Authors: The Warrior
She sniffed, her eyes flashing with disdain before she managed to compose her expression. “It is of no import.”
“I forget how to bow,” Alasdair said with a grin.
“Ah, I shall remind you how to greet a lady,” Ahearn declared with a smile for Aileen. The lady regarded him with appropriate wariness, to the Hawk’s thinking.
“This,” the Hawk said, gesturing to Ahearn, “is the most notorious rogue in our company.” The tall, dark-haired man rose and bowed deeply, untroubled by this introduction. “Ahearn O’Donnell is an ostler by trade, a warrior by necessity and a seducer of women by inclination.”
Aileen sniffed, though she said nothing.
“I have a way with herbs, as well, my lady, if ever you have a wound in need of healing,” Ahearn said as he gallantly kissed the back of Aileen’s hand.
“How intriguing,” she said. “And where would you have learned such a skill?”
“From my old aunt, who had a talent with such matters.”
“Ha! He will grant you a potion that will have you upon your back,” Sebastien snorted. “A man of such dubious charm has need of nefarious tricks to coax maidens to his bed.”
“I consider myself warned,” the lady said.
“Ahearn is also a vigilant trickster,” the Hawk counseled. “Should you find a frog in your boot, you can readily name the man responsible.”
“I am innocent of all such deeds!” Ahearn declared, and the men roared disbelief as one.
“As you might have gleaned, Sebastien takes exception to Ahearn’s reputed success with women, for he regards himself as the paragon in that endeavor,” the Hawk continued.
“How many dark-haired children grace your hall, my lord?” Aileen asked softly and the Hawk did not know what to say. She granted him a knowing glance that made him feel a fool for never wondering about the fruit of his men’s encounters.
Meanwhile, the Sicilian bowed gracefully and bent low over Aileen’s hand. His dark hair tumbled over his brow and his eyes gleamed. “It is my splendid good fortune to make your acquaintance, Lady Aileen.”
“As apparently, it is mine.” A polite smile touched the lady’s lips.
“Sebastien and his comrade, Fernando, have been my stalwart companions since childhood. They accompanied me to Inverfyre eighteen years ago.”
“Fernando?”
“He remains at Inverfyre,” the Hawk said.
“You will know him by his moustache,” Sebastien said, making a twirling gesture with his fingers that prompted the men’s laughter.
“He loves it more than a woman!” Ahearn declared.
“He loves it more than his own prick,” Alasdair muttered and they chuckled as one.
“We are in the presence of a lady!” the Hawk reminded them sternly and apologies were granted. Aileen did not appear to be overly shocked.
Hawk liked the snap in her eyes, though, and yearned anew for his chamber at Inverfyre. He was prepared to spend many hours upon that plump mattress coaxing his bride’s smile.
He gestured now to the last man who had accompanied him. “And finally, Alasdair Fergusson, a valiant warrior and archer, come from the Hebrides to pledge his prowess to me.”
The fair-haired Scot rose and bowed in his turn. His sleeves were pushed up and the woad-stained tattoo that wound around his arm was visible, though Aileen did not seem to be troubled by the sight of it. The Hawk supposed that she might be accustomed to this practice, as he had not been, since it was common for Gaelic men from the Isles and Highlands to mark their flesh thus.
“I came to hunt relics and pursue adventure upon the seas,” Alasdair told her, “but sadly, the Hawk has surrendered such trade.”
The Hawk felt his wife’s quick glance but by the time he looked down at her, she studied her hands meekly. “You could have pledged yourself to my half-sister Rosamunde instead,” he noted. “She is reputed to have an uncommon talent for the family trade.”
Sebastien laughed. “Talent? She is a veritable queen of the pirates and looters upon the seas!”
“Indeed?” Ahearn looked intrigued by this detail.
“And a woman of such beauty as to steal your breath away,” Sebastien affirmed. “Ah, Rosamunde! She was the first to lay claim to my heart.”
“Yet you have never invited her to Inverfyre,” Ahearn said to the Hawk. He made a face of mock dismay. “I thought you were fond of us, my lord.”
“Rosamunde would make minced meat of you,” the Hawk said with a smile and Sebastien chuckled in agreement. “She is a warrior of rare impatience. You may have your wish, for all of that thought, for she may deign to visit at midsummer.”
Ahearn pretended to swoon at the prospect, while Sebastien groaned. “My heart could not bear the injury,” he moaned, then winked for Aileen.
“No woman can be a warrior of competence!” Alasdair scoffed. “You must remember her as being more talented than she is.”
“I think not,” the Hawk said softly.
“I would never pledge my blade to a woman,” Alasdair snorted. His eyes gleamed as he turned to the silent Aileen and the Hawk knew that Alasdair would try to provoke her. He watched with interest. “Is it true that the daughter of the Laird of Abernye has skill with a bow?”
His manner was challenging and the Hawk noted how his bride’s shoulders stiffened. “What do you think? I am but a woman, after all,” she said finally, an edge to her tone that told him what such docility had cost her.
“Are the tales true?” Alasdair demanded. He pulled his bow from over his shoulder and offered it to Aileen. “Can a woman truly hit a mark?”
The Hawk straightened in his turn, for he would never have granted his captive a weapon. He felt Aileen’s quickening, as a peregrine will tense when she spies meat, and he knew then that she was indeed skilled with a bow.
Alasdair fairly shoved the bow and an arrow toward her, his manner mocking. The lady hesitated, though her urge to seize the bow was tangible.
“Show him wrong, lady mine,” the Hawk urged in an undertone.
She granted him a glance so bright that he flinched, then rose and took the bow. He saw the way her hand curved lovingly around it, saw the ease with which she fitted the arrow and drew back the bowstring. Her posture was perfect, but she dropped her shoulder at the last moment. When she released the arrow, it drove itself into the ground. The fleche, in passing, grazed her inner arm so fiercely that it bled.
Alasdair hooted with laughter and the other men chuckled. The Hawk though was sober, for he guessed that his bride had deliberately shown her talents to be less than they were. It could be no accident that she fixed her gaze determinedly upon her feet. He examined her wound, which she insisted was of no import, and bound a piece of clean linen around it himself.
He met her gaze then, finding assessment in her blue eyes. She clearly wondered whether she had fooled him and the Hawk bit back his smile. In truth, he was intrigued that his wife was so anxious for him to underestimate her skills.
What scheme did his lady concoct?
* * *
Aileen saw no one other than the Hawk and his men for three days, and this, she knew, was contrived. She knew by the sun that they rode more or less directly south, away from the verdant plains around Abernye and through the wild Highlands. The Hawk did not try to kiss her again, and she found herself more cross with him than she might have expected.
The Hawk had spoken aright of Ahearn, as the trickster of the company. Never a day passed without a jest—of which Ahearn consistently swore innocence, his eyes sparkling all the while: on one morn, there was indeed a frog within Sebastien’s boot; on another, the contents of Alasdair’s saddlebag had been scattered far and wide—by pixies, according to Ahearn.
They could have been a merry company of knights, had Aileen not known of their nefarious repute. She dared not be seduced by these men’s charms—or more particularly, the charms of her husband.
The Hawk was as courteous as a courtier could be, under such circumstance. He ensured that she had a few moments to herself several times a day, to tend to needs she would keep private. He let her eat first, waiting to use his cup and knife after she was done, holding her gaze as he sipped from the same spot as she had. When he aided her to mount and dismount, he oft managed to give her a slight caress on the shoulder or the back of her waist. The Hawk always found her a soft bed of cedar branches or similar for her bed.
It was clear that Aileen’s husband meant to win her favor. Indeed, had she not known that he was a sorcerer, had she not only heard of his dark repute but had him vouch for it himself, she might have trusted this man.
At night, she recalled her last vision and shivered at the thought of being bound to this man for all time, a vine of thorns holding her fast to his side.
The Hawk was not one to speak overmuch, but when he did, he was temperate and fair. The respect his men obviously held for him said much of his treatment of them, in Aileen’s opinion.
But then, they were a company of rogues themselves. Aileen told herself to remember that critical detail. To her thinking, they could not reach his humble holding of Inverfyre soon enough.
* * *
On the fourth morning, Aileen awakened to find Alasdair saddled to depart. He rode off with great haste and she failed to hide her curiosity from the Hawk’s bright gaze.
“Is something amiss?” she asked, hoping she contrived a look of innocence.
“No.”
“Are we close to Inverfyre, then?”
“Why?” It seemed to Aileen that there was a measure of assessment in the Hawk’s gaze, as if he had already guessed her thoughts.
“My father often sends a runner when he is close to home, to ensure that the hall is made ready for his return,” she admitted. “I thought perhaps you did the same.”
“Perhaps I do. But Inverfyre is not that close, lady mine.”
Indeed, it was not. They rode hard all that day long, so relentlessly that Aileen’s buttocks ached. The sun had disappeared and she was hoping they would take a respite just as a high-walled keep finally came into view, its tower silhouetted against the star-flecked sky.
Aileen was certain that they would circumnavigate this fortress, as they had avoided all others. Indeed, the sight of it persuaded her that they would ride much longer before halting and she sighed disappointment. She was surprised they had come near enough to this one to glimpse it so clearly.
But the Hawk took the road directly to the keep’s gates, his men riding openly behind him. A standard was raised above the gatehouse as they rode closer, a red banner with a black hawk upon it. A shout rose from the outer walls and the men behind her shouted a greeting in return.
Aileen’s heart fairly sank to her toes.
“Inverfyre?” she asked weakly. She had expected a circle of tents, perhaps a timbered hall or crude settlement. This formidable fortress fair took her breath away. Escape from within these high walls would not be readily accomplished!
“No other,” the Hawk said with undisguised satisfaction. He gave her waist a squeeze. “Welcome home, lady mine.”
* * *
The Hawk had quickly guessed that his lady was not so resigned to her fate as she appeared to be. Her gaze flicked too quickly to the road, her nose twitched too readily at the hint of wood smoke, her interest in their direction was too avid to be disguised.
Her passive and acquiescent manner upon this journey was utterly at odds with the fiery maiden who had so ably listed the threats he brought to her father’s keep, not to mention the feisty demoiselle who had fought his abduction with such strength. It made no sense that she accepted her fate with such complacency. Further, he knew that she had feigned incompetence with Alasdair’s bow.
Aileen had a scheme, unless the Hawk missed his guess, and the prospect pleased him enormously.
He had told no lie when he had declared that he liked her keen wits. There was no better way, in his estimation, to win each other’s trust and admiration than to attempt to foil each other’s competing schemes.
His was to seduce her and coax her love for him. Hers—well, her plan was not clear as yet but it would become so. He viewed this as a contest, a contest of wills, and the Hawk was well accustomed to winning contests.
He would win this one, of that he had no doubt.
He saw to her every comfort as they traveled. He stole no more kisses from her, though he yearned to do so. He felt her shiver when he caressed her shoulder or hand and knew she was not so resistant to his caresses as she would like him to believe.
And on this night, all would come to fruition. The prospect of a night abed with his bride had kept the Hawk awake too much of late. He was more than prepared to court her final favors all the night long if necessary.
But the Hawk’s courtship was doomed to wait. Ewen met their party at the gates, his countenance so sober that the Hawk understood immediately that something was amiss.
“We have captured another, my laird,” he said. “The vermin tried to scale the walls, but we ensured his failure.” Ewen sneered as he delivered this news, his contempt for the MacLaren clan more than clear.
But then, his hatred had a deep root.
The Hawk cursed the timing of his rivals. He was suddenly concerned that he had brought Aileen here too soon, that his haste to possess her might put her in danger. He felt her recoil, but knew he had not the time to put her fears at ease.
This matter had to be resolved with all haste. The spy might be persuaded to speak this night, and might provide some gleaning of Dubhglas MacLaren’s intent.
“I shall come immediately,” he said, then dismounted and lifted Aileen down. The portcullis closed behind them with a clang and the gates were barred. To his relief, there was a full contingent of sentries upon the walls, and the gate was well-guarded.
“Who scaled your walls?” Aileen asked as the Hawk urged her toward the keep.
“It is not of import,” he said flatly, having no intent of discussing military matters with his wife. He would not have her fear for her security.
He was sufficiently concerned for them both. He hastened her toward the hall. Only when the last vestige of Inverfyre was secure in his grip would he sleep easily.
Aileen’s eyes flashed, the first sign of passion from her in days. The Hawk cursed Fortune that she should awaken to her true nature now, just when he had to abandon her.