Highland Hawk: Highland Brides #7 (18 page)

There was no doubt about it: He was unconscious. But MacKinnon was facedown on the mattress. What if he suffocated?

Crawling onto the bed, she grabbed handfuls of his doublet, dragged him onto the pallet, and turned him over. Then she scurried over to the nearer trunk. Which was MacKinnon's and which was Drummond's, she didn't know. But that was not her immediate concern.

The nearer chest opened with a creak of protest, but her hands were immediately inside, fumbling through the clothes.

Nothing.

The other trunk was smaller but still goodly sized, nearly three feet tall and bound by iron bands with strange gargoyle faces placed at intervals on the metal.

Cat rummaged through that just as quickly, but again she was disappointed. Where might he hide a precious trinket?

The bed.

Rising quickly, she hurried to the pallet and managed to drag the scattered blankets from beneath MacKinnon's inert form. Still nothing. She pulled up the edge of the mattress, but there were no treasures hidden between the tightly stretched ropes and the straw-filled tick.

Her heart was racing. There would be no reason to lock the door unless there was some treasure hidden inside, so where...

Her gaze fell on MacKinnon's limp form. On the girdle beside his hip, a pouch was tied.

Scrambling across the mattress, she reached for the leather thong that held his pouch in place. He moaned.

She snatched her hands away for a heart-stopping instant, but one glance at his face assured her he was still sound asleep, so she eased her fingers forward again. Once the pouch was free, she dumped the contents onto the mattress. Only coins, a chip of flint, and a stub of candle.

She must keep looking. But where? She skimmed her gaze past his limp form then snapped it back.

His codpiece. 'Twas a good-sized thing and a likely place for a man to hide his jewels.

She winced at her poor pun and reached under his doublet. Her fingers skimmed his abdomen.

"Fayette," he sighed.

She nearly screamed as she jerked her hands away, but when she snapped her gaze to his face, found that his eyes were still closed, though a contented smile lifted his lips.

Still, her breathing came in hard gasps and her hands were shaking when she reached out again.

It was no simple task to undress him. She was forced to untie the half dozen laces that bound his hose to his doublet before she could even begin to drag the required garment from his flaccid body.

But when it came free, she found that his codpiece was entirely empty. 'Twas all she needed to know, she told herself—but curiosity coaxed her gaze upward. Rigid and reddened, his swollen penis lay stretched against his pale belly. She could not help but stare.

A rustle of noise passed in the hall, and she jumped. Realizing she had no time to spare, she hurried to the far side of the room, peering into the corners, behind the curtains.

Her gaze hurried back to the smaller trunk. It was quite a high box, taller than it was deep, and... A false bottom!

Certain she was right, she lunged back toward it. Throwing it open, she grabbed handfuls of clothing and tossed them out. Her knuckles thumped against the bottom. She frowned, searching blindly for a way to lift it up. But nothing untoward met her fingers.

Jerking to her feet, she snatched the candle from the table and shone it on the inside of the trunk. Still, she could find nothing.

She dropped back onto her heels in abject frustration.

Already she had been there too long. Drummond might return at any moment. She must hurry.

Her gaze skimmed the box in front of her. 'Twas then that she noticed one of the gargoyles was slightly askew. Reaching out, she touched the gnarled face. It turned beneath her hand. Her breath caught in her throat. Her fingers trembled as she rapidly turned up the other gargoyle and tugged at the sides of the trunk.

Wood slid against wood as, to Catriona's surprise, a narrow receptacle slid out of the bottom of the chest. And in that receptacle... She shakily lifted a piece of linen.

Jewels!

Her heart thrummed noisily against her ribs. This was it. She was certain of it.

She skimmed the drawer. A ring. A large, squarish brooch. There! The medallion! Lying on a large coil of silver chain was a round medallion set with rough stones. Her hands trembled as she lifted it out.

It must be the one. It must. But... Somehow it did not seem quite the same as the imprint she'd found. Holding the piece in her shaky hand, she fumbled for her pouch and pulled out the scrap of vellum. The medallion was approximately the same size as the item Blackheart had dropped, and the stones were in the same approximate position, but the vellum showed three stones at the top and bottom of the circle and an intricate Celtic knot in the middle.

The medallion had no knotwork and fewer stones.

Disappointment nearly drowned her.

A low, humming voice sounded in the hallway.

Catriona froze, her gaze locked frantically on the door. For a moment she was certain that it would open, that all was lost—but the voices moved on.

She breathed again, drawing air rapidly into her lungs as she covered the jewels with the linens and rapidly slid the secret compartment back into the trunk. The gargoyles leered as they fell into place. The clothing settled rapidly into sloppy piles, and the trunk closed almost silently.

Catriona rose quickly to her feet and glanced about, and then, unable to leave MacKinnon so exposed, she flipped the blankets over him.

Footfalls approached from the hall, stopping her breath, but again the sound traveled leisurely away. She heard a door open and close, further down.

The nobles were returning to their rooms.

Snatching up her vellum drawing from the floor, she rushed to the door and listened.

Nothing.

She pushed the latch and stepped quickly into the hall. All was quiet, and she hurried toward her own chambers. She was in no condition to search more this night.

"Catriona."

She almost screamed as she jerked about.

Haydan the Hawk stared at her with hooded eyes then bent slowly. Breathlessly, she watched him retrieve her fallen vellum and glance at the sketch.

"A favored trinket?" he asked, his voice deep.

"What?" Her heart was in her throat, pumping wildly. Where had he come from? Had he seen her exit MacKinnon's chambers?

"The drawing," he said, lifting the leather. "Is it a sketch of a brooch you covet, perhaps?"

"Nay. Nay. I—" Her hands were trembling, so she clasped them together and prayed for calm. She had done nothing wrong. Stolen nothing. Hurt no one. Of course, if MacKinnon was found unconscious in his room, people would begin to ask questions. And if it was discovered that she had been rummaging through the young baron's possessions... Gypsies had been burned for less.

"Nay," she repeated and reached for the sketch. He let it go after a moment. " 'Tis naught of import. Just something I drew to pass the time."

"Pass the time?" He watched her very closely. Too closely. "Why are you not abed?" he asked.

"I..." She could not help glancing just once at MacKinnon's door, like a murderer needing to check the scene of his crime. But the door was firmly closed and all was silent. "I... Why are
you
not abed?"

He said nothing.

"Were you following me, Sir Hawk?" she asked. She made certain her tone was haughty, but her stomach twisted at the thought. 'Twas fear, of course. Fear and nothing else. The thought of him longing for her did not upset her equilibrium.

"Is there some reason I should?"

She forced a laugh. "Not unless you are enamored of me and refuse to admit it."

A muscle jerked in his jaw. " 'Twill be a dark day indeed when the lark leads an old bird like me a merry chase. But I would be your friend if you would have one."

Her stomach twisted harder. She did not need him, not as a lover and certainly not as a friend. There was no more certain path to death.

"Why do you wander these halls?" he asked again.

There was concern in his eyes, power in his hand, but she had nearly been weak enough to reveal her troubles to him before. She would not be so foolish again.

"I could not sleep," she said and turned away from him, heading toward her chambers.

"Something troubles you?"

His voice was deep and alluring. She could not help but remember the feel of his arms around her, the dance of his muscles against hers. But in the end he had drawn away.

Still, she could feel his gaze on her as he waited for an answer.

"Mayhap 'tis naught but your need to mother me that troubles me," she said.

He was silent for a moment. "You could ask any of my men," he said finally. "I am not the mothering type."

"Then why do you haunt my every move?" she asked. Reaching her door, she turned to face him.

They stared at each other, his brows cliffed above his raptor eyes.

"Why are you not abed?" he asked again.

His power, his maleness, the very timbre of his voice called to her. But she could not come. Frustration screamed through her.

"Maybe I search for companionship," she snapped.

He leaned closer. His nostrils flared for a moment. "If such is the case, methinks you would not have far to search."

Breathless tension snapped between them. Against her will, she took a step toward him. For a fraction of an instant he remained as he was, and then he turned and stalked away.

Chapter 14

The stables were dark and quiet when Catriona stepped inside. Midnight had long ago come and gone, but still she could not sleep. Her footfalls were quiet against the hard-packed earth, the light of her lamp feeble against the surrounding darkness. In the rafters overhead, a pigeon took flight, startling her with the noise.

But one glance assured her that all was well. In a moment, she was inside a roomy, high-walled stall.

Celandine turned her bonny head, nickered low in her throat, and stumbled a few painful steps toward her mistress. Never did she fully straighten the foreleg that was bandaged just above the fetlock.

"Celandine!" The name caught in Cat's throat. She hurried forward to stop the mare's progress with a hand on the animal's sleek neck. The steed turned soft, worried eyes to her mistress. "Nay," Cat whispered, tears choking her as her fingers tangled in the flaxen mane. "Not you, too." She was losing everything, everything she loved. Stepping closer, she wrapped her arm around the mare's neck and closed her eyes. The weight of the world seemed as heavy as a millstone upon her shoulders, and she wanted nothing more than to curl up in the shadows and forget it all.

"I am sorry."

Cat caught her breath and straightened abruptly. Lifting the back of her hand to her cheek, she dashed away her tears then turned with hard-won composure to find Haydan filling the open doorway.

"Sir Hawk. Again. And I thought James had called off the guard."

She tried to lighten her tone, but his expression didn't change. His face remained in chiseled sobriety, limned and shadowed by the flickering light.

"It seems that everything you cherish has been compromised," he said.

"Compromised?" She forced nonchalance. "Whatever do you mean?"

"First your steed. Then the bird," he said finally, his tone deep.

"Oh." Relief flooded her with such strength that she had to turn aside. He knew nothing of her deepest troubles. Nothing of Lachlan's abduction or the horrible ultimatum. "A bird and a horse," she said, her tone flippant, though her fingers were still tangled in the mare's mane. " 'Tis hardly everything I cherish."

"There is your brother."

She turned numbly toward him, unable to breathe as their gazes caught and fused.

"He is well?" Haydan asked.

"Aye." She tightened her fingers in the mane. "He is with his cousins, as I have told you."

Hawk took a single step forward, then clenched his fists and stopped. Silence echoed around them. "Why will you not tell me?"

"Tell you what?" She forced a smile.

“Tell me what worries you."

"Celandine is lame, and Caleb broken. Is that not enough for a little sadness?"

He stared at her, his gaze as steady as winter ice. But in a moment, he drew a deep breath and relaxed a mite.

"Aye. 'Tis enough, I suspect. But if you are concerned for the mare's well-being you had best help me see to her leg."

"Was it you who bandaged her?"

"I only made certain it was done," he said distractedly. "'Tis a small wound for such a swelling." Reaching past the door, he retrieved a leather halter and a wooden bucket.

Water sloshed nearly to the brim as he stepped forward and placed it in the straw. In a moment, he had the halter fastened in place. Smoothing a hand over the mare's forelock, he straightened it between her seal-soft eyes.

Catriona watched him from close proximity. His brows were drawn low. His hand, which looked as if it had been crafted for naught but battle, seemed just as right here, soothing, stroking, as it slid down Celandine's throat and along her neck. How would that hand feel against her own flesh? How would it feel to be soothed and caressed by this man among men? Her breath stopped in her throat as she watched him.

Bending slightly, Haydan smoothed his fingers over the chestnut's forearm. The mare flinched and jerked it away in anticipation of pain.

Even from the side, Cat could see the tendons tighten in Haydan's neck, could see the fleeting expression of frustration that crossed his face. But not a harsh word did he speak. Instead, he drew the mare back toward him with a gentle hand.

"You are wise to be cautious, lass," he crooned, his words so soft they were nearly lost in the darkness.

It took Catriona a moment to realize the truth.

"Surely you know Celandine's injury is not your fault," she said.

He did not turn toward her, but she saw the telltale muscle flex in his jaw.

"Sir Hawk?"

"Aye?"

" 'Tis not your fault," she said.

"Then what is my purpose?" he asked, the words clipped and terse as he turned toward her.