladle into the brew, he drew out a bowlful and tipped it into her horn.

Marta gave him a nod, took a long sip, and sighed contentedly.

"How are Hertha and her daughters?" he asked.

"Here lad, drink up," she said and sloshed a ladle of ale into his curved horn. "Hertha is well, as are her lassies. Though they miss the Cat, I am certain."

"She is easy to miss."

"So you have noticed?"

"I only assume," he said.

Marta laughed, the sound low and rusty, like an old wheel. "Aye. Of course."

Haydan frowned. "The maid is young enough to be my daughter." He tried to sound offended, but the thought of Catriona only made him itchy and too warm, as if there weren't enough air in the huge, drafty room. "No older than my nieces, in fact."

"And I am old enough to be your grandmother," she said and shrugged.

He scowled, uncertain of her meaning. "I only wish to protect her." And feel her lie beneath him, and hear her sated sigh fall on his ears and...

"Untruths are most tiresome unless they are mine own. Lies do you little good," said the old woman and sighed before she drank again.

He thought about protesting, but she had not called him a liar... exactly, and he had learned long ago that those who protest the loudest oft harbor the most guilt. "Oh?" he said, his tone calm.