“Agreeably? Give the lass a trencher and she would have slid it under him, licking her lips as she dined!”
“So?”
“She’s my wife.”
“Och, this one’s getting too deep for me. You said you didn’t care what became of her once the deed was done. You swore to honor the pact and you have. So why this foolish ire, Hawk?”
“My wife will not make a cuckold of me.”
“I believe a husband can only be a cuckold if he cares. You don’t care.”
“Nobody asked me if I cared.”
Grimm blinked, fascinated by the Hawk’s behavior. “All the lasses look on Adam like that.”
“She didn’t even notice me. ’Tis Adam she wants. Who the bloody hell hired that blacksmith anyway?”
Grimm mused into his brew. “Wasn’t Thomas the smithy?”
“Come to think of it, aye.”
“Where’d Thomas go?”
“I don’t know, Grimm. That’s why I asked you.”
“Well, somebody hired Adam.”
“You didn’t?”
“Nay. I thought you did, Hawk.”
“Nay. Maybe he’s Thomas’s brother and Thomas was taken ill.”
Grimm laughed. “Ugly Thomas his brother? Not a chance on that.”
“Get rid of him.”
“Adam?”
“Aye.”
Silence.
Then, “By the saints, Hawk, you can’t be serious! ’Tisna like you to take away a man’s livelihood because of the way a lass looks at him …”
“This lass happens to be my wife.”
“Aye—the very one you didn’t want.”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“Besides, he’s been keeping Esmerelda quite content, Hawk.”
Sidheach sighed deeply. “There is that.” He paused the length of several jealous heartbeats. “Grimm?”
“Um?”
“Tell him to keep his clothes on while he works. And that’s an order.”
But Hawk couldn’t leave it alone. His mind became aware of where his feet had taken him just as he entered the amber rim of firelight beneath the rowan trees at Adam’s forge.
“Welcome Lord Hawk of Dalkeith-Upon-the-Sea.”
Hawk spun about to come nose to nose with the glistening blacksmith, who had somehow managed to get behind him. Not many men could take the Hawk by surprise, and for an instant Hawk was as fascinated as he was irritated with the smithy.
“I didn’t hire you. Who are you?”
“Adam,” the smithy replied coolly.
“Adam what?”
The smithy pondered, then flashed a puckish smile. “Adam Black.”
“Who hired you?”
“I heard you were in need of a man to tend a forge.”
“Stay away from my wife.” Hawk was startled to hear the words leave his lips. By the saints, he sounded like a jealous husband! He had intended to push the question of who had hired the smithy, but apparently he was no more in control of his words than he had been of his feet; at least not where his new wife was concerned.
Adam laughed wickedly. “I won’t do a thing the lady doesn’t want me to do.”
“You won’t do a thing I don’t want you to do.”
“I heard the lady didn’t want you.”
“She will.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“All the lasses want me.”
“Funny. I have just the same problem.”
“You’re uncanny rude for a smithy. Who was your laird before?”
“I have known no man worthy to call master.”
“Funny, smithy. I have just the same problem.”
The men stood nose to nose. Steel to steel.
“I can order you from my land,” Hawk said tightly.
“Ah, but then you’d never know if she would choose you or me, would you? And I suspect there is this deep kernel of decency in you, a thing that cries out for old-fashioned mores like fairness and chivalry, honor and justice. Foolish Hawk. All the knights will soon be dead, as dust of dreams passing on time’s fickle fancy.”
“You’re insolent. And as of this moment, you’re unemployed.”
“You’re afraid,” the smithy marveled.
“Afraid?” The Hawk echoed incredulously. This fool smithy dared stand on his land and tell him that he, the legendary Hawk, was afraid? “I fear nothing. Certainly not you.”
“Yes you do. You saw how your wife looked at me. You’re afraid you won’t be able to keep her hands off me.”
A bitter, mocking smile curved Hawk’s lip. He was not a man given to self-deception. He was afraid he wouldn’t be able to keep his wife away from the smithy. It galled him, incensed him, and yet the smithy was also right about his underlying decency. Decency that demanded, as Grimm had suspected, that he not deprive a man of his livelihood because of his own insecurity about his wife. The Hawk suffered the rare handicap of being noble, straight to the core. “Who are you, really?”
“A simple smithy.”
Hawk studied him in the moonlight that dappled through the rowans. Nothing simple here. Something tugged at his mind, drifting on a scent of memory, but he couldn’t pin it down. “I know you, don’t I?”
“You do now. And soon, she will know me as well.”
“Why do you provoke me?”
“You provoked me first when you pleased my queen.” The words were spat as the smithy turned away sharply.
Hawk searched his memory for a queen he had pleased. No names came to mind; but they usually didn’t. Still, the man had made his game clear. Somewhere, sometime, Hawk had turned a woman’s head from this man. And the man was now to play the same game with him. With his wife. A part of him tried not to care, but from the moment he’d laid eyes on Mad Janet this day he’d known he was in trouble for the first time in his life. Deep, over his head, for had her flashing silver eyes coaxed him into quicksand, he would willingly have gone.
What do you say to a man whose woman you’ve taken? There was nothing to say to the smithy. “I had no intention to give offense,” Hawk offered at last.
Adam spun around and his smile gleamed much too brightly. “Offense to defense, all’s fair in lust. Do you still seek to send me hence?”
Hawk met his gaze for long moments. The smithy was right. Something in him cried out for justice. Fair battles fought on equal footing. If he couldn’t hold a lass, if he lost her to another man … His pride blazed hot. If his wife left him, whether he had wanted her to begin with or not, and for a smithy at that, well, the legend of the Hawk would be sung to a vastly different tune.
But worse even than that, if he dismissed the smithy tonight, he would never know for certain if his wife would have chosen him over Adam Black. And it mattered. The doubt would torment him eternally. The image of her as she’d stood today, leaning against a tree, staring at the smithy—ah! That would give him nightmares even in Adam’s absence.
He would allow the smithy to stay. And tonight the Hawk would seduce his wife. When he was completely convinced where her affections rested, well, maybe then he might dismiss the bastard.
Hawk waved a hand dispassionately. “As you will. I will not command your absence.”
“As I will. I like that,” Adam Black replied smugly.
Hawk walked through the courtyard slowly, rubbing his head that still ached from a bout of drunkenness three nights past. The troth King James had commanded was satisfied. Hawk had wed the Comyn’s daughter and thus fulfilled James’s final decree. Dalkeith was safe once again.
The Hawk had high hopes that out of sight was truly out of mind, and that King James would forget about Dalkeith-Upon-the-Sea. All those years he’d done James’s twisted bidding to the letter, only to have the king demand more of him, until by royal decree James had taken from the Hawk his last claim to freedom.
Why had it surprised him? For fifteen years the king had delighted in taking his choices away, whittling them down to the single ch
oice of obeying his king or dying, along with his entire clan.
He recalled the day James had summoned him, only three days before his service was to end.
Hawk had presented himself, his curiosity piqued by the air of tense anticipation that pervaded the spacious throne room. Attributing it to yet another of James’s schemes—and hoping it had naught to do with him or Dalkeith—Hawk approached the dais and knelt.
“We have arranged a marriage for you,” James had announced when the room quieted.
Hawk stiffened. He could feel the eyes of the courtiers resting on him heavily; with amusement, with mockery and a touch of … pity?
“We have selected a most suitable”—James paused and laughed spitefully—“wife to grace the rest of your days at Dalkeith.”
“Who?” Hawk allowed himself only the one word. To say more would have betrayed the angry denial simmering in his veins. He couldn’t trust himself to speak when every ounce of him screamed defiance.
James smiled and motioned Red Comyn to approach the throne, and Hawk nearly roared with rage. Surely not the notorious Mad Janet! James wouldn’t force him to wed the mad spinster Red Comyn kept in his far tower!
The corner of James’s lip twisted upward in a crooked smile. “We have chosen Janet Comyn to be your bride, Hawk Douglas.”
Soft laughter ripped through the court. James rubbed his hands together gleefully.
“No!” The word escaped Hawk in a burst of air; too late, he tried to suck it back in.
“No?” James echoed, his smile chilled instantly. “Did We just hear you refuse Our command?”
Hawk trained his eyes on the floor. He took a deep breath. “Nay, my king. I fear I did not express myself clearly.” Hawk paused and swallowed hard. “What I meant was ‘no, you’ve been too good to me already.’ “The lie burned his lips and left the taste of charred pride on his tongue. But it kept Dalkeith safe.
James chuckled, grandly amused by the Hawk’s quick capitulation as he enjoyed anything that showcased the extent of his kingly powers. The Hawk reflected bitterly that once again James held all the cards.
When James spoke again, his voice dripped venom. “Fail to wed the Comyn’s daughter, Hawk Douglas, and We will wipe all trace of Douglas from Scotia. Not one drop of your bloodline will survive unless you do this thing.”
It was the same threat James had always used to control Hawk Douglas, and the only one that could have been so ruthlessly effective, over and over again.
Hawk bowed his head to hide his anger.
He’d wanted to choose his own wife. Was that so much to ask? During his fifteen years of service the thought of choosing a woman of his own, of returning to Dalkeith and raising a family far from the corruption of James’s court, had kept his dreams alive despite the king’s efforts to sully and destroy them, one by one. Although the Hawk was no longer a man who believed in love, he did believe in family and clan, and the thought of spending the rest of his days with a fine woman, surrounded by children, appealed to him immensely.
He wanted to stroll the seaside and tell stories to his sons. He wanted lovely daughters and grandchildren. He wanted to fill the nursery at Dalkeith. Och, the nursery, the thought stung him; this new realization more bitter and painful than anything the king had ever done to him. I can never fill the nursery now—not if my wife bears seeds of madness!
There would be no wee ones—at least not legitimate ones—for the Hawk. How could he bear never holding a child of his own?
Hawk had never spoken of his desire for a family; he’d known that if James found out, he’d eradicate any hope of it. Well, somehow James had either found out or had decided that since he hadn’t been able to have the wife he wanted, neither could the Hawk.
“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.
CHAPTER 7
ADRIENNE KNEW SHE WAS DREAMING. SHE 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-t
alk 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.