Beyond the Highland Mist

Page 64

Adrienne raised her head proudly and met his blazing eyes. She refused to show the pain that closed around her heart. “Tell him I thank him for protecting me. Tell him I’ll be back tomorrow and the next day and the next, until he sees me and allows me to thank him myself.”
“I’ll tell him no such thing,” Grimm said flatly. “You’re no good for him and I won’t be stringing him along in your game.”
“Then at least tell him I’m sorry,” she said softly. And she meant it.
“You doona have enough human compassion to feel sorrow, lass. Heart of ice in a body of flame. You’re the worst kind. You bring a man nothing but a brief sip of sweetness, then a keg full of bitter dregs.”
Adrienne said nothing before she fled down the dim corridor.
“Where is she? Is she all right? Who’s guarding her?” Hawk tossed restlessly in bed, kicking the coverlet off.
“She’s fine, Hawk. Two guards are outside the Peacock Room. She’s sleeping.” Grimm fidgeted with the bottle of whisky the healer had left on the table, then poured a generous dollop into his glass. He moved abruptly to stand beside the hearth.
Hawk watched Grimm curiously. His loyal friend seemed unusually tense—probably blaming himself for not being there to prevent the attack, Hawk decided. He studied his bandaged hand carefully. “She didn’t ask about me, Grimm?”
The silence grew until the Hawk reluctantly dragged his gaze from his hand to Grimm’s rigid profile. When Grimm finally glanced up from the flames, the Hawk flinched at the sadness he read in every line of his best friend’s face. “She didn’t even ask if I was going to be all right? Where the arrow hit? Anything?” Hawk tried to keep his voice level but it broke harshly.
“I’m sorry.” Grimm drained his glass and poked at the red-hot embers in the fireplace with the toe of his boot.
“Bloody hell, the lass is made of ice!”
“Rest, Hawk,” Grimm spoke into the fire. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. You came too close to dying tonight. If you hadn’t raised your hand in defense, the arrow would have taken out your heart rather than just pinning your hand to your chest.”
Hawk shrugged. “A wee scratch on my chest—”
“Hell, a hole the size of a plum through the palm of your hand! The old healer had to pull the arrow through your hand to get it out. And you heard him yourself. Had it gotten lodged in your chest, which it should have but for uncanny luck, there would have been naught he could do to save you, cruelly notched as it was. You’ll bear scars and pain in that hand for life.”
Hawk sighed morosely. More scars and more pain. So what? She hadn’t even bothered to see if he was alive. She could have at least pretended to be concerned. Visited briefly to maintain the pretense of civility. But no. She probably hoped he was dying, for with him out of the way she would be a very wealthy woman. Was she even now lying in the Peacock Room, counting her gold and her blessings?
“Not even one question, Grimm?” Hawk studied the silky hairs around the bandage that covered almost his entire hand.
“Not even one.”
Hawk didn’t ask again.
“Grimm, pack my satchel. Send half the guard and enough staff to ready the manor house in Uster. I leave at dawn. And quit poking at that blasted fire—it’s too damned hot in here already.”
Grimm dropped the poker to the stone hearth with a clatter. He turned stiffly from the fire and searched Hawk’s face. “Are you going alone?”
“I just told you to ready half the guard.”
“I meant, what about your wife?”
Hawk’s gaze dropped back to his hand. He studied it for a moment, then glanced up at Grimm and said carefully, “I’m going alone. If she couldn’t even be bothered to see if I lived or died, perhaps it’s time I quit trying. At the very least, some distance may help me gain perspective.”
Grimm nodded stiffly. “You’re sure you can travel with that wound?”
“You know I heal quickly. I’ll stop at the Rom camp and get some of the camomile and comfrey poultice they use—”
“But to ride?”
“I’ll be fine, Grimm. Stop worrying. You’re not responsible.” Hawk didn’t miss the bitter smile on Grimm’s face. It comforted him somewhat to know that his friend was so loyal when his own wife couldn’t be bothered to care if he was dead or alive. “You’re a true friend, Grimm,” Hawk said softly. He wasn’t surprised when Grimm hurried from the room. In all the years he’d known him, words of praise had always made the man uncomfortable.