Highland Hawk: Highland Brides #7 (7 page)

Now he resided less than fifty feet from James's bedroom door, and yet he felt as high strung as a wild barb. But why? All was well. True, the king was planning to celebrate his twelfth birthday, and true, the castle and grounds beyond were becoming mired in guests. Still, there was no reason for any great worry—for although James was the sovereign monarch of Scotland, his was a title in name only. He had no true power. The French Duke of Albany governed Scotland, and although both his interest and his involvement in Scottish politics seemed to be waning, he still held the country's reins. Therefore, 'twas
his
life that was most in danger.

It was true that there would always be those who wished the throne harm, but Hawk's men were ready for any eventuality. They were loyal, well trained, and well armed.

But that thought propelled an unwanted memory—the memory of a slim Gypsy lass fighting off the advances of a man Haydan had trusted to protect the fairer sex, not to compromise it. A man who had been Haydan's own soldier.

Damn! He paced again. Although Brims had been new to Blackburn's defenses, he had come highly recommended. Haydan had thought him above such deplorable actions. An image of Catriona wavered in his imagination. Any man might be made temporally insane by her nearness. It was not that she was beautiful; mayhap she was not even particularly bonny. She was simply... entrancing. And yet, what it was that made her so mesmerizing, he was unsure. Perhaps it was her eyes. Wide set and slightly slanted, they seemed to change hue with each mercurial mood. But nay, it was not simply her eyes. It was
she.
She was uncanny, unearthly. That had been evidenced that very evening in the great hall. For when she entered, all sense seemed to be driven from the mind of every man present. They were willing to make fools of themselves just to spend a moment by her side, to feel the light of her smile on their faces, to hear the sweet whisper of her voice.

And he? Haydan ground his teeth. He was just one among the crush. True, he had been able to keep himself from her, to keep his distance when others crowded close, but he could not help but be thrilled by every moment of her attention, or enraged by every inane compliment from the ever-present posturing swains.

He paced again. Why had she come here? To perform, she said. But there were things she wasn't telling him. A man didn't become the king's captain of the guard without developing some kind of sixth sense.

But why was she holding back the truth? She was not a dishonest sort and he had never given her reason to distrust him. Indeed, since the first time he'd met her years before, they had gotten on well together. She had been a lass of only eight and ten years when she had first come to Blackburn Castle. Even then Haydan had felt an indefinable attraction to her, but years and his own aversion to taking himself too seriously had warned him that he, like every other breathing man, had merely been enamored by her unearthly sensuality. Thus, he had been careful not to act the fool. Careful to pretend that he thought of her no differently than he thought of his own high-spirited niece—rather troublesome, but a decent sort.

Still, he could remember every moment he had spent with her. He had been a fool to take her to the infirmary, for now he had even more memories—the feel of her flesh beneath his fingers, the glimmer of her eyes—so vibrant, so alive. She was not like other lasses—neither coy nor silly, but—

But what? He paced again. She was a babe, little more than half his age. Just the thought of her miniscule years made his knee creak with the years he'd put behind him. He grimaced as he walked, reveling in the pain. For with pain came reality. And the reality was, he was an old man—and the king's man, vowed to protect and serve, to put none above his sovereign lord.

And that was just what he would do. Turning toward the door, Haydan wrenched it open and stepped into the hall. In a dozen strides he had reached James's room. A sconce burned beside each of the iron-bound double doors. And beneath each light, a soldier in dark hose and blue doublet stood with his back to the wall, ready and alert.

"Galloway," Haydan said, nodding to the nearest guard. He was a young man of humble birth, too young for such a post, some would say. But it was he who had reported Catriona's trouble with Brims, even though he had been unable to disguise his distrust of Gypsies. "All goes well here?"

"Aye!" Galloway snapped, with a stance so stiff and erect it might have been hammered out on an open forge. "All is quiet, Sir Hawk!"

Haydan gave him a wry look for his overly zealous attitude, but Galloway didn't even turn his gaze sideways to note the expression.

"Nothing to report, Cockerel?" Hawk asked the other guard.

"Nay, sir," he agreed, only raising a dark brow at the other's wild enthusiasm. "You may rest assured that young Galloway here would have reported so much as a flea's entrance to the room."

Haydan stifled a grin. There was much to be said for young blood.

All was as it should be. And yet, Haydan could not quite squelch the desire to look in on the lad for himself. With a nod to the guards, he stepped silently into the room, careful to make no noise. After all, the king was nearly a man now and no longer wanted to be coddled and watched. Indeed, he sometimes chafed at the confinement that royalty brought. As captain of the guard, Haydan realized that, yet he found he longed for the days when the lad was not too large to ride on his shoulders or to fall asleep in his arms on a long day's journey.

There were those at Blackburn who would be eager to say that it was not a guard's place to become so enmeshed in the king's life.

Haydan only wished he could disagree. But as he neared the large, scarlet draped bed, he felt the familiar

tug at his heart. A single candle splashed light across the room. Beneath the covers, young James slept peacefully.

Haydan watched him in silence, remembering him as a tiny lad, a chubby handsome child with a mischievous grin and hair as bright as a Highland plaid. The sound of his laughter, the look of admiration on his gamin features as Haydan taught him one thing or another—how to perform a proper riposte, notch an arrow, or hood a restive gyrfalcon.

Those days were dwindling so quickly now. Just the thought of it made him feel as old as the stone beneath his feet.

Near the door, he heard the shuffling of a guard. Turning almost guiltily from the bed, Haydan paced back through the doorway.

"Sir Hawk," said Galloway, keeping his face turned forward and only moving his eyes as Haydan stepped alongside him. "Is something amiss?"

"Nay, all is well," Hawk said, and turned away.

"Sir Hawk?"

"Aye," he said, glancing back at the lance-straight guard.

"I wished to thank you for this post."

"Already you have thanked me thrice."

The lad's stance stiffened even more, though Haydan would not have thought it possible. "I will not disappoint you, sir."

"I am sure you will not," Haydan agreed, eager to be off.

"And sir?"

"Aye."

"My apologies regarding the incident outside the gates."

"The incident?"

"With Lieutenant Brims and Wickfield. I did not know you had befriended the lass." His brow puckered. "I should have escorted her safely to Blackburn, even though she is a Gypsy."

Haydan narrowed his eyes. "You do not like Gypsies, Galloway?"

The young man swallowed hard enough to show the bob of his Adam's apple. " 'Tis difficult not to like them, now that I have seen—"

There was a whisper of amusement from the other guard.

Galloway stopped abruptly.

Haydan turned his gaze on the soldier called Cockerel by all those who knew him. Perhaps it was the wide, plumed hat he wore when off duty. Or perhaps it was simply his bearing that had initiated the name.

"Something amuses you, Cockerel?"

"Nay, Sir Hawk. Certainly not."

"Then why do you smile?"

"I was merely thinking of the Gypsy lass, sir." He paused, and the jaunty corner of his grin perked up a scant quarter of an inch. "She
is
rather... bonny. Is she not?"

Haydan sharpened his glare. "I had not noticed."

"Truly? Then let me inform you, sir: Lady Catriona is, without a doubt—"

"Not for the likes of you."

"What?"

"You will not touch her," Haydan said. "Do you understand me?"

Though Cockerel struggled to conceal his surprise, he was not so judicious about his grin. "I believe I do, sir," he said.

Haydan glowered for a moment. " 'Tis good." Turning abruptly away, he cursed the pain in his knee and his own grinding foolishness.

He walked for some time down the endless maze of hallways, but the castle seemed to hold no air, no freedom, no peace. He finally strode for the ramparts, hoping the wind would blow the moldering worries from his mind.

They were foolish worries. After all...

He stopped, aware suddenly of a small scratch of noise.

It was probably nothing more than a rat looking for a meal, but his nerves had already been on edge and now they were cranked as tight as a readied crossbow. Turning quietly down a darkened hallway, he followed his instincts, hoping he was heading in the right direction. Hoping—

There! A shadow just ahead, hovering in front of a door. Hawk paused, ready to jerk back into a hidden alcove. But already it was too late. The shadow turned toward him, the face pale in the darkness.

"Who goes there?" he asked.

There was a squeak of surprise and suddenly, like a skittish colt, the shadow turned and fled.

"Halt!" Hawk demanded. But the other was already fading into the gloom.

Haydan slammed into motion, straining to see in the darkness as he thundered along in pursuit.

Gone! He was gone! A hallway opened at each side. Hawk glanced in both directions. There!

He shot into action, leaping after his quarry like a hound, eating up the distance between them. The stairs! He saw the shadow turn, saw him lunge up the stone steps, but Haydan's stride was longer. He leapt after, swallowing several at a time. Close now. So close. He reached out to snatch the intruder back to him, but his fingers just brushed his tunic. There was a squawk of dismay. His prey burst up the last stair and around a corner.

Haydan leapt after, ready to drag him to the ground. But the ramparts were empty. He flew to the parapets and glanced down. The bailey was a hundred feet below. Had the scoundrel jumped? But no, he couldn't have!

He was hiding in a crenel. He had to be!

Haydan leapt on, peering into each gap of the stone battlements. But there was nothing. No one. He had disappeared—like smoke, like magic, like a wild figment of his imagination.

The next morning, Haydan's head groaned a complaint as he sat up in bed. His knee ached as he swung his feet onto the floor. He had spent most of the night pacing. After his frustrating chase, he had returned to the king's quarters. But one quick glance had assured him all was well. He had then hurried back to the spot where he had first seen his quarry and swept the door open without knocking.

A sleepy "What the devil are you about?" was hurled at him from the bed. It was obvious there was no trouble afoot there.

After a half hour or so of fairly aimless wandering, Haydan had finally returned to his own room. But sleep was a fickle mistress, and refused to lie with him. Thus he had paced until the wee hours of the morning, until fatigue had finally pulled him under.

Belting on his plaid, he slipped the blade of his sgian dubh, his black blade, into his boot so that only the antler hilt showed. These simple rituals made him feel better, and in a matter of minutes he sat in the great hall, trying to concentrate on his breakfast and ignore the knot of men that hovered near the corner of the noisy room. He knew why they congregated there; knew that hidden behind them was the lass called Catriona. But he would not care. If he had learned anything last night, either from his time in the infirmary or his time in the chase, he had learned that he was getting old.

Good saints! He felt as if he had run a hundred miles, as if he had battled a dragon with nothing more than a prayer and the dull end of a quail bone. When in actuality, he had done nothing more than run up a few stairs. And lost his quarry.

Frustration burned through him again. Who had it been and what mischief had he planned? Haydan would have been willing to believe there was no harm meant if the lad had stopped and explained his actions, but his flight had condemned him.

Lad! The word had come to him unbidden. It
had
been a lad at the door. Haydan was sure of it suddenly, for the boy had moved with swiftness and dexterity, and although the darkness may have been distorting, the figure did not seem very large.

Haydan glanced about the hall with a new perception. Among the servants, there were many youths. Near the front door, for instance, there was a boy about the proper size, but... nay. He was a wee bit too small.

Kitchen Elsie's daughter appeared. She was a comely lass of about fourteen years, plump and... Could his quarry have been a girl?

Haydan grimaced at the thought. He was not a vain man, but he had no wish to believe he had been outdistanced by a plump girl just coming into womanhood.

Ah, there. Another lad, near the cluster of men determined to make fools of themselves. Haydan watched the boy offer wine and ale as he moved among the long tables. He was a graceful boy and quick. Dressed in tan, slightly stained hose and a too-large tunic, he went efficiently about his task. His head was covered in a gray cap that drooped down the side of his face, but Haydan was fairly certain he was Sara's boy. A good lad, if a bit high-spirited.

The boy turned slightly, granting Haydan a slanted view of his face. Ale splashed over the brim of Haydan's mug and his curse was loud enough to make his table- mates turn toward him with quizzical expressions.

Damn it all—the lad had done it again.

"I tell you," Catriona said, laughing at the latest jest. "I have no claim to a throne, here or elsewhere."