Highland Hawk: Highland Brides #7 (8 page)

"But have you ever returned to your homeland?" asked the slight man with the crooked teeth and the unruly hair. He looked vaguely familiar, but when he had introduced himself as Arthur Douglas, Earl of Harrow- head, she did not recognize the name. He had a boyish habit of hugging his left arm against his side as if he were shy. Those around him called him Lord Hogshead, but he seemed to bear no ill will, perhaps because of the stunning amount of ale he had already consumed, or perhaps because of his own disarming and unassuming temperament.

"Nay. I have never had the opportunity to return to Khandia," she said.

"That explains it then," said another. "If they saw your face, they would surely hasten you to the throne."

"If they were still conscious after the first glimpse of her," Hogshead said, and the others around him laughed.

Nearly a dozen men surrounded her. She knew a few names. MacKinnon with the round, bearded face. De la Faire with the perfect teeth. Lord Drummond, a dark, handsome man who sat beside the pale girl called Roberta and who seemed engrossed by her every whispered word. 'Twas he who kept his door locked, if Mildred had been correct.

Could any of them have issued that evil ultimatum?

"Widow Charmain," someone said. "You look well rested."

"I have been told that there is nowhere like Blackburn to get... rested."

Catriona caught her breath. There was something about the purred tone of 'rested' that tweaked her memory.

Fayette!

Cat snapped her gaze to the woman, but though the lady turned to look at Catriona there was neither recognition nor horror in her eyes, but rather the hint of an emotion Cat could not quite read.

"Lady," said a lad who appeared beside her elbow with a pitcher. "May I offer you some ale?"

"Nay, I fear I..." Cat began, but in that instant her gaze met the lad's mischievous green eyes. "Your M—" she began, but he lifted a finger, unobtrusively to his mouth and motioned for silence.

"No ale?" he asked, his lips crinkled in an impish grin. "But 'tis an excellent brew."

"If... if you recommend it," she said, and sat transfixed by the sight of the crowned king of Scotland in soiled britches and a droopy bonnet.

He leaned close to pour. His cap dangled lower, threatening to be doused in her unrequested ale. "You promised me a ride," he whispered.

"Aye," she agreed simply, tearing her gaze from his face.

"Princess Cat," crooned de la Faire from near her elbow. "I missed you on the hunt yesterday."

She turned toward the speaker, wondering with stunned awe if none other had recognized the lad. "I was quite fatigued," she explained simply, and skimmed the faces that surrounded her. None was staring at the king in shocked dismay. "I fear I spent the afternoon in bed."

"An image to ponder," someone murmured.

There were chuckles.

"In the stable," James said softly. "Directly."

She nodded. He slipped away.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," she said, rising. "I must see to my grandmother."

"I hoped you might ride with me this day," someone said, but she made her excuses and hurried away.

Once outside the great hall, she turned left, trying to avoid anyone who might delay her. But just as she was about to escape, a priest in a black robe turned toward her.

"Catriona of the Bairds," he said. His hair was red, his voice soft, his hands hidden in the sleeves of his opposite arms. "I had hoped to meet you."

"Oh, Father, I..." She glanced down the hall she had planned to be escaping down even now. "I fear I have no time to delay. I received a message that my grandmother is feeling unwell."

He drew an expression of concern. "Mayhap I should accompany you."

"Nay!" Cat said quickly and searched frantically for an excuse. "Nay, Father," she said. "If I brought a priest into Grandmother's room she might imagine 'twas her last rites you'd come to give, and not your good wishes."

He smiled, a warm expression on his kindly face. "Very well, but please, lass, be not ashamed to come to me if you should have a need of any sort."

"My thanks," she said, and trying not to seem too impatient, hurried away.

She took a circuitous course to the stables, glancing quickly over her shoulder now and again. Her heart thundered like a running horse. It was not time! There would be no purpose in riding yet.

"You shall bring him to us. Alone and unarmed."

Not now. Not yet. That was to be her last resort, her final act if all else failed. If she could not determine Blackheart's true identity. If she could not stop him. 'Twas too early, and yet, it was not her place to refuse the king. She needed his friendship, required his trust, or all would be lost.

The stable door creaked open under her hand. From a heavily beamed box stall to her right, a groom glanced her way then stood staring until she hurried past.

"Hello," she called softly.

No answer.

"Your Majesty," she whispered.

"Here." The voice came from up above.

She glanced up, just as James scurried down the leather-bound rungs of a slanting ladder. A smattering of straw rained down with his descent.

"We must hurry," he whispered, then glanced over his shoulder toward the stall that held the distant groom. "Most of the horsemen are breaking their fast. We've not much time."

"Time for what?" she asked, her heart still hammering in her too-tight chest.

"Our escape."

"Escape!"

"Shh. We've little enough time before someone realizes I am not in my chambers."

"You plan to ride out alone?"

"Not alone. With you."

"With me?" Her stomach cranked into a hard knot. 'Truly, Your Majesty, I do not think this is a good idea. What if—"

"Shh," he warned again, and grabbing her hand, pulled her toward the nearest stall.

She stepped inside. He glanced nervously past her as he pulled the heavy door shut.

"I've already saddled Courtier. Sir Hawk taught me how to—"

" 'Twas a mistake."

James gasped and spun toward the voice. Catriona's heart twisted tight as she did the same.

"Hawk!" The name sounded like a reprimand coming from the rumpled, frowning lad.

"Aye." Hawk pushed himself from the wall where he had been resting. " 'Tis I. Were you expecting another?"

"I was expecting no one!" James snapped, his mouth puckering in concert with his brow. "How did you know?"

"I spied you in the hall and guessed your intent. When I saw that Courtier was saddled my suspicions were rewarded."

"Well, it makes no difference," James said. "I will have no guards this day."

The stable fell silent.

"So you think so little of Scotland?" Sir Hawk's voice was deep and quiet.

"This has naught to do with Scotland!"

"You
are
Scotland, lad. What befalls you befalls her."

The boy's scowl deepened, but he dropped his head and gazed at his scruffy, oversized shoes. "I but wanted some time alone."

Hawk stepped closer. "With
one
companion," he reminded.

"Aye," James admitted reluctantly.

"I suppose it is but a coincidence that she is beautiful."

The words were no more than a murmur, but Catriona heard them.

The boy flushed, but a grin lifted one corner of his impish mouth. He turned shyly toward her then hurried his glance away.

"I am on the threshold of manhood," he reminded Hawk quietly. "You said as much yourself."

"Aye, you are that. But I want you to step over the threshold and live in that room for a hundred score days before you do something so rash as this," Hawk murmured.

"Thirty score!"

Looping an arm over the lad's shoulder, Hawk urged him out of the stall. "How long would that be?" he asked.

"A long time!"

"How long?"

"Don't
you
know?"

"Perhaps I do not."

"Then why should I?"

"Because you are the king."

"Then I do not wish to be king."

They stood in the wide aisle of the stable, James glaring up, Hawk staring down as they locked proverbial horns.

"Then you shall not be," Hawk said with the slightest French accent. "For this day, you will be naught but Jock, a merchant's son who is assisting me in my duties."

The boy's jaw dropped. "Jock? A merchant's son?" The boy's tone was awed.

"Aye,
Jock,"
Hawk said. "Who did you think you were? The king of England? Now quit your lollygagging, lad. Fetch the lady's mount and be quick about it, or I'll give you a beating you will not soon forget."

"Aye." He bobbed an affirmation, trying to be solemn, though his grin threatened to peek through. "Aye," he said again and, spinning on his soiled shoes, thundered off down the hard-packed aisle.

Chapter 6

They rode three abreast down the beaten road. Behind them lay the gates of Blackburn. Ahead lay freedom.

James glanced up at Haydan on his mammoth gray stallion. The boy had many royal steeds, but Courtier, with his fine velvet blanket and smooth flowing stride, had been left behind with the others. Instead, the king was mounted on a spavined, flea-bitten roan with a lumpy head, a blanket made of twisted chaff, and a dried-out saddle. No trappings adorned his gear and nothing about his attire gave away his station. His homely bonnet jostled here and there, half hiding his face at any given moment, but never had a boy looked happier. "Where do we go this day..." He paused. "Uncle... Harry?"

Hawk gave him a jaundiced glance, but was willing to play along with the part he had initiated. "I must speak to the Baron of Isthill," he said. "About some spices he requires."

"Oh." The grin was turned on Catriona this time. "And you, Mistress..." He paused, searching for a name.

"Catherine," she supplied.

"Mistress Catherine," he said, giving her a wide smile for her quick answer. "Do you have plans of your own or do you come simply to accompany your husband?"

She opened her mouth to object, but one glance at Hawk changed her mind. For in his expression she saw his willingness to walk through hell and back to give the lad this moment of unbridled happiness.

She shifted her gaze back to the king. "I need a bolt of linen for a new gown," she said, falling easily into the part. "I had thought to mend my old woolen one, but the king is coming, you know."

"Indeed?" He grinned.

"Indeed," she said, leaning closer. "And I've no wish to offend him. He is as shallow as a poor man's grave and might well take offense at my shabby appearance."

For a moment James stared at her then he threw back his head and laughed.

The tone of the day was set. Silly riddles, easy laughter, and foolish poems filled the morning, and if James noticed the retinue of guards that followed a quarter mile to the rear, he made no mention of it.

Sometime before noon they came to a village, where they visited the market.

Hungry and excited, James eyed a cart of fat mutton pies, but Hawk prodded him away.

"I do not ask you to dine only twice a day as many do, lad," he said, draping an arm over his shoulder. "But your old uncle can afford neither the time nor the coin for the likes of these. Here." Prodding him toward another stand, he urged the boy to choose from an array of stinky bricks of cheese.

Later, when the village was far behind them, they stopped their mounts on a lush hillock and spread their meal before them. They dined on nothing more than cheese and bread and a bottle of sweet wine, but the weather was fine and the laughter plentiful.

Half a mile's distance, a dozen guards stopped too, but none of the trio spoke to them.

"So your father was a merchant also, Aunt?" James asked, slurping the wine straight from the bottle.

"Aye." Catriona glanced over to where her shaggy bay gelding grazed on the hillside. She had turned him loose, for he was not the sort to stray from the others. He was a powerful animal and well trained, but he was no more loyal than a hunk of brownstone. If the other steeds left, he would be gone like a loosed arrow. But the trio of horses was content to forage for now on the lush grasses.

It was a fine spring day, with a smattering of puffy clouds that threatened nothing more dire than a stirring of imagination, if one should stare at them too long. Hawk had removed his gray plaid cloak, and now it laid spread upon the grass for them to dine on.

"Aye, father was a merchant of sorts," Catriona said, "but he was more."

"More?" James set aside the bottle to tear off another hunk of bread. It was dark and grainy and somewhat dry, nothing like the fine white loaves baked in Blackburn's vast stone ovens. Scowling at it for a moment, he set it aside.

"Aye," Cat said. "He was a spy."

"Nay."

"Aye. He was a spy and thwarted an evil plot against the king."

"Our
king?" James asked, as if awed by the very thought of such royalty.

"Of course our king," she said.

"But you said the king was shallow and petty," James reminded her with a tilt of his head.

She thought for a moment, then, "I but said
shallow,
lad. I believe petty is your
own
description."

Hawk laughed. "Careful, Jock," he said, using that intriguing hint of French. "Lest you give away more than you mean to."

James granted him the hint of a wry smile then turned it on Cat. "If you say the king is shallow, then why would your father spy for him? Surely 'twas dangerous. Why risk his life for a shallow man?"

Catriona grinned. "Let me tell you a terrible truth, nephew," she said, leaning close as if she were about to share a forbidden secret. "All men are shallow."

James drew back, looking uncertain and a bit peeved.
"All
men?"

"And what of women?" Hawk asked.

Catriona turned her gaze to his. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his ice-blue eyes. Laughter, perhaps.

He lay on his side, propped on an elbow. One huge thigh was bent upward, knee toward the heavens, while the other lay flat on his cloak beside his sword. Lying there, he reminded her of a huge wolfhound. Powerful, yes. Protective, yes. But completely tame? Never. And even if he were, it was not
she
he was bound to protect. Nay, it was the boy that sat beside them. It was the boy for whom he would gladly die—for whom he would gladly kill if there should be a need.