Beyond the Highland Mist

Page 51

Adrienne laughed and was immediately rewarded with one of the Hawk’s devastating smiles.
He was melting her, disarming her defenses. And it felt good.
More seriously he said, “I instructed the guards to see to Olivia’s return journey the moment her horses are rested enough to make the ride.”
Adrienne’s spirit elevated at his words.
“Adrienne.” He sighed her name like a rich port, complex and sweet. “It’s only you—”
“Stop!”
Abruptly his mood changed, lightened like quicksilver. “I want to take you somewhere. Come, lass. Give me this night to show you who I really am. That’s all I ask.”
Adrienne’s mind shrieked a resounding no … but perhaps it wasn’t too dangerous. Let me show you who I really am … how intriguing.
You mean besides beautiful beyond bearing?
But what harm could there be in conversation?
“What harm could there be in conversation, Adrienne?”
Adrienne blinked. He must have plucked the words right out of her mind.
“Look, Adrienne, the moon comes out, peeping from behind the rowans.” The Hawk pointed, and her eyes followed. Down the muscled curve of his arm, over his strong hand to the shining moon beyond.
“Cool silver orb that guides the night’s slumber,” Hawk mused softly. “I wager you sleep little on such nights as this, lass, when a storm hovers, threatening to break through the fragile night. Do you feel it? As if the very air is charged with tension? A storm threatening has always stirred a restlessness in me.”
Adrienne could feel herself weakening with each word, beguiled by his enchanting brogue.
“ ’Tis a restlessness I feel in you as well. Walk with me, Adrienne. You’ll never sleep if you return to the castle now.”
The Hawk stood, hand outstretched, gazing down at her with promises in his eyes. Not touching her, just waiting for her to choose, to commit—if only to walking with him. His breath was shallow and expectant. Her fingers twitched hesitantly beneath the heat of his smiling eyes—eyes with tiny lines at the outer corners. Eberhard hadn’t had any wrinkles. She could never trust a man without a few wrinkles about his eyes. He hadn’t lived and laughed enough if he didn’t have a few faint creases. How had she failed to notice the fine lines of life on the Hawk’s face?
“Give yourself this moment, lass,” he breathed huskily. “Try.”
Adrienne’s hand slipped like a whisper into his and she felt him jerk at their contact. His ebony eyes flared, and she felt the exquisite sensation of his strong fingers closing over hers. He swayed forward and she felt the brush of his lips skim her cheek, an unspoken thank-you for the chance that pushed no further.
“I used to walk here when I was a boy….” He took her hand and steered her westward, away from the circle of rowans and the forest’s edge.
Tell her about yourself, he thought. About the boy you used to be before you went away. About who you couldn’t wait to be when you got back. But most especially—make her love you before she discovers who you were in between. Love still might not be enough to make her understand, but then at least there’s a chance.
They talked and strolled while the Hawk wove his wild tales of boyhood impetuosity and bravery and she laughed into the gentle breeze. They sat atop the cliff’s edge and tossed pebbles down into the surf, the crisp salt air tangling her silvery-blond mane with his raven silk. He showed her where he’d hung a hammock, just over the edge and down a man’s length, and he made her laugh at how he used to hide there from Lydia. Lying on his back, his arms folded behind his head he would watch the sea and dream while his mother searched the bailey for hours, her lilting voice demanding he return.
Adrienne told him about the nuns and the sultry streets of New Orleans, even got him to say it like the locals did a time or two. N’Awlins. And he listened without chiding her for believing such fantasy. Whether he believed she was weaving tall tales or he somehow placed it all in the context of the sixteenth century, she didn’t know. All she did know was that he listened to her like a man had never listened before. So she told him about Marie Leveau the voodoo queen and Jean Laffite the famous pirate, and the great plantations that once stood with their magnificent sprawling houses and the scents and sounds of Bourbon Street. When she spoke of the jazz, the lover’s croon of a deep sax, the trumpeting blare of the brass horns, her eyes grew deep with mystery and sensual arousal, and he found he could almost believe she was from another time. Surely from another land.