Claire Delacroix (22 page)

Perhaps his lady’s moniker for him was a fitting one, after all.

* * *

Liar and scoundrel! Knave and blackguard!

Aileen could think of no accusation base enough to suit her spouse.

Indeed, she nigh wore a trough in the floor of her chamber, so agitatedly did she pace. How dare he encourage her to behave as a wanton, then reject what she offered? If that was his manner when he was amenable to intimacy, she should have hated to try to seduce him when he was reluctant to meet abed.

What did he want of her? Surrender was not enough. Compliance was not enough and defiance did not suit him either. Aileen fairly spat in her frustration. The man deserved every foul thing that was rumored to be true of him. How could she burn with desire for such a man?

How could she be so persuaded that they were destined for each other, when the Hawk clearly did not share her conviction?

How could she be so certain that his ardor alone would sate her?

How could she convince him to join forces with her and see an old wrong redressed?

Aileen thumped the pillows, she tossed and turned. She stared out the window at the thirteen ghostly trees, then at the beacon of the keep far beyond. She slept nary a wink, unable to fathom either his mixed messages or her own similarly muddled response.

What could she have done, in this life or another, to earn the fate of being wedded such a vexing man as this?

T
he Hawk stands in the woods of Inverfyre, listening, his footsteps halted by the sounds of a creature fleeing through the bush. It is dark, darker than dark, the shadows ominous and deep. He realizes that he stands near Adaira’s hut in the same moment that he sees a flicker of movement in its portal.

He pursues his prey, stepping with care so as to not make a sound.

Silence accosts his ears, silence heavy with portent. He reaches the portal and eases around it, hoping to surprise whatever or whoever is within.

His efforts are to no avail.

The maiden awaits him, she of the dark hair and blue blue eyes, she who held the heart of Magnus Armstrong in thrall. She smiles in greeting, unsurprised by his appearance despite his efforts to be stealthy. The Hawk knows that he wears Magnus’ skin, for he feels the heat of his forebear’s ardor for this woman as keenly as if it were his own.

She steps toward him, her ardent expression kindling the fire in his blood.

“No, Anna, I am betrothed,” he protests, knowing that his forebear’s words fall from his lips, knowing that Magnus yet hopes to persuade this woman to his cause. He relives a moment that was lived by Magnus, though he knows not why. “There can be naught between us, not any longer.”

She slaps him with astonishing vigor.

He takes the blow, feeling it is her due to be angered.

“You vowed you would wed me,” she whispers, the thrum of fury in her words.

“I would have, were you not cursed to be barren.”

“You cannot know that to be true.”

“All know it,” he reminds her as gently as he can.

She averts her face, but this answer will not suffice.

“Do you deny what is whispered?” he asks, his tone more forceful. “Grant me evidence that it is not true, Anna.”

Her lips purse, granting him all the answer he needs. He makes to leave but she seizes his chin with alarming speed and holds him in an unholy grip. “How much will you sacrifice for Inverfyre?” she demands, her eyes narrowing. “What price will you find to be too high?” She half-laughs. “I doubt there is one.”

“I have to wed her,” the Hawk argues, mouthing the words Magnus had uttered long afore.

The maiden shakes her head. “You are not so compelled. You choose to wed her for your own advantage. You abandon your pledge to me because it no longer suits you to keep it. Do not fatten your crime by lying to me as well.”

He bows his head, guilty yet not prepared to change his plans. The Hawk understands that Magnus believes himself to be right. “It was a mistake to meet you here,” he says and turns again to leave.

“You will not depart so readily as that,” she mutters, but he ignores her.

She cries a word that he does not know. The walls of Adaira’s hut writhe, the branches alive as they were not in the Hawk’s time. He halts to stare. It seems not only that these walls are wrought of living trees, nor even that they are verdant: the trees grow with unholy vigor. They spread before the Hawk, winding their greenery across the portal and sealing him within the chamber.

Forever.

He pivots to find the maiden’s eyes bright.

“Have you underestimated the potency of your foe?” she whispers.

A blossom erupts in the wall beside her, the hut filling with the sweet perfume of its scent. The smell is heavy, exotic, intoxicating and wicked. He stares at it, dumbfounded that it could sprout so quickly, even as autumn’s chill wind stirs the deadened leaves outside the hut.

Anna smiles knowingly as his blood runs cold.

The blossom withers, the flower distorting as it changes to fruit with horrifying speed. An apple forms as he watches: it grows rounder and plumper, bends the branch upon which it hangs, blushes red on one side.

All within a dozen heartbeats. He takes a step backward, troubled by this uncanny event.

The maiden plucks the fruit, her gaze locking with his as she bites into it. Juice beads on her lower lip, and she touches it with her tongue, enflaming him with a single gesture. His body knows that she is the only one who will ever fire his yearning with such haste, his soul knows that she was wrought for him and he for her.

Yet he will wed another. He knows that he dare not squander all he has earned, all he has wrought. Magnus needs a son and Anna cannot give him one. It is not her fault, just as the madness that glints in her eyes is not her fault. Neither change his affection for her; neither change his decision; neither make him blame her for her bitterness.

To Magnus’ thinking, she should not blame him for his good sense.

She silently offers the fruit to him and he thinks it a gesture of peace. The Hawk feels an uncommon urgency to make amends with this woman, feels Magnus’ yearning to couple with her one last time, even as uncertainty roils within him. There is a force between them, one that he will deny by wedding another, and he cannot fully shake himself of the notion that he errs.

He stares at the apple’s wound, stare at the bite she has taken of it. The skin of the apple is brilliantly red against the white of inner flesh, making him think of blood on snow. He sees it clearly, drops of blood as bright as rubies on pristine snow, though he cannot imagine why.

She pushes the fruit closer, coaxing him to partake, though she remains silent. She draws the lace from her garment with her other hand, her eyes filled with sensuous promise. He seizes the apple with Magnus’ impatience, anxious to couple with her even if it is to be the last time.

He bites into the fruit and she laughs, laughs with such triumph that his ardor chills. The fruit seems to take life in his mouth, its sweet juice summoning potent visions. Before his own eyes, she is the maiden Anna, she is Adaira, she is a red-haired Celt in crude garb, she is the Hawk’s own Aileen. Her eyes alone remain the same—fathomless blue, tinged with distrust and disappointment.

He has seen them filled with passion and knows that he alone is responsible for the change.

Before he can speak, something stirs in his mouth. He spits out the piece of apple, horrified to see the tail of a serpent slithering within it. He spies the rest of the vile creature in the apple itself and flings it across the hut in disgust. He spits with a vengeance and wipes his mouth, recoiling from what wickedness she has wrought.

The maiden laughs all the while. She is Adaira then, the old hag Adaira with her bewitching kiss. She reaches for him, offering her sagging breasts and withered charms, clutching at him with her yellowed nails.

She laughs and he sees that her teeth are long gone, sees the wildness that has claimed her eyes.

He tries to flee, but the portal is sealed against him. The branches that grew across it are too stout to be snapped. He shouts and beats his fists upon the walls. He bellows with all his might.

But Adaira corners him readily. She pins him against the wall, not nearly so frail as she might appear, her strength that of a hundred men.

And she smiles as she shoves the viper-filled apple back between his teeth.

“Eat what you have wrought, Magnus Armstrong,” she whispers, holding his jaw closed with fingers like talons. He is powerless to spit out the fruit, even the serpent writhes anew.

* * *

The Hawk awakened with a shout, sweat coursing down his back. His fists were clenched, his heart racing, his breath coming in great gasps.

His chamber was silent and dark; there was no apple in his mouth.

He spat into the rushes all the same.

He rose with a shudder and poured himself a cup of wine. The richness of it was wondrous balm to his throat. He stood nude, welcoming the chill of the floor through his feet and stared out the window at the silent forest.

He had been right about his dreams, though not about their content. He shivered again, though not because of the cold. What had summoned this dark vision? He tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling, wishing he could see through the wooden beams and into the heart of the lady he had taken to wife.

Worse than awakening his demons, she had breathed life into the seed that Adaira had buried in his thoughts all those years ago.

The Hawk shivered and bent to feed the last glowing coal in the brazier.

He recalled the maiden’s features melting into Aileen’s and quaffed another cup of wine to quell his revulsion. If nothing else, his dream offered a warning. He should beware of whatever temptation his wife offered until he could be certain of her motives.

Like Eve in the garden, her gift could lead to the Hawk’s downfall, even if she offered it unaware of its price.

* * *

Aileen dreams that she is in that verdant corridor again. She lays her hand upon the wall of entwined vines, knowing full well what they are. She avoids the thorns of the hazel and takes care to not crush the blossoms of the honeysuckle as she follows the course of the path, running her hand along the thick wall of growth.

She approaches the bend she had spied. It is impossible to not note that the vigorous growth falters as she draws nearer to this corner. Both plants are unhealthy, both have dark marks upon their bark. Both emerge from the corner as mere shoots, defying an illness that should have caused their demise.

Aileen pauses to examine them more closely. Here, just before the corner, the hazel grew with such lust that its roots nearly consumed the space occupied by the roots of the honeysuckle. And similarly, here the honeysuckle twined so tightly around the hazel that it nearly choked its partner.

“Their true natures were nearly their undoing,” counsels a woman’s voice. Aileen peers around herself, but sees no one. “Each showed concern only for itself, disregarding the partnership already forged and nigh destroying a mutually beneficial union.”

“I do not understand,” Aileen says.

“The hazel claims turf with a vengeance, but must cede some ambition to allow the honeysuckle to survive.”

“And the honeysuckle?” she asks when the voice falls silent.

“You know what the honeysuckle must battle,” advises the voice, its tone warm with affection. “Balance is the key, child.”

“Mother?” Aileen spins in the leafy corridor, seeking her mother’s familiar form. There is no other soul near her, no movement other than the leaves lifting in the breeze. “Mother!” she cries, her voice rising. “Reveal yourself to me, please!”

But no woman steps from the shadows, and the voice does not carry to her ears again. Aileen shouts and shouts, knowing that it is to no avail but unable to stop herself.

* * *

In the darkest hour of the night, Aileen heard a male roar of satisfaction echo in the chamber below her own. There was no mystery as to its import.

Guinevere! Aileen leapt to her feet, furious and frustrated, her dream scattering like pollen in the wind. How dare the Hawk spurn his wife only to take a whore to his bed?

Aileen paced her chamber, vexed as she had not been before. There was no question of her sleeping again. Indeed, she tired of the Hawk’s game. As with the hawk and the hare, her husband’s jest was at her own expense. Why had he feigned rape, then rejected her welcome to her bed? Why had he wed her, then refused to consummate their match?

Worse, she feared these visions and dreams. What whimsy conjured her mother’s voice, after all this time, even in her sleep? To see visions was one matter; to speak with the voice of the dead was quite another.

What if she was mad?

* * *

Long hours later, the horns blew and Aileen watched the hunting party stream through Inverfyre’s gates. Her husband was garbed in leather and wool as dark as the midnight sky, but he did not ride his black destrier. He and all of his men rode smaller palfreys, perhaps to ensure greater agility in the woods, though Aileen heard the stallions stamping with displeasure in the stables.

A hooded peregrine perched upon the Hawk’s fist and his mail gleamed. Alone in the company, he looked neither merry nor sleepy. His countenance was grim, Aileen could see as much even from this distance, and she fancied that he spared a hot glance for the high tower.

Did his whore wait abed for his return? Or had she too left him unsated?

In her irked mood, Aileen did not move from the window. Let him see that she watched him. Let him realize that she too was awake, that she too met the morn with a sour visage. Let him know that she had heard his triumphant roar abed and that she knew what he had done.

The Hawk looked to Aileen’s window, as if he could hear her accusations.

She thought for a moment that he might halt, that he might turn back and come to her side, and she very nearly raised a hand to him in salute.

Then he spurred his horse and urged it to greater speed. The palfrey leapt the river and galloped into the forest, away from Inverfyre, away from their cold marital bed, away from Aileen.