Beyond the Highland Mist

Page 68

She shivered. It had been terrible, being tossed about like that, but at least now she knew Moonie was okay and that Marie obviously hadn’t waited too long before moving to the big house from her room over the garage. And although Adrienne’s head still ached from being tossed back and forth, there was comfort in her knowledge that her Moonshadow was not a little skeleton cat traipsing through a lonely house.
“I am your King. You will obey me, fool.”
“I found the woman, therefore one might say I started this game, my liege. Allow me to finish it.”
King Finnbheara hesitated, and Adam pounced on his indecision.
“My King, she rejects over and over again the man who pleased our Queen. She humiliates him.”
The King pondered this a moment. He claims a woman’s soul, his Queen had said dreamily. He had never seen such a look on Aoibheal’s face in all their centuries together, unless he himself had put it there.
Fury simmered in the King’s veins. He didn’t want to withdraw from this game any more than Adam did—he’d watched and savored every moment of the Hawk’s misery.
Finnbheara studied the fool intently. “Do you swear to honor the Compact?”
“Of course, my liege,” Adam lied easily.
A mortal pleased my Queen, the King brooded. “She stays,” he said decisively, and vanished.
CHAPTER 22
“WELCOME, MILORD.” RUSHKA’S GREETING SOUNDED PLEASANT enough, but Hawk felt a strange lack of warmth in it. Smudges of black marked the olive skin beneath the old man’s tired eyes and they were pink-rimmed, either from sitting too close to a smoky fire or from weeping. And Hawk knew Rushka didn’t weep.
Hawk stood in silence while the man ran a callused hand through his black hair. It was liberally streaked with gray and white, his craggy face handsome, yet equally marked by time. Absentmindedly, the man began to plait his long hair, staring into the dying embers as full morning broke across the valley.
Brahir Mount towered above this vale, its outline smoky blue and purple against the pale sky. Hawk dropped to a seat atop one of the large stones near the circle-fire and sat in silence, a trait that had endeared him to this tribe of Gypsies.
A woman appeared and deposited two steaming cups before leaving the two men to sit in companionable silence.
The old Gypsy sipped at his brew thoughtfully, and only when it was gone did he meet the Hawk’s gaze again.
“You don’t like our coffee?” he asked, noticing the Hawk had left his drink untouched.
Hawk blinked. “Coffee?” He peered into his cup. The liquid was rich, black and steaming. It smelled bitter but inviting. He took a sip. “It’s good,” he declared thoughtfully. With a hint of cinnamon, topped with clotted cream, the drink would be delicious. No wonder she liked it.
“A lass, is it?” The old man smiled faintly.
“You always did see right through me, Rushka, my friend.”
“I hear you’ve taken a wife.”
The Hawk looked piercingly at his old friend. “Why didn’t you come, Rushka? When she was ill, I sent for you.”
“We were told ’twas Callabron. We have no cure for such a poison,” the old man said. Rushka shifted his attention away from the Hawk’s steady gaze.
“I would have thought you’d have come, if only to tell me that, Rushka.”
The old man waved a hand dismissively. “Would have been a wasted trip. Besides, I was sure you had more pressing things to contend with. All aside, she was healed, and all’s well that ends well, eh?”
The Hawk blinked. He’d never seen his friend behave so oddly. Usually Rushka was courteous and cheerful. But today there was a heaviness in the air so tangible that even breathing seemed a labor.
And Rushka wasn’t talking. That in itself was an oddity.
Hawk sipped the coffee, his eyes lingering on a procession of people at the far end of the vale. If he wanted answers, he’d simply have to ask around his questions. “Why did you move out here, Rushka? You’ve camped in my north field by the rowans for years.”
Rushka’s gaze followed the Hawk’s and a bitterness shadowed his brown eyes. “Did you come for Zeldie?” Rushka asked abruptly.
I can’t handfast Zeldie, Hawk had told this man a decade ago when he’d been bound in service to his king. The Rom had desired a match and offered their most beautiful young woman. He’d explained that it simply wasn’t possible for him to take a wife, and while Rushka had understood, Esmerelda hadn’t. Zeldie, as they called her, had been so infuriated by his refusal that she’d quickly lain with man after man, shocking even her own liberal people. The Gypsies did not prize virginity—life was too short for abstinence of any sort, which was one of the reasons the people had seemed so intriguing to him as a young lad. He’d been ten when he’d secretly watched a dusky Gypsy girl with budding breasts and rosy nipples make love with a man. Two summers later she had come to him saying it was his turn. Ah, the things he’d learned from these people.