Beyond the Highland Mist

Page 42

The fight had begun in earnest then, escalating until Eberhard did something that so astonished and terrified Adrienne that she fled blindly into the steamy New Orleans night.
He hit her. Hard. And, taking advantage of her stunned passivity—more than once.
Crying, she flung herself into the Mercedes that Eberhard leased for her. She stomped the accelerator and the car surged forward. She drove blindly, on autopilot, mascara-tinted tears staining the cream silk suit Eberhard had chosen for her to wear that evening.
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.