Beyond the Highland Mist
Page 87

Hawk lay breathing harshly atop her for a long time while she contentedly petted her husband. His silky hair had come free from its thong. She traced the soft skin of his solid, muscled back. Beautiful man, she mused, and the thought no longer carried any taint of fear. She stroked his hair in silence, marveling at her life and how rich it was with him in it.
It was in silence that at last he raised himself from her and went to stand by the window, staring out into the night of Uster.
“Och, lass, what have I done?” he whispered to the glass pane.
Silence from behind him. Adrienne’s eyes moved lovingly over every inch of her man.
“I judged thee inconstant and shrewish. I judged thee, sweet falcon, to be the worst of faithless vipers. My dark imaginings feathering in my heart with spiky wing. And I could not have been more wrong.”
Still silence. He didn’t know that behind him his wife had a tender smile curving her lips.
“Lass from future’s distant short, you were dumped into a man’s lap, wed to me sight unseen and have lived through hells of your own before ever coming to me. I have only given you one more hell to add to it. Full of my—och, wife, what have I done? Oh God, what have I done to you?”
“You loved me.”
It wasn’t a question, but he answered it readily. “I do. More than life. My heart. I didn’t just pick a sweet turn of phrase to name you, but spoke from my soul when I named you thus. Without my heart I couldn’t live. And I couldn’t breathe without you.”
“Are you a man who has more than one heart?”
“Nay. Only this one. But it’s bitter and dark now from the pain I’ve brought you.”
He stared out the window into the bottomless night. Virgin blood on his shaft. Virgin tears on his hands. Virgin wife who’d never lain with Adam, and in all her years, with no man. A trembling gift she’d had to give and he’d forced it from her with his own dark passion.
“Sidheach.” The word was a steamy caress from her lips.
It must have been a figment of his imagination. Hawk thought he would suffer his life long the torture of waiting in vain for a word he knew he would never hear tumble forth from her lips. “I have so abused you, my heart. I will atone, I swear to you, I will find a way—”
“Sidheach.” He felt her hands on his sides, her arms slipping around him from behind. She couldn’t keep the truth from him any longer. She had to tell him, had to have whatever time the fickle gods would allow them to enjoy. She rested her cheek lovingly against his back, and felt a shudder steal through his powerful frame.
“Do I dream a twisted dream?” he whispered hoarsely.
“I love you, Sidheach.”
He whirled about to face her, his eyes dark and shuttered. “Look at me and say that!” he thundered.
Adrienne cupped his darkly beautiful face in her hands. “I love you, Sidheach, flesh-and-blood husband. ’Tis the only reason I was ever able to hate you so well.”
A shout of joy burst from his lips, but his eyes were still disbelieving.
“I’ve loved you since that night by the sea. And hated you harder for every minute of it.”
“But the king’s whore—”
“Say no more. I’m a selfish woman. Adrienne’s husband is who you are now. No one else. But I thank the good king for so perfecting your skills,” she teased saucily. Some things were better left to heal, unpicked at. And it didn’t threaten her anymore, because she understood that it was the noble, chivalrous part in him that had forced him to do whatever he’d had to do to protect those he loved. Although neither he nor Lydia had told her much, she’d been able to figure out a few things for herself.
He laughed at her audacity, then sobered quickly.
“I must wed you again. I want the vows. Between us, not some proxy.” Was it magic that had tossed her through time? When she’d disappeared right out of his arms, he’d finally accepted it, that his wife had come to him from time’s distant shores, and what could that be except magic? A magic he could not control.
But what if they could make some wee magic of their own? There were legends that wedding vows taken within the circle of the Samhain fires, on that powerful eve before the feast of the Blessed Dead, were binding beyond human understanding. What if they made their wedding vows, pledged before the mystical Rom, on such a sacred night? Could he bind his wife to him across any boundaries of time? He would try anything.
“Aye,” she breathed with delight, “make it so.”
“I’m only sorry I missed it to begin with. And had I known that it was you waiting for me at the Comyn keep I would have come myself, my heart. On the very first day of the troth.”