Highland Hawk: Highland Brides #7 (10 page)

"Is that your worry?" she asked.

"One of them," he said, turning toward her. His chest was as broad as a Viking's shield.

"Then let me set your mind at ease, for unlike the king, I have been fighting that battle for as long as I can recall."

There was a moment of silence, then, "Successfully?"

"What?" Surprise slapped the air from her lungs. Did he care?

He stared at her for a fraction of a moment, then turned rapidly away. " 'Tis nothing," he said.

She watched him unblinking. " 'Twas indeed something. What was it you said?'

He caught his own mount's reins and refused to turn toward her. Instead, he fiddled with his girth then stepped into the saddle.

"Might you be inquiring about my virtue?" she asked, barely able to force out the question as she mounted her gelding and hurried up beside him. "Sir Hawk—"

"I would know!" he said abruptly. "So that I am prepared."

"Prepared?"

"I do not like surprises," he said finally. "Do I protect you from all comers, or are there some that you welcome?"

"Some? Do you ask now if I am a wanton?"

"Listen, lass," he said, his voice very deep with unexplained tension, "I did not ask for this duty, but I shall take it if 'tis thrust upon me. But 'twas you who said you cannot be restrained. I've no intention of crushing your freedom. And so, I ask."

"You need neither guard me nor worry for me. I will cause you no trouble."

He snorted, tightening his big hands on the reins. "Lass," he said, his voice deep as he turned toward the castle, "you
are
trouble."

The great hall was particularly boisterous at the evening meal, but Hawk sat alone and silent, nursing a mead and his foul mood. How the hell had he gotten himself into this mess?

He should never have taken the boy riding with a Rom. They were too... Too what? Without straining his neck to see past the cluster of men that surrounded her again, he could remember every detail about the Gypsy lass—how her eyes seemed to change color with her mood, how her lips tilted just so when she was deep in thought, how each movement seemed like poetry set to—

He pushed away his board and knife in pounding frustration and took another deep quaff of mead. He was too damned old to be mooning.

"Sir Hawk."

Haydan glanced up, but the sight of his visitor did nothing to improve his mood. "Lord Tremayne," he said by way of greeting, and glanced back into space.

"Might I ask what you are doing?" Tremayne said.

His voice held that royaler-than-thou tone that never failed to set Haydan's teeth on edge. But now probably wasn't the time to tell him so.

"I am drinking mead," Haydan said, glancing into the depths of the horn mug as if the answers to the world's mysteries might lie there. " 'Tis not a bad brew."

"I am quite relieved to know you are content with the drink."

"My thanks," Haydan said, not acknowledging the sarcasm in the other's tone. Tremayne was bound to explain his presence soon enough. There seemed little need to rush the inevitable.

"Mayhap we should hire another to replace you as the king's captain so that you might have more time to spend with your mead."

Haydan glanced slowly up. "And mayhap I should tell James how you planned my niece's death some years past. The MacGowans were quite put out."

Against all odds, Tremayne managed to stiffen even more. "If you recall, my spies informed me that she was plotting to kill His Majesty."

It had been nearly five years since Shona MacGowan had planted a counterfeit king in the castle and taken James, incognito, under her wing. She had, in fact, saved him from the person who had
really
been plotting against the throne.

"The MacGowans are a wild lot," Tremayne added. "And your Shona was too close to His Majesty. I could not afford to take a risk on the king's life."

"I'll be certain to tell him that too," Hawk said, and moved to rise. But Tremayne's hand was already on his shoulder, urging him back down.

"It matters naught now."

Haydan raised a brow as he settled back onto the bench. "I would say it matters to Shona's husband."

"Dugald and I have come to an understanding."

Hawk did nothing to stop his chuckle, though he was certain that if he were a diplomat of any sort, he would make an attempt. "An understanding," he said, taking another drink. "In other words he said he would hang you by your own entrails if you so much as entertained an evil thought toward Shona?"

Tremayne's sour expression said plainly enough that he had guessed correctly, but Haydan had sense enough to hide his grin behind his mug this time. It had been some years since his niece had been in such dire danger—some years since young James had enjoyed the freedom of the peasantry. Shona was now safe on the Isle of Fois with her overly protective husband and a babe of her own. And young James was safe too, though restive.

"Why are you not guarding the king?" Tremayne hissed.

Haydan stifled a sigh and glanced up toward the lean scavenger he had almost managed to forget.

"Young James needs a bit of room to grow," Haydan said. He should have said that he
was
guarding the king. That from his position in the hall it was simple enough to keep an eye on James and the Gypsy girl at the same time. But perhaps he was a little too old and crotchety to care that much for Tremayne's peace of mind.

" 'Tis what I worry about," Tremayne said. "That the king has a
chance
to grow. 'Tis, in fact, your entire purpose in life."

"Is it now? And always I thought our Lord God determined each man's own purpose. Or have you now taken the Almighty's role, Tremayne?"

The scrawny lord drew himself up to his considerable height. "I heard of your outing with the king and the... Gypsy wench." He said the words with a peculiar pinching of the nostrils.

"Then you know the king ordered me to guard the lass instead of himself," Haydan surmised.

"The king does not make those decisions," Tremayne gritted. " 'Tis for the council to decide. And the council decided long ago—against my advice—that you should be the one to oversee his protection."

"James asked that I—"

"I do not care what he asked. He is young and impetuous and does not realize what pain Scotland would suffer if some ill befell him." Haydan wondered for a moment if the narrow lord might burst into tears. Good saints, both he and Tremayne had probably been with the king far too long. "You shall guard him and none other. And—"

"As you wish."

Tremayne's words came to a snapping halt, then, "What say you?"

"I am certain you know what is best," Haydan said, inclining his head slightly. "I will immediately resume guarding the king—from here."

"You will stay at his side so long as you have nothing better to do with your—"

"I've no wish to disturb James with this news of your plot against Shona," Haydan warned softly. "He loves her like kin, you know. And, I might add," he said, leaning slightly toward the pinch-faced Tremayne, "he feels much the same about the lass called Catriona." He glanced toward the girl. The mob around her had parted slightly, granting him a ray of her unearthly allure. "They have similarities, don't you think?"

"She is a wanton," Tremayne hissed. "Just like—"

The dinner knife fell easily into Haydan's hand. And it felt so right, like a quill might feel in the hand of a scholar. And just as easily, it tipped toward Tremayne.

"I suggest you do not continue on your present course, my lord," Haydan murmured. "For 'tis said, that any man who could look on a good woman with derision is no man at all." He skimmed the area just below his dagger's point before glancing into Tremayne's pale face. "Do not tempt me too greatly to find out."

Tremayne pursed his lips into a bumpy double line. "The council will hear of this."

"I'll make certain it does," Haydan said, and with that, Tremayne turned and stalked away.

Haydan sighed, took another draught, and scanned the room. The situation had changed little. James was playing a game of ringo with Kitchen Elsie's youngest lad, and Catriona was still surrounded by idiots. But... Hawk counted heads. She might have lost an idiot or two. Yes, the toothy de la Faire had left. And a good thing, for he'd been becoming a bit too enthusiastic for his own good. Hawk would have considered discouraging him if he hadn't thought the others would gladly do it for him.

He must have either drunk himself into a stupor and been tromped beneath the pack, or had managed to make it out of the hall before relieving himself. Either way, judging by the amount of ale he had consumed, his bladder seemed to be the most astounding thing about him.

At least de la Faire had left, Catriona thought. His departure had given her an opportunity to study the others more carefully, to listen to the rhythm of their voices, to search for that eerie, skin-shivering plural reference to himself. But she did not hear it—not in de la Faire's clipped importance, or MacKinnon's soft brogue, or a hundred other voices that echoed around her as Lord Douglas Hogshead told a tale about a warrior, a scholar, himself, and a comely tavern wench.

She shifted her gaze away from his animated features, and a pair of steady eyes caught her.

Lord Drummond perused her with half-lidded, unflinching eyes then lifted his goblet toward her in a sort of unspoken toast. Cat skimmed her gaze sideways but his betrothed-to-be, young Roberta, and her hovering parents were nowhere to be seen, and with their departure Drummond's charming attentiveness seemed to have slipped away. Cat's heart kicked up a wild beat in her chest as her gaze sprinted down the table. Could he be Blackheart? Could he be the one she had come to find?.

"You'll not recognize us," he had said. "And yet we might be in any crowd. And all the while 'twill be our pleasure to know that of the countless fools who drool over you, 'tis ourselves who hold your reins. 'Tis ourselves who might take you to our bed at any moment. And you would come, for you are not too good for us now, are you, Princess Cat?"

Catriona's stomach twisted. Could he be the culprit? Could he be so cruel? She could not tell. Indeed, she could think no longer. Fatigue lay on her like a sodden blanket, muffling her thoughts, dulling her mind. Tonight she must search the castle again, but first she must sleep.

Lord Hogshead's story came to an ending. All around her, the listeners laughed and nodded.

"So you won the wench's admiration by default," someone said.

"Aye," agreed Hogshead, taking another swig of beer from his pewter mug.

"And was she worth the trouble?" another asked.

"Indeed, she was. She was the strongest woman I've ever known." A few suggestive chuckles followed his words, but he gave his listeners a self-deprecating grin. "After I passed out with the other two sods, 'twas she who carried me to my chambers and dumped my corpse onto the bed to sleep out the night."

Catriona stood up amid the laughter, moving slowly, meeting no gazes in the hopes that she would not be noticed.

They let her pass with little enough trouble. Perhaps her ubiquitous presence was causing her to lose her allure for them, she thought as she exited the great hall.

"Leaving your amorous suitors so soon?"

"Rory!" She turned with a start toward the hallway on her right. "What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you. After all..." He took her elbow in one hand and escorted her toward her room. "You are my betrothed."

"You have been drinking."

He chuckled. "Aye. What with your constant occupation with Blackburn's noblemen, I have had little else to do but become friends with Blackburn's fine ale."

"And to lie about Grandmother's well-being." Frustration and fatigue burned like acid in her stomach.

Rory ground his teeth and tightened his hand on her arm. "'Tis not right that you risk yourself, that you expose yourself to those preening fools and their filthy stories. I will find the blackguard for you," he whispered. "I will return your brother. 'Tis my place. I am your betrothed."

Catriona drew him to a halt. "I do not deny that I need your assistance, Rory. And indeed, always and forever I will remember that 'twas you who helped me. But I am no longer your betrothed."

"Catriona," he whispered as he smoothed his fingers across her cheek. "We are one and the same, you and I. Freedom is in our blood. Who else could understand you? Those pale-faced noblemen? Nay. We are Rom. We are all that is left of the line which—"

"Is that what you truly think?" she rasped. " 'Tis not true!" Her voice shook with the force of her emotion. "Lachlan is well and fine, and he... he will be returned to us."

"Cat." Rory reached for her but she stumbled out of his grasp.

"He will be returned!"

"You are right," he murmured finally. "We must think of Lachlan first."

"Aye." She swallowed, but her throat was tight and her head ached. "Now I must go to Grandmother," she said and turned to leave.

"Had you stayed at the castle you would know she is not in your fine chambers. She missed her bed in the cart and said she needed air to 'feel.' She sleeps in the cart just beyond the bridge."

"Is she safe there?"

"Do you care?"

Fatigue rode her cruelly. "Please, Rory—"

"I made certain she was safe and content before I left her," he said sharply, then exhaled and took her hand between his own. "And you, Catriona? Are you safe?"

"Aye." She stared down at their joined hands. 'Twas a strange thing. At one time it had seemed so right, so natural, so inevitable. "I am safe, Rory, but I must bid you good night."

"Why?" He pressed closer, his brow furrowed. " 'Tis not right that you stay here alone. You should join Grandmother. She—"

"I cannot."

"Then let me come in. I will sleep on the floor."

"Nay." She pulled her hand from his grip.

" 'Tis because I failed you, isn't it?" He ground his teeth. "I should not have let them take him. I should have died defending him."

"If you could only remember how they looked. Remember—"

"But I cannot!" he rasped. "There was the rope about my neck, the whispered voice from behind me, demanding that you meet the bastard that night. And then all was black. But I shall make it up to you, Catriona. Let me stay with you this night."