Claire Delacroix (8 page)

“Umph!” Aileen nodded in emphatic agreement to that.

“Then perhaps the lady does not understand her own best interests,” the Hawk said smoothly.

Aileen would have gladly argued that assertion and the priest clearly made note of her flashing eyes. He made to protest, but the Hawk released his grip upon her waist. White flashed before her eyes and the priest instinctively caught the object tossed at him.

It was Aileen’s chemise. And there was blood upon it, blood where the blood of a woman’s broken maidenhead would fall. The blood was yet wet, of course.

Father Gilchrist realized what he held and dropped it immediately.

Aileen saw the look in the priest’s eyes and knew that he believed that she had been raped. She felt doubly ill then, for she understood that the Hawk had cornered her again. If he abandoned her now, nothing she said could take the stain from her name. If he claimed her, she could not imagine her existence.

She was left with no good choices.

The other two men began to chuckle. “I thought you took overlong, my lord,” said the one by the door, his manner teasing.

The other winked at Aileen again. “The Hawk of Inverfyre leaves no detail to chance.”

“Certainly not,” the Hawk lied easily, though Aileen supposed that would be a minor crime to a man of his ilk.

“The garment is torn,” Father Gilchrist insisted with vigor. “The lady was not willing.”

“Yet the deed is done all the same,” the Hawk said with such confidence that none would doubt him. Aileen loathed him in that moment with all her heart and soul. How dare he damage her reputation? “Surely what is of import is that I would treat her with honor from this moment forward.”

“With honor?” Father Gilchrist sputtered. “What mockery is this? You cannot imagine that I will persuaded that you would treat the daughter of my patron with any dignity after you have raped her! I would be a fool to cede her hand to you!”

“And you think her fate much improved to remain here, soiled as she is. How many suitors do you think will come for her now?” The Hawk’s tone was derisive. “You are a fool to think that you—or she—have a choice.”

The priest frowned. “Why do you wed her?”

“Perhaps I am smitten.”

The Hawk’s men laughed and Aileen felt her face heat. The Hawk, though, did not laugh. Indeed, he must have granted his men a stern glance for they abruptly sobered.

Father Gilchrist regarded the Hawk with skepticism. “Her father will provide no dowry or lands, given your deed.”

“I have no need of whatsoever he would give.” The Hawk tightened his grip upon Aileen. “I already possess the sole prize of Abernye.”

The certainty in his tone fairly took Aileen’s breath away, though she could not imagine that he meant his words.

His breath stirred her hair suddenly and unexpected humor tinged his next words. “And perhaps Aileen will be less inclined to kill me when next we meet abed, if she is my lady wife. Women have a fondness for such formalities, I am told.”

“I will call for aid and foil your scheme,” Father Gilchrist argued.

“I would advise against that.” The Hawk’s tone turned as grim as the expressions of his men. “It will be the last sound you make on this earth.”

“You would not kill a priest in the sanctuary of a church!”

Aileen might have agreed before she heard the coldness of the Hawk’s reply. “I have done worse before and likely will do worse again,” he said and Aileen shivered, remembering his threat just moments before.

“I will take her, either way,” the Hawk continued with resolve. “Would you deny your laird’s daughter the honor of a marital bond, or do you dispatch her to the uncertain life of a concubine?”

Father Gilchrist clearly wanted to deny this man his will, but Aileen saw the blade of the Hawk’s man dig deep enough to make the priest flinch. A trickle of blood stained the priest’s undyed robe. The gazes of priest and would-be bride met, their fear tangible.

“My lady? I shall not do this thing without your assent, even if they do kill me for it.” The priest who had baptized Aileen eighteen years before now studied her.

The knife against Father Gilchrist’s side gleamed evilly. These men would kill him and Aileen knew it. And as much as she might have preferred, there was truth in the Hawk’s claim: she would have more rights as his wife than as his whore.

Further, she might have the chance of escape once they left this chapel. He had planned this deed well, for she truly had no choice but to cede to him, for the moment.

Aileen nodded once, without enthusiasm. At least, she would not have the blood of a priest upon her hands—nor would it be on the hands of her spouse. Their lives would be bound together from this night onward, be it for better or for worse.

Let the Hawk imagine that she was amenable to that. There would be time aplenty for vengeance after he was persuaded that he could trust her.

* * *

Aileen never remembered the words of her wedding service. She assumed they were the usual ones, for the Hawk showed no displeasure with the ritual they were granted.

What she remembered was the tightness of the bonds around her, the conviction in the words her new spouse uttered so close by her ear, the smoothness of his leather glove against her lips.

And his kiss to seal the match.

She remembered how he turned her face to his, she remembered how he warned her quietly not to scream, she remembered how he had coaxed her participation in their ritual kiss. She remembered that she had no fear of his touch—on the contrary, she hungered for the brush of his lips across hers. She remembered how an uncommon heat filled her veins, how his touch awakened a thousand apparent memories.

Most disconcertingly, she would always recall how utterly certain she was that what they had just done was right.

Then he had trussed the gag across her mouth anew, his expression inscrutable, and she feared that she had fallen into the hands of the devil himself.

* * *

In no time at all, they were riding. The black stallions had been saddled and waiting in the shadows outside Abernye’s walls, so dark as to be shadows themselves. The last of the Hawk’s men had been waiting there, the reins in his grip, the stallions stamping in their impatience to gallop.

The gate of Abernye had stood open, against all conventions. When they passed beneath the portcullis, Aileen saw the gatekeeper hale enough, snoring with his mouth open in his gatehouse.

At least, he was not dead. Aileen told herself to be grateful for small mercies.

She realized that all had been prepared with chilling precision. Aileen understood then that she should not underestimate her new spouse’s ability to anticipate any event—much less, to plan for it.

She would need all her wits to escape this man alive.

The Hawk’s men set their spurs to their steeds with nary a word between them, as if such thievery were habitual among them. She supposed it must be and feared anew what household she had been compelled to join.

The Hawk’s company closed ranks around him, their ebony horses moving like the night wind. Aileen was trapped before the Hawk, bound and silent, the fluid movement of the horse forcing her against her husband’s heat.

Husband.

Over the Hawk’s shoulder, Aileen watched the waning moon rise over the squat towers of Abernye. Those familiar towers diminished in the dark shadow of distance until they were swallowed by the hills and lost to her forever.

It was then that the truth chilled her blood. She was bound to this notorious warrior forevermore. She shivered then, despite the wealth of fur around her, and her husband caught her closer. He looked down at her then, his handsome features wreathed in shadows, and Aileen knew she saw him smile.

The Hawk’s scheme, it seemed, proceeded precisely as he had planned.

Thus far.

* * *

Aileen was his and his alone.

The Hawk was triumphant in his success. His plan had been executed perfectly. The miles fell behind them with no hint of pursuit and every step made him more certain that they would reach Inverfyre unchallenged.

And there, there, he and Aileen would have a true nuptial night to celebrate. He could scarce wait.

His bride sat stiffly before him for long hours that night, defying the Hawk’s every expectation. He had anticipated maidenly tears, but his bride had not shed a single one. He had feared an unholy fight in the chapel—or worse, her refusal to comply—but Aileen had agreed so readily that he was convinced that their thoughts were as one.

Matters began most well.

When she finally slept, he pulled her weight against him more fully. The night was silent save for the hoof beats of their galloping steeds. Wilderness surrounded them on all sides, for Abernye was far to the north. The Hawk unknotted the gag and eased it from his lady’s lips.

She did not awaken. There was a mark upon her flesh from the binding and he caressed it tenderly, regretting that he had trusted her as little as he had. No doubt she would have simply taken his hand and agreed if he had asked, if he had not been so fearful of her refusal.

He loosed the bonds that bound her, leaving her wrapped solely in the warmth of his cloak with his arm fast around her waist. The cloak fluttered in the wind and she started to sudden wakefulness, no doubt because of the chill that touched her flesh.

He might have expected a sweet confession, or that she would have nestled close against him again in contentment, but Aileen straightened. She wasted no time on pleasantries, her tongue running quickly across her lips as she glanced at the darkness around them.

“I assume that we are so far afield that no one could hear any cry for aid that I was fool enough to utter,” she said.

The Hawk nodded assent, startled by the bitterness in her tone. Her conclusion was true, though it was not the sole reason he had loosed her fetters.

The lady stretched slightly, then gathered the cloak more closely about herself. “And presumably you believe that I am not so addle-pated as to leap from the back of a racing steed?”

The Hawk pulled her closer with proprietary ease. “Your wits are sufficiently keen that a man might cut himself upon them, lady mine.”

She glanced up then, her gaze bright despite the darkness. He had the sense that she feared that he mocked her, so he held her gaze.

“I like that you are clever,” he said, sensing her doubt.

She frowned and eyed his company with undisguised curiosity. The wind lifted blond tendrils of her hair and drove them against his chest, the feminine softness of them feeding the Hawk’s possessive instincts. Ah, to be abed at Inverfyre already!

“Did Blanche concoct this scheme with you?” she asked, her tone mild.

“Blanche?” The Hawk knew that his astonishment showed.

His bride’s lips tightened. “My step-mother would like to be rid of me.” Her mutinous glance flicked to him. “She would like even more to grant me to a man of such notorious repute that I might be raped and left dead in a ditch.”

The Hawk perceived somewhat belatedly that his threat, intending only to ensure her silence, had been given greater credence than he had anticipated.

“I made no scheme with your step-mother,” he insisted. “And it is not my intent that your days end so poorly as that.”

She granted him a glance so dubious that the Hawk knew not what to say in his own defense. “What then is your scheme for me?”

“You are my lady wife. You will sit upon my left hand in my abode, bear my sons and honor my hall with your presence. Surely you cannot imagine that I desire other than this?”

Aileen made a small skeptical sound, then closed her eyes to end their conversation. The Hawk knew from her breathing that she did not sleep.

He did not know what to say to ease her concerns, indeed, he could not have named what those concerns might be. He knew that it was right that they should be wedded. He knew that Aileen was the wife for him.

He suddenly feared, however, that the lady was somewhat less persuaded of this truth than he.

* * *

The Hawk pondered his course until the eastern sky turned rosy. He indicated to his companions that they should leave the road, and the four steeds trotted into the forest, merging with the shadows of the woods. A river gurgled ahead, and the Hawk let his steed pick their path toward the water. The stallion halted with his front hooves in the course of the river, then bent his head to drink.

The Hawk dismounted, lifting his bride into his arms, and left the other men to dismount and water their steeds. He seized his saddlebag, then carried her into the woods, feeling her stiffen with every pace he took.

Indeed, she caught her breath in a consternation that vexed him mightily.

“Yesterday, you did not fear me,” he reminded her with some irritation. “Yesterday, you welcomed my kiss. Indeed, you encouraged it.”

Her eyes flashed. “I had never been kissed afore!”

“Then you show an innate talent that bodes well, lady mine.”

“Had I guessed your wicked scheme, I would not have surrendered to your kiss,” Aileen retorted, color staining her cheeks. “You will not insist that this circumstance is my own fault!”

“No, I will not.” He set her upon her feet, dropped the bag and bent to rummage within it. They were within a hollow, shielded from the view of the others yet sheltered by the steep incline of the land around them.

The ground was thick with brambles beneath the tall trees, and it was no accident he had chosen this spot. He felt her restlessness, fairly tasted her urge to flee and knew himself to be responsible.

Instead of the triumphant suitor, he felt a knave.

He heard Aileen took a step, then saw that she hastily pulled her foot back. When he glanced up at her face, her arms were folded across her chest, the voluminous cape wrapped around her, and her eyes were snapping with sapphire fire. Her hair had spilled from her braid and the sunlight had entwined itself within its length. He had a yearning again to touch her, but knew that would only feed her fear.

“Yet again you scheme with surety. No soul alive would be witless enough to try to flee barefoot through such bracken,” she said, clearly irked with him.