Highland Hawk: Highland Brides #7 (11 page)

"Nay. Please take care of Grandmother," she said, and pulling her hand from his, she turned rapidly away.

He let her go with only a little resistance and she quickly stepped inside her room. There was solace of sorts here. Private and quiet, but for a single chirp from the cage of willow sticks that stood beside the door. One small finch was perched atop the cage while the other dozed inside.

Retrieving a tallow candle from a sconce on the wall, Cat lit it from the one in the hallway before setting it back in its place.

Golden, mellow light softened the shadows.

Closing her door, Catriona leaned back against it and sighed. All seemed peaceful except for herself. But she should not feel so distraught. At least Hawk had felt no need to follow her here. Either Lord Tremayne had convinced him to leave her to her own defenses, or he had simply refused to follow the king's orders. Did he dislike her so much? she wondered, but halted those turbulent thoughts with a single reprimand.

She had no time for such foolish worries. It mattered little if the hulking Highlander cherished her or hated her. That was the least of her problems. If he learned the truth...

She stopped the thought abruptly, for if he learned her true reasons for coming to Blackburn the consequences would be unthinkable.

Turning rapidly toward her trunk beside the door, she pulled it open, drew out a simple, dark chemise, and tossed it over the open cover of the wooden chest. Untying her girdle, she slipped her pouch and knife from her hips and dropped them to the floor, then set her hands to her laces.

The day had been long and wearing. The night promised to be the same, but for now she would rest and let the castle settle into silence.

Her gown slid down her legs and onto the floor. Her undergarments followed. She rolled her shoulders and stepped from the rumpled linen. The night air felt soft against her skin, like a lover's caress.

But she had no lover. Even now, when her mind should be occupied with a thousand other details, she could not help but remember the intensity of Hawk's eyes when he had questioned her about that. She should have told him that she had no lovers, but pride was as fickle as the wind and could blow in any direction. He had called her troublesome, and she had no desire to confirm or deny his belief with tales of her innocence, especially when his very nearness confused and titillated her. When his voice evidenced the same raspy quality as Fayette's partner. But where Matthew had been pink and narrow, he would be dark and thick. Catriona's nippies tightened at the thought, puckering in the cool night air and plunging her back into reality.

What the devil was wrong with her? she wondered, and turned, angry and frustrated, toward the bed.

A shadow rose from the floor on the far side of the mattress. "So," said a voice. "You have finally arrived."

Chapter 8

"Lord de la Faire!" Catriona gasped.

"Aye." He leered at her then let his gaze slip sloppily to her nipples. "I see you are ready for me, Princess."

Backing away a step, Cat snagged her dark chemise from the trunk's edge and whisked it in front of her.

"Nay." He staggered forward a step or two, but didn't manage any more. "Do not cover yourself. I have been waiting here for an eternity."

"Waiting?" she stalled and glanced quickly to the right in search of some kind of weapon. But the knife she'd taken to dinner had been dropped to the floor with her discarded gown.

"Aye. I knew you would eventually break away from the crowd. So I waited here on your bed." He waved wildly at the mattress he had just managed to skirt.

She shook her head. "I did not see you."

"Well, in truth, I may have slipped onto the floor." He grinned. " 'Tis a wild pallet you keep, Princess Cat."

"Aye." She nodded at his nonsensical words. " 'Tis indeed a wicked bed. Mayhap you'd best leave and find your own."

He chuckled. "A wild pallet for a wild wench, I am thinking. But I believe myself up to the task of taming them both."

He stepped forward. Catriona stepped back.

She had dealt with intoxicated men before, and while they were often disoriented and ungainly, they were also sadly immune to good sense.

"My lord de la Faire," she began, still holding the gown in front of her, "You should not be here."

"You are right. I should be in yonder bed. I am certain that together we can wrestle it into submission," he said, and grinned crookedly at his own brilliant wit.

"The truth is, sir, that I am a friend of the king."

Nothing but a blank expression.

"He is my guardian of sorts, and I would do nothing to cause him distress."

"Ah, well, I will not tell if you don't," he said and stumbled forward.

Catriona glanced sideways. She could edge along the wall and try to escape, of course. But there was little point of putting him between her and the door.

Thus, she had no choice. She would have to dart into the hallway and hope she had a chance to wrestle the gown over her head before anyone saw her. One more tiny step backward and she eased her fingers onto the door handle.

"But regardless if I tell James or nay, he will surely find out," she said, giving reason one last chance. "And he will be angry."

Apparently those words managed to penetrate the Frenchman's foggy brain, for he stopped for a moment, eyeing her blearily. "So you..." He halted briefly and grinned. "You're
laying
the lad?"

His accusation stunned her.

"Nay," she rasped, but in that instant, de la Faire leapt.

His fingers snagged in her chemise, tearing it out of her hands.

Spinning around, she lunged for the door, but he grabbed her about the waist.

She grappled wildly, trying to fight her way free.

"Relax. Relax, little wildcat," de la Faire hissed. His arms wound tightly about her midriff, his hips pressed into her buttocks. "Do not fret." He swiped a kiss against her neck, but her hair was in the way. "I've no intention of ruining your place with the king. In truth, I rather like the idea of tarrying where His Majesty has been. And 'twill do you good to remember what it is like to be with a man fully grown." With those words he ground his member into her backside. She stiffened. "Feel that?" he crooned. "Big as a log, it is. I have been ordered to stay away from the stallions, lest I make them feel inferior." He laughed at his own humor. "Come now, lass," he whispered, and managed to plant a kiss on her neck this time. "Let us tame yonder wild bed."

Squeezing her eyes closed, Catriona forced her muscles to relax, and her stomach to settle. "Are you certain James will not find out? He is so young and tender."

De la Faire chuckled. "I am certain he has heard of my prowess," he said. "Surely he will understand your weakness."

"I only hope you are right," she said, and snapping her knees up, thumped her feet against the door with all her might.

De la Faire careened wildly backward, landing on his rump. She landed on his belly.

The air whooshed from his lungs in an audible rush, and she scrambled away on all fours.

But he was already after her. His fingers brushed her ankle. She squawked in bursting terror, kicked him in the jaw, and lunged forward. She couldn't reach the door and she knew it. Scrambling for her gown, she dipped her hand beneath it, found the knife, and spun toward him.

He slammed into her, pinning her back against the wall and forcing the air from her lungs with the weight of his body.

"My God, I love your fire!" he rasped. "You make me feel like a great destrier called to battle."

"De la Faire," she said. Fighting for breath, she raised her hand just slightly. It shook like a reed in the wind, but her voice was steady. "If you do not loose me, you will look more like a lopped donkey than a horse of war."

He chuckled. "I—" he began, but in that instant, he felt the prick of her blade against his groin. His eyebrows rose and his baby-soft mouth went round. "You have a knife?"

"Aye." She said the word through gritted teeth and steadied her hand. "And—"

The door burst open.

Catriona snapped her head sideways and found herself staring into Sir Hawk's icy eyes.

For a moment the entire world seemed silent, then, "Catriona," he said, nodding shallowly as he skimmed his gaze down to the knife in her hand. "I came to make certain you were well before I found my pallet." His gaze moved back up to settle on her face. The hard tension of his body lessened a small bit. "But I heard a noise and thought you might need assistance." A pause of several heartbeats, then, "I did not realize you were entertaining."

Either anger or fear made her tremble. She wasn't certain which, but the blade wobbled against de la Faire's groin. "You may find this entertaining, Sir Hawk. I do not."

“Truly?" Hawk stared at her, his expression inscrutable. "Do you mean to say that you've found some trouble after all?"

She could not even manage a nod.

"So de la Faire is here uninvited?" Hawk's voice had lowered even more.

"Aye."

"Then..." Hawk turned almost regretfully toward the young lord who stared wide-eyed and immobile at the king's notorious captain of the guard. "You should prepare for pain, my lord."

"This was not my idea. I thought this was my room. The wench came in and disrobed," de la Faire rambled. "I told her I had no wish to lie with her. But she grabbed a knife and insisted—"

Hawk raised hand. The motion looked peaceful, but something in his eyes was not. "I fear I must stop you before you dishonor yourself further." Grabbing the back of the Frenchman's doublet in one fist, he thumped the marquis's head against the nearest wall.

For a moment de la Faire's face expressed absolute astonishment, and then, like a soggy rag, his head dropped forward onto his chest and his legs went lax, spilling him to the floor.

Catriona stared in dumbstruck astonishment. "Is he dead?"

"Nay," Haydan replied. "Fools do not die that easy, even if they are gentry."

The room went silent. Catriona raised her gaze nervously to Haydan's. "I didn't mean to cause you any trouble."

She watched the scar beside his eye twitch slightly. Watched his chest expand and his shoulders lower a mite, as if he endeavored to relax.

"One cannot bring a wildcat to his table and expect it not to bite. Are you well?"

"Aye. I am fine."

"You're trembling," he said, and taking his cloak from his shoulders, swirled it around her back. It settled in deep folds about her ankles. His fingers brushed her throat as he drew the cloak together beneath her chin. "Are you hurt?"

"Nay."

"Scared?"

"Nay, I..." she began, but realized suddenly that the knife wobbled in her uncertain grip."I just..." She could find no words, and suddenly his hands were on hers, warm and strong against her cold fingers. Urging the blade from her grip, he tossed it into her trunk. "Come," he said.

She tried to follow him, but her legs refused to cooperate. Turning back, he lifted her into his arms. Cradling her against his chest, he bore her toward the bed, then stopped only inches from her mattress and gazed down into her face. For a moment she thought he would place her on the pallet, but she trembled again, and so he turned and sat with her in his lap, his arms firmly fitted about her.

Silence filled the room. Beneath her, his thighs felt as firm and large as oaken boughs. Against her shoulder, she felt the rise and fall of his massive chest, and across her back, his arm was tight and broad. His strength surrounded her just as surely as his cloak did, holding her close, keeping her safe. And for the first time in as long as she could recall, she felt she could give up the fight, could relax and let another meet her battles.

'Twas a weakness, she knew, a weakness she should not give in to. But it felt so good, so easy to sink into his strength, his kindness, and for a moment she wished it could go on forever—that she was not who she was, that she had not come to Blackburn to ruin his life and perhaps to forfeit her own.

Catriona squeezed her eyes closed. Her throat felt tight and her chest ached with a pain that was indefinable. A tiny mewl of self-pity crept up. His arms tightened, and though the change was almost imperceptible, she recognized the movement as pity.

She cleared her throat and straightened slightly. "I am sorry."

It took a moment for him to respond. "Of all the people in this place, I think you should be the last to apologize." His soft rumble made her feel small and strangely nurtured.

She tried to fight the feelings with every weapon in her armory. "Oh?" The word that was supposed to sound flippant barely managed to be audible. "And who should be the first?"

Silence again, as deep as the night outside her window.

"Me."

His answer startled her, and she turned to stare into his eyes, but he didn't look toward her. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on the wall ahead.

"You?" she asked. From such close proximity, she could not help but notice that his eyes were clefted like a hunting falcon's, and the scar on his jaw twitched. "You were the one who saved me."

"Saved you!" The words were little more than a growl, and though she expected more, he did not continue.

"Aye," she said softly. " 'Twas you."

He jerked toward her suddenly as each sinew and muscle was pulled tight with increasing emotion. His eyes sparked silver light and one corner of his mouth twitched. "I am a guard," he said succinctly. She merely stared, waiting for him to go on. "I am a guard," he repeated, "by nature as much as by command."

She shook her head. "I do not understand your—"

"What good have I done here but make certain you did not kill him?" He glanced angrily toward the limp form on the floor. A pulse ticked in his temple, just below the dark sweep of his hair. "Truly," he rumbled, "I do not think I've done the world any great favor."

"Then the favor was for me alone," she whispered, and reaching up, she laid her fingers against his cheek. The stubble of a day's beard felt rough against her skin, and beneath that, the muscles in his cheek were taut. "Thank you," she whispered, and because the emotion was as weakening as strong wine, she leaned forward and kissed him. Not passionately, not full on the lips, but softly, gently placed at the corner of his mouth as her breast pressed intimately against the hard wall of his chest.