Highland Hawk: Highland Brides #7 (4 page)

Hawk thought for a moment, his eyes unwavering. "Mistress Day," he reasoned quietly. "Dark in the morning. Fair at midday. And black at night."

"A warrior and a scholar," she said.

"A frail, wee child with nothing to do but plague the Rogue with riddles."

"The Rogue?"

"The Flame's husband."

'The Flame?"

"My half-sister."

"They sound quite intriguing."

"A troublesome lot, intent on plaguing the Highlands."

And he adored them. 'Twas as obvious as his quiet strength.

"The Lady Saint, Dugald the Dragon, Liam the Irishman, Roderic the Rogue, Fiona the Healer..." He shrugged.

"Tell me, Sir Hawk, is there anyone in your family with a normal name? An Arthur or a Malcolm perhaps?"

"My Christian name is Haydan."

She nodded. "Haydan, the Hawk of the Highlands," she mused. It seemed right somehow. But would the hawk be her doom?

Chapter 3

"We shall know immediately if you tell another living soul. We shall know," Blackheart whispered silkily. "And then the boy will suffer in ways you can only imagine."

How would he know? How? Who was he? She called him Blackheart but she did not know him. Did not even know if she had ever met him before her one horrid audience with him. But he was a coward. That much she knew, for he had taken an innocent boy and declared his demands without ever allowing her to see his face. He might be at Blackburn even now, watching her from inches away.

Blackburn's great hall was filled with raucous noise—the laughter of children, the music of a psaltery, and a hundred voices all speaking at once.

Catriona scanned the high-beamed room as she shepherded her grandmother through the throng toward an empty spot at a trestle table. Around them, lords and ladies and soldiers milled with servants and hounds.

Sowens made of oats and barley steamed in pots, nestled against round loaves of fine white bread, roasted venison, and a dozen tempting delicacies. Ale was served far more readily than milk. Mead and beer were plentiful.

Marta settled creakily onto a seat and scowled at-a server until he offered her a wooden bowl and a nearly flat ladle. Occupied then with stirring honey into her porridge, she gummed her breakfast while Catriona filled her leather mug.

"Here then, allow me."

Catriona glanced up to see de la Faire taking the ale from her hands with a smile.

"Good morningtide," he said. "I trust you slept well in our bonny castle."

"Aye." It was an outright lie. She had barely slept at all. "Very well."

"And what of you, Grandmother?" he asked, turning his perfect smile on Marta with the confidence of the privileged who also happen to be comely.

"I am old," she muttered, glaring up at him through her darker-than-hell eyes.

"You jest." He brightened the brilliance of his smile. "You don't look to be a day over—"

"I am older than the warts on your father's arse," she said. "And I have no time for your—"

"She slept well too," Catriona interrupted quickly.

"My father's—" He stopped. "How did you know he has warts?"

"What is your name?" Marta asked, while keeping her hard gaze pinned on the Frenchman.

De La Faire blinked, taken aback, but struggling to find his balance. "I am the Marquis de la Faire of Marseilles."

"If you are from Marseilles why are you here?"

He laughed, but the sound was nervous as he shifted his gaze to Cat's. "My father wished me to ask a favor of the king."

"Then why not ask it and be gone?"

He shuffled on his slippered feet. They were pointy-toed, red on one side, white on the other. But it was the rest of his costume that was truly stunning: Sunflower-yellow hose; a red, lavishly slashed doublet; and a pearl-encrusted codpiece the size of a melon. Had Cat had any difficulty awakening, this ensemble would have done the trick.

"I came for His Majesty's birthday," said the Frenchman, who then looked somewhat embarrassed. "Father thought it wise to come bearing gifts."

"Hmph," Marta grunted.

Catriona watched her breathlessly. But when the old woman looked up, her eyes were uncertain. She shrugged shallowly with a weary shake of her head.

Cat turned away, glancing across the crowded room, but there were too many unknown faces, too many uncertainties. Suddenly she could sit still no longer.

She rose restlessly to her feet.

"Princess Catriona, 'tis good to see you again," said the spectacled duke from the night before.

"Catriona." Another man entered the fray. "What an unusual name. My wife's name is Catlina. We are here with our Roberta," he said, glancing at a pale girl in pink who seemed barely bold enough to raise her gaze from the table. "She is to be engaged to Lord Drummond."

"I saw your performance last night," said another. "I must say, I've never seen the like."

" 'Twas quite magnificent."

Men crowded in on all sides.

"I saw a portrait of an Indian princess once. You bear an uncanny—"

"I cannot think for all the yammering!" Marta rasped. "Lad!" She snapped her devilish glare to the soldiers at the next table. "Tell them to be still."

Catriona felt, rather than saw, Haydan's approach. Though courtesy demanded that she focus her attention on the man who still spoke to her, she turned to watch the Hawk. For a man of such size, he moved with a hunter's easy stealth.

"It has been some time since I've been called lad," he said, his gaze on Marta's dried-apple face.

"All things are young when compared to something. The oak tree is only a babe in comparison to the sun," said Marta, glaring up at him.

His expression changed only slightly—though Catriona couldn't have said how. A crinkling at the corners of his eyes, perhaps.

"Gentlemen," he said, addressing the throng that pressed in on them, "I believe Widow Baird needs some room."

Not a soul moved.

Haydan's left brow shifted up the slightest fraction of an inch.

"Monsieur de la Faire," he said, glancing at the brightly colored lord. "Did you not promise the lady a tour this morn?"

' Nay, Cat thought.

"Indeed, I did," said the Frenchman, and taking her hand, placed it firmly on the crook of his elbow. " 'Twould be my greatest pleasure."

He turned, and there was little Cat could do but turn with him. Thus, they left the mob to disperse with grumbling irritation behind them. Catriona allowed herself only one evil glance over her shoulder at Hawk, but there was little satisfaction in the glare, for he had already turned his attention back to Marta.

"So, tell me, Princess Cat, what are you princess of, besides my heart?" asked the Frenchman, leaning close.

Catriona glanced surreptitiously to her right. Two men watched her from near the hall's great double doors. She saw them lean their heads together and listened intently as they spoke. Not to what they said, but to their tone, their inflection. But there was nothing familiar there. No purred silkiness. No plural references to any one man.

"Lady?"

"Your pardon?"

"What are you the princess of... besides my heart?"

It didn't sound quite so romantic the second time, apparently not even to the Frenchman, for he winced slightly when he said it.

"Oh. Nothing." In the hallway outside the great chamber, a trio of men and a fashionable lady spoke together. Cat watched them until they passed.

"You're the princess of nothing?"

" 'Tis simply a title I use to draw the crowds."

He stared at her from too close, "I find that difficult to believe."

"And why is that, good sir?" The hallway opened in both directions. She memorized how the ceiling arched above them, where the next door was located.

"With your bearing and your... well..." He leaned closer still, perhaps thinking she hadn't noticed how perfectly straight his teeth were. "I thought the first sight of your face might well be the death of the poor Duke of Ramhurst."

"Are you saying I am comely?" she asked.

Throwing his head back, he laughed, then squeezed close again. His arm crushed against her breast. "It shall take me some time to get accustomed to your candor," he said. "But, aye, I am saying you are stunning beyond description. Magical. Eyes like a sleepy wildcat. Hair like..." He searched for words with a flip of his pale hand. "Like starlight and moonbeams and gilded midnight all swirled into one." He touched a wayward lock of the curly, recalcitrant hair that fell past her shoulder. "Never have I seen the like. 'Tis bewitching against your velvet skin." He grinned at his own poetry. "You could be naught but royalty."

An arched, iron-bound door was planted in the stone wall on her left. "So you think my features a direct result of my royal heritage? And if I were born to a wandering bard and a basket weaver, I would be homely as a flea-bitten hound?"

He laughed. "I admit I have trouble imagining the daughter of a bard and a weaver being as entrancing as you."

"Then your imagination is a bit shortsighted, sir," she said. "For that is just what my parents were."

"You jest."

"I do not."

"Then your mother must have been a dazzling weaver, if she gave birth to a daughter as extraordinary as—"

"What is behind that door?" she asked.

He glanced up, distracted. "The Widow Charmain is staying there. Since her husband's death she is so much more..." He paused with a suggestive grin. "Entertaining."

"Oh. And that one?"

"Sir Guy. From where do your people originate?"

" 'Tis said my family came from a place called Khandia many years ago during a time of turmoil."

"Turmoil?"

"It seems the peasants grew weary of starving and overthrew the royal family."

"So that is why they fled?" His tone was breathy with awe.

"Aye," she said. "To save themselves from starvation."

He laughed. "Or to save themselves from the peasants."

"Mayhap every lass in Khandia looks exactly as I do."

"Then Khandia's loss is my gain," he said, and covered her hand with his.

She pulled her hand away and pointed to the molding above a particularly broad door. "What marvelous scrolling," she said. "What lies through there?"

"Gome and see."

She followed him inside then drew in her breath. "Such splendor," she said, gazing at the ceiling painted with cherubs and angels and heavy-crested steeds.

"Aye. Tis splendid," said the marquis. "But when you are royalty..." He shrugged, grinning at her. "James IV often relaxes here. But royal guests are welcome as well."

" 'Tis a soothing place," she said, moving to a window to look out. Below her, a small garden welcomed the coming of spring.

"My chambers are soothing," he murmured in her ear.

She turned abruptly and found him practically on her shoulder.

"My chambers here are not nearly so large as those in Marseilles, but they are quite lovely, nevertheless. 'Tis there that I dream of you at night."

"Monsieur," she said, endeavoring to sound scolding and flirtatious at once, when she really wanted to drag him from room to room and demand descriptions of each occupant. "We've only just met."

"Aye. But that meeting has launched a thousand dreams."

She turned away, hoping she oozed charm instead of impatience. "That door over there—"

"Come to my chambers. There is time before the hunt."

"What?"

"Come with me," he whispered, so close she wanted to shake him off, like an overly zealous hound. "We shall have a bit of time before the royal hunt."

"I fear I am still too fatigued to join a hunt of any sort."

" 'Tis perfect then. You can find repose in my chambers. I share the space with two others, but they shall surely be afield. We shall have time and to spare."

"Time for what?" she asked, looking him directly in the eye.

For a moment he seemed taken aback, then, "I think you know, Princess," he said.

"But I
certainly
would if you would tell me."

"I am not an unwealthy man. I could give you much."

"In exchange for what?"

He reached out to stroke her hair. His fingers brushed her arm before lifting a heavy coil to his lips. "Your companionship," he murmured.

"You already have my companionship, monsieur," she said and tugged at the wanton lock that curled about his fingers, but he refused to release it. "Why not give me whatever prize you deem appropriate now and we can go our separate ways?"

He stared at her in blank surprise for a moment then laughed. "I am not accustomed to such splendid wit."

"And there lies the difference between us," said Cat. "You call it wit; I call it honesty. But I am Rom, a wanderer by nature and force. I've no time for subtlety." Not unless it would aid her cause in some way.

"Then I shall be forthright," he said, sobering dramatically. "I want you in my bed." He tugged her closer by the multihued length of her hair. "Indeed, I have wanted you since the moment I first saw you."

"Which was only a few short hours past."

"It matters not. You are in my blood."

" 'Tis lucky for you then," she said, managing to tug her hair from his grasp while only losing a few strands. "For this way a part of me will be in your bed even though the rest of me is not."

"You say you are too weary for a hunt," he said. "But I see 'tis not true. 'Tis simply a different kind of chase you lead. But I do not mind. In fact—" He reached out quickly, grabbing her arm again. "I will go to any lengths to have you."

She smiled, though the expression felt stretched as thin as her patience. "For all I care, you can go to—"

"Princess Cat." A man approached from her left.

She turned with a scowl in the tiny space afforded her between the Frenchman and the wall—rather like the proverbial rock and hard place. But it was good that she'd been interrupted, for it seemed she might have inherited her grandmother's unpredictable tongue after all.

"We have not yet met," said the man just entering. He bowed with a small man's grace. De la Faire moved away a fraction of an inch, as if to get a better view of the interloper. "I am Lord Samuel of the clan MacKinnon." His face was round, his hair bright as copper.