Highland Hawk: Highland Brides #7 (9 page)

She swallowed the thought and calmed her nerves. All would be well. Grandmother had promised her, and Grandmother saw things that others did not.

"Are women not shallow?" James asked, giving her a safe haven on which to anchor her wilding thoughts.

"Aye." She nodded, first at the boy and then at Hawk. "I should have said, all
people
are shallow—at some times. Even Durril, I suppose."

"Durril?" James asked.

"He was the bravest man in all the world." She said it simply, as if he should have surely known.

"Braver than me, Uncle Harry?" James turned an impudent expression on Hawk.

She glanced once more at Hawk. It was foolish of her, for there was something about him that conjured up weakness in her. Perhaps it was his attitude, watchful and confident. Or perhaps it was his mere physical prowess. Even now the thought of last night made her shiver, for she had almost been caught. She had been prepared to search yet another room when he had apprehended her. Like a great bird of prey, he had swept down the hallway. It had been all she could do to escape up the stairs and onto the ramparts. Then, when there was nowhere else to flee, she had slipped over the side and hung by her fingers until he'd passed.

It had been no mean feat. True, in the full light of day, when the stone was dry and her mind steady, it would not have been so difficult, for she had trained all her life for that sort of activity. But as it was, 'twas all she could do to hold on until he was past and she could sneak back down the stairs.

"I do not know if he was braver than your uncle," Catriona said, pulling her gaze away. "You shall have to judge for yourself."

"Tell me of him then," ordered James.

She raised a brow. "I do not know if I like your tone, young Jock. I think mayhap your uncle has spared the rod and allowed you to forget your place."

His brows lowered for a moment, but soon he spoke, making it clear he was not willing to give up the game, even for his considerable pride. "I beg you, Mistress Catherine," he said, his tone the very definition of contrition. "Tell me of this Durril."

"Very well then," she said, and pulling her knees up under her chin, she began her story.

"Long ago and far away a child was born. His parents were young and poor, but they were not destitute for they had gifts."

"Gifts?"

"Aye." She smiled, remembering the firelight on her grandmother's face as she had relayed the tale. "Aye, they had the magic." She whispered the word with reverence and slanted her hands, palms upward, toward the heavens. "Wonder in their fingertips. Wings on their feet."

"They were entertainers," James deduced easily.

She shook her head, but did not look directly at him. "Not merely entertainers. Woodsprites. Fairies. They were as free as the wind, as wild as the falcons. Everything they did was magic. Everything they said was music. And so they traveled throughout the country, performing and training their young son in their arts.

"He was a bonny lad, was Durril. Quick as a whip, bright as a sunrise, and the joy of his parents' lives. But as the years passed, times became difficult. A plague tortured the land. Winter came on hard and cold. Yet they had little choice but to travel from village to village in an effort to earn their keep. But one day as they traveled, the wind rushed suddenly from the north. They could find no shelter. It began to snow, blowing with biting cold into their faces.

"Their cart horse floundered in the drifts and Durril's father was forced to help the beast along.

" 'Twas then that the wolves came."

She paused. It seemed that she could see the scene in her mind, as if she had lived it herself, as if she had felt the fear in her own soul.

"Since the plague, the wolves had become both bold and numerous. They surrounded the little cart, snarling and snapping, their fangs gleaming in the cold light of evening. Their attack was savage. Durril's father tried to fight them off but it was no use. There were too many. Inside the cart, his wife heard his screams. She was torn with anguish. She must stay with her son; she must save him. But she could not abandon her husband. And so, like a wildcat protecting her mate, she lunged into the fray."

All the world seemed quiet, as if a battle had been quelled and peace finally settled in.

"Did they live?" James asked, his voice hushed.

"Nay." She shook her head. "They did not. But the horse, terrified of the snarling beasts at its hocks, finally lurched free of the snow and bore young Durril away.

"Finally, after days of roaming, the boy came to a village. He was nearly frozen and he was starving, but he survived because he had—"

"The magic," James whispered.

Catriona studied the lad's rapt expression. "Aye. He had the magic, and as he grew, the magic grew with him so that his gift was even greater than his parents'. He was as quick as an adder, as strong as a steed. All the world adored him.

"Indeed, no woman could resist his charm, for he was as handsome as he was bold. And so he married—the most beautiful woman in the land. Her name was Beti. She had the voice of a wood thrush, the grace of a doe, and when she smiled, the world sang for joy.

'They lived by their wits and their skills. Free as the wild hills they were, going where they pleased when it pleased them. They were beyond happy together, and soon Beti bore a child, a daughter as comely as her mother. They named her Martuska. Durril's joy knew no bounds. Life was good. They wanted for nothing.

"But again winter came, and again Durril found himself in the cold with the wind blowing hard against him. They were alone betwixt villages and the sky was filled with swirling snow. Inside the wee cart, his wife and daughter huddled close. Fear lay on him like a blanket of ice, for he remembered the horrible death of his parents."

She paused for a moment then began again, her voice hushed. "And then it happened. The wolves came."

She heard the king draw a sharp breath.

"But they did not come for him. Nay." She shook her head, remembering the tale. "They were following a lad.

"Durril heard the pack's evil howls even before he saw the boy. But soon a steed thundered into view. The rider was a shabby-looking lad, his eyes wide with fear, his face pale as death. Beneath him, the steed plunged and neighed in panic. A wolf leapt from the pack. Big as a bear, he was, leaping straight for the boy.

"The horse reared madly. The lad tried to hold on, tried to steer his mount toward safety, but there was no hope, and he fell. The huge wolf leapt in. Durril saw it all, and in his heart he knew a fear so great it threatened to consume him. And yet, even so, even with his family huddled in fear only inches away, he could not forsake the beggar boy.

"Grabbing his staff, he leapt from the cart and charged the leader of the wolves," Catriona said, fisting her hands as if she herself held the staff. "The battle was long and hard. Blood sprayed into the air, turning the snow as red as sunset, but there could be only one outcome."

James watched her, unblinking, unquestioning. Sir Hawk's regard was solemn.

"He abandoned his family and gave his life for a nameless beggar?" James whispered.

Catriona drew a deep breath. "He was prepared to do just that," she said. "Aye, he was willing. But as I said, he was as strong as a steed and as swift as an adder. He killed the leader of the wolves."

"With naught but his staff?"

"His staff was broken," Cat said. "He now had nothing but his bare hands. And yet he defeated the wolf. And when the other beasts saw that..." She shook her head and shrugged. "Perhaps they were filled with respect. Perhaps it was fear. But they turned and fled."

"Durril lived?" James asked, awe in his tone.

"Aye, he lived. And as it happened, the lad he saved was not a penniless waif at all, but Endorai, the crowned prince of Khandia. And so Durril was twice blessed—but forever after he was scarred. And it is said that to this day, every child born to his line bears the mark of the wolf upon his neck." She lifted her head and touched the base of her throat.

James's eyes followed her finger, and when she drew her hand away, his gaze shifted to the small birthmark on the left side of her neck.

He voiced no question, though his eyes asked much, until finally he could remain silent no longer.

"Then it is all true? He killed the lead wolf and sent the others running?"

Catriona shrugged. " 'Tis a good tale and oft told. Whether 'tis true or nay is not for me to decide."

James watched her in silence for a moment.

"And what of the wound on your brow, Lady Cat? How did you come by
that
?”

"Oh." Nervousness swelled inside her at the memory of husky groans and sordid poetry, of her panicked escape into Haydan's arms. "I fear that is not so magical and sadly realistic."

"Tell me," the king insisted.

"James," Hawk said, in a tone deep and low. "A gentleman must always leave a lady with some secrets."

"But I fear for her safety," said James. "Mayhap she is in some danger at Blackburn."

"No danger," Cat assured him quickly. "Your palace has been like a home to me."

"Then how did you become wounded?"

" 'Tis naught to worry on," Cat assured him.

James scowled. "It seems you are guarding the wrong person, Sir Hawk."

"What?" Haydan's expression was as sharp as the bird for which he was named.

James rose to his feet just as Hawk did. The great warrior towered over him, but the lad looked up into his face and explained without pause.

"It seems to me that 'tis your duty to guard the lady."

"My king," Hawk rumbled, his brows drawn low over stormy eyes. " 'Tis you and none other who—"

"Is it not your duty to do as I wish?"

" 'Tis my duty to see that you are kept safe and—"

"Safe!" James laughed. "Look at yonder hillock."

Hawk turned away to gaze behind them. "Aye?"

"What do you see?"

"A dozen of the king's soldiers."

James grinned. "I suppose they just happen to be traveling in the same direction as we?"

Haydan's scowl deepened.

"The truth is this, Sir Hawk: If you are within fifty leagues of me I am certain to be safe. 'Tis in your blood to make sure it is so. Therefore—"

"Your Majesty..." Hawk growled.

"Therefore," the king continued more forcefully, "there is no reason why you cannot look after the lady." He turned.

"James," Hawk said, striding closer, but the boy was already waving an arm to the soldiers on the hill.

Immediately there was a flurry of motion, and in a minute, the little picnic area was surrounded by men on horseback.

"You have need of us, Your Majesty?" asked the senior guard.

"Aye," said James, nearly smirking. "I have need of an escort. Sir Hawk here has other duties."

"Your Majesty!" Hawk said, his tone stiff.

"Lady Cat." James bowed to her, a regal half-grown boy in shabby garment. "I leave you in the care of the Hawk, for..." He reached for her hand, and lifting it to his lips, brushed a gallant kiss across her knuckles. "I could not bear to see brave Durril's line end with you."

Catriona opened her mouth to object, but his guards were already surrounding him, and in a moment they were gone.

Chapter 7

Catriona tightened her grip on Bay's reins. Beside her, Hawk scowled after the departing king. It took her a moment to find her voice.

"My apologies."

No answer came.

"Sir Hawk?"

"What?" He turned abruptly, as if startled to find her there.

For a moment she was tempted to step back, for his eyes were filled with a hundred indefinable emotions, from flaring anger to a love so deep it almost hurt to look upon it.

"I said, I am sorry. I did not mean for this to happen."

"What was your intent?" His voice was little more than a rumble, his scowl deep and intimidating.

She straightened her shoulders with an effort. "I only meant to entertain him."

"With tales of how free others are? How they can go where they will whenever they please."

"I never—"

"Surely you must know how he chafes at his restrictions. The boy is fast approaching manhood and eager for free rein. Why encourage him to rebel?"

"I did no such thing," she lied.

"Didn't you? What did you think would happen? You blow in like a spring breeze, bonny as a blossom, free as a pipit."

"So 'tis my fault I am not royalty, with a royal's restrictions."

"I did not say that," he said, his tone rife with frustration.

"Then 'tis my fault that I am beautiful?" she snapped.

Hawk was silent for a moment, and then he chuckled. "Aye," he said, rubbing the old scar on his chest. "Aye, that much is your fault. Mount up, lass."

"Is that an order, Sir Hawk?"

"Aye."

"And I thought you just said I was as free as a pipit."

"Ah, well, even the pipits take orders from the Hawk."

"Do they now?" she asked, her tone carefully moderate.

"Aye," he said. "When the king orders me to guard them."

"I will not be guarded."

He shrugged. " 'Twas not my own idea."

"You are not listening." Panic was reaching for her. She could not have this hulking Highlander breathing down her neck. There were things that needed doing. Life-or-death things. "You do not understand," she said. "I cannot be restricted. I am Rom—"

"Lass!" He interrupted her with a deep tone and a deeper scowl. "I am not a young man. Indeed, I am too set in my ways to desert my post, and too decrepit to be thrilled by the prospect of guarding a young woman who makes men... a young lady such as yourself."

She scowled. "What does that mean? Such as myself?"

"It means that you are more trouble than the king any day of the week, lassie."

"I doubt that."

" 'Tis true," he said, tightening her mount's girth. "The boy may have men trying to kill him, abduct him, or influence him, but never yet..." He paused as he dropped her stirrup back into place. "Never has he had a passel of crowing swains trying to coerce him into their beds."