Beyond the Highland Mist
Page 43

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.