Highland Hawk: Highland Brides #7 (2 page)

She couldn't reach the knife at her waist. Couldn't... Suddenly Catriona realized her fingers were wrapped about a rein. Instinctively, she jerked.

She had only a moment, only the briefest flash of time before the horse stumbled, but she was ready. As Wickfield grappled to right the reins, in the second when he realized they were about to fall, she wrenched her legs beneath her and launched herself from the steed's back.

She hit the ground hard and somersaulted, and when she rose to her feet, she saw that the horse had done the same, but Wickfield had not. Instead, he lay holding his right thigh and cursing, swearing revenge in staccato tones.

It was then that she heard the hoofbeats. Heart in her throat, she swung toward the noise. Horses thundered up and a dozen uniformed men were upon her in an instant. The nearest rider threw himself from his steel-gray mount.

Soldiers! And she had injured two of their own!

Catriona backed up a trembling step as the soldier approached. Limned by the sun behind him, he loomed over her like a castle wall. There was no hope against him and his men. Unless... Wickfield's mount still stood behind her, and seemed uninjured. If she could make it that far she might have a chance of reaching the castle and falling on James's mercy.

But she must be clever.

"Please, good sir..." There was no need to fake the quaver in her voice. Indeed, her knees threatened to buckle. "I meant no harm. I am but a poor innocent lass traveling—"

He reached for her, and she reacted, not like a poor innocent lass at all, but like an acrobat trained from infancy. Her heel struck his face as she tumbled away and his head snapped to the side. She rose to her feet with a jolt, but a hand was already closing around her arm in an unbreakable grip. She was jerked toward him, face to face, inches apart. Frustration and anger boiled inside her, and then, like a cat at the end of her defenses, she spat.

The saliva hit him square on the cheek. She felt him tense, sensed his anger.

And then he nodded.

"Catriona," he said.

"Hawk?" She said his name on a breath, certain she was mistaken. "Sir Hawk?"

"Aye." Around her upper arm, his big hand relaxed, though the muscle in his jaw did not. There was, she noticed, a swelling beginning to form just in front of his left ear. "Galloway informed me that there was a Gypsy lass who might have found some trouble with Lieutenant Brims. So I came to..." He glanced sideways, noting the man on the ground, the riderless horses. "Rescue her." He sighed and a bit of tension left his stance. "I was not expecting you, Catriona. My mistake, I see."

"Nay, I did not plan to—"

"Sir Hawk!" Brims stumbled up, his voice breathless and raspy, his nose purple and swollen in his usually handsome face. " 'Tis not as it seems. I saw this troupe heading toward the castle. Knowing they were Gypsies, I feared they meant the king some harm. Hence, I detained them."

Sir Hawk dropped her arm and remained perfectly silent for a moment. "And your men?" he asked quietly.

"What?"

"The rest of your men—where are they, Sir Brims? Knowing you were dealing with wild Gypsies, did you not keep your men close at hand lest the lass overwhelm you?"

"I..." Brims paused for an instant to glance at his fallen comrade, but Wickfield merely stared, his face ashen as he gripped his injured leg. "I saw there were only the few of them, so hence I thought it safe to send my men back to their posts."

Silence.

"But?" Hawk urged.

"What?"

"But what happened?"

Sir Hawk had changed little since Catriona had seen him last, nearly two years before. Square jaw. Bowed nose. Mayhap a bit more silver in his hair. A new scar nicked diagonally across his chin, but his voice was the same; low and even, as if every word was carefully measured before it was loosed. "What went amiss, Sir Brims? I would think you could have managed to escort a lass to the castle without breaking Wickfield's leg and your own nose."

"Broken!" he rasped, covering it with one hand as he grabbed his sword with the other. "Damn—"

Catriona didn't even see Sir Hawk move. It almost seemed as if the lieutenant's blue doublet became entangled in his fingers of its own accord. As if it were Brims who pressed his chest up close to Hawk's fist.

"I am too old to enjoy such wild displays of passion," Hawk said softly. “Therefore I shall warn you now. Not only do I myself owe Lady Catriona a personal debt of gratitude, but she is a friend of His Majesty, King James, and therefore a friend of Scotland herself. Do you understand me?"

"Aye. Aye, Sir Hawk."

"Good. Then let us proceed." Hawk loosened his fingers, letting the lieutenant's doublet spill out of his hand. "What happened here?"

Brims cleared his throat, chanced one glance in Catriona's direction, and spoke clearly. "I sent the others back to Blackburn as I said, but I did not want the lady to travel alone. Hence—"

"Alone?" asked Hawk, glancing at her.

"Not entirely alone," she said quickly, wishing his eyes weren't quite so piercing. "Grandmother and Rory are with me."

"What of the others?"

She refused to turn her eyes away, though it was difficult. "They had no wish to make the long journey north and joined up with kin instead."

"Young Lachlan too?"

"Aye."

"I would not have thought—"

"Sir Hawk," Brims interrupted, impatient and in obvious pain. "I fear we have lost the thrust of this conversation."

Hawk turned slowly back toward his lieutenant, his expression inscrutable. "And what is the thrust, Brims?"

"I merely offered to escort the lady to Blackburn, nothing more."

Hawk shifted his attention back to her. Their gazes met.

The memory of rattling fear swamped Catriona. But with it came the knowledge that she was the outsider here. She could ill afford to cause trouble among the ranks. Still, if she could not have justice, at least she would have truth. " 'Tis not what he offered," she said softly.

"Lying—" Brims rasped, but Hawk interrupted with a raised hand.

"You will return to Blackburn, collect any monies due, and leave posthaste." His tone was low and level.

"But—"

"And if your head has no wish to be separated from your body..." Hawk watched the lieutenant with silvery, deadly earnest eyes. "You will be gone before I arrive there."

For a moment Catriona thought Brims would argue, but he drew himself up and turned away.

Not a soul spoke. Somewhere off to the side a man groaned, but whether it was Wickfield or Rory returning to consciousness, Catriona could not tell.

"I owe you much, Sir Hawk," she said softly.

He watched her with unwavering intent. "Remember that," he said, "when you reach Blackburn Castle."

Cat was no stranger to propositions. She was Rom, she was young, and she possessed an allure for men that she could not explain but had long ago accepted. She had learned at a tender age how to discourage men without lessening her own prospects. How to turn them aside while flattering them in the same breath. But this man had been nothing but distant and respectful since the first moment they had met, since she had rushed to Blackburn Castle so long ago to inform him of his beloved niece's plight. Had the Hawk changed since then? Had he become like so many others?

"You wish something of me, Sir Hawk?" she asked, her tone cautious and level.

"Aye." He nodded once, slowly. "I would ask that you not start a war until you leave our little keep," he said, and turned away on the heel of his boot. No, he had not changed. His plaid flared and settled around corded thighs as he strode away—a quiet, kilted bear among yapping lap dogs.

"Sir Hawk," she said, screwing up her courage. "May I request one favor?"

He turned back, his brows pulled low over his moon- mist eyes. "Does it involve any more of my men being broken or bloodied?"

A flash of anger sparked through her. She had not asked to be propositioned or pursued. "Only if the men in question prove to be as foolhardy as the first."

Something in his eyes changed almost imperceptibly—a spark of humor, perhaps, though his lips remained immobile and stern.

" 'Tis said, lass, that a bonny face can make a fool of any man."

"Then 'tis hardly my fault, is it? For this is the face I was given." She felt indescribably weary suddenly, far older than her twenty-two years. "In truth, it has caused me far more trouble than joy."

"Indeed?" He did smile now, though the expression was wry and fleeting as he gave her a shallow bow. "Then I must do what I can to lighten the load of your beauty, Lady Cat. In what manner can I assist you?"

Chapter 2

Catriona took a step into the great hall. Her heart thrummed in her chest, and her muscles felt taut, like brass wires stretched too tightly along the neck of a gittern. But these sensations were nothing new, only sharpened with the urgency of this impromptu performance.

"I cannot do it," she had said. But Blackheart had only laughed. "The Princess Cat unsure of herself? Surely not. Nay, you shall deliver the young king to me, and when you do... Well, your reunion with your wee brother shall be quite touching, I am sure. "

Off to her right, a young nobleman noticed her and turned from his conversation with a pale young woman dressed in pink. His lips parted, but his words had ceased. The drinking horn slipped from his fingers to clatter noisily to the floor. Around him, heads turned toward her. The hall fell to whispers, then to silence. 'Twas then that the music of a lute began, softly at first, then rising like a musical moon. As if from nowhere, it trilled around her.

She took another step forward, balanced on the balls of her bare feet. One step and then another. More heads turned her way. A path was cleaved in front of her. She twirled once, then again. Her skirt, crafted of fabric as light as air and as bright as holly berries twirled with her, billowing away from the dark, cuffed garment beneath. Stretching her arms overhead, she danced for a moment then tipped her body over, positioned on her hands for an instant before finding her feet again. Her flaring skirt made a continuous arc through the air, and when she landed—voila—there was a goblet in her hand. A goblet filled with wine and not a droplet spilled.

She handed it off to a nearby gentleman and danced on. One stride, then two. From the corner of her eye, she saw the raised dais in the center of the gargantuan room.

The rhythm of the music sped along. Not far away there was a space between two men who sat on the table's benchlike seat. She leapt easily into that opening, her feet a light patter against the wear-smoothed wood as she spun again and again.

In an instant, she was atop the table. Platters and saltcellars and goblets and food crowded the great wooden expanse. But it was no great feat for her to avoid the clutter, to dance across the surface, to scoop up a tart, somersault from the table, and offer the dessert to the nearest bystander. No great feat to twirl and dance and mesmerize until she fell forward in a heap of gauzy fabric at the foot of the king's chair.

The music fell away. The hall was as silent as a mausoleum. She sat up slowly, lifting her arms above her head, unfolding like a flower to the sun. And with her movement came the birds, fluttering from her on delicate yellow-green wings.

She watched the king lift his freckled face to the ceiling, watched him giggle with glee, before finally turning back toward her.

"Lady Cat." His voice had deepened somewhat since her last visit there, but the smoothness of his cheeks still evidenced the features of a lad. "You have returned."

"Aye." She rose to her feet amid raucous applause, bowed low, and smiled. "Did I not say I would?"

"Aye. But it has been forever and beyond."

She laughed. "Mayhap to a lad, but surely not to a king," she said softly.

"Am I not a person first, and a king second?"

"Aye. That you are, Your Majesty," she said. "And a young man, I see. You are twice the height you were when last I saw you."

"I am nearing twelve years of age." There was excitement in his voice. "The day of my birth approaches."

"Does it?" She held her breath, awaiting his next words.

"Aye. There will be much merrymaking. You must come."

She could feel her heart knock against her ribs in thrumming relief. "But, Your Majesty, I have—"

"Nay, you must!" he said. "I insist. You will perform at the festivities."

Thank you, God. "A simple Rom lass at such a lavish festival? What will your council say?"

"They will say..." He scowled and cast a mischievous sidelong glance toward Lord Tremayne, his most senior and most unbending, advisor. "These gypsies are the very devil incarnate and must be cast from our midst.' "

"Will they?"

"Aye. And I will say..." He raised his chin and flipped a casual hand. "Accept my friends or forfeit your heads."

"Can you say that?" she asked, making certain her tone bore the proper awe.

He shrugged and leaned close to whisper. "Oh, aye, I can say it, but thus far no heads have actually been forthcoming."

She laughed. " 'Tis good to see you again, Your Majesty."

"Say you will perform for my birthday."

"Or I must forfeit my head?"

Beside her, Sir Hawk strode up and bowed slightly.

"Why did you not tell me she had come?" James asked.

"Mayhap I did not know," Hawk said, but the king scoffed.

"A maggot could not enter this keep without your knowledge. Nor can I breathe without your consent."

Hawk tilted his head. The black plume in his deep green bonnet bobbed. "I am but trying to keep you safe, Your Majesty."

"Then I would suggest keeping me informed as to our guests," said a voice at Cat's elbow.

She turned. Lord Tremayne looked no different than he had at her last meeting with him. He was a man of indeterminate years with cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood. He stared at her with pale, watery eyes and pursed lips that blended into the parched color of his face.

" 'Tis a pleasure to see you again, my lord," she lied.