Claire Delacroix (5 page)

“Or, perhaps I should reward the rare lady who thinks well of me.” He held her elbow fast, but his other hand rose slowly to cup her chin.

Aileen had never felt a man’s caress afore and the gentle warmth of his touch turned her protests to naught. Had he sought to subdue her, to force his desire upon her, she would have fought him tooth and nail, but she could hardly protest such a gentle seduction.

Not when his touch felt so wondrous.

Not when she was so curious as to where it would lead.

Not when she was without fear in such circumstance for the first time in all her days. Perhaps she had passed some threshold, she did not care, she yearned only to know what a man’s embrace was like. Oh, she knew she should flee his touch, she knew she should shun his scheme, but she was snared in unfamiliar desire, her own wits addled by his sure touch. Surely he would claim no more than a kiss? Surely it would not hurt to know?

The Hawk eased her back against the wall and Aileen found her breasts against his chest, his thumb moving across her chin in a caress that threatened to melt her very bones. Heat rose within her as well as a desire she had never felt before. Her gaze fell to his lips and yearning quickened within her, even as he watched and waited.

“I did not know that the despoiling of maidens was among your crimes,” she whispered.

“It is not,” the Hawk said with reassuring resolve. Aileen parted her lips, knowing she should protest his familiarity, but found no words upon her tongue.

She had no chance to summon any. The Hawk’s mouth closed over hers with such determination that she understood this kiss had been his objective all along. He coaxed her to join the embrace, his lips cajoling her, his grip firm but not rough. His fingers slid into her braid, cupping her nape, holding her captive to the pleasure he seemed determined to grant.

Aileen was lost. She had never felt such a delightful languor, never yearned for more of what she could not name. She parted her lips to him without intending to do so. His tongue slipped between her teeth as he made a low growl of satisfaction. She felt the hardness of him against her, felt the thunder of his own pulse when her hands landed upon his neck, and thrilled that she summoned a response from him. His hand tightened in her hair as he lifted her to her toes, his own desire as fervent as her own. His other hand slid around her waist, catching her close, his fingers fanned across the back of her waist.

He deepened his kiss and the oddest thought came to Aileen.

A memory unfolded in her mind, a recollection of another passionate kiss so shared. Though Aileen knew she had never been kissed with such possessive ardor, that she had never been touched by this man, a curious certainty grew in her thoughts. She had the odd conviction that they were lovers met again, that they had so embraced a thousand times before, that his heart was as familiar to her as her own.

It made no sense, yet this notion grew in her thoughts, seemingly fed by the power of his kiss. It pushed her doubts from its path, it dominated her knowledge of who she was and who she embraced. She saw them entwined nude together, as she knew they had not been, yet was convinced that this was a memory of her own.

It seemed some fey being had taken possession of her body and soul, and that the truth she knew—that this enigmatic warrior stole a kiss from her in her father’s abode—faded like a whisper on the wind. It was replaced by a strange urgency, a need to feast upon this man’s lips, a lust to lift her skirts and welcome his heat within her once again.

She wanted to welcome and celebrate his return.

Her arms twined around the Hawk’s neck, and Aileen kissed him with a wantonness she had never known that she could feel. She was caught on a tide of desire that she could not stay. She wound her fingers into his hair and drew him boldly closer, wanting more, wanting all the pleasure that he could grant.

To Aileen’s shame, it was the Hawk who broke their embrace. He put an arm’s length between them with an obvious effort. They both breathed quickly and his eyes glittered like stars.

“Magnus,” Aileen whispered, awe in her voice and no clear sense of why she had said such a thing in her thoughts.

His expression turned wary. “What did you say?”

“Magnus,” she repeated, unable to explain her compulsion to address him thus. “You are Magnus Armstrong returned and I welcome you.” She reached to touch his cheek in a gesture of affection from a source she could not name, but he stepped abruptly away.

“My name is Michael,” the Hawk said harshly. “Do you confuse me with another of your lovers?”

She flushed. “Of course not!” Aileen averted her face, ashamed to have to confess such a thing aloud. “There has been no man who has touched me as you just have.”

He stepped closer, his hand rising to her jaw. He tipped her face so he looked into her eyes. Aileen returned his regard unflinchingly, willing him to see that she told no lie.

“Then why?” he asked more quietly, so quietly that she almost thought he knew the answer.

“I had a vision...almost a memory. It was most strange.” Before his obvious skepticism, Aileen’s confession faltered and fell silent. She thought of the accusations against her mother, the rumor that she too would go mad in time, and bit back her words. Silence stretched long between them, the corridor suddenly cold as it had not been moments before.

“There are no visions, Aileen,” the Hawk said.

She glanced up, stung by his tone, and his eyes narrowed, as if to warn her.

“None,” he repeated. “Do not succumb to such madness.”

“My mother was not mad!” Aileen declared and pulled away from his grip.

“I speak of you, not your dame.” The Hawk glared at her, then he pivoted and marched down the corridor with nary a backward glance.

He left Aileen standing alone, her body screaming for something she could not name, her thoughts filled with confusion. She shivered as he stepped through the portal to the bailey, shivered in the cold she had only begun to feel.

Then the Hawk was gone, the corridor as silent as if he had never been in her presence. And still Aileen stood there, lips afire, heart filled with trepidation that alien thoughts had evicted her own. She touched her burning lips with marveling fingers and tried to recall if she had ever heard tell that the Hawk of Inverfyre was a sorcerer.

This could not be madness. No, it was witchery wrought apurpose by the Hawk. Aileen could only hope the effects of his potent kiss were fleeting, for she had certainly been beguiled.

T
he Hawk paced the stables of Abernye behind the four raven-black stallions, breathing deeply of the chill air and trying to drive the heat from his blood. He was consumed with the recollection of Aileen’s kiss, a kiss that should not have seared his lips so, a kiss that had exceeded his every expectation.

If Aileen Urquhart of Abernye was as icy as the North Sea, then it would seem those waters had known an incredible thaw. This lady’s kiss had him simmering to his very toes. It had been fortuitous that he had even been capable of stepping away from her, for her embrace had roused every fiber of his being.

But Magnus! She had called him Magnus. The Hawk stifled a shiver and paced the width of the stables with new vigor. He could see her yet: her long braid the hue of strong honey, her eyes even more blue than those of the phantom maiden who had long haunted his dreams. Indeed, they were so blue that he could have willingly drowned in their sapphire depths. Aileen was as slender as a young tree, yet possessed of curves that tempted his touch. He had felt strength in her grip, a vigor uncommon among maidens who spent days in leisure.

Or at embroidery. He smiled despite himself.

The keen edge of Aileen’s speech was no liability, to his thinking, for forthrightness was the sign of a trustworthy soul. He liked that she was devoid of feminine wiles, and seemed most sharp of wit. The Hawk liked that she spoke her thoughts even when she was uncertain of his intent. He liked that she was bold, despite her obvious fear of him.

Mere moments in her company and she had awakened a fire within him, a lust to claim her that far exceeded any desire he had felt before.

He wanted her.

He needed her.

Aileen of Abernye alone would suffice as his wife.

“Tell me the demoiselle was not so fool as to spurn your charms,” Sebastien teased, laughter in his tone.

The Hawk pivoted to find three of his comrades loitering watchfully in the entry to the stables. They were never far, these men who had proven to be more loyal than any laird had the right to expect, and they moved as silently as shadows. The other three of his six stalwart cohorts had remained at Inverfyre, guarding the Hawk’s hard-won prize in his absence.

In but a week, such vigilance would no longer be necessary.

“Did she not return to the hall?” the Hawk demanded, suddenly fearful for his lady’s fate.

Sebastien’s smile flashed in the shadows. “She returned—flushed, disheveled and alone. I guessed you to be responsible.”

The Hawk released the breath he had not realized he was holding.

Ahearn stepped out of the shadows, his lips curved in a smirk. “Are you smitten, my lord?” he teased.

The Hawk granted him a glance that should have silenced him, but that rogue only laughed.

“Does the old curse make itself known, finally?” Ahearn asked.

“There is no curse,” the Hawk said flatly. “Thus no nonsense to make itself known, now or ever.”

Sebastien arched a brow. “You believed it once.”

The Hawk’s heart clenched, but he dismissed the notion before it could fully form in his thoughts. “For a heartbeat and no longer. There is no curse, there is no old tale. I am not Magnus Armstrong and he is not me.”

“Even though your victories are much the same?” Ahearn mused.

“Righteousness is on my side,” the Hawk insisted, “and the blood of champions courses through my veins—these are my links with my forebear and no more.”

The two men smiled and exchanged glances. “If you so insist, it must be so,” Sebastien ceded. He nudged Alasdair, and the wiry, blond Scot shrugged as if he too would dismiss such whimsy.

The Hawk turned his back upon his men and paced anew, shocked to realize that Aileen’s kiss still sizzled upon his mouth. He licked his lips surreptitiously, tasting her again, and desire raged.

When he had heard about the Laird of Abernye’s unwed daughter, with her taste for archery and her sharp tongue, he had expected to find an ancient miss devoid of charm.

He would not acknowledge the way his interest had redoubled when he had heard the maiden’s age.

His every expectation had been proven wrong, for he had instead met a demoiselle who had captured his attention at first glimpse. He liked that Aileen had been so eloquent in describing his crimes. There would be no secrets between them this way. She knew of him, she was unafraid to express her disapproval, yet she melted beneath his caress. Theirs would be an honest yet fiery match.

Perfect.

When the Hawk pivoted to pace back toward his men, he found Sebastien’s gaze upon him. Sebastien’s dark charm and relentless pursuit of pleasure had been responsible for the disheveling of many a maiden over the years. “It is time enough that you learned some skill from the Master of Love, my friend,” that man declared. “There was not time enough for you to have finished what you had begun, that much was clear...”

“Ha!” snorted Ahearn, that handsome Irishman as smitten with his own charms as many of the women they had met. “Mind who you call the Master of Love in my company.”

“You leave women so disappointed that they are compelled to come to me for consolation,” Sebastien retorted. He held his hand over his heart. “It is a burden that only a man of honor could assume.”

“Then why have you taken the task?” Ahearn demanded with a roll of his eyes. He gave the Hawk a playful nudge. “Time enough that you engaged in such play, is what I say. I began to fear that I had pledged my blade to a monk.” He shuddered in mock horror at the prospect, then chuckled along with Sebastien.

The Hawk did not smile, nor did Alasdair who was of a far more serious temperament than these two.

“Her father is displeased,” Alasdair noted grimly. He had not moved from the portal and now folded his arms across his chest. “There will be trouble for us all if she appears thus again.”

“She will not,” the Hawk said with resolve.

Ahearn feigned a pout. “Surely you cannot have tired of the charms of women so quickly as that?”

“Surely you would not spurn the first woman to catch your eye so quickly as that?” Sebastien protested.

“Of course not,” the Hawk said, his plan clear. “On this night, I will claim a bride.”

Stunned silence filled the stables and the Hawk almost smiled.

“Marriage?” Ahearn gasped and shuddered elaborately, the very word anathema to him.

“I knew it well,” Sebastien murmured. “I knew the moment his gaze fell upon her. She is that old crone...”

Ahearn brightened. “The tale recounts that they recognize each other upon sight, that the flame is kindled like that.”

“Do not repeat such folly!” the Hawk retorted sharply. “She is an alluring maiden, one that I intend to wed, no more than that.” In the face of his men’s doubts, the Hawk continued. “It would be irrational to believe such whimsy. I know myself to be a supremely rational man. Is it so uncommon that a man of my age should choose to take a bride?”

“It is uncommon enough that you should give a care for women,” Ahearn commented wryly.

“I thought we had come to Abernye to lull the MacLarens into believing us content and complacent,” Alasdair observed.

Ahearn nodded agreement. “Aye, to coax them to greater confidence afore we make our final assault.” His expression turned thoughtful. “Or is that plan to change now that you will have a bride to sate?”

“So we planned and so we will do,” the Hawk affirmed. “My taking of a bride changes nothing, save that it will only encourage the MacLaren’s confidence further.”

Sebastien smiled, his manner mischievous. “So, it was but coincidence that you claimed no bride until you found one young enough that she might be Adaira reborn?”