Beyond the Highland Mist (15 page)

The days of healing were pure bliss. Lydia overrode the Hawk’s objections and had a chaise carried out to the gardens for Adrienne. Although she was still heavily guarded, she was able to curl up in the golden sunshine like a sleepy, smug cat, which went a long way toward healing her. The rose-drenched days of conversation with Lydia, as they came to know one another through small talk and small silences, healed more than her exhausted body. Sipping tea
(she would have preferred coffee, but that would have brought the Hawk and his boons into the picture) and sharing stories, occasionally Adrienne would shiver with the intense feeling that this was where she’d belonged all her life.

Love
can
grow among the rocks and thorns of life
, she thought in one of those small silences that was comfortable as a favored, love-worn blanket. From the desolate barrens of her own life, somehow, she had come to be here, and here life was blessed—peaceful and perfect and simple.

Adrienne healed more quickly than anyone imagined possible. Tavis pointed out that she had the resilience of youth on her side, as he flexed and studied his time-gnarled hands. Not to mention an indomitable nature, he’d added.
You mean stubborn
, the Hawk had corrected him.

Lydia believed there might have been just a blush of love on her cheeks.
Ha!
Hawk had scoffed.
Love of the sunshine, perhaps.
And Lydia had almost laughed aloud at the seething look of jealousy Hawk had turned on the bright rays as he’d gazed out the kitchen windows.

Grimm offered the likelihood that she was so angry with the Hawk that she hurried her healing just to fight with him on equal footing.
Now there’s a man who understands women
, Hawk had thought.

None of them knew that with the exception of missing her cat, Moonshadow, those days were the happiest she’d ever known.

While she lazed in the peace and sunshine, Adrienne enjoyed a blissful kind of ignorance. She would have been mortified had someone told her that she’d talked about Eberhard in her drugged stupor. She would not have understood if someone had told her she’d spoken of a black queen, for her waking mind hadn’t remembered the chess piece yet.

She had no idea that while she and Lydia were passing sweet time, Grimm had been sent to, and was now on his way back from, Comyn keep, where he’d discovered shocking information about Mad Janet.

And she would have packed up a few things and run for her very life, if not her soul, had she known how obsessively determined the Hawk was to claim her as his wife, in
all
the aspects it entailed.

But she knew none of this. And so her time spent in the gardens of Dalkeith-Upon-the-Sea would be lovingly placed as a precious jewel into the treasure chest of her memory, where it would twinkle like a diamond amid the shadows.

I
T WASN’T MUCH FUN SNOOPING AROUND THE CASTLE WITH A
dozen hard-boiled commandos trailing along behind her, but Adrienne managed. After a while she pretended they weren’t there. Just as she pretended the Hawk was nothing more than an annoying gnat to be brushed away repeatedly.

Dalkeith Upon-the-Sea was as lovely a castle as she’d ever imagined when as a child she’d snuggled under a tent of blankets in bed with a pilfered flashlight, reading fairy tales long after lights out.

The rooms were spacious and airy, with brightly woven tapestries hung on the thick stone walls to smother any chill drafts that might seep through the cracks, although Adrienne hadn’t been able to find so much as one crack in a wall—she’d peeped behind a few tapestries, just to see.

Historical curiosity, she’d told herself. Not that she was hunting for imperfections in either the castle or the castle’s laird.

Hundreds of beautiful mullioned windows. Obviously the people who inhabited Dalkeith couldn’t bear to be cooped up inside when there was so much lush landscape to be enjoyed outdoors in Scotland’s mountains, vales, and seasides.

Adrienne sighed wistfully as she paused by a vaulted window to savor the view of the unceasing slate-silver waves crashing against the cliffs at the west end.

A woman could fall in love in a place like this. Tumble silken tresses over dainty satin slippers to land in a mass of ribbons and romance right at the perfect laird’s perfect feet.

At that very moment, as if summoned by her wayward thoughts, the Hawk walked into her line of vision in the bailey below, leading one of the largest black chargers she’d ever seen. Adrienne started to turn away, but her feet would no more walk her away from the window than her eyes would avert themselves, and in spite of her best intentions to ignore him, she stood watching in helpless fascination.

With a fluid leap, the kit-clad Scottish laird tossed himself onto the back of the snorting fiesty stallion.

And as he mounted, that lovely kilt went flying up, giving Adrienne a sinful glimpse of powerfully muscled thighs, beautifully dusted with a bit of silky black hair. She blinked a moment, refusing to ponder what else she thought she’d seen.

Surely they wore something under those kilts. Surely it was only her overactive imagination, absurdly overlaying the stallion’s obvious masculinity upon the Hawk’s body.

Yes. That was it, decidedly. She’d noticed the stallion’s prominently displayed attributes in the periphery of her vision while she’d been looking at the Hawk’s legs, and managed to muddle the two together, somehow. She certainly had
not
seen that the Hawk was, himself, hung like a stallion.

Her cheeks flushed with that thought. She turned sharply on her heel to squelch it firmly and sought the next unsurveyed room. She had decided to explore the castle that morning, in large part to keep her mind off that dratted man. It just figured that he’d have to walk by the one window she was looking out.
And
toss up his skirts to add fuel to the proverbial fire.

She forced her mind back to the lovely architecture of Dalkeith. She was on the second floor of the castle, and had already traipsed through dozens of guest rooms, including the chamber in which she’d spent her first night. Dalkeith was enormous. There must have been a hundred or more rooms, and many of them appeared as if they’d lain unused for decades. The wing she currently explored was the most recently renovated and frequently utilized. It was finished in light woods, polished to a fine gleam, and not a speck of dust could be seen. Thick woven mats covered the floors, no rushes or cold bare stones here. Bunches of fragrant herbs and dried flowers hung upside down from nearly every window ledge, scenting the corridors.

A shaft of sunlight drew Adrienne’s attention to a closed door halfway down the corridor. Etched into the pale wood was an exquisitely detailed prancing horse, rearing elegantly, mane tossing in the wind. A single horn spiraled daintily from its equine brow. A unicorn?

Her hand on the door, she paused, suddenly suffering an odd premonition that this room might be better left alone.
Curiosity killed the cat….

When the door swung silently inward, she froze, a hand fluttering on the jamb.

Unbelievable. Simply incomprehensible. Her astonished gaze swept the room from floor to rafter, end to end and back again.

Who had done this?

The room appealed to every ounce of woman in her body.
Face it, Adrienne
, she told herself grimly,
this entire castle appeals to every ounce of woman in your body.
Not to mention the sexy, masculine laird of the keep himself.

This room was made for babies. Crafted with such loving hands that it was almost overwhelming. A cacophony of discordant emotions skittered through her before she shoved them away.

There were cradles of honey oak, curved and sanded smooth so not one splinter could work free and harm baby-soft skin. The east wall displayed high windows, too high for a toddler to risk harm, yet open to the golden glow of the morning sun. Wood floors were smothered with thick rugs to keep baby feet warm.

Brightly painted wooden soldiers dotted the shelves, and lovingly crafted dolls reclined on tiny beds. A miniature castle, replete with turrets, dry moat, and drawbridge was filled with tiny carved people; an honest-to-goodness medieval dollhouse!

Fluffy blankets dotted the cradles and beds. It was a huge room, this nursery. A room in which a child (or a dozen) could grow from baby to young teen before seeking a more adult room elsewhere. It was a room that would fill a child’s world with love and security and pleasure for hours on end.

As if someone had created this room thinking like the child he or she used to be, and designed it with all the treasures that had given him or her such pleasure as a wee lad or lass.

But the thing about the room that struck her so hard was that it seemed to be waiting.

Open and warm and inviting, saying,
fill me with laughing babies and love.

All was in readiness, the nursery was merely biding time—until the right woman would come along and breathe into it the sparkling life of children’s songs and dreams and hopes.

A pang of such longing flashed through her that Adrienne wasn’t even sure what it was. But it had everything to do with the orphan she’d been, and the cold place she’d grown up in—a place nothing at all like this lovely room; part of a lovely home, in a lovely land, with people who would lavish love upon their children.

Oh, to raise babies in a place like this.

Babies who would know who their mother and father were, unlike Adrienne. Babies who would never have to wonder why they hadn’t been worth keeping.

Adrienne rubbed her eyes furiously and turned away. It was too much for her to deal with.

And she turned right into Lydia. “Lydia!” she gasped. But of course. Why should it surprise her to run smack into the wonderful mother of the wonderful man who’d probably built the wonderful nursery?

Lydia steadied her by the elbows. “I came to see if you were feeling all right, Adrienne. I thought it might be too soon for you to be up and about—”

“Who built this room?” Adrienne whispered.

Lydia ducked her head, and for a brief moment Adrienne had the absurd impression that Lydia was trying not to laugh. “The Hawk designed and crafted it himself,” Lydia said, intently smoothing tiny crinkles from her gown.

Adrienne rolled her eyes, trying to convince her emotional barometer to stop registering vulnerability and rise to something safe, like anger.

“Why, dear Adrienne, don’t you like it?” Lydia asked sweetly.

Adrienne turned back and swept the room with an irritated gaze. The nursery was bright and cheery and alive with the creator’s own outpouring of emotion into his creation. She glanced back at Lydia. “When? Before or after the king’s service?” It was terribly important that she know if he had built it at seventeen or eighteen, to please his mother perhaps, or recently, in hopes of his own children someday filling it.

“During. The king gave him a brief leave when he was twenty-nine. There was some trouble with the Highlanders in these parts, and the Hawk was permitted to return to fortify Dalkeith. When the feuding was resolved, he spent a measure of time working up here. He worked like a man possessed, and in truth, I had little idea what he was doing. The Hawk has always worked with wood, building and designing things. He wouldn’t let any of us see it, and didn’t talk much about it. After he returned to James, I came up to see what he’d been doing.” Lydia’s eyes misted briefly. “I’ll tell you the truth, Adrienne, it made me cry. Because it told me that my son was thinking of children and how precious they were. It filled me with wonder, too, when I saw it completed. I think it would most any woman. Men don’t usually see children like this. But the Hawk, he’s a rare man. Like his father.”

You don’t have to sell
me
on him
, Adrienne thought morosely. “I’m sorry, Lydia. I’m very tired. I need to go rest,” she said stiffly, and turned for the door.

As she entered the corridor she could have sworn she heard Lydia laughing softly.

Hawk found Grimm waiting for him in the study, gazing out at the west cliffs through the open doors. He didn’t miss the
tiny whiteness at Grimm’s knuckles on the hand that clenched the door frame, or the rigid line of his back.

“So?” Hawk asked impatiently. He would have gone to the Comyn keep to investigate his wife’s past himself, but that would have meant leaving Adrienne alone with the damned smithy. No chance of that. Nor could he have taken her with him, so he’d sent Grimm to uncover what had happened to Janet Comyn.

Grimm turned slowly, kicked out a chair, and sat heavily before the fire.

Hawk sat as well, rested his feet upon the desk, and poured them both a brandy. Grimm accepted it gratefully.

“Well? What did she say?” The Hawk’s grip tightened on his glass as he waited to hear who had done such terrible things to his wife that her mind had retreated into fantasy. The Hawk understood what was wrong with her. He’d seen battle-scarred men who had experienced such horrors that they had reacted in similar fashion. Too many barbaric and bloody losses made some soldiers spin a dream to replace the reality, and in time many came to believe the dream was true. As his wife had done. But, unfortunately, with his wife he had no idea what had caused her painful retreat into such an outlandish fancy that she couldn’t even bear to be called by her real name. And whatever had happened to her had left her totally unwilling to trust any man, but especially him, it seemed.