Highland Hawk: Highland Brides #7 (19 page)

"Your purpose?"

"If not to guard and protect?"

She laughed a little, startled not only by his response, but by the intensity of his emotion. "Is it, then, your place to guard everyone,
everything?"

"Nay. Only those within my reach."

She was within his reach. But she shoved the traitorous thought aside. "You take too much on yourself."

"Nay, I do not." His expression was solemn, intense. "I could do more."

Their gazes fused, and though he did not say the words, she knew he was asking again for her trust.

But 'twas a trust she dare not give. She turned abruptly away. "What is it we do with this water?"

For a moment she thought he wouldn't answer, but finally he spoke. "We soak the leg to reduce the swelling." He sounded disgusted; then added, as if to the mare, "Lady Fiona would never be content with such a mean attempt. A few herbs and a prayer, and you would again bloom like the flower for which you were named."

Catriona tried to disavow the feelings his words evoked, tried to ignore the shiver of emotion that shook her. "The king's fierce captain of the guard—a poet?" she asked.

"Nay. Naught but a frustrated old warrior who dreams of tossing Physic into the moat."

"The water was his advice?" she guessed.

"Aye, and even that hard won. It seems he is not commissioned to treat the
familiars
of a—" He stopped, his brows lowering still more as he realized what he had been about to say.

Catriona only shrugged. "He was indeed enamored with me."

Hawk's expression softened with a hint of humor "You cannot expect every man to swoon at the sight of you, lass."

Not him, at least. He was not for her, and yet she was tempted almost beyond control to reach for him. "You said I could," she argued, careful to keep her tone light.

"It may surprise you to know that I can be wrong. It seems, in fact, that there are two among the crush who are not enthralled."

"Two counting you? Or two others?"

"Surely you do not begrudge me some dignity, lass. 'Twould not be right for me to act the fool when my very own nieces are no older than you. Quite unseemly for me to bobble about like a pin-feathered gosling in your wake."

Her throat hurt. "I think it would not kill you to bobble a bit."

The words came out without thought.

For a moment, Hawk stared at her in mild humor. "I will say this, wee Cat, I've not met another quite like you."

So little comfort there. In the past, she had found men's adoration little more than annoying, but now all seemed different. Changed.

She lifted her chin slightly and set her mouth. "So if you were not so... ancient, you might find me appealing?"

His lips remained unbowed, but his eyes smiled. "Fear not, lass, there be scores of swains, both lads and men alike, who are breathless at the thought of a mere glance from you."

"I am indeed relieved."

" 'Tis good," he said. Their gazes met. Feelings as potent as fine wine swamped Catriona, but she swept them away as she fumbled to find the bucket.

He did the same thing at the same time. Their fingers brushed on the leather handle and they froze, naught but their eyes moving as their gazes met and their breathing stopped. Catriona's heart banged like a restive steed against her ribs.

"Here now," he said, his voice a deep rumble in the stillness as he drew away. "We had best be started. Can you hold the mare steady while I remove the bandage?"

"Aye," Cat said, while eager to set her attention elsewhere.

Not another word was spoken as he untied the bandage and began unraveling it from Celandine's leg. After a bit, it was adhered to itself. Drawing out a short, broad-bladed knife from his boot, Hawk carefully cut away the cloth, then dipped a rag from the bucket and began to wash the fetlock.

The wound was obvious, a patch of torn flesh about two inches long. But Hawk was right; it did not seem severe enough to cause the mare such swelling.

"Might there be something else that is troubling her?" Catriona asked.

"I have looked," Hawk said, bending still lower as he ran his fingers past the horny ergot hidden in the fetlock's center. "But I cannot find—" The mare flinched. His words stopped abruptly as his fingers probed. Celandine recoiled and tried to pull away.

"What is it?" Cat asked.

"A small wound, no more than the size of your wee finger. But it has scabbed over."

"Might that cause the swelling?"

"Aye, if it does not drain properly. Once I was stabbed by a Spaniard's thin blade. 'Twas naught but the tiniest hole, and it seemed to heal quickly. But my arm swelled up tight as a ripening gourd..." He glanced up. Perhaps it was her expression that stopped him. "Mayhap you do not need to hear the whole tale."

"Perhaps not," she agreed, frowning at him. What the hell right did he have not to be enamored with her? Not that she harbored any great feelings for him, but he was large and hard and so unreasonably masculine that... She turned her thoughts abruptly away. "How does the story end?"

"I still have my arm."

"So I noticed." Her flippancy was becoming strained. "What was the cure?"

"Lady Fiona lanced the thing then packed it with hot cloths."

Cat winced and slipped a protective hand down the mare's neck.

"I do not think we shall have to do the same here. The wound is low down, so once the scab is removed it should drain well. But in truth, the lady's scolding was near as bad as the lancing. She took it quite personally that I would be neglectful after she had toiled so long to see me healed in the first place."

"Healed?"

"I was frail," he said, and after washing his hands in the backet, dried them quickly on his plaid.

She stared down at the tremendous width of his back and felt that now-familiar ache of desire. "I forgot."

"Aye, well, she has not. To this day she asks if I am eating sufficiently."

Cat laughed at the image, and Hawk straightened to stare at her.

"What is it?" she asked, made breathless by the intensity of his attention.

He squatted by the mare's leg again. "It has been a long while since I last heard honest laughter from you."

"I..." Tension knotted her. He was so close, as solid as the earth, as kind as the sunshine, and she wanted nothing more than to be held in his arms, to lay her fears at his feet, to trust him with her body and her soul. "The mare is dear to me. I am glad to know she will mend."

"You have had her long?"

"For some years. She was flighty and half starved when I first saw her. I thought 'twas surely a fool's errand to take her in trade. But Lachlan—" She stopped, her voice catching.

Haydan was on his feet in a moment, his hands warm as they wrapped about her arms. "What of Lachlan?"

"He..." She struggled with every weakness that was in her. She could not bear the worry alone, and yet she could not tell him the truth. "He insisted I could save her. He was forever like that—so certain all would be well."

"Was?"

"Is."
Oh God, she was going to cry. "He
is
like that," she insisted.

"Lassie," he crooned. "What is it?"

"I just..." She was afraid. So afraid and alone and without hope. "I just miss him, is all," she lied.

"Please. Tell me."

He must believe the lie. "I have never been parted from him before. Since our mother's death he has been everything to me—the closest kin I have. I did not realize..." Tears tore at her throat. "I did not realize how I would miss him."

"Catriona—"

"Hold me." The words came out without volition. "Please." She squeezed her eyes closed and fought back the worry, but it gnawed at her like an evil beast. "If you could just hold me."

He hesitated for a moment, but finally his arms folded about her back and she was drawn against his chest. She didn't try to be strong. Indeed, she no longer could. Instead, she let her arms slip around him as she pressed her face to the hard, molded wall of his chest. And there, against the wear-softened fabric of his tunic, she cried.

But tears can only flow for so long, and hers finally dried. She sniffled without much charm, and realized he was stroking her hair with one broad hand; His touch felt like sunlight and peace. She drew in a few quivering breaths and let herself relax against the strength of his chest again.

Minutes ticked slowly by, but he never stopped stroking her.

She drew another shuddering breath and cleared her throat. " 'Tis I who should apologize now."

"Aye. 'Tis quite a hardship to hold a wee lass like yourself against me."

She smiled against his chest. "Is it?"

"Aye. Hard on an old man's heart."

"How old?"

He chuckled then tilted her chin up to stare into her eyes. "Old enough to resent your asking." The world went quiet. "Is it the truth, Catriona?"

She nearly winced at his words. "What?"

"You only miss Lachlan? Is that all that—"

She rose up on her toes and kissed him. Not a hard kiss or a passionate kiss, but a kiss of tenderness and thanks.

"Lass." His voice broke when he said the word.

"Aye?" Her own was throaty. It seemed the kiss was not so innocent as she had intended. Indeed, even now, she felt desire unfurl in her belly.

"I cannot..." He paused for a moment. His fingers had slipped to her throat and remained there against the thrum of her pulse. "I cannot bear to see you hurt."

"Then kiss me back," she whispered.

For one frozen moment she thought he would refuse. But finally he bent his head. His lips touched hers. Pleasure and hope and longing seared her. She tightened her arms about his waist, but he did not hurry the kiss. Instead, he drew back to wipe away the tears with his thumb, to kiss the corner of her mouth, her cheek, her eyelids.

It was she who found his lips again, who pressed up tighter against him, who longed for more.

And with that increased pressure, she felt the muscles in his back flex, felt his kiss slant harder against her mouth.

His hand slid down to her waist, pulling her closer. She answered with all the desperate longing that was in her.

"Lass!" He pulled away, his breathing harsh, his tone deep as midnight. "I would not take advantage of you."

"Why the devil not?" she asked. Frustration tore at her. All her life men had attempted to take advantage of her. Now when she wanted one to, he refused.

He was holding her arms, just as she was holding his. But his were thick-muscled and powerful.

" 'Twould not be right. You are so young. So—"

"I am aging every minute," she said and kissed him again.

She felt him try to hold back, but she had no mercy, for she needed him, needed his strength, his kindness, his nearness. Finally he wrapped her in his arms again and gave himself to the kiss.

His lips burned hers, and then they were moving, touching her cheek, her ear, traveling down the length of her throat. But it was not enough. She needed to feel, to drown, to be lost in his heat, and so she tugged at his tunic, longing to feel the warmth of his skin beneath her hands.

"Haydan, I want..." For a moment she lost all words as his lips met hers again. "I need to feel you."

She could not decipher his expletive, though it sounded like a plea to God.

"Take off your tunic. Please."

In a moment his torso was bare. She pressed her palms to his chest. It was hard as marble beneath her fingertips. She slipped her hands lower. Muscles danced, rippling beneath her caress as she worked her way down his abdomen.

"Lass..." His voice quivered.

"Aye." Her own was throaty.

She heard him draw a deep breath but did not raise her gaze to look at him.

"I thought I told you I was not enamored."

"You did," she said and pressed her ear to his heart.

"I am old and scarred and—"

She kissed his chest. He sucked air through his teeth in a sharp hiss.

"And disciplined and—"

She brushed her lips across his nipple.

"Well controlled," he rasped, and she suckled gently.

He jerked beneath her lips and rasped a faint expletive.

"Life is short, Haydan," she whispered. "Tomorrow may not be. I wish to feel."

Pressed up against his chest, she could tell that he ceased to breathe.

All was silent but for the steady thrum of his heart.

"Are you asking me to make love to you, lass?" he rumbled.

"I would rather not have to."

For a moment neither of them moved, and then he kissed her with all the tenderness and passion of a thousand years. The earth seemed to sink away below her feet. The straw cradled her back. His lips burned her throat, her shoulder; the high, aching mounds of her breasts.

She never felt his fingers at her laces, but suddenly her bodice was open and she did not care.

Nay, 'twas not true. She cared. She yearned. She needed. She lusted.

His hands burned her flesh. Against her thigh, she felt the hard length of his arousal. She arched into him. His kisses ravaged her, sweeping down her throat, over her collarbone, and onto—

"Cat!" someone whispered from the aisle. "Lady Cat."

Chapter 15

"James!" Haydan hissed.

Catriona stared at him, her eyes glazed and her hair a dark halo about her face. But he had no time to appreciate the scene, for he was already scrambling to his feet.

"Catriona," James called, closer now.

Haydan jerked upright, swore silently at the pain in his knee, and yanked Catriona up beside him. Her hands were already moving, rearranging, hiding. He almost cried, but there was no time for that either, so he nudged her behind him and stepped toward the door just as it was swinging open.

"Cat—" James's voice stopped in midsentence. In the teetering light of the lantern, his eyes looked as round as ptarmigan eggs. "Hawk!"

"Aye!" Haydan cleared his throat as he stepped through the doorway, driving the boy king before him. "Aye. What is it, lad?"

"I thought..." James began then paused, trying to see around Haydan's towering form. "I thought to find Lady Cat here."