Beyond the Highland Mist (8 page)

“Raise your head and look at Us, Hawk,” James commanded.

Hawk raised his head slowly and fixed the king with lightless eyes.

James studied him then turned his brilliant gaze on Red Comyn and appended a final threat to ensure cooperation, “We will destroy the Comyn, too, should this decree be defied. Hear you what We say, Red Comyn? Don’t fail Us.”

Laird Comyn appeared oddly disturbed by James’s command.

Kneeling before James’s court, the Hawk subdued the last of his rebellious thoughts. He acknowledged the pitying stares of the soldiers with whom he’d served; the sympathy of Grimm’s gaze; the complacent hatred and smug mockery of lesser lords who’d long resented the Hawk’s success with women, and accepted the fact that he would
marry Janet Comyn even if she was a toothless, ancient, deranged old crone. Hawk Douglas would always do whatever it took to keep Dalkeith and all her people safe.

The gossip mill had churned out endless stories of Janet Comyn, a crazed spinster, imprisoned because she was incurably mad.

As Hawk trod the cobbled walkway to the entrance of Dalkeith, he laughed aloud at the false image he’d created in his mind of Mad Janet. He realized that James had obviously known no more about her than anyone else, because James never would have bound the Hawk to such a woman had he known what she was truly like. She was too beautiful, too fiery. James had intended Hawk to suffer, and the only way a man would suffer around this woman was if he couldn’t get his hands on her, if he couldn’t taste her kisses and enjoy her sensual promise.

Hawk had expected nothing like the shimmering, silken creature of passionate temperament he’d found at the forge. He’d sent Grimm on the last day to wed the lass by proxy, fully intending to ignore her when she arrived. He’d made it clear that no one was to welcome her. Life would go on at Dalkeith as if nothing had changed. He’d decided that if she was half as mad as the gossips claimed, she probably wouldn’t even be able to understand that she
was
married. He’d concluded he could surely find some way to deal with her, even if it meant confining her somewhere, far from Dalkeith. James had ordered him to wed, he had said nothing about sharing living quarters.

Then, he’d laid eyes upon “Mad” Janet Comyn. Like an impassioned goddess she’d flayed him with her words, evidencing wit handfasted to unearthly beauty. No lass he could recall had stirred in him the tight, clenching hunger
he’d suffered when he’d caressed her with his eyes. While she’d been caressing that damned smithy with hers.

The gossips couldn’t have been more wrong. Had the Hawk been left to choose a woman for himself, the qualities Janet possessed—independence, a quick mind, a luscious body, and a strong heart—were all qualities he would have sought.

Perhaps, Hawk mused, life might just take a turn for the better after all.

A
DRIENNE KNEW SHE WAS DREAMING.
S
HE WAS HOPELESSLY
mired in the same horrible nightmare she’d been having for months; the one in which she fled down dark, deserted New Orleans alleys trying to outrun death.

No matter how hard she tried to control the dream, she never made it to safety. Inevitably, Eberhard cornered her in the abandoned warehouse on Blue Magnolia Lane. Only one thing differed significantly from the reality Adrienne had lived through—in her nightmare she didn’t make it to the gun in time.

She awoke shaking and pale, with little beads of sweat dappling her face.

And there was the Hawk; sitting on the end of her bed, silently watching her.

Adrienne stared wide-eyed at him. In her sleepy confusion the Hawk’s darkly beautiful face seemed to bear traces of Eberhard’s diabolic beauty, making her wonder what difference
there was between the two men—if any. After a nightmare about one attractive deadly man, waking up to find another in such close proximity was just too much for her frazzled nerves. Although she still had virtually no memory of how she’d come to be in the sixteenth century, her other memories were regrettably intact. Adrienne de Simone remembered one thing with excruciating clarity—she did not trust and did not like beautiful men.

“You screamed,” the Hawk informed her in his mellifluous voice.

Adrienne rolled her eyes. Could he do something besides purr every time he opened his perfect mouth? That voice could sweet-talk a blind nun out of her chastity.

“Go away,” she mumbled.

He smiled. “I came but to see that you weren’t the victim of another murder attempt.”

“I told you it wasn’t
me
they were after.”

He sat carefully, seemingly caught in a mighty internal struggle. Her mind spun with unchecked remnants of her nightmare as a soft breeze wafted in the open window and kissed her skin. Ye gods, her skin! She plucked the silk sheet to her nearly bare breasts in a fit of pique. The dratted gown she’d found neatly placed on her bed—by someone who obviously had fewer inhibitions about clothing than she—scarcely qualified as sleepwear. The tiny sleeves had slipped down over her shoulders while the skirt of the gown had bunched up; yards of transparent fabric pooled in a filmy froth around her waist, barely covering her hips—and that only if she didn’t move at all. Adrienne tugged firmly at the gown, trying to rearrange it without relinquishing her grip on the sheet.

Hawk groaned, and the husky sound made her every
nerve dance on end. She forced herself to meet his heated gaze levelly.

“Janet, I know we didn’t exactly start this marriage under the best of circumstances.”

“Adrienne. And one could definitely say that.”

“No, my name is Sidheach. My brother is Adrian. But most call me Hawk.”

“I meant me. Call me Adrienne.” At his questioning look she added, “My middle name is Adrienne, and it’s the one I prefer.” A simple, tiny lie. She couldn’t hope to keep answering to Janet, she was bound to slip eventually.

“Adrienne,” he purred, putting the inflection on it as
Adry-EN.
“As I was saying”—he slid along the bed with such grace that she only realized he’d moved when he was much too close—“I fear we didn’t get the best start, and I intend to remedy that.”

“You can remedy it by removing yourself from my sight this instant. Now. Shoo.” She clutched the sheet in a careful fist and waved her other hand dismissively. He watched it with fascination. When he didn’t move, she tried to dismiss him again, but he snared her hand mid-wave.

“Beautiful hands,” he murmured, turning it palm up and planting a lingering kiss in the sensitive center. “I feared Mad Janet was a most uncomely shrew. Now I know why the Comyn kept you hidden in his tower all those years. You are the true silver and gold in the Comyn treasure trove. His wealth has been depleted in full measure by the loss of you.”

“Oh, get off it,” she snapped, and he blinked in surprise. “Listen Sidhawk or Hawk or whoever you are, I’m not impressed. If we’re going to be forced to suffer the same roof above our heads we need to get a few things straight. First”—she held up a hand, ticking off the fingers as she
went—“I don’t like you. Get used to that. Second, I didn’t want to marry you, but I had no alternative—”

“You desire another.” The purr deepened into a rumble of displeasure.

“Third,” she continued without bothering to respond, “I don’t find your manly wiles even remotely intriguing. You’re not my type …”

“But Adam certainly is, eh?” His jaw clenched and his ebony eyes flashed.

“More so than you,” she lied, thinking that if she could convince him she meant it, he might leave her alone.

“You won’t have him. You are
my
wife, whether you like it or not. I will not be made a cuckold—”

“You have to
care
to be made a cuckold.”

“Perhaps I could.” Perhaps he already did and he didn’t have the first inkling why.

“Well, I can’t.”

“Am I so displeasing then?”

“Yes.”

He stared. Gazed about the room. Studied the rafters. No mysterious answer was hovering anywhere to be found.

“The lasses have always found me most comely,” he said finally.

“Maybe that’s part of your problem.”

“Pardon?”

“I don’t like your attitude.”

“My attitude?” he echoed dumbly.

“Right. So get thee from my bed and from my sight and speak no more to me this night.”

“You’re the damnedest lass I’ve ever met.”

“And you’re the most shallow, incorrigible knave of a man I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.”

“Where do you get all these ideas of me?” he wondered.

“We could start with you being too drunk to show up at your own wedding.”

“Grimm told you? Grimm wouldn’t have told you that!”

“A pox on male bonding.” Adrienne rolled her eyes. “All he would tell me was that you were tending to an uprising. Of your stomach, I hadn’t guessed. The maid who showed me to this room earlier had a fine time telling me. Went on and on about how you and three casks of wine and three women spent the week before our wedding trying to … you know”—Adrienne muttered an unintelligible word—“your brains out.”

“To
what
my brains out?”

“You know.” Adrienne rolled her eyes.

“I’m afraid I don’t. What was that word again?”

Adrienne looked at him sharply. Was he teasing her? Were his eyes alight with mischief? That half-smile curving his beautiful mouth could absolutely melt the sheet she was clutching, not to mention her will. “Apparently one of them succeeded, because if you had any brains left you’d get out of my sight
now
,” she snapped.

“It wasn’t three.” Hawk swallowed a laugh.

“No?”

“It was five.”

Adrienne’s jaw clenched. She held her fingers up again. “Fourth—this will be a marriage in name only. Period.”

“Casks of wine, I meant.”

“You are
not
funny.”

His laughter rolled dangerous and heavy. “Enough. Now we’re going to count the Hawk’s rules.” He held up his hand and began ticking fingers off. “First, you’re my wife, thusly you’ll obey me in all things. If I must command you to my bed, then so be it. Second”—his other hand rose and she flinched, half expecting to be hit, but he cupped her face
firmly and glared into her eyes—“you will stay away from Adam. Third, you’ll give all pretense of being delighted to be married to me—both publicly and privately. Fourth, fifth, and sixth, you’ll stay away from Adam. Seventh”—he yanked her from the bed and to her feet in one swift motion—“you’ll explain precisely what you find so displeasing about me,
after
I make love to you, and eighth, we’re going to have children. Many. Perhaps dozens. Perhaps I’ll simply keep you fat with child from this moment forth.”

Adrienne’s eyes grew wider and wider as he spoke. By the time he got to the children part she was nearing a full panic. She gathered her scattered wits and searched for the most effective weapon. What could she say to keep this man at bay? His ego. His gargantuan ego and manly pride. She had to use it.

“Do what you will. I’ll simply think on Adam.” She stifled a yawn and studied her cuticles.

Hawk stepped back, dropping his hands from her body as if burned. “You’ll simply think on Adam!”

He rubbed his jaw, not quite believing what he’d heard while he stared at the vision before him, half clad in a cloud of transparent froth. Silver-blond hair tumbled around the most beautiful face he had ever beheld. Her face was heart-shaped, her jaw delicate yet surprisingly strong. Her lips were full and velvety plum-rich, and she had spitting silver-gray eyes. She was passion breathing, and she didn’t seem to have a clue about her own beauty. Or she didn’t care. Lust clenched a fist hard around him and squeezed. His ebony eyes narrowed intently. She had creamy skin, beautiful shoulders, a slim waist, sweet flare of hips and legs that climbed all the way up to heaven. Her beauty branded him, claimed him. The lass was sheer perfection. Although the
Hawk was not a superstitious man, the words of Grimm’s wish on the falling star chose that moment to resurface in his mind.
What exactly had Grimm said?

He’d wished for the Hawk to meet a woman with “wit and wisdom”; an intelligent woman.

“Can you do sums?” he snapped.

“I keep ledgers like a pro.”

“Do you read and write?” he pushed.

“Three languages fluently, two reasonably well.” It was the primary reason she could fake their brogue so well and convince them she
was
Mad Janet Comyn. Although some of the words and expressions she used might seem odd to them—they did expect her to be batty—she’d been a quick study at the Comyn keep, assimilating a burr with the ease of a child. She’d always had an ear for languages. Besides, she’d watched every episode of
The Highlander
ever made.

Hawk groaned. The second part of Grimm’s wish had been that the woman be perfect of face and form. He need ask no questions on that score. She was a Venus, unadorned, who’d slipped into his world, and he had a nagging premonition that his world might never be the same again.

So, the first two requirements for which Grimm had wished were met. The woman possessed both brains and bewitching beauty.

It was the last requirement Grimm had specified that concerned Hawk the most:
A perfect “no” on her perfect lips …

The woman didn’t live and breathe who’d ever said no to the Hawk.

“Lass, I want you,” he said in a raw, husky voice. “I will make the most incredible love to you you’ll ever experience this side of Valhalla. I can take you beyond paradise, make you wish to never set your feet upon this ground again. Will
you let me take you there? Do you want me?” He waited, but he was already certain of what was to come.

Her lips pursed in a luscious pucker as she said, “No.”