Beyond the Highland Mist (17 page)

When the police pulled her over, claiming she’d been driving over one hundred miles an hour, she knew they were lying. They were Eberhard’s friends. He’d probably called them the moment she’d left his house; he knew which route she always took home.

Adrienne stood outside her car with the policemen, her face bruised and swelling, her lip bleeding, weeping and apologizing in a voice that bordered on hysteria.

It didn’t occur to her until much later that neither of the policemen had ever asked her what had happened to her face. They’d interrogated an obviously beaten woman without showing an ounce of concern.

When they’d cuffed her, taken her to the station, and called Eberhard, she wasn’t surprised at all when they replaced the receiver, gazed at her sadly, and sent her to be locked up.

Three days she’d spent in that hellish place, just so Eberhard could make his point.

That was the night she’d realized how dangerous he really was.

In the cool of the broch, Adrienne hugged her arms around herself, trying desperately to exorcise the ghosts of a beautiful man named Eberhard Darrow Garrett and the foolish young woman who’d spent a lonely, sheltered life in an orphanage. Such easy prey she’d been.
Did you see little orphan Adri-Annie? Eberhard’s little fool.
Where had she heard those sneering words? On Rupert’s yacht, when they thought she’d gone below for more drinks. She shivered violently.
I’ll never be a man’s fool again.

“Never,” she vowed aloud. Adrienne shook her head to ebb the painful tide of memories.

The door opened, admitting a wide swath of brilliant sunlight. Then it closed again and blackness reigned absolute.

Adrienne froze, huddled in on herself, and forced her heart to slow. She’d been here before. Hiding, waiting, too terrified to draw a breath for fear of alerting the hunter to her exact location. How she’d run and hid! But there had been no sanctuary. Not until the streets of obscurity she’d finally found in Seattle, and there had been an eternity of murky hell down every winding backroad between New Orleans and the haven of the Pacific Northwest.

Bitter memories threatened to engulf her when a husky croon broke the silence.

The Hawk? Singing? A lullaby?

The Gaelic words tumbled husky and deep—why hadn’t she suspected he would have a voice like rich butterscotch? He purred when he talked; he could seduce the Mother Abbess of Sacred Heart when he sang.

“Curious, were you? I see you came of your own accord.” His brogue rolled through the broch when he finished the refrain.

“Came where?” she asked defiantly.

“To be trained to my hand.” His voice sounded amused, and she heard the rustle of his kilt as he moved in the inky darkness.

She would not dignify it with a response.

A long pause, another rustle, then, “Know you what qualities a falconer must possess, my heart?”

“What?” she grumbled in spite of herself, moving slowly backward. She stretched out her hands like little makeshift antennae in the darkness.

“ ’Tis an exacting position. Few men can be quality falconers. Few possess the temperament. A falconer must be a man of infinite patience, acute hearing, and uncanny vision. Possessed of a daring spirit, and a gentle yet forceful hand. He must be constantly attuned to his ladybird. Know you why?”

“Why?” she whispered.

“Because falcons are very sensitive and excitable creatures, my heart. They are known to suffer from headaches and all manner of human ailments, so sensitive are they. Their extreme sensitivity makes them the finest and most successful huntresses of all time, yet can make them most demanding as well. And the haggard … ah, my sweet haggard, she is the purest challenge of all. And by far the most rewarding.”

She would not ask what a haggard was.

“ ‘What is a haggard,’ you ask, deep in that stubborn, silent soul of yours, my heart?” He laughed richly and it echoed off the stone walls of the suddenly balmy broch.

“Quit ‘my hearting’ me,” she muttered as she moved
back oh so cautiously. She had to find a wall. The broch was round, so a wall would guarantee a door at some point. She may as well have been blind in the abysmal blackness.

She heard his footfalls upon the stone floor. Dear heavens, how could he see her? But he was heading straight for her! She backed away slowly, stealthily.

“I am no stranger to the darkness, lass,” he warned. “I will find you. I am the finest of falconers.”

She said nothing, made no sound.

“A haggard is a wild, mature falcon,” he continued, a hint of a smile in his voice. “Usually a falconer is reluctant to assume the challenge of training one, but sometimes, upon a truly rare moon like the harvest moon we had last eve, the falconer espies a bird of such brilliance, such magnificence, that he casts all caution aside and traps the haggard, vowing to bind her to him. Vowing to make her forget all her wild free past—whether in darkness or in light—and give herself freely only to her future with her falconer.”

She must
not
answer him; he’d follow her voice.

“My sweet falcon, shall I tell you how I will tame her?”

Silence, absolute. They were circling in the darkness like wary animals.

“First I seel my lady, which is to deprive her of vision, with a black silken hood.”

Adrienne smothered an indignant gasp in her shaking hand. The folds of her gown rustled as she sidestepped quickly.

“Then I blunt her talons.”

A pebble skittered across the floor a mere yard away. She backstepped, clutching her skirts to keep them still.

“I fasten jesses and dainty bells to her ankles so that I can be aware of her every movement, for I am in the dark too.”

She drew a labored breath—almost a pant—then cursed herself for slipping, knowing he would track her traitorous gasp. She knew his strategy was to keep talking until he provoked her into revealing herself.
And then what?
she couldn’t help but wonder. Would the Hawk make love to her here and now in the darkness of the broch? A shiver coursed through her, and she wasn’t certain it was fear. Not certain at all.

“Then a leash to tether her to her perch until I no longer need leash her. Until she becomes leashed of her own free will. And the best part—the long, slow process of binding her to me. I sing to her, the same sweet song until she grows accustomed to the sound of my voice and mine alone….”

And his butterscotch rich voice began that same husky croon of a lullaby, melting her will.

Adrienne stepped slowly backward; she actually felt the breeze of him passing by her, mere inches away. Where was that wall?

She almost screamed when he found her in the blackness, struggled a long moment against his iron grip. His breath fanned her face and she struggled in his grasp. “Be still, sweet falcon. I will not harm you. Not ever,” he whispered huskily.

Adrienne felt the heat of his thighs burning through her thin silk morning gown. She was enveloped in the heady scent of musk and man.
Oh beautiful man, why couldn’t I have known you before my last illusion was shattered? Why couldn’t I have met you when I still believed?
she mourned. She fought against his arms, which embraced her, cradled her.

“Let me go!”

Hawk ignored her protests, drawing her closer into the steel of his embrace. “Aye, I’ll simply have to have you
seeled. Or perhaps I should bind your hands and hood your eyes with silk, and lay you across my bed, stripped bare and laid wide open to pure sensation until you become accustomed to my touch. Would that tame you, sweet falcon? Could you grow to love my touch? Crave it as I crave you?”

Adrienne swallowed convulsively.

“A falcon must be wooed with relentless and rough love. By taking away her light, by seeling her, she learns to understand with all her other senses. Senses that don’t lie. The falcon is a wise creature, she believes only what she can feel, what she can hold in her talon or her beak. Touch, scent, hearing. By slowly being given back her sight and freedom, she is bound to the hand that restores these things to her. If she fails to trust in her master and doesn’t grant him absolute loyalty by the end of her training—she seeks to flee at every opportunity.” He paused, his lips a scant breath from hers. “None of my falcons have ever flown my hand without returning,” he warned.

“I am not a stupid bird—”

“Nay, not stupid, but the finest. A falcon is the only other bird that can match a hawk for flight, accuracy, and speed. Not to mention strength of heart.”

She’d been lost to him the moment he’d started singing. And she didn’t protest further when his lips brushed hers lightly. Nor did she protest in the next instant, when Hawk’s hands on her body turned hard, hot and demanding. Coaxing. Claiming.

“Would you soar for me, sweet falcon? I’ll take you higher than you’ve ever been. I’ll teach you to bank heights you’ve only dreamed existed,” he promised as he scattered kisses across her jaw, her nose, her eyelids. His hands cradled her jaw in the darkness, feeling every curve, every
plane and silken hollow of her face and neck with his hands, memorizing the nuances.

“Feel me, lass. Feel what you do to me!” He pressed his body against hers and rocked his hips, making sure she felt the swollen manhood that rose beneath his kilt and teased the inside of her thigh.

And there was the wall; it had been just behind her back all the time. Cool stone to her back and the inferno of the Hawk searing her through the front of her gown. She raised her hands to pummel him, but he caught and pinned them above her head against the wall. His strong fingers splayed her grip, twined with and teased her hands. Palm to palm, flat against the stone.

“My sweet falcon,” he breathed against her neck. “Fight me as you will, it will come to naught. I have set my mind on you, and this is your first time to be seeled. In this blackness you will come to know my hands as they touch every silken inch of your body. I will not take from you any more than that. Just that you suffer my touch, you needn’t even see my face. I will be patient while you grow gentled to my hands.”

His hands were liquid fire, sliding her gown up and over her thighs and oh! She hadn’t had the faintest idea where to look for undergarments this morning. His hands, his strong, beautiful hands were kneading her thighs, pushing them gently apart to slip the heat of his muscled leg between them. He purred, a rich husky growl of masculine triumph, when he felt the betraying wetness between her thighs. Adrienne flushed furiously; despite her intentions her hands fluttered up to rest upon his shoulders, then slid deep into his soft, thick hair. Her knees, already weak, went limp when he eased the bodice of her gown aside and dropped
his head to her breasts, licking and grazing the swollen peaks with his tongue, then his teeth.

She scarcely noticed when he pushed his kilt up; but she definitely noticed when his hard, hot, heavy arousal rose against her thigh. Adrienne made a throaty sound: half whimper, half plea. How had he done this to her? Merely by touching her, the Hawk had somehow managed to unravel every ounce of resistance she’d so painstakingly woven into the cloak of aloofness she wore.

It had never been like this with Eberhard! Her mind fled her body and she clung to the hand that had seeled her. The hand that had denied her sight she tasted with her lips—turned her head to catch his finger with her tongue. Adrienne almost screamed when he took that same finger and placed it inside the slick heat between her legs. “Fly for me, sweet falcon,” he urged, cupping one of her heavy breasts with his hand and licking its puckered crest. He teased her mercilessly, nipping her gently, touching her everywhere.

His lips returned to claim hers with desperation sired of a hunger too long denied. A hunger that might never relent. His kiss was long, hard, and punishing, and she reveled in his unspoken demands. A whimper escaped her when the pad of his thumb found the tiny nub of heat nestled between her folds, and Adrienne’s head dropped back as a burgeoning wave cast her up and up. Yielding to his fingers, his tongue and lips, she sacrificed the last vestige of her restraint.

“Adrienne,” he whispered hoarsely, “you’re so beautiful, so sweet. Want me, lass. Need me like I need you.”

She felt the heat of a place with no name she’d ever been taught—luring her deeper.

Adrienne struggled to say the words she knew must be said. The one word that she knew would free her. This
legendary seducer of women—oh, how easy it was to understand just how legions had fallen before him! He was so good at it. He almost had her believing that it was for her and only her that he hungered. Almost a fool again.

But that was why they called them rogues. Lotharios. Don Juans. They applied the same skill and relentless determination to seduction that they applied to the art of war—to conquests of any sort.

Resurrecting the tatters of her defenses, she steeled her will against his advances.

The Hawk was lost. Lost as he’d been since the moment he’d laid eyes upon the bewitching lass. No matter her strange fancies risen from some secret and terrible past. He would discover a way to erase all her fears. The things Grimm had told him signified nothing. With love he could overcome any obstacle in time. His lady hawk she would be, for now and always. He treasured her yielding to his hands, savored like the rarest delicacy the sweet honey of her lips, trembled at the thought that she would one day feel for him as he felt for her. With her it would never be like it had been before, empty and hollow.

Nay, with this lass he would mate for life. She had no eye for the beauty the other women had so adored. This lass possessed secrets of her own. Horrors of her own. Depth of her own. All in all, a rare lass indeed. He was sinking, sinking into her depths … the kiss deepened ferociously and he felt her teeth graze his lower lip. It maddened him beyond control.

“Oh!” she breathed, as he nipped her silken neck.

Emboldened by his success, he breathed the first tentative words. He needed to tell her; needed her to understand that this was no game. That he had never in his life felt this way, and never would again. She was the one he’d been
waiting for all these years—the one that completed his heart. “Ari, my heart, my love, I—”