Beyond the Highland Mist (6 page)

Whispers of “Mad Janet” rebounded through the chapel, and Adrienne felt a surge of relief. This fame for being mad could be useful. So long as she obeyed the Comyn’s orders this one day, she could be as odd as a square ball bearing and no one would find it unseemly.

Adrienne had been worried that she wouldn’t be able to remember all the details the Comyn had told her; that she would slip up and someone at her new husband’s home would discover she was an impostor. Once she was uncloaked as a charlatan, the Comyn would make good on his threat to kill her.

Suddenly that pressure vanished in a puff of smoke. In the here and now (if she was really here and now) she was crazy Janet Comyn. How could she be held accountable for
anything she said or did that didn’t make sense? Madness was a license to freedom.

A license to do and say anything she wanted—with no repercussions.

No Eberhard, no guns, no bad memories.

Maybe this place wasn’t so bad after all.

A
DRIENNE HAD BEEN WANDERING THE GROUNDS OF
D
ALKEITH
for several hours when she stumbled upon the smithy. After a grueling two-day ride from Comyn Keep to her new home—Dalkeith-Upon-the-Sea—by cantankerous steed, she’d planned to collapse in the nearest soft bed, sleep for days, and then when she woke up (if she was still here) find a good bottle of Scotch and drink herself into oblivion. And then check again to see if she was still here.

Not only hadn’t she been able to find a soft bed in the riotous castle, but there had been no Scotch, no sign of a husband, and everyone had summarily ignored her. Made it awfully hard to feel at home. Grimm had made haste from her company the moment they’d entered the pink granite walls of the Douglas keep, although he’d seemed quite the gentleman during the journey.

But she was no fool. She didn’t have to be hit in the head with a stick to figure out that she was definitely not a wanted
wife. Wed by proxy, no welcome, and no sign of a husband. Definitely not wanted.

Adrienne gave up her fruitless search for husband, bed, and bottle and went for a stroll to explore her new home.

And so it was quite by accident that she stumbled through the rowan trees and upon the forge at the edge of the forest. Upon the man, clad only in a kilt, pumping the bellows and shaping the steel of a horseshoe.

Adrienne had heard that her husband by proxy was too beautiful to be borne, but this man indeed rendered the magnificent Grimm a veritable toad.

There just wasn’t this much raw man around in the twentieth century, she thought in helpless fascination as she watched him work. To see this kind of man in the twentieth century, a woman had to somehow gain entry to that inner sanctum of dumbbells and free weights, where the man was defining his body in homage to himself. But in this century such a man existed by simple force of nature.

His world demanded that he be strong to survive, to command, to endure.

When the smithy twisted and swooped to switch hammers, she saw a rivulet of sweat which had beaded at his brow run down his cheek, drop with a splatter to his chest, and trickle, oh, so slowly along the thick ridges of muscle in his abdomen. To his navel, to the top of his kilt, and lower still. She eyed his legs with fascination, waiting to see the drops of sweat reappear on those powerful calves, and wondering deliriously about every inch in between.

So intense was the shimmering heat from the forge, so strange her need, that Adrienne didn’t realize he had stopped for several moments.

Until she raised her eyes from his chest to meet his dark, unsmiling eyes.
She gasped.

He crossed the distance and she knew she should run. Yet she also knew that she couldn’t have run if her life depended on it. Something about his eyes….

His hand was rough when it closed upon her jaw, forcing her head back to meet him eye to flashing silver eye.

“Is there a service I might perform for you, my fair queen? Perhaps you have something in need of a heated shaping and molding? Or perhaps I might reshape my steel lance in the heat of your forge, milady?”

Her eyes searched his face wildly.
Composure
, she commanded herself.

He shook her ruthlessly. “Do you seek my services?”

“It’s the heat, nothing more,” she croaked.

“Aye, ’tis most assuredly the
heat
, beauty.” His eyes were devilish. “Come.” He took her by the hand and started off at a fast pace.

“No!” She swatted at his arm.

“Come,” he ordered, and she suffered the uncanny sensation that he was reaching inside her with those eyes and reordering her will to match his will. It terrified her.

“Release me!” she gasped.

His eyes searched deeper, and although she knew it was crazy, Adrienne felt as if she was fighting for something terribly important here. She knew she must not go with this man, but she couldn’t begin to say why. She sensed danger, dark and primeval. Unnatural and ancient danger beyond her control. If he opened his cruelly beautiful mouth and said
come
one more time, she might do just that.

He opened his mouth. She braced herself for the command she knew would follow.

“Release my wife,” commanded a deep voice behind them.

S
O THIS MAN AT THE FORGE WAS NOT HER HUSBAND
. D
EAR
God in heaven, what was she going to find when she turned around? Dare she?

She turned slightly, as if a small sidewise peek might be safer. Might minimize the impact. Adrienne soon discovered just how wrong she was.
Nothing
could minimize
that
man’s impact.

Valhalla on the right. Paradise regained on the left.

Stuck between a Godiva truffle and a chocolate éclair.

Between a rock and a very hard place. Two very hard places from the looks of it.
I hate beautiful men
, she mourned soulfully.
Hate them. Hate them. Hate them.
Yet to resist….

Hands clasped her waist from behind as the smithy pulled her back against his sculpted body.

“Let go of me!” she cried, the strange fog lifting from her brain.

The smithy released her.

And that very big, beautiful man facing her—the legendary Hawk—was glaring like Odin preparing to zap her with a thunderbolt. She snorted.

“Don’t glare at
me.
You didn’t even bother to show up at our wedding.” Adrienne started pacing. If she really was Janet, how would Janet have felt? How terrible to be wed away like a piece of property and then be treated so shabbily by the new in-laws! “I spend two miserable soggy days on the back of a nag and does it ever stop raining in this godawful place? Two days it took us to get here! Gracious Grimm dumps me the minute we set foot on Dalkeith.
You
don’t even bother to greet me. Nobody shows me to a room. Nobody offers me anything to eat. Or drink for that matter.” She paused in her litany and leaned back against a tree, hands on her hips, one foot tapping. “And then, since I can’t find anyplace to sleep that I’m not afraid doesn’t belong to someone else, I go off wandering until you finally bother yourself enough to show up and now you glare at me? Well, I’ll have you know—”

“Silence, lass.”

“That I am
not
the kind of woman that one can push to the side and have her take it docilely. I know when I’m not wanted—”

“You’re most assuredly wanted,” the smithy purred.

“I don’t need to be hit over the head with a ton of rocks—”

“I said be silent.”

“And I didn’t get even one wedding present!” she added, proud that she had thought of that. Yes, Janet would certainly have been offended.

“Silence!” Hawk roared.

“And I don’t take orders! Ummmph!” Adrienne grunted as her husband lunged the distance separating them and
tumbled her to the ground. Once she hit the earth with what felt like a small rhinoceros on top of her, he rolled her over several times, locked in the curve of his arm. She could hear the blacksmith cursing softly, then the sound of running feet, as she struggled mightily against his steely embrace.

“Be still!” Hawk growled, his breath warm against her ear. It took her a few moments to realize that he was holding her almost protectively, as if shielding her with his body. Adrienne raised her head to see his dark eyes scanning the forest’s edge intently.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, her heart hammering. From being tumbled so roughly, she assured herself, not from being cradled in this man’s powerful arms. She squirmed.

“Be still, I said.”

She wriggled, partly to spite him and partly to get his leg out from between her thighs, but she only succeeded in ending up with her tush pressed against his—oh dear—surely he didn’t walk around like
that
all the time! She jerked sharply at the contact and heard a muffled thud, the sound of bone hitting bone when her head struck his jaw with a
thwack.
He cursed softly, then the rumble of his husky baritone laughter vibrated as his arms tightened around her.

“A wee hellcat, aren’t you?” he said in her ear.

She struggled violently. “Let me go!”

But he didn’t. He only eased his tight grip enough to turn her around so that she was sprawled atop him, facing him.
Big, big mistake
, she thought mournfully. It presented a whole new array of problems, starting with her breasts being crushed against him, her leg caught between his, and her palms splayed on his muscular chest. His white linen shirt was open and pure male heat rose from his broad chest. There was blood trickling down his arrogantly
curved lower lip, and for an insane moment she actually considered licking it off. In one swift, graceful motion he rolled her beneath him and she lost her breath. Her lips parted. She stared in mute fascination and knew in that terrifying instant the man she had married by proxy was about to kiss her and she was quite certain her life would never be the same again if he did.

She snarled. He smiled and lowered his head toward hers.

Just then the blacksmith burst back into the clearing. “Not a damned thing!” he spat. “Whoever it was is gone.”

The Hawk jerked away in surprise and Adrienne seized the moment to push against him. She might just as well have tried to push the Sphinx across the sand and into the Nile.

It was only then that Adrienne saw the arrow still quivering in the tree that she had been, moments before, standing directly in front of, soundly berating her new husband. Her eyes widened as she gazed up at the Hawk questioningly. This was all too weird.

“Whom have you offended?” Her husband shook her smartly. “Who seeks to kill you?”

“How do you know it wasn’t you they were after, that it wasn’t just a bad shot?”

“Nobody wants to kill me, lass.”

“From what I hear your last lover tried to do just that,” she retorted nastily.

He paled ever so slightly beneath the flawless bronze of his skin.

The blacksmith laughed.

Her neck was getting sore from peering up at him. “Get off me,” she growled at her husband.

She wasn’t prepared when the Hawk’s eyes darkened and he rolled over and pushed her from him.

“Though you persist in rejecting me,
wife
, I think you may need me,” Hawk said softly.

“I don’t think so,” she retorted fiercely.

“I’ll be here, should you reconsider.”

“I’ll take my chances. No one shot anything in my direction until you showed up. That makes two attempts that I know of on you, and none on me.” She stood up, brushing her gown off. Dirt and nettles stuck to the heavy fabric. She tugged a few leaves from her hair and dusted off her rump until she became aware of an uncomfortable sensation. Slowly she raised her eyes from her clothing to find both men watching her with the intensity of wolves. Large, hungry wolves.

“What?” she snapped.

The blacksmith laughed again. The sound was deep, dark, and mysterious. “Methinks the lady doth not see how sweetly cruel beckons such beauty.”

“Spare me,” she said tiredly.

“Fair the dawn of yon lass’s blush, rich and ripe and deeply lush.” Her husband was not about to be outdone.

Adrienne stamped a foot and glared at them both. Where was her Shakespeare when she needed it? “For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright/, who art as black as hell, as dark as night,” she muttered.

The smithy threw his head back and roared with laughter. Her husband’s lips curved in an appreciative smile at her wit.

Hawk stood then and extended his hand. “Cry peace with me, lass.”

Cry. The man could make an angel weep. But she was hungry. Thirsty. Tired. She took his hand, vowing fiercely to take nothing more. Ever.

As her husband guided her from the clearing the
smithy’s voice followed on a jasmine-scented breeze, and she was surprised that her husband didn’t react. Either he was not a possessive man, or he simply hadn’t heard. For clearly she heard the smithy say, “Woman who renders all men as weak kittens to cream, I can take you places you’ve known only in your dreams.”

“Nightmares,” she grumbled, and heard him laugh softly behind her.

Her husband glanced at her curiously. “What?”

She sighed heavily. “Night’s mare rides hard upon my heels. I must sleep soon.”

He nodded. “And then we talk.”

Sure. If I’m still in this godforsaken place when I wake up.