Beyond the Highland Mist (12 page)

The healer shut his mouth and signed a quick cross.

The Hawk rubbed his eyes and sighed. The Rom were as good a chance as any. He quickly bade a guard at the door to dispatch a messenger to the camp.

“I think you’re making a big mistake, milord—”

“The only mistake being made in this room is you opening your mouth again,” Hawk growled.

The healer rose furiously, his ancient joints popping protest. With pursed lips, he removed a stone jar sealed by wax and a tight stopper from inside his overtunic, close to his body. He placed it on the hearth, then with the audacity and temerity often acquired by those who have survived plague, famine, and war to reach an advanced old age, the healer dared to snip, “You might choose to use it when your Rom fail. For fail, they will,” before fleeing the room in a flurry of creaking joints and thin flapping limbs.

Hawk shook his head and stared broodingly at the shivering woman on the bed. His wife. His lovely, proud, tempestuous
dying
wife. He felt utterly helpless.

Lydia crossed the room and pulled her son’s head into the comfort of her bosom. “Hawk, my sweet Hawk.” She murmured those nonsensical sounds only a mother knows.

A long moment passed, then Hawk pulled his head back. If he could offer no comfort to his wife, he would accept no comfort from his mother. “Tell me again exactly what happened in the gardens.”

“Come, sweet whore,” Adam commanded, and Esmerelda came.

She was beyond redemption now. Esmerelda knew who Adam Black was even as she went to him. Her people had always known, and were accordingly cautious. Particularly when dealing with this one, for to incite his ire, or merely to become the focus of his attention, could be the cup of death for an entire nation. And although such phenomenal power instilled immense terror in Esmerelda’s veins, so too was it an irresistible aphrodisiac.

What had brought him here? she wondered. It was her last coherent thought as he began to do those things to her body that turned her inside-out. His face was dark with passion above her, gilded in the amber glow of fire beneath the rowans. The scent of sandalwood and jasmine rose up from the steaming earth around them. It was wee morn when she was finally able to crawl from his forge.

Adam templed his fingers and considered his strategy as he watched the woman falter from his tent on weak legs.

“Fool!” The word came sharply, harsh and condemning.

Adam stiffened. “You called, my King?” he asked, addressing his unseen master.

“What have you done this time, Adam?”

“I was having my way with a gypsy girl, since you ask. What of it?”

“The beauty lies dying.”

“Adrienne?” Adam was startled. “Nay. Not of my hand.”

“Well, fix it!”

“Truly, my King, I had nothing to do with it.”

“I don’t care. Fix it. Our Queen would be furious should we jeopardize the Compact.”

“I’ll fix it. But who would seek to fell the beauty?”

“It’s your game, fool. Run it more tightly. Already the Queen asks about you.”

“She misses me?” Adam preened a moment.

Finnbheara snorted. “You may have pleased her in passing, but I am her King.”

Adrienne was burning. Tethered to a stake, like an ancient witch trapped amidst a mountain of blazing timbers while the villagers gazed placidly on.
Help me!
she pleaded through parched lips as she convulsed in the billowing
smoke. Choking, choking, and then she felt the hideous sensation of a thousand fire ants scurrying frantically to and fro just beneath the top layer of her skin.

She was unaware of the Hawk sponging her brow, bathing her body with cool cloths, and wrapping her in soft woolens. He pushed damp tendrils of hair from her brow and kissed it gently. Stoking the fire, he turned back quickly to discover her thrashing violently against the snug cocoon of blankets the healer had assured him might ease her fever.

Desperation engulfed him, more brutal and pounding than the fiercest Highland squall.

A primitive groan escaped his lips as the Hawk watched her scratch viciously at her flawless skin in a vain attempt to assuage the attack of whatever fierce beastie the fever had conjured to torment her with. She’d scratch herself raw if he didn’t stop her, yet he couldn’t bear to bind her hands as the healer had recommended. A vision of her straining against the bonds flickered through his mind’s eyes, and he swallowed a bitter howl of impotent fury. How could he wage war against an unseen invader that had no known vulnerability? How could he defeat a poison that had no cure?

He paused only a heartbeat before ripping the shirt from his body and kicking off his boots. Clad only in his kilt, he eased onto the bed and wrapped himself around her, drawing her back against him tightly.

“Adrienne!” He cursed harshly as he cradled her in his arms. How could he feel such grief for a virtual stranger? From whence rose this feeling that they were to have had more time?

He leaned back against the wall, cradling her between his legs, his arms wrapped tightly around her while she thrashed and shuddered, his chin resting upon her head.

Deep in the night the fever peaked, and she talked, and cried silvery tears.

She would never know that he kissed them away, one by one.

She would never know that he listened with a heavy heart as she cried for a man he deemed not worth crying for, and that he wished with all his might that he had been the first man she’d loved.

Ever-hard Darrow Garrett. The bastard who’d broken his wife’s heart.

What kind of self-respecting Scotsman was named Ever-hard?

In the wee hours of dawn, the Hawk fingered the smooth ebony of the chess piece Grimm had given him, even as Adrienne called for it in her delirium. He studied it and wondered why this game piece was so important to her that as she lay dying, she searched desperately for it in the inky corridors of her mind.

It was the commotion that woke him, dragging him from a deep and dreamless sleep. Refusing to open his eyes, he felt his surroundings with his senses first. Damn it, she still burned! Hotter, if possible. His wife of scant days dying in his arms. What had woken him? Was it the Rom, finally arrived?

“Let me pass!” The smithy’s voice thundered from beyond the closed door, loud enough to rattle it. Hawk came fully awake.
That
man’s voice made his body ready for battle.

“The Hawk will kill you, man,” Grimm scoffed. “He doesn’t like you to begin with, and he’s not in a good temper.”

Hawk nodded agreement with Grimm’s words, and was glad he’d posted a half-guard outside the Green Lady’s room. There was no telling what he might have done if he’d woken to find the arrogant blacksmith peering down at him in his present frame of mind.

“Fools! I said I can cure her,” the smithy snapped.

Hawk stiffened instantly.

“A fool, I am?” Grimm’s voice cracked with disbelief. “Nay, a fool is he who thinks there’s a cure for such a poison as Callabron!”

“Dare you risk it, Grimm?” the smithy asked coolly.

“Let him pass,” the Hawk ordered through the closed door.

He heard the sound of swords drawing away with a metallic slash as guards parted the crossed blades that had been barring entrance to the Green Lady’s room, and then Adam was standing in the doorway, his big frame nearly filling it.

“If you came here thinking to play with me, Adam Black, get thee gone before I spill your blood and watch it run on my floor. ’Twould be a wee distraction, but it would make me feel better.”

“Why do you hold her thusly? So close, as if so dear?”

Hawk tightened his arms around her. “She’s dying.”

“But you scarce know her, man.”

“I have no reason for it that makes any sense. But I refuse to lose her.”

“She’s beautiful,” Adam offered.

“I’ve known many beautiful lasses.”

“She’s more beautiful than the others?”

“She’s more
something
than the others.” Hawk brushed his cheek gently against her hair. “Why have you come here?”

“I heard it was Callabron. I can cure her.”

“Think not to tempt me with impossibilities, smithy. Lure me not to false hope or you will lie dying beside her.”

“Think not to tempt
me
with impossibilities, Lord Hawk,” Adam echoed brightly. “Furthermore I speak truth about a cure.”

Hawk studied the smithy a careful moment. “Why would you do this, if you can?”

“Totally self-serving, I assure you.” Adam crossed to the bed and sat upon the edge. He extended his hand, then stopped in mid-reach at the look on Hawk’s face. “I can’t heal her without touching her, dread Hawk.”

“You mock me.”

“I mock everything. Don’t take it so personally. Although in your particular case, it is meant rather personally. But in this, I do offer you truth. I have the cure.”

Hawk snorted and tightened his arms protectively about his wife. “How does it come to pass that a simple smithy has such knowledge of an invaluable cure?”

“You waste time asking me questions while the lady lies dying.”

“Give it to me then, smithy.”

“Oh no. Not so easily—”

“Now who’s wasting time? I want the cure. Give it to me and begone,
if you
really have it.”

“A boon for a boon,” Adam said flatly.

Hawk had known this was coming. The man wanted his wife. “You son of a bitch. What do you want?”

Adam grinned puckishly. “Your wife. I save her. I get her.”

Hawk closed his eyes. He should have fired the bastard smithy when he’d had the chance. Where the hell were the Rom, anyway? They should have been at Dalkeith by now.

The smithy could heal his wife, or so he said.

The Rom may know nothing.

And all the smithy wanted in exchange for saving his wife’s life was his wife.

Every fiber in his body screamed in defiance. Entrust this woman, bequeath her body and her lush bounty unto another man? Never. Hawk forced his eyes open and stared at the man called Adam. He was to allow this arrogant, beautiful bastard of a smithy to raise his body above his wife’s and capture her moans of pleasure in his lips? The smithy’s lips were even now curving in a cruel smile as he savored the war that waged within the Hawk.

Hawk schooled his face to impassive calm. Never betray the real feelings. Never let them see what you’re thinking when it hurts the deepest. How well he’d learned that lesson from King James.

Yet—still—
anything
so that she might live. “A lass is not a boon to be granted. I will give her to you if—and only if—she wants you,” he said finally. If she died he would lose her. If she lived, by price of saving her, he would lose her too. But then again, maybe not. Unable to defuse the rage which he knew must be blazing in his eyes, he closed them again.

“Done.
You will give her to me if she wants me.
Remember your words, Lord Hawk.”

Hawk flinched.

When he opened his eyes again, Adam was holding out a hand to his wife’s face. Sweat glistened in beads above her lips and on her forehead. The wound upon her neck was pussing green around its blackened mouth. “You touch her, smithy, no more than you must to cure her,” the Hawk warned.