Highland Hawk: Highland Brides #7 (27 page)

"I am sorry." And strangely, she truly was, for he was wounded. She could hear it in his voice, feel it in the air. "But I cannot live like that, Rory. Mayhap I am too selfish. But I need someone who will be true."

"And so you go to him?" he asked, his voice rising.

She tensed.

"You go to him? That great, towering oaf? It may be
he
was the one who has taken your beloved brother."

She tried to pull her hand free, but he did not release it. "Let me go, Rory. I am tired."

"But not too tired for him, are you?"

"I told you I was searching."

"And you found it, did you not?" he snarled. "Was it as big as you had hoped?"

She jerked away and dashed for her room, but he lunged after her. His fingers tangled in her hair and she was yanked to the floor.

"You are mine!" he growled, pulling her to her feet.

She stumbled upright and fear mingled with her rage. "I was never yours!" she hissed. "And I never shall be."

Lightning exploded inside her head. She reeled backward, crashing against the wall.

"Get up!" he growled. He came for her, leaning close, his handsome mouth twisted in a sneer. She tried to scoot away. Suddenly there was a wild bellow and Rory flew sideways. The wall shook beneath his weight.

And then she saw Haydan. His chest and feet were bare, his plaid haphazard about his muscular waist.

Rory rose with a scream of rage and threw himself forward. The lute struck Haydan's ear and he reeled against the wall. Rory dodged in, swinging again.

Cat scrambled to her feet and lunged at Rory's back.

He swung at her, slamming her sideways, and then, even in the uncertain light of the hallway, she saw his knife.

She tried to scream, but Rory was already charging.

"She is mine!" he growled and struck.

Haydan gasped and jerked.

"Nay!" Cat cried, but in that moment Haydan's arm swung wide. The knife clattered against a door, and suddenly Rory was pinned to the wall by Hawk's hand on his throat.

Rory scrambled wildly, arms milling and legs pistoning, his feet inches from the floor. His strangling rasps became louder, like those of a rabid dog.

Footsteps pattered toward them, bearing lights and gasps of horror. But Cat's attention was skewered to the two men by the wall. Hawk's eyes were deadly cold, Rory's popping wide as his face turned pasty blue.

"Good God, he's going to kill him!" someone gasped.

"Stop him! Hey there!"

Rory bucked again, but weaker now, and it was that weakness that snapped Catriona into reality.

"Haydan!" She ran to him. "You must not kill him! You cannot!"

"On the contrary." His voice was as cold and deadly steady as his eyes. "I can and I shall."

"Haydan!" She grabbed his arm, but the muscles there were as hard as hewn granite, unrelenting, unforgiving. "Please, have mercy."

"Why? Why mercy?" he asked flatly.

"He is my kinsman."

For a moment, she thought he had not heard her, but finally his arm quivered and withdrew.

Rory fell to the floor like a broken puppet, grasping his throat and wheezing for breath.

"Are you well?" Haydan turned slowly toward her.

"I—" She was shaking and nauseated. "I am fine. But you..." She reached for him.

He pulled away. Grasping the front of Rory's tunic, Haydan pulled him to his feet.

"You will leave this place." His voice was deep, unwavering, beyond rage. "And you shall not see the lass again."

"She is mine!" Rory snarled.

Hawk's opposite hand streaked out, grasping the other's throat. But in a moment he had gained control and when he spoke his voice was level once again. "You shall not see her," he ordered. "Not for the entirety of your miserable life. Do you understand?"

Rory managed a croak of agreement.

Hawk drew back his hands and Rory wilted against the wall.

"You will leave now," Haydan said.

"You shall regret this," Rory vowed, clutching his throat.

"I regret her mercy already. Go while you can," he ordered, and Rory fled, stumbling away toward safety.

The hallway went quiet.

"My God!" someone gasped. "He's wounded."

"Nay." Haydan turned abruptly. " 'Tis the Rom's blood on me."

"Come, Lady Catriona, I will see you to your chamber," he said, and taking a lamp from the nearest man, touched a hand to her back.

Her door opened silently. They stepped inside together.

"Rory didn't bleed," she said, shifting her gaze to the blood smeared across his abdomen.

"What?" he asked, skimming the room before returning his gaze to her face.

"You are wounded."

"Do not worry. 'Tis naught."

"Another scar. Because of me." A quavering sob rasped between her clenched teeth, and because he could not bear her pain, he cradled her chin in his palm and tilted her head up.

"I shall never think of scars the same," he murmured. "Not after your ministrations."

"You're delirious. I am no healer."

"On the contrary," he said. "You have healed my very heart with—"

Marta suddenly awoke with a snort and a start.

"Catty. So you are finally returned," she said, then narrowed her pebble-bright eyes and sat up. "What happened here?"

Haydan dropped his hand and straightened. "I fear your granddaughter has been molested."

"Molested!" The old woman swung her legs off the bed with amazing speed. Her nightrail shimmied up, baring legs as scrawny as a peahen's. But she seemed to neither notice nor care. "Molested by whom?"

"Rory," Cat answered. "Rory was waiting in the hallway for me."

"God help us," said Marta, hurrying toward them while she pinned Haydan with a dark glare. "And you let this happen?"

"I am sorry," he said, guilt gnawing at him.

" 'Tis not his fault!" Cat insisted.

"Where are you hurt?" Marta asked, ignoring her defense.

"I am well. 'Tis Haydan who is wounded."

"Nay, I am fine."

"Good God! What a pair of brave souls. Give me a coward any day," she muttered, waving vaguely toward the bed. "Sit down the both of you."

"I cannot stay," Haydan insisted. "The gossipmongers will—"

"Gossipmongers! What are they to say? That you seduced the lass while I was yet in the room?"

No one spoke.

"You would not do that, would you, lad?" she asked, her eyes ungodly bright in her wrinkled face as she stared at him.

"Nay."

"Just as I thought," she said in disgust. "Sit down." He did so. "You too, Catty," she ordered, but stopped Catriona with a hand on her arm. "He struck you?"

"Aye."

The old woman shook her head. "I should have known. I should have felt it in him. 'Tis me own fault. Me own cursed old age," she said and sighed. "Sit."

Cat did so, settling meekly beside Hawk on the bed.

Marta stared at Haydan. "Blood," she said, shaking her head. "I do not like blood. Did he stab you?"

"Aye, but—"

"Quiet. Stay there. I go to fetch a few necessities."

"Truly, I am-—" Haydan began, but she stopped him with a glare.

"Would you rather I fetch Leech?"

"Nay."

"Then there is a little hope for you at least," she muttered and tottered from the room, closing the door behind her.

Catriona expelled her breath and closed her eyes. Sitting there, she looked like a wee weary angel. "I am sorry," she murmured.

"Nay. 'Tis I who should apologize."

"You?"

"Damn him," he said, his soul tearing at the sight of her panicked eyes. "I should have killed him."

"How badly are you hurt?" she whispered.

"A cut. Nothing more," he said, but he kept his left arm pressed to his side so that she could not see the wound. "I should have escorted you to your room. Why did you not awaken me?"

She met his gaze then reached up. Her fingers felt like healing balm against his cheek. "If I woke you it would not have been to walk the halls," she whispered.

"Lass," he began, but at that moment she kissed him, gently at first. Then desire struck fear like flint to steel and passion flared.

He could not help but kiss her back. Her hand slipped behind his neck. He quivered beneath her touch and slid his arm about her waist, drawing her closer.

"Damnably slow!" They jerked apart as Marta stormed into the room. "Is that all you got accomplished?" She carried bandages and a bottle. "What a foolish waste of a good bed. Had I moved that slow, Catty's grandmother would be yet unborn." She shuffled closer. "Here, then. Lift your arm."

"Truly—" Haydan began.

"Lift!" she ordered.

He did so.

"Ah. Well..." Uncorking the jug, she took a swig before dumping a bit onto a cloth. "The lassies like the scars, aye?" she said and slapped the cloth to his wound.

He gritted his teeth against the sharp slash of pain and straightened abruptly.

"There now. We'll have no fainting," she reprimanded.

"I was not about to faint."

"We'll have no weeping, either. 'Twould be embarrassing."

He scowled at her. "I'll not cry."

"Nay?" she asked and dabbed harder at his injury.

"Nay," he said, remembering her implication of Catriona's vast sexual experience. "But I am thinking of tossing you out yonder window."

She stared at him for an instant, then threw her head back and laughed. "You've got spunk for a wee lad."

"And you lie like a Persian rug," he said with feeling.

She leaned closer, staring into his eyes, and then she grinned and nodded. "I needed to know if you would cherish the prize even if you thought it less than perfect." The grin increased. "Apparently you did," she said, then nodded toward Catriona and took another swig of whiskey. "Bandage him up. He will live."

But when Catriona reached for the strips of cloth, the old woman touched her cheek and frowned.

"Put a cold rag on it, lass," she said quietly. "And remember this. Life is short." With that, she tottered over to the far side of the bed, set the whiskey on the floor, and stretched out on the mattress with her face to the distant wall. In a matter of seconds she was snoring.

"I had best leave," Haydan said, beginning to rise.

But Cat placed a palm against his chest. Warmth radiated from his skin to hers, taking her breath for a moment, but finally she found her voice. "Nay. Let me see to your wound."

"What of the gossips?"

"We have a chaperone."

He gave Marta a slanted glance. "She is asleep."

"They will not know that."

"They will know she is odd."

Catriona laughed and Haydan leaned forward to cup her chin and kiss her lightly.

"Sleep well," he said, and rising quickly, left the room.

Rain slanted into Haydan's face, driven by a cold wind that whistled from the north.

"Did you see which way the Rom went?" he asked the guard at the bridge.

"Nay, Sir Hawk. What with this damnable weather blowing out the torches, I only know he has left Blackburn." The guard fidgeted. "Is something amiss?"

"Nay. Nothing," Haydan said, then paused. Damnable weather indeed. "Open the portcullis."

"What?"

"Open the portcullis. I have business in the village."

"Business? At this hour of the night? Oh..." said the guard and grinned. He'd lost a tooth since Haydan had last seen him. "Business. Aye." He winked. "The nights, they do get lonely, do they not? Especially with that Gypsy lass forever about, aye?"

Haydan lowered his brows. Temper and fatigue and burning pain were contriving against his usual effervescent humor.

"Not to worry," added the guard as he rapidly raised the iron gate. "I'll tell no one of your... business."

"See that you don't," Haydan said, and wrapping his dark cloak about him, rode into the storm.

'Twas a simple enough task to find the Rom's wagon even in the dark. They had unhooked the narrow cart in plain view of Blackburn, in a bonny spot by the burn. But when Haydan opened the wee door at the rear, 'twas clear Rory was not there. There were, however, fast- fading tracks leading from the contraption.

In the gray light of dawn, Haydan followed the tracks toward the village. But once there, the footprints veered off, tramping across the vale and into the woods beyond.

Beneath the shelter of the trees, Haydan's task became more difficult. He damned himself for his delay. He should have questioned the Rom before banning him from the castle. But it had been all he could do to keep from killing the man, and mayhap this was best, after all—for perhaps the Rom's destination would tell a greater truth than his words ever would.

Sometime in midmoraing, the rain began again. The clouds lowered until they seemed to envelop the entire world in grayness. The trail faded into oblivion. Haydan rounded back, searched again, and finally found a place where the Rom had slipped and fallen.

The woods thickened. Rain dripped off the edge of Haydan's hood, finding its way with chilly fingers down his neck.

The footprints disappeared again. Haydan swore with growling verve and searched hopelessly. The forest was dense and dark here. Vines grew in wild profusion, choking a weathered hawthorn then twining horizontally across a grayish branch. But when he reached that spot, he found that 'twas not a branch that supported the vine. It was a wooden door set in a cottage so ancient it was nearly lost in the foliage.

Silently drawing his sword, Haydan waited beside the door for a moment, then lifted the latch and stepped inside.

The place was empty. Haydan's disappointment swelled. But upon further examination, he realized that someone had been there. A leafless vine crossing the inside of the door had been torn asunder, and the years of dust on the floor had recently been disturbed.

So the Rom had been there, Haydan deduced. Judging by the scattering of dust near the door, he had rested there for a time. But why? Why here?

Sheathing his sword, Haydan returned outside to search for more tracks. But the raw, wilding weather, seeming determined to foil him, came harder until finally there was nothing he could do but return to Blackburn to nurse his knee and his foul mood.