Highland Hawk: Highland Brides #7 (3 page)

He raised a single brow. "Explanations, Sir Hawk," he said, without turning his attention from her.

"Catriona of the Bairds is a friend of clan MacGowan and a friend of the throne," Hawk said, his low voice not reaching past their small ring of listeners.

"But I did not give permission for her presence here," Tremayne said. "Therefore—"

"Who is this person?" asked another gentleman, elbowing his way forward. He was a good hand shorter than Tremayne, though his increased girth made him appear considerably less. He struggled to free something from a pouch at his side. "And why is she here?" he asked, still .wrestling with the recalcitrant pouch.

"My apologies, good sir," Catriona said, curtsying gently. "The fault for my rude interruption is entirely mine."

"It is..." began the man, but just at that moment, he managed to fish out his wire spectacles. Behind the curved glass, his eyes grew wide before he blinked like a blinded owl. "Who is she?" he asked again, but the question was asked in a breathy whisper now.

"She is Catriona of the clan Baird, Your Grace. Some call her Princess Cat. 'Tis naught but a courtesy name, for her origins are humble, unless you believe the wild tales about her antecedents." Hawk's tone was parchment dry. "And Lord Tremayne is correct, of course; she should not have been allowed to disturb this royal assemblage. Off with you now," he said, turning dramatically toward Cat.

"Surely you jest," argued a gentleman who pushed through the crush. Dressed in mustard-yellow hose and a slashed crimson doublet, he was the very picture of polite refinement. "We can hardly toss the lass out on her ear. 'Tis practically the midst of the night. She needs a place to retire." Reaching for her hand, he bowed smoothly over her knuckles, bestowing on them a lingering kiss. While the duke was squat and balding, this man was narrow and refined, with bonny features and perfect teeth. "Marquis de la Faire," he introduced himself. "But you may call me Boswell the Fair."

"I did not say we should toss her out," insisted the myopic duke. "I but meant..." For a moment he floundered for words and perhaps for breath itself, then, "After all, we would not want the king to be thought of as uncharitable."

"But what of his safety?" Hawk asked.

"Safety!" The stout man scoffed, turning his gaze back to Catriona with a labored sigh. "What harm could one wee lass do? And such a..." He paused as he examined her more closely—her face, her bodice, laced tight to keep all the necessities in place, her waist, and then down to where her hands clasped each other beneath her slashed red and black sleeves. "Such a delicate thing at that."

She had just catapulted from the table and into their midst. "Delicate" did not seem a fitting description, but Catriona was not one to argue when things were going her way.

"Aye," said Sir Hawk, his dry tone suggesting he had forgotten neither Wickfield's agonized moans nor his lieutenant's purple nose. "She is indeed a delicate lass."

"She is perfection of form," said de la Faire.

She smiled, trying to encompass the gathering of lords and ladies that crowded in for a better view.

"Had I realized the cordiality of Blackburn Castle, I would have come sooner," she said.

"You have never been to our fair keep before?" asked de la Faire.

"Long ago," she said. "And then only for a short visit."

"Then I must show you about," said the Frenchman.

"I know the castle as well as any," argued the spectacled duke. "Therefore—"

"As much as I appreciate your kind offers," Catriona interrupted. " 'Twas a long and arduous journey. Truly, I desire nothing more than a bed and—"

"I've got a bed," piped a young noble with crooked front teeth and a lopsided grin.

"And solitude," Cat finished. Ignoring the crestfallen expressions of the men around her, she turned toward the king. "Your Majesty, I thank you for your kind audience."

He rose from his chair with the energetic haste of youth. "Tell me you shall stay and perform for my birthday."

She turned her eyes toward Tremayne and his nearsighted counterpart. "I've no wish to cause rancor amongst your loyal advisors."

"Nay, nay," crooned Lord Spectacles. " 'Tis a royal request. What can we do but comply?"

Tremayne said nothing.

"Then I shall gladly agree," Cat said.

"I have been practicing my horsemanship since last we met," James said.

For a moment she wondered what he meant, but then she remembered their time together—the young king's grave efforts as he tried to achieve a few of the simpler tricks she had shown him.

"You must demonstrate when next we ride." She curtsied. "My thanks, Your Highness," she said and turned away.

"I shall see you again then surely," said the duke, tottering along after.

In all honesty, that depended on if he had his spectacles close to hand.

"Can I see you to your chambers?" asked the Frenchman as others pressed close behind him.

"Sir Hawk promised to escort me," she said, glancing toward the huge soldier.

He raised a single brow a fraction at her lie, but stepped up with a bow.

"Do not forget me, then, if you wish for a tour," said de la Faire.

"How could I?" she asked and tucked her hand beneath the Hawk's elbow. Against her fingers, muscles honed by years and battle jumped to life as he bore her through the pressing crowd.

"Mourning the sad state of your beauty again?" he asked quietly, not looking down at her as he pulled open the hall's heavy door.

She smiled, nodding once at a young gentleman who cocked a knee and bowed to her. "I but said it gave me more trouble than joy," she reminded him. "I did not say that I was too proud to use it."

"Then use it to your best advantage, lass," he said, "for the king's celebration begins in less than a fortnight. And I doubt Tremayne will tolerate your much bemoaned beauty after that."

"A fortnight!" The words caught in her chest.

"Aye." He glanced sharply down at her. "Is something amiss?"

"Nay. 'Tis just that there is much to plan if I am to entertain for such a grand assemblage. Costumes, routines..."

"Your performance tonight was quite impressive."

She couldn't tell if he referred to her acrobatics or her conversation afterward, but his next statement answered her unspoken question.

"The Catriona I remember was not so designing."

"I was younger then." Far younger. Indeed, she felt as old as the curving stone stairs up which they climbed. "Is there something so dreadful about wanting to perform at the king's celebration?"

"Not at all. But you might have simply asked."

"Who? You or Lord Tremayne?"

He acknowledged her point with a simple nod. " 'Tis lucky that the Duke of Ramhurst is not entirely blind, or your ploy might well have failed."

She laughed as they reached the door of the chambers she had been given to use. " 'Tis good for me to flex my manipulative muscles now and then."

"I fear I do not understand."

" 'Tis because you are not an entertainer."

"True. I am naught but a—" he began then turned in surprise as a pair of greenfinches fluttered up the stairs toward them. They flitted to her shoulder and squabbled, but she opened the door and shooed them inside. "You were saying?"

"I was saying I am but a scared old warrior."

"False modesty, Sir Hawk?" she asked.

"Painful honesty," he countered.

"I think you underrate yourself," she said, glancing up through her lashes.

"And I think you should find younger game on which to hone your hunting skills."

She laughed aloud and pulled her fingers from his arm. Her knuckles brushed his chest, and for an instant she almost thought she heard him draw in a sharp breath. "I think you would make a fine entertainer, Sir Hawk. In truth, being able to judge your audience is an important asset. It seems you would do well in that regard; and you would look quite dashing with your fierce scowl. Perhaps a sweeping cape to add to the drama.”

“But..." She shrugged. "Mistress Hawk might take offence."

He said nothing.

She cleared her throat and eyed him askance. "Mayhap you do not know the rules of this game," she said. "I am asking, and quite subtly I might add, if you are wed."

"Marcele died some fifteen years past."

"Oh." She suddenly felt very foolish and rather callow. "My apologies."

The silence stretched uncomfortably.

" 'Twas a marriage arranged between her family and Lord Beaumont."

"A Frenchman?"

"He was my liege lord for some years."

"And you impressed him with your skill and loyalty."

He did not deny it. "I should have refused. She was..." he began then paused.

"What?"

"Fragile," he said. "She died carrying my child."

"And so you have no children... except for the king, of course."

"You could see me beheaded with that sort of talk, lass," he warned wryly.

"I only meant that I imagine most guards don't share such a closeness as you do with young James."

"An old soldier's means of recapturing his youth, I suppose."

"How old?"

He raised his brows in mild humor. "I hope you find the room to your satisfaction, Lady Cat."

"You've no intention of answering me?"

"Quite astute for a babe just out of swaddling."

They stared at each other in silence for a moment. A strange sort of breathless tension stole over her. She dropped her gaze.

"My thanks for rescuing me from Lord Tremayne. It seems he bears no fondness for me," she said finally.

"Rescuing?" He gave a mild expression of surprise. "I was hoping to see you cast from Blackburn before you caused more trouble. Unfortunately, the duke of Ramhurst found his spectacles too quickly."

She would be wise, she knew, to ignore the odd trickle of pleasure caused by his off-hand compliment. "Which goes to prove that everything happens as it should," she said.

"Or that there is no fool like an old fool."

"How old?" she asked again.

"The duke? Too old for you," he said.

"And you?"

"He is decidedly too old for me."

She smiled, then sobered. "My thanks again, Sir Hawk."

"My debt to you has too long been unfulfilled," he reminded her.

"Not true." She glanced toward the nearby window, remembering the first time she had met him. " 'Twas a simple enough thing to hustle to Blackburn and tell you that Rachel and her Liam had found some trouble. I owed them that much at least. Liam taught me a great deal about sleight of hand and Rachel... Rachel was a saint; and a friend when a friend was needed."

"And she is my kin always," he said, still watching her. "I owe her mother, Lady Fiona."

"Truly?" she asked, intrigued. "The great hawk of the Highlands. It does not seem possible that you could owe anyone."

He canted his head. His was not a pretty face, but solid and masculine, chiseled by years and character, with a groove on each side of his mouth like elongated dimples, and a bowed nose that suggested a colorful past. " 'Twas a time when I was even younger than you, wee Cat."

"Nay!" she said, managing to sound surprised.

"Aye. Well before the dawn of time, of course."

"Ah. So tell me, before the dawn of time, what Rachel's mother did for you."

"Naught but save my life."

The arched hallway around them was silent.

"Tell me," she said softly.

"I thought you were quite weary."

"Tell me."

He shrugged and settled a brawny shoulder against the wall. There was a casual strength to his movement, interwoven with a unique, unconscious grace. "My half- sister took me in when I was small and sickly and had none other to care for me. 'Twas
her
sister-by-law, the Lady Fiona, who nursed me into health."

She glanced at the muscle that bulged beneath the sleeves of his russet doublet then swept her gaze up the bulk of his chest to his unreadable eyes. "You jest."

"There are those who say Lady Fiona could change a toad into a prince. Which, if you dwell on it, makes her miracle with me seem somewhat less miraculous."

"So Rachel inherited her healing touch from her mother."

"Aye."

"And she is your kinswoman."

"In actuality, she is my half-sister's husband's brother's daughter."

"Very nearly twins."

His eyes smiled "Close enough I suspect, that they had no wish to see me die. In truth, they insisted that I live. Regardless what my lungs thought of the matter."

'Twas difficult to think of him as a child, for he seemed to be the embodiment of looming masculinity. As she stared at him, she imagined the lad he had been—dark hair, a somber expression, a fleeting shadow of what he would become. Not unlike Lachlan—burning potential in a wee small frame. But she would not think of that just now. "Who are 'they'?" she asked.

He paused a moment, then straightened from the wall. "Is anything amiss, lass?"

"Nay." She brightened her smile. "Nothing. 'Tis just... difficult to imagine you as anything but a rock."

His gaze didn't waver from her face. "Rory has recovered?"

"Aye. An ache in the head, nothing worse."

"And your Lachlan. He is well and lively?"

"Oh, aye. If he were any livelier I would have to sell him to the Gypsies." She laughed.

"Young James would have been happy to see him."

" 'Twas sorry I was to leave him behind. He is as clever and troublesome as ever, but I feared Blackburn might not have enough supplies to sate his appetite. He eats as much as Bear."

"So the bear stayed behind too?"

"Aye. They are probably even now squabbling over herring pie." Her throat closed up, clogged with terror and tears. If only Bear had been with Lachlan when Blackheart's men had come upon him in the woods, her brother might still be with her now.

She forced down the fear. Now was not the time for helpless sentiment. Now was the time for action, for planning, for clear-headed thinking and bold deeds. But she was neither clear-headed nor bold. She was scared and lost and out of her depth, but she dare not show it—so she forged on, trying to turn Hawk's attention aside. "Just before I left him, he asked me a riddle," she said. "Who is gray at birth, fair at maturity, and raven-haired in her dotage?"