Claire Delacroix (19 page)

The falconer turned, though his eyes widened at the sight of Aileen. He bowed hastily, but the Hawk had seen his dismay and wondered at its cause.

What fear had Tarsuinn of Aileen?

What did he know of her that the Hawk did not?

How could he know her? The Hawk thought again of treachery, of the cursed MacLaren clan and their endless schemes. Uncertainty gnawed within him and he feared that he might have claimed this bride with too much haste.

“At your service, my lord and lady,” Tarsuinn said.

The Hawk nodded to Aileen. “My lady has a question for you.”

Tarsuinn smiled encouragingly.

“Forgive me, Tarsuinn, but I would ask a bold favor of you.”

The falconer’s gaze flicked to his laird’s who nodded approval. He bowed to Aileen again. “Whatsoever my lady desires, of course.”

“Did the wound on your shoulder heal without a scar?”

Tarsuinn paled and he almost took a step back. When he spoke, his words were thick. “What wound would that be, my lady?”

“The one you sustained in the siege of Inverfyre.”

The Hawk looked to his bride in surprise. From whence had she learned such a detail? Even he had not known that Tarsuinn had been wounded in aiding Evangeline to escape burning Inverfyre.

Aileen’s tone was firm with her conviction. “The one which Adaira stitched for you, while Evangeline of Inverfyre watched.”

The Hawk’s blood chilled.

Tarsuinn stepped forward, though his discomfiture was clear. “See for yourself, my lady,” he said unevenly, and pulled his tabard and chemise down from his neck. A fine white line was evident there, though none would not have noted it in passing. “Nigh forty years have faded it much, I fancy.”

The scar was older than the Hawk’s bride, perhaps older than her mother would have been. The hair began to stand on the back of his neck.

Aileen could have no memory of this!

The Hawk watched as his bride touched Tarsuinn’s scar with a shaking finger, running her fingertip along its length with a familiarity undeserved. Her voice was surprisingly deep when she spoke, as if it was not her own.

Indeed, she spoke with a surety even beyond that she had already shown. “Inverfyre, under all its names, has long been a contested land, and the combatants of each epoch have oft had much in common with the combatants of the past. It is a place of some witchery, a place that casts a light into the heart of all those who pass its threshold, a place that condemns many of them to return again and again.”

Tarsuinn had the pallor of fresh milk now. The Hawk guessed the falconer had heard these words afore, though he still refused to accept how his bride knew them.

Aileen nodded with the resolve of one much older than her own years. Indeed, her posture was more bent, like that of an old woman, and he noted that her eyes were closed.

“One hears of ghosts in this land, of souls condemned to haunt a locale or rest uneasy,” she intoned. “Mine is a tale of ghosts, if you will. Two souls I speak of, two souls whose fates are entwined like two plies of a rope. And like the plies of that rope, neither can be strong or complete without the other.”

The Hawk looked between the two of them, uncertain what to do about his wife’s odd manner. Would he injure her by forcing her to awaken? Would she be more wounded if she continued? She had already confessed fear that she became mad beneath his care and he was keenly aware of his responsibility to her.

The boys who aided Tarsuinn lingered around the perimeter, their eyes wide. Tarsuinn perspired freely, but he did not step away from the lady. Indeed, he did not seem to breathe.

Aileen nodded again, as slowly as a sage. Her finger worried Tarsuinn’s wound, sliding back and forth, guided by some compulsion. “Magnus Armstrong was drawn to Inverfyre to meet his fated partner, to put an ancient crime to rest, to release these two souls from the confines of Inverfyre. It is the fate of these two to return time and again to Inverfyre. By divine compensation, they have the chance to set an old wrong to right, to seek each other anew each time their souls don a cloak of flesh.”

She shook her head and the Hawk suppressed a shiver. “But the gods are not kind. No, they are tricksters, each and every one of them. They give with one hand while stealing with the other. The chance of winning eternity together was what they offered to this pair, but memory of the tale was what they stole. By the time Magnus understood the price of his own ambition, he had betrayed his destined lover yet again and lost her companionship for yet another mortal life.”

Aileen tapped her fingertip on the Hawk’s arm without glancing at him. Goosepimples rose on his flesh, as if a shade had stepped among them.

“Evangeline’s son is Magnus Armstrong in new guise, as well as all the other men Magnus was afore. The wheel turns, the soul takes flesh again, and each course through the world is destined to teach some morsel of a higher truth.”

Enough! The Hawk seized his wife’s shoulder, not liking this fey mood a whit. “Aileen!” Her pupils were so tiny as to be invisible and she stared at him unseeingly. “Lady mine, what claims your wits?” He shook her, his voice rising when she did not respond. “Aileen, answer me!”

Her eyes rolled back, her lips parted and she fell limp. The Hawk caught her as she fainted, then looked to Tarsuinn, seeking an explanation.

“I knew it was her,” the falconer muttered. “I knew from the first glimpse of her that she walked among us again,” He crossed himself with vigor and licked his lips. “Upon my soul, my lord, those were the very words uttered by Adaira when she tended this wound. I swear it to you.”

The Hawk shivered then in truth. The alarmed boys crossed themselves and more than one took a step back.

“That cannot be so,” he insisted. “She cannot know such a detail. You must be in error, for it cannot be true.”

“But still it is.” Tarsuinn swallowed, then took a shuddering breath. His normal garrulousness returned now that Aileen was silent. “It was nigh thirty-eight years ago, my lord, when Malachy and I led your mother away from burning Inverfyre. She only left her home for the sake of the child in her womb; she left that you might survive. The MacLarens would have killed her to ensure that no blood heir of Inverfyre could ever be born. She was the last of your lineage, the last afore you.”

“Just as I am last,” the Hawk murmured, with no intent of doing so. He stared down at Aileen, his very flesh creeping. The old crone’s words, just repeated by his lady wife, echoed in his thoughts. He fought the wild claim, even as his heart whispered that it was time enough he saw the truth.

It seemed that he, too, fell prey to madness. It was not the trait he had hoped he and his bride would have in common.

It was not a trait men sought in their leader. It was imperative that the Hawk not lose the support of his men in these last days afore his triumph was complete.

Tarsuinn looked at Aileen, and shook himself visibly. “Adaira found us in the woods and spake those very words, my lord, as she stitched my wound. I never forgot them. Adaira even sounded thus, her voice low and thick, my lord. This was most uncommon! How your lady could have known such details, I cannot say, but I have gooseflesh.” Tarsuinn shivered, then forced a laugh and waved the curious boys back to work with a chiding jest.

He halted then and glanced back at his lord, his voice falling low so that only the Hawk could hear his words. “I knew it was her, my lord. When I first saw your bride, I had the strange conviction that Adaira had taken flesh to walk among us again.”

“It is madness to make such a claim, Tarsuinn, madness in defiance of all the church’s teachings.”

“I know. I know.” Tarsuinn licked his lips and glanced about himself, then leaned closer. “But sometimes I recall the tales my father told and I cannot dismiss them so readily as that. Sometimes I fear there is truth in these old hills, truth that many would prefer not to heed.”

With a last significant glance and a pat on the Hawk’s arm, he turned away.

The Hawk studied Aileen, her visage pale, and could not summon a reasonable explanation for what he had witnessed.

Save the one he struggled against.

Tarsuinn gestured to his apprentices and the Hawk spoke to the boys, though his thoughts churned. His lady limp in his arms, he made excuses for the strain she had recently faced, the words sounding as thin as old soup even to his own ears. He spoke with surety and tried to halt rumor afore it started. All the same, he knew that the tale of my lady’s fey manner would be whispered through the kitchens and stables in a matter of moments.

He cared less for that than for the lady herself. The fact remained that his wife’s affliction was both his fault and his responsibility, though he had not an inkling of what he could do to heal her.

And that was worrisome indeed.

T
he Hawk carried Aileen to her chamber and laid her upon the bed, his thoughts in chaos and his doubts growing.

He called for a brazier, a jug of wine, some cold victuals in case she awakened with a hunger. Nissa showed great consternation for Aileen when she brought these things, and the Hawk marveled that the two women could have forged such a bond so quickly. Old Gunna, too, fairly shed a tear in her concern, though the Hawk had never seen the competent servant show any emotion at all. The hall seemed uncommonly clean, though he would have readily confessed that was not a matter that concerned him overmuch.

What magic had his wife wrought in his home?

Aileen slept like a child through all of the bustle. The Hawk dismissed the servants, locked the portal and stood beside the bed, staring down at his wife.

Was she mad? If so, then so was he, for he had had a similar experience with Adaira years past. Was she a sorceress? He was astonished by how little he cared. Perhaps his lady wife had cast a spell upon him.

If nothing else, she was an enigma that he was tempted to solve.

The shadows were deep at this hour, but the light from the brazier touched Aileen’s features with gold. She looked soft and sweet as she slept and he wondered how any man could have called her plain of face.

She was not an obvious beauty, but there was dignity in her stance and intelligence in her eyes, and kindness softened the curve of her lips. She certainly was not wrought of ice, for it was fire that leapt between the two of them when they touched. Perhaps they shared an affinity.

The Hawk paced the chamber, knowing the name of that affinity well enough. He glanced back at his bride, considering what had happened this day, and tried to find a reason beyond the one she presented. It was possible that she had met with someone in the forest, for she had not progressed far during the day. That person could have told her of Tarsuinn and his scar, but the tale seemed more fanciful than the more obvious conclusion.

Dubhglas MacLaren had been a boy at the siege of Inverfyre. The Hawk’s heart clenched in acknowledgement that he would have known about Tarsuinn’s scar.

But Aileen insisted that she was Adaira taken flesh again and he was tempted to believe her. The Hawk shoved his hand through his hair and paced with new vigor. He had no doubt that such a feat was possible, for he had tasted the power of a vision in Adaira’s embrace. He knew how terrifying that experience could be, and could understand Aileen’s utter certitude that she had seen the truth.

But was it the truth? The Hawk did not know. He paused at the side of the bed and stared down at her, wishing he could put his trepidation aside, wishing he dared to trust her fully.

In two short days, there would be nothing else to fear for all would be resolved. In two short days, he could share the story of what Adaira had done to him. In two short days, there would be no secrets between them.

It was but a blink of an eye, in terms of a lifetime, and yet it was an eternity. It seemed too long to endure.

If Aileen was not a spy, then her woes were all his fault. Tenderness and guilt consumed him in equal measure. Though he was responsible, he would never surrender his bride.

Indeed, he could not step away from the bed. He removed the boots he had had wrought for her while she slept, and admired the graceful shape of her legs. Though his intent had been to see to her comfort, a much less innocent flame of desire kindled within him.

He unlaced Aileen’s tabard and eased her out of it. He unlaced her kirtle and coaxed her limp limbs from it, as with the chemise beneath. She was long and slender, her flesh fair, her nipples dark in contrast. Her breasts were high and firm—she was young and strong. There were freckles on her shoulders and her chest, the sight of them making him smile. He unbraided her hair as she dreamed and fanned it across the linens. The light danced within it and over her curves, gilding her more richly than any adornment he could have given her.

He pulled the pelts over her, reluctant to hide her from sight but not wanting her to be chilled. These dozen pelts were from wolves the Hawk had killed himself at Inverfyre. They had tormented the group of conquerors during the first years, wily predators that they are, and he alone had hunted them with success.

He had killed them to protect the people sworn to his service. It was his duty to these souls to see them safe, regardless of the risk to himself. He had had the hides tanned and kept for the bed of the bride he would ultimately take, hoping that the lady in question would understand that he meant to protect her as vigorously as he protected his holding and vassals.

His mother had taught him that duty could not be compromised.

Aileen nestled beneath the pelts, sighed in apparent contentment, and smiled. The Hawk’s heart clenched. He bent, enchanted, and touched his lips to her brow.

And the lady awakened with a start.

She gasped, clutching the fur to her chest. He retreated, but sat at the foot of the bed, leaning against one of the bed’s pillars. He cursed himself silently for so effectively ensuring her fear on the night of her abduction, and resolved to see the matter behind them immediately.

It was time enough that he began to court her in earnest.