Highland Hawk E-Book

Lois Greiman

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 471

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2000

Beschreibung

"An emotional, romantic triumph!" –Romantic Times "Greiman's writing is warm, witty and gently wise." –New York Times bestselling author Betina Krahn Scotland, 1524 Known as the Hawk, ruggedly handsome Haydn McGowan is the most loyal and fearsome warrior in the king's guard. Invulnerable to the temptations of boozing and women, Haydn shares his secrets with no one… Until the enchanting Catriona, a gypsy lass, enters the castle to perform with her family and troop for the young King James. Sensuous, erotic and wild, Cat is everything that Haydn shuns in his life as a warrior. But try as he might, Haydn can't resist the charms of this alluring girl…even though he's certain she's hiding secrets of her own. It's true that Catriona is on a mission, a desperate one at that…and the man standing in her way is a very big and decidedly sexy obstacle. Seduction is her game and, surely, this rugged soldier won't be too much of a challenge… But an unexpected passion grows between the gypsy lass and the single-minded hero – a passion and sensual love that neither wants to ignore. Each has secrets worth hiding, but so much more to lose if they can't reveal their hearts…

Leseprobe

Highland Hawk

Highland Brides #7

Lois Greiman

This e-book is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

This e-book may not be sold, shared, or given away.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

HIGHLAND HAWK

Previously published in print only (Avon, 2000).

Copyright © 2000 by Lois Greiman

Ebook ISBN: 9781625172563

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

NYLA Publishing

350 7th Avenue, Suite 2003, NY 10001, New York.

http://www.nyliterary.com

Dedication

To Tara, who is everything I expect my heroines to be—and so much more. When I dreamed of a daughter I never imagined anyone as perfect as you.

“If one must stray from the nest, better to soar with the hawk than to waggle with the goose.”

—Roderic the Rogue

Chapter 1

In the year of our Lord 1524

The lance pointed directly at Catriona's heart.

"Put back your hood at once," the soldier ordered. He was young, red-haired, and very straight in the saddle.

Catriona eased back the dark fabric with an unsteady hand. The sunlight, falling sharply from the west, struck her eyes at a hard angle, and she could not see the soldier's immediate reaction. But she heard his intake of breath, and the lance near her chest wavered for a moment before he steadied it.

"You are..." he began, then paused. "Gypsy." He said the word like a denouncement, his tone as stiff as the weapon he held with such youthful zeal.

"Aye, good sir. That I am."

"Where are you bound and how many in your party?"

Catriona tightened her hands on the reins and prayed from the depths of her soul. She could ill afford to be turned back now. Lachlan's very life depended on her success.

"You shall travel to the castle of the king," Blackhearthad said. "And there you shall do as you are bid."

"We go to the castle for the king's celebration. And there are only the two of us you see here and one more asleep inside the cart."

"Man or woman?"

"A woman, good sir."

"Is she..." For a moment the soldier faltered and leaned closer, as if to determine whether his eyes betrayed him. "Is she like you?"

From the top of the willow stick cage secured to the side of the cart, two greenfinches quarreled then fluttered to the nearby treetops.

"Like me?" Catriona knew what he saw—a dusky-skinned, cat-eyed woman who showed the traits of a thousand foreign tribes in her features.

"Is she..." he began, but a noise from behind warned him of someone's approach. He straightened his back stiffly and hardened a determined scowl. "Tell her to come out where we can see her," he ordered.

Catriona mentally winced. With diplomacy and luck, she might be able to soften the soldier's mood. But Marta of the Bairds had long ago outlived her love of finesse.

"She is weary and needs her rest," Catriona said, hedging carefully. ''

The boy-man behind the lance scowled uncertainly, then twitched his gaze to the rear and hardened his expression once again. "You shall have her come forth immediately or suffer the consequences," he said, but just then his mount was jostled aside.

"Oh, for God's sake, put up your weapon, Galloway." The man who spoke was perhaps a dozen years older than the first and scowled at the other before dropping his gaze to hers. His brows rose as if in surprise. "I see now why the lad made himself a fool." He smiled, slowly, as if that expression alone could accomplish much. He was dark-haired, fit, and bonny, and would be the last person on earth to be surprised if such was said aloud. That much Catriona knew immediately. "So you are Gypsies," he said.

"We are Rom," Rory corrected from beside her on the narrow wagon seat. His tone was terse, and like the young man called Galloway, he too could manage disdain. It was not an emotion Catriona condoned—not when surrounded by a score of soldiers, well armed and well mounted.

"I and my cousin have been invited to entertain for the king's birthday festivities," she said, hurrying to draw attention from Rory's haughty demeanor.

"Have you indeed?" asked the dark man, and canted his head as if impressed.

"Lieutenant Brims," Galloway began. "They are Gypsies, and as such..." He paused then leaned closer to his superior, dropping his voice as he did so.

But in truth, there was little need to hear his words, for it had all been said before.

The elder man straightened with a grin, not pulling his gaze from Catriona's. "I think the king's guard can manage a few Gypsies in our midst."

"Are you certain, sir?" asked another as he urged his steed closer. He too was dark, but narrow faced and narrow lipped. "It looks as if this lass might take a bit of handling."

"Are you offering your assistance, Wickfield?" Brims asked, still smiling at Catriona.

"That I am," said the other, his eyes bright in the setting sun.

"Very generous of you. But I see no reason for you to stay," said the officer. "You may return to your post with the others."

"Sir—" Galloway argued, but Wickfield interrupted him with a companionable hand on his shoulder.

"Not to worry, lad," he said. "I am certain the good lieutenant knows what he's about."

Galloway hesitated for a moment, but finally turned to the men behind him and ordered the troop away.

Their retreating hoofbeats sounded muffled in the still evening air. Celandine tossed her flaxen mane at the midges, and from behind, Cat heard Bay flirting with the soldiers' mounts.

"So you are entertainers?" said the lieutenant, leaning on the high pommel of his saddle as he stared down at her. "What do you do?"

"We are tumblers of sorts," Catriona said. "You may remember us from some years ago."

" 'Twas surely before I came to be in the king's employ," Brims said, nudging his steed closer. "For I would not have forgotten the likes of you."

Catriona smiled. Long ago she had learned that when the advantage of both flight and fight were against her, a ready smile was her best defense. And since her cart horse was tired and her gelding not the type to outdistance Brim's mount, she made certain her smile was effective. "I am flattered indeed, kind sir," she said, glancing demurely at her hands. "But I am certain a man of your stature has more pressing things to hold his attention."

"More pressing?" he said and laughed. "That I doubt. But tell me, sweet lass, what do I call you?"

He was uncomfortably close now. Close enough for her to feel the heat from his horse against her leg.

"They call me Catriona."

"A fine, bonny name, but one I've not heard before. It makes me curious as to its origin. Mayhap we could take a stroll in yonder woods and discuss it." He leaned from his saddle to brush the back of his gloved fingers against her cheek.

She was careful not to draw away, though she could feel Rory's jealousy like a tangible force on her opposite side. "Truly I would love to," she said. "But I fear I must press on toward the castle."

"Why the rush, wee Cat?"

"The king requested that we come." It was only a partial lie. "It seems unwise to make him wait."

"Certainly true," Brims said. "But the king is young and well involved with the preparations for the festivities. I am certain he will not notice a few minutes delay. Come with me," he ordered and reached for her.

But in that instant the tiny door behind her swung open.

"And what of me?" rasped a voice as melodious as a squeaky wheel. "I have a bonny name. Would you not like to discuss it?"

The lieutenant jerked back involuntarily as his gaze snapped to the face framed in the narrow door. Catriona knew what he would see—eyes as black as coal set in a toothless, dried-apple face.

"Speak," commanded the old woman. "Or has my beauty bewitched you?"

The lieutenant stared for a moment then laughed. "Indeed I am quite stunned. And what might your name be?"

"My name is Get the Devil Out of Our Way Before I Cast a—"

"Grandmother!" Cat interrupted rapidly. "This gentleman is but ensuring our safe passage to the castle. Best that you rest until we arrive there."

"Aye," said the lieutenant, but his jovial mood seemed to have darkened, and his gaze did not leave the doorway. "Shut yourself away, old one. Your granddaughter will only be gone for a short while unless—"

"She'll not be gone at all!" vowed Rory and lurched to his feet, his dirk already in his hand.

A movement flashed behind him. Something rose and fell, and suddenly Rory crumpled over the seat like a doll of rags.

From the far side of the cart the narrow-faced soldier smiled as his steed pranced in place.

"Back so soon, Wickfield?" Brims asked dryly.

"I told you she'd take a bit of handling, sir."

"And now I suppose you think to share."

The soldier shrugged, still grinning at her. "When there's a banquet..."

"Very well then," said Brims and reached for her.

Catriona stepped quickly sideways, but Rory's lax body impeded her retreat. "I regret my haste, gentle sirs," she said. "But truly, the king is expecting my imminent arrival. I dare not disappoint him."

"You dare not disappoint me," warned Brims, and reaching wide, snatched her sleeve.

The time for finesse had passed.

Catriona slapped the reins against her mare's back and yelled a command. The cob leapt forward, jerking the cart into motion.

Catriona was yanked backward, but the captain's hold broke and suddenly she was loose and flying down the road toward the castle, her heart thundering like the mare's wild hoofbeats.

Behind her, the two men bellowed and cursed. Beside her, Rory bounced closer to the whirling wheel.

"Fly!" she yelled to the mare, and lurching sideways, grabbed hold of Rory's collar. Tugging on a bounce, she wrenched him toward her. He bumped against her legs, nearly upsetting her, but she gained her balance, grabbed the reins in both hands, and urged the steed on.

The mare was fleet and game, but fatigue and her burden were against her. Catriona saw Brims's steed inch forward, saw his hands come into view. She yelled again, but clearly the race was already lost. She frantically scrambled for a way out.

Something brushed her shoulder and she spun sideways, ready to do battle, but only a blackened, long-handled kettle met her gaze. Snatching it from her great grandmother's hands, she dropped the reins, steadied them with one foot, and prepared herself.

Another second... One more... Brims's head was almost in sight—nearly there. Cat waited another instant, and then she swung.

Hot, pumping panic welled through Catriona, but her swing rang true. The kettle banged against Brims's forehead like a thundering mace. His head snapped backward. His body followed, and he torpedoed off his steed and out of sight.

"Cat!" Grandmother shrieked.

Catriona pivoted to the right, her pot ready for the next attacker, but in that instant, she was snatched off her feet by the man called Wickfield. The pot banged against the side of the cart, numbing her fingers before it fell away.

She was yanked over the saddle and her breath was torn from her lungs by the force of their speed. The earth blurred beneath the steed's galloping hooves. With her legs dangling on the horse's near side Catriona struggled for a hold, one hand in her captor's shirt, one in the mane.

"There's a good lass," Wickfield gritted, his arm wrapped hard about her waist. " 'Tis best you know when you've been mastered."

She couldn't reach the knife at her waist. Couldn't... Suddenly Catriona realized her fingers were wrapped about a rein. Instinctively, she jerked.

She had only a moment, only the briefest flash of time before the horse stumbled, but she was ready. As Wickfield grappled to right the reins, in the second when he realized they were about to fall, she wrenched her legs beneath her and launched herself from the steed's back.

She hit the ground hard and somersaulted, and when she rose to her feet, she saw that the horse had done the same, but Wickfield had not. Instead, he lay holding his right thigh and cursing, swearing revenge in staccato tones.

It was then that she heard the hoofbeats. Heart in her throat, she swung toward the noise. Horses thundered up and a dozen uniformed men were upon her in an instant. The nearest rider threw himself from his steel-gray mount.

Soldiers! And she had injured two of their own!

Catriona backed up a trembling step as the soldier approached. Limned by the sun behind him, he loomed over her like a castle wall. There was no hope against him and his men. Unless... Wickfield's mount still stood behind her, and seemed uninjured. If she could make it that far she might have a chance of reaching the castle and falling on James's mercy.

But she must be clever.

"Please, good sir..." There was no need to fake the quaver in her voice. Indeed, her knees threatened to buckle. "I meant no harm. I am but a poor innocent lass traveling—"

He reached for her, and she reacted, not like a poor innocent lass at all, but like an acrobat trained from infancy. Her heel struck his face as she tumbled away and his head snapped to the side. She rose to her feet with a jolt, but a hand was already closing around her arm in an unbreakable grip. She was jerked toward him, face to face, inches apart. Frustration and anger boiled inside her, and then, like a cat at the end of her defenses, she spat.

The saliva hit him square on the cheek. She felt him tense, sensed his anger.

And then he nodded.

"Catriona," he said.

"Hawk?" She said his name on a breath, certain she was mistaken. "Sir Hawk?"

"Aye." Around her upper arm, his big hand relaxed, though the muscle in his jaw did not. There was, she noticed, a swelling beginning to form just in front of his left ear. "Galloway informed me that there was a Gypsy lass who might have found some trouble with Lieutenant Brims. So I came to..." He glanced sideways, noting the man on the ground, the riderless horses. "Rescue her." He sighed and a bit of tension left his stance. "I was not expecting you, Catriona. My mistake, I see."

"Nay, I did not plan to—"

"Sir Hawk!" Brims stumbled up, his voice breathless and raspy, his nose purple and swollen in his usually handsome face. " 'Tis not as it seems. I saw this troupe heading toward the castle. Knowing they were Gypsies, I feared they meant the king some harm. Hence, I detained them."

Sir Hawk dropped her arm and remained perfectly silent for a moment. "And your men?" he asked quietly.

"What?"

"The rest of your men—where are they, Sir Brims? Knowing you were dealing with wild Gypsies, did you not keep your men close at hand lest the lass overwhelm you?"

"I..." Brims paused for an instant to glance at his fallen comrade, but Wickfield merely stared, his face ashen as he gripped his injured leg. "I saw there were only the few of them, so hence I thought it safe to send my men back to their posts."

Silence.

"But?" Hawk urged.

"What?"

"But what happened?"

Sir Hawk had changed little since Catriona had seen him last, nearly two years before. Square jaw. Bowed nose. Mayhap a bit more silver in his hair. A new scar nicked diagonally across his chin, but his voice was the same; low and even, as if every word was carefully measured before it was loosed. "What went amiss, Sir Brims? I would think you could have managed to escort a lass to the castle without breaking Wickfield's leg and your own nose."

"Broken!" he rasped, covering it with one hand as he grabbed his sword with the other. "Damn—"

Catriona didn't even see Sir Hawk move. It almost seemed as if the lieutenant's blue doublet became entangled in his fingers of its own accord. As if it were Brims who pressed his chest up close to Hawk's fist.

"I am too old to enjoy such wild displays of passion," Hawk said softly. “Therefore I shall warn you now. Not only do I myself owe Lady Catriona a personal debt of gratitude, but she is a friend of His Majesty, King James, and therefore a friend of Scotland herself. Do you understand me?"

"Aye. Aye, Sir Hawk."

"Good. Then let us proceed." Hawk loosened his fingers, letting the lieutenant's doublet spill out of his hand. "What happened here?"

Brims cleared his throat, chanced one glance in Catriona's direction, and spoke clearly. "I sent the others back to Blackburn as I said, but I did not want the lady to travel alone. Hence—"

"Alone?" asked Hawk, glancing at her.

"Not entirely alone," she said quickly, wishing his eyes weren't quite so piercing. "Grandmother and Rory are with me."

"What of the others?"

She refused to turn her eyes away, though it was difficult. "They had no wish to make the long journey north and joined up with kin instead."

"Young Lachlan too?"

"Aye."

"I would not have thought—"

"Sir Hawk," Brims interrupted, impatient and in obvious pain. "I fear we have lost the thrust of this conversation."

Hawk turned slowly back toward his lieutenant, his expression inscrutable. "And what is the thrust, Brims?"

"I merely offered to escort the lady to Blackburn, nothing more."

Hawk shifted his attention back to her. Their gazes met.

The memory of rattling fear swamped Catriona. But with it came the knowledge that she was the outsider here. She could ill afford to cause trouble among the ranks. Still, if she could not have justice, at least she would have truth. " 'Tis not what he offered," she said softly.

"Lying—" Brims rasped, but Hawk interrupted with a raised hand.

"You will return to Blackburn, collect any monies due, and leave posthaste." His tone was low and level.

"But—"

"And if your head has no wish to be separated from your body..." Hawk watched the lieutenant with silvery, deadly earnest eyes. "You will be gone before I arrive there."

For a moment Catriona thought Brims would argue, but he drew himself up and turned away.

Not a soul spoke. Somewhere off to the side a man groaned, but whether it was Wickfield or Rory returning to consciousness, Catriona could not tell.

"I owe you much, Sir Hawk," she said softly.

He watched her with unwavering intent. "Remember that," he said, "when you reach Blackburn Castle."

Cat was no stranger to propositions. She was Rom, she was young, and she possessed an allure for men that she could not explain but had long ago accepted. She had learned at a tender age how to discourage men without lessening her own prospects. How to turn them aside while flattering them in the same breath. But this man had been nothing but distant and respectful since the first moment they had met, since she had rushed to Blackburn Castle so long ago to inform him of his beloved niece's plight. Had the Hawk changed since then? Had he become like so many others?

"You wish something of me, Sir Hawk?" she asked, her tone cautious and level.

"Aye." He nodded once, slowly. "I would ask that you not start a war until you leave our little keep," he said, and turned away on the heel of his boot. No, he had not changed. His plaid flared and settled around corded thighs as he strode away—a quiet, kilted bear among yapping lap dogs.

"Sir Hawk," she said, screwing up her courage. "May I request one favor?"

He turned back, his brows pulled low over his moon- mist eyes. "Does it involve any more of my men being broken or bloodied?"

A flash of anger sparked through her. She had not asked to be propositioned or pursued. "Only if the men in question prove to be as foolhardy as the first."

Something in his eyes changed almost imperceptibly—a spark of humor, perhaps, though his lips remained immobile and stern.

" 'Tis said, lass, that a bonny face can make a fool of any man."

"Then 'tis hardly my fault, is it? For this is the face I was given." She felt indescribably weary suddenly, far older than her twenty-two years. "In truth, it has caused me far more trouble than joy."

"Indeed?" He did smile now, though the expression was wry and fleeting as he gave her a shallow bow. "Then I must do what I can to lighten the load of your beauty, Lady Cat. In what manner can I assist you?"

Chapter 2

Catriona took a step into the great hall. Her heart thrummed in her chest, and her muscles felt taut, like brass wires stretched too tightly along the neck of a gittern. But these sensations were nothing new, only sharpened with the urgency of this impromptu performance.

"I cannot do it," she had said. But Blackheart had only laughed. "The Princess Cat unsure of herself? Surely not. Nay, you shall deliver the young king to me, and when you do... Well, your reunion with your wee brother shall be quite touching, I am sure. "

Off to her right, a young nobleman noticed her and turned from his conversation with a pale young woman dressed in pink. His lips parted, but his words had ceased. The drinking horn slipped from his fingers to clatter noisily to the floor. Around him, heads turned toward her. The hall fell to whispers, then to silence. 'Twas then that the music of a lute began, softly at first, then rising like a musical moon. As if from nowhere, it trilled around her.

She took another step forward, balanced on the balls of her bare feet. One step and then another. More heads turned her way. A path was cleaved in front of her. She twirled once, then again. Her skirt, crafted of fabric as light as air and as bright as holly berries twirled with her, billowing away from the dark, cuffed garment beneath. Stretching her arms overhead, she danced for a moment then tipped her body over, positioned on her hands for an instant before finding her feet again. Her flaring skirt made a continuous arc through the air, and when she landed—voila—there was a goblet in her hand. A goblet filled with wine and not a droplet spilled.

She handed it off to a nearby gentleman and danced on. One stride, then two. From the corner of her eye, she saw the raised dais in the center of the gargantuan room.

The rhythm of the music sped along. Not far away there was a space between two men who sat on the table's benchlike seat. She leapt easily into that opening, her feet a light patter against the wear-smoothed wood as she spun again and again.

In an instant, she was atop the table. Platters and saltcellars and goblets and food crowded the great wooden expanse. But it was no great feat for her to avoid the clutter, to dance across the surface, to scoop up a tart, somersault from the table, and offer the dessert to the nearest bystander. No great feat to twirl and dance and mesmerize until she fell forward in a heap of gauzy fabric at the foot of the king's chair.

The music fell away. The hall was as silent as a mausoleum. She sat up slowly, lifting her arms above her head, unfolding like a flower to the sun. And with her movement came the birds, fluttering from her on delicate yellow-green wings.

She watched the king lift his freckled face to the ceiling, watched him giggle with glee, before finally turning back toward her.

"Lady Cat." His voice had deepened somewhat since her last visit there, but the smoothness of his cheeks still evidenced the features of a lad. "You have returned."

"Aye." She rose to her feet amid raucous applause, bowed low, and smiled. "Did I not say I would?"

"Aye. But it has been forever and beyond."

She laughed. "Mayhap to a lad, but surely not to a king," she said softly.

"Am I not a person first, and a king second?"

"Aye. That you are, Your Majesty," she said. "And a young man, I see. You are twice the height you were when last I saw you."

"I am nearing twelve years of age." There was excitement in his voice. "The day of my birth approaches."

"Does it?" She held her breath, awaiting his next words.

"Aye. There will be much merrymaking. You must come."

She could feel her heart knock against her ribs in thrumming relief. "But, Your Majesty, I have—"

"Nay, you must!" he said. "I insist. You will perform at the festivities."

Thank you, God. "A simple Rom lass at such a lavish festival? What will your council say?"

"They will say..." He scowled and cast a mischievous sidelong glance toward Lord Tremayne, his most senior and most unbending, advisor. "These gypsies are the very devil incarnate and must be cast from our midst.' "

"Will they?"

"Aye. And I will say..." He raised his chin and flipped a casual hand. "Accept my friends or forfeit your heads."

"Can you say that?" she asked, making certain her tone bore the proper awe.

He shrugged and leaned close to whisper. "Oh, aye, I can say it, but thus far no heads have actually been forthcoming."

She laughed. " 'Tis good to see you again, Your Majesty."

"Say you will perform for my birthday."

"Or I must forfeit my head?"

Beside her, Sir Hawk strode up and bowed slightly.

"Why did you not tell me she had come?" James asked.

"Mayhap I did not know," Hawk said, but the king scoffed.

"A maggot could not enter this keep without your knowledge. Nor can I breathe without your consent."

Hawk tilted his head. The black plume in his deep green bonnet bobbed. "I am but trying to keep you safe, Your Majesty."

"Then I would suggest keeping me informed as to our guests," said a voice at Cat's elbow.

She turned. Lord Tremayne looked no different than he had at her last meeting with him. He was a man of indeterminate years with cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood. He stared at her with pale, watery eyes and pursed lips that blended into the parched color of his face.

" 'Tis a pleasure to see you again, my lord," she lied.

He raised a single brow. "Explanations, Sir Hawk," he said, without turning his attention from her.

"Catriona of the Bairds is a friend of clan MacGowan and a friend of the throne," Hawk said, his low voice not reaching past their small ring of listeners.

"But I did not give permission for her presence here," Tremayne said. "Therefore—"

"Who is this person?" asked another gentleman, elbowing his way forward. He was a good hand shorter than Tremayne, though his increased girth made him appear considerably less. He struggled to free something from a pouch at his side. "And why is she here?" he asked, still .wrestling with the recalcitrant pouch.

"My apologies, good sir," Catriona said, curtsying gently. "The fault for my rude interruption is entirely mine."

"It is..." began the man, but just at that moment, he managed to fish out his wire spectacles. Behind the curved glass, his eyes grew wide before he blinked like a blinded owl. "Who is she?" he asked again, but the question was asked in a breathy whisper now.

"She is Catriona of the clan Baird, Your Grace. Some call her Princess Cat. 'Tis naught but a courtesy name, for her origins are humble, unless you believe the wild tales about her antecedents." Hawk's tone was parchment dry. "And Lord Tremayne is correct, of course; she should not have been allowed to disturb this royal assemblage. Off with you now," he said, turning dramatically toward Cat.

"Surely you jest," argued a gentleman who pushed through the crush. Dressed in mustard-yellow hose and a slashed crimson doublet, he was the very picture of polite refinement. "We can hardly toss the lass out on her ear. 'Tis practically the midst of the night. She needs a place to retire." Reaching for her hand, he bowed smoothly over her knuckles, bestowing on them a lingering kiss. While the duke was squat and balding, this man was narrow and refined, with bonny features and perfect teeth. "Marquis de la Faire," he introduced himself. "But you may call me Boswell the Fair."

"I did not say we should toss her out," insisted the myopic duke. "I but meant..." For a moment he floundered for words and perhaps for breath itself, then, "After all, we would not want the king to be thought of as uncharitable."

"But what of his safety?" Hawk asked.

"Safety!" The stout man scoffed, turning his gaze back to Catriona with a labored sigh. "What harm could one wee lass do? And such a..." He paused as he examined her more closely—her face, her bodice, laced tight to keep all the necessities in place, her waist, and then down to where her hands clasped each other beneath her slashed red and black sleeves. "Such a delicate thing at that."

She had just catapulted from the table and into their midst. "Delicate" did not seem a fitting description, but Catriona was not one to argue when things were going her way.

"Aye," said Sir Hawk, his dry tone suggesting he had forgotten neither Wickfield's agonized moans nor his lieutenant's purple nose. "She is indeed a delicate lass."

"She is perfection of form," said de la Faire.

She smiled, trying to encompass the gathering of lords and ladies that crowded in for a better view.

"Had I realized the cordiality of Blackburn Castle, I would have come sooner," she said.

"You have never been to our fair keep before?" asked de la Faire.

"Long ago," she said. "And then only for a short visit."

"Then I must show you about," said the Frenchman.

"I know the castle as well as any," argued the spectacled duke. "Therefore—"

"As much as I appreciate your kind offers," Catriona interrupted. " 'Twas a long and arduous journey. Truly, I desire nothing more than a bed and—"

"I've got a bed," piped a young noble with crooked front teeth and a lopsided grin.

"And solitude," Cat finished. Ignoring the crestfallen expressions of the men around her, she turned toward the king. "Your Majesty, I thank you for your kind audience."

He rose from his chair with the energetic haste of youth. "Tell me you shall stay and perform for my birthday."

She turned her eyes toward Tremayne and his nearsighted counterpart. "I've no wish to cause rancor amongst your loyal advisors."

"Nay, nay," crooned Lord Spectacles. " 'Tis a royal request. What can we do but comply?"

Tremayne said nothing.

"Then I shall gladly agree," Cat said.

"I have been practicing my horsemanship since last we met," James said.

For a moment she wondered what he meant, but then she remembered their time together—the young king's grave efforts as he tried to achieve a few of the simpler tricks she had shown him.

"You must demonstrate when next we ride." She curtsied. "My thanks, Your Highness," she said and turned away.

"I shall see you again then surely," said the duke, tottering along after.

In all honesty, that depended on if he had his spectacles close to hand.

"Can I see you to your chambers?" asked the Frenchman as others pressed close behind him.

"Sir Hawk promised to escort me," she said, glancing toward the huge soldier.

He raised a single brow a fraction at her lie, but stepped up with a bow.

"Do not forget me, then, if you wish for a tour," said de la Faire.

"How could I?" she asked and tucked her hand beneath the Hawk's elbow. Against her fingers, muscles honed by years and battle jumped to life as he bore her through the pressing crowd.

"Mourning the sad state of your beauty again?" he asked quietly, not looking down at her as he pulled open the hall's heavy door.

She smiled, nodding once at a young gentleman who cocked a knee and bowed to her. "I but said it gave me more trouble than joy," she reminded him. "I did not say that I was too proud to use it."

"Then use it to your best advantage, lass," he said, "for the king's celebration begins in less than a fortnight. And I doubt Tremayne will tolerate your much bemoaned beauty after that."

"A fortnight!" The words caught in her chest.

"Aye." He glanced sharply down at her. "Is something amiss?"

"Nay. 'Tis just that there is much to plan if I am to entertain for such a grand assemblage. Costumes, routines..."

"Your performance tonight was quite impressive."

She couldn't tell if he referred to her acrobatics or her conversation afterward, but his next statement answered her unspoken question.

"The Catriona I remember was not so designing."

"I was younger then." Far younger. Indeed, she felt as old as the curving stone stairs up which they climbed. "Is there something so dreadful about wanting to perform at the king's celebration?"

"Not at all. But you might have simply asked."

"Who? You or Lord Tremayne?"

He acknowledged her point with a simple nod. " 'Tis lucky that the Duke of Ramhurst is not entirely blind, or your ploy might well have failed."

She laughed as they reached the door of the chambers she had been given to use. " 'Tis good for me to flex my manipulative muscles now and then."

"I fear I do not understand."

" 'Tis because you are not an entertainer."

"True. I am naught but a—" he began then turned in surprise as a pair of greenfinches fluttered up the stairs toward them. They flitted to her shoulder and squabbled, but she opened the door and shooed them inside. "You were saying?"

"I was saying I am but a scared old warrior."

"False modesty, Sir Hawk?" she asked.

"Painful honesty," he countered.

"I think you underrate yourself," she said, glancing up through her lashes.

"And I think you should find younger game on which to hone your hunting skills."

She laughed aloud and pulled her fingers from his arm. Her knuckles brushed his chest, and for an instant she almost thought she heard him draw in a sharp breath. "I think you would make a fine entertainer, Sir Hawk. In truth, being able to judge your audience is an important asset. It seems you would do well in that regard; and you would look quite dashing with your fierce scowl. Perhaps a sweeping cape to add to the drama.”

“But..."She shrugged. "Mistress Hawk might take offence."

He said nothing.

She cleared her throat and eyed him askance. "Mayhap you do not know the rules of this game," she said. "I am asking, and quite subtly I might add, if you are wed."

"Marcele died some fifteen years past."

"Oh." She suddenly felt very foolish and rather callow. "My apologies."

The silence stretched uncomfortably.

" 'Twas a marriage arranged between her family and Lord Beaumont."

"A Frenchman?"

"He was my liege lord for some years."

"And you impressed him with your skill and loyalty."

He did not deny it. "I should have refused. She was..." he began then paused.

"What?"

"Fragile," he said. "She died carrying my child."

"And so you have no children... except for the king, of course."

"You could see me beheaded with that sort of talk, lass," he warned wryly.

"I only meant that I imagine most guards don't share such a closeness as you do with young James."

"An old soldier's means of recapturing his youth, I suppose."

"How old?"

He raised his brows in mild humor. "I hope you find the room to your satisfaction, Lady Cat."

"You've no intention of answering me?"

"Quite astute for a babe just out of swaddling."

They stared at each other in silence for a moment. A strange sort of breathless tension stole over her. She dropped her gaze.

"My thanks for rescuing me from Lord Tremayne. It seems he bears no fondness for me," she said finally.

"Rescuing?" He gave a mild expression of surprise. "I was hoping to see you cast from Blackburn before you caused more trouble. Unfortunately, the duke of Ramhurst found his spectacles too quickly."

She would be wise, she knew, to ignore the odd trickle of pleasure caused by his off-hand compliment. "Which goes to prove that everything happens as it should," she said.

"Or that there is no fool like an old fool."

"How old?" she asked again.

"The duke? Too old for you," he said.

"And you?"

"He is decidedly too old for me."

She smiled, then sobered. "My thanks again, Sir Hawk."

"My debt to you has too long been unfulfilled," he reminded her.

"Not true." She glanced toward the nearby window, remembering the first time she had met him. " 'Twas a simple enough thing to hustle to Blackburn and tell you that Rachel and her Liam had found some trouble. I owed them that much at least. Liam taught me a great deal about sleight of hand and Rachel... Rachel was a saint; and a friend when a friend was needed."

"And she is my kin always," he said, still watching her. "I owe her mother, Lady Fiona."

"Truly?" she asked, intrigued. "The great hawk of the Highlands. It does not seem possible that you could owe anyone."

He canted his head. His was not a pretty face, but solid and masculine, chiseled by years and character, with a groove on each side of his mouth like elongated dimples, and a bowed nose that suggested a colorful past. " 'Twas a time when I was even younger than you, wee Cat."

"Nay!" she said, managing to sound surprised.

"Aye. Well before the dawn of time, of course."

"Ah. So tell me, before the dawn of time, what Rachel's mother did for you."

"Naught but save my life."

The arched hallway around them was silent.

"Tell me," she said softly.

"I thought you were quite weary."

"Tell me."

He shrugged and settled a brawny shoulder against the wall. There was a casual strength to his movement, interwoven with a unique, unconscious grace. "My half- sister took me in when I was small and sickly and had none other to care for me. 'Twas her sister-by-law, the Lady Fiona, who nursed me into health."

She glanced at the muscle that bulged beneath the sleeves of his russet doublet then swept her gaze up the bulk of his chest to his unreadable eyes. "You jest."

"There are those who say Lady Fiona could change a toad into a prince. Which, if you dwell on it, makes her miracle with me seem somewhat less miraculous."

"So Rachel inherited her healing touch from her mother."

"Aye."

"And she is your kinswoman."

"In actuality, she is my half-sister's husband's brother's daughter."

"Very nearly twins."

His eyes smiled "Close enough I suspect, that they had no wish to see me die. In truth, they insisted that I live. Regardless what my lungs thought of the matter."

'Twas difficult to think of him as a child, for he seemed to be the embodiment of looming masculinity. As she stared at him, she imagined the lad he had been—dark hair, a somber expression, a fleeting shadow of what he would become. Not unlike Lachlan—burning potential in a wee small frame. But she would not think of that just now. "Who are 'they'?" she asked.

He paused a moment, then straightened from the wall. "Is anything amiss, lass?"

"Nay." She brightened her smile. "Nothing. 'Tis just... difficult to imagine you as anything but a rock."

His gaze didn't waver from her face. "Rory has recovered?"

"Aye. An ache in the head, nothing worse."

"And your Lachlan. He is well and lively?"

"Oh, aye. If he were any livelier I would have to sell him to the Gypsies." She laughed.

"Young James would have been happy to see him."

" 'Twas sorry I was to leave him behind. He is as clever and troublesome as ever, but I feared Blackburn might not have enough supplies to sate his appetite. He eats as much as Bear."

"So the bear stayed behind too?"

"Aye. They are probably even now squabbling over herring pie." Her throat closed up, clogged with terror and tears. If only Bear had been with Lachlan when Blackheart's men had come upon him in the woods, her brother might still be with her now.

She forced down the fear. Now was not the time for helpless sentiment. Now was the time for action, for planning, for clear-headed thinking and bold deeds. But she was neither clear-headed nor bold. She was scared and lost and out of her depth, but she dare not show it—so she forged on, trying to turn Hawk's attention aside. "Just before I left him, he asked me a riddle," she said. "Who is gray at birth, fair at maturity, and raven-haired in her dotage?"

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.

"I have no wish to disturb you if you are otherwise occupied."