Highland Honor

Christine Young

Published by Awe-Struck E-Books, Inc.

Copyright © 2006

ISBN: to be assigned

Electronic rights reserved by Awe-Struck E-Books, all other rights reserved by
author. The reproduction or other use of any part of this publication without the
prior written consent of the rights holder is an infringement of the copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. People and locations, even those with real names, have
been fictionalized for the purposes of this story.

Chapter One

Scotland November 1512:

A heavy frost sat on the frozen earth, and a full moon shone clearly between the
heavy clouds dotting the sky. Lady Callie Whitcomb looked over her shoulder as
she raced through the deepening gloom toward the lighted tavern ahead. Every
shadow, every mournful sigh of the wind sweeping through the trees, every chilling
animal sound filled her with terror. Fear for her life drove her to put all thoughts of
danger aside. He would follow her, find her, and drag her home.

Home.

"Don't think of that now," she reminded herself fiercely, even while tears stung in
the back of her throat and fear made her limbs tremble. "Don't ye dare think of
home. It no longer exists." Nothing and no one could coax her back or make her
believe there was naught but terror in the home where she'd been born.

"I will never marry Lord Huntington. Never!" she whispered fiercely, the chill night
air solemnly echoing her words.

Her stepbrother, Archibald Covington III, made sure she could never return.

"There ye be, lass! I've been waiting for ye."

The voice rose from nowhere and surprised her. Her heart froze, lurched, then
began an erratic beat, while raw nerves snapped, sending a myriad of sensations

racing down her spine.

"Archibald--" she whispered, panic sweeping through her. "He's found me." All she
could hear was the pounding of her own blood in her ears.

Before she could reach her destination, before she could find safe refuge from
him, his men had found her. No! Not now. Not when she thought she had eluded
them all.

A wave of fear sweeping through her reminded her, that if caught, she would be
taken back to Archibald and forced to marry Lord Huntington.

"I'll help ye down, lass."

"No."

Before she could react and spur her horse forward, callous, rough hands centered
on her waist then pulled her from her mount.

"No!" She cried out to no avail. Regaining her wits, she beat fiercely upon the
man's broad chest, tearing at his face and his thick beard with her fingers.

"Ach, lass! Hold still! I mean ye no harm. Stop this--" His voice was gruff and
impatient.

Fear for her life had spurred her haste. Terror that she might see Huntington or
Archibald with each turn of the road haunted every hour of her journey. Archibald
had retainers everywhere. Messages would have been sent. A highlander could
be bought.

"Ruffian! Unhand me! Ye barbarous Scotsman."

If Archibald had guessed what path she followed...

"Verra well, ne'er let it be said that I dinna do a lass' bidding." Just as suddenly as
he'd grabbed her, his hold upon her vanished. She stumbled backward.

Instantly, she found herself sitting on the frozen earth. The man towering above
her watched her with concerned dark eyes. Despite the scar stretching from
forehead to chin, his mouth quirked upward in a humorous slant.

"Ye be a handful, lass."

"Get away from me!" Confusion blindsided her. If this man had anything to do with
Archibald or Lord Huntington, he would have never let her go. Yet she could take
no chances.

His arms outstretched, his hands beckoning her to him, he smiled. "Now calm
down."

Crab-like, she scurried backwards. "I will not go with ye. I would rather die."
Despite her proper upbringing, she wanted to scream her frustration and bellow
with anger.

"Hawke is waiting for ye, lass. There is no need for this panic. He means ye no
harm." The man stepped forward, bending over her as if to lift her from the ground.

"Hawke?" Callie did not want to meet Hawke. She sought Colin MacPherson. She
stood before the man could touch her again, quickly dusting the dirt and leaves
from her hands and moving sideways, ready to bolt. But the giant moved quickly
and lethally, his huge hand closing over her upper arm. He pulled her along with
him, heading toward the tavern.

"Aye, Hawke. Ye sound as if ye've ne'er heard of the mon. Well, I suppose 'tis
good ye dinna let on about your identity to just anyone. He waits for ye and the
papers ye were to bring with ye."

To no avail, she dug in her heels. "I have no papers." Only the letter her father had
written before he died and that was meant for Colin MacPherson, not some man
named Hawke.

"'Tis all right, lass. Ye dinna need to tell me anything."

"No! It is not all right. I won't go with ye. I won't go back."

"We've got her, Hawke."

"Aye, I see that ye have." Laughter rang out from the shadows of the tavern. "Bring
the wee lass inside where we can talk."

"Nay, ye have no right." Callie stiffened, searching the porch, every nerve strung
taut. "I am not chattel ye can push here and there."

Music, sounds of laughter, the scent of ale and peat smoke floated and clung to
the heavy night air. A man moved forward, silhouetted by the backlight of the
tavern.

"I have every right," he said, but he made no move to change her situation or to
tell his henchman to unhand her.

Struck by his size and with every nerve tightened, she inhaled a deep, ragged
breath. When he stepped into a pool of light, she nearly gasped aloud. Moonlight

gave his strong, well-chiseled features definition and there was a strange,
vulnerable expression on his face.

Oh, but he was tall and his hair was as black as the night and the shadows
surrounding him. His long, dark hair was pulled back and secured at his nape with
a leather strap, his muscles rippling with every movement. At his side, he'd
strapped a claymore, and a dirk was tucked into the top of his knee-high stocking.

Behind her, Pansy moved uneasily, then trotted off into the darkness. "Pansy--"

"Dinna fret, lass. Hawke will send a mon after your pony."

"Hawke," Callie said his name aloud, returning her attention to the man on the
porch. She sensed his attention bone-deep, and her heart thundered, every
instinct within calling out for her to flee. They thought she was someone she
wasn't. Sensations she'd never felt before swept through her. She'd always known
Archibald was wicked, but if she hadn't seen his evil with her own eyes, she would
have never believed him capable of such horrific deeds.

She didn't want to remember. In the dusk of the evening, she had been where she
wasn't supposed to be, retrieving a doll for Archibald's little sister. She'd followed
the doll as it rolled endlessly down the steep embankment. Then she'd seen her
stepbrother and the man she was supposed to marry, Lord Huntington, killing a
man, the dagger piercing the victim's heart.

The next day she had risen before dawn and taken only one bag. With all her
money sewn into the hem of the dress she'd bought from one of her servants,
she'd donned her warmest cloak, saddled her mare, Pansy, and left the keep. No
one had stopped her or sounded an alarm. Callie had told no one about the
murder because she trusted no one. She'd been too terrified of the very walls in
the castle to tell anyone. She hid her face, pressing her cheek and her nose into
his back, clinging more tightly to Hawke. Beneath the fabric of his shirt, she could
hear the even beat of his heart, the steady flow of his breath into and out of his
chest. He reminded her of strength and courage, of Scottish heather and mist. His
midnight black hair fell free from the leather thong binding it. The strands clung to
her eyebrows and whispered across her cheek. Strangely, his hair was soft, silken.
She wondered at that. She had never touched a man's hair, or felt the softness of
the locks slide across her face.

And she had never before held herself so close to a man that she could hear the
beat of his heart and feel his muscles rippling beneath her fingertips.

A shiver wracked her body, and it seemed he felt her tremble against him.

"Are ye all right?" he asked, but he didn't slow the steed, nor did he seem to want
a reply. She moved closer against him, tightening her grip and letting the warmth

of his body ward off the freezing night, her fears and the aching loneliness she'd
felt since her father died.

A light snow began to fall, and she wondered when the clouds had arrived to cover
the moon. The snow was both a blessing and a curse. The horse would leave a
trail a child could follow. If snowflakes continued to fall, they might well cover the
tracks left behind by Hawke's horse.

The sky was dark now, so very dark she could barely see her hand in front of her
face.

With time, she drifted to sleep, and when she woke, one of his strong hands held
both of hers together at his waist. Dawn was beginning to deepen the sky with
muted colors, mauve, a soft apricot and the deepest amethyst. Now the snowfall
was light. He'd slowed the horse to a walk.

Thick forest rose to meet the sky on one side, and vertical granite walls rose on
the other side. They followed a path that curved and led upward into the rocks.

The constant ache in the pit of her stomach made her realize how very hungry she
was. She'd eaten nothing at the tavern and at the moment, she couldn't remember
the last time she'd had any food at all.

This was the sixth day of her self-imposed exile.

As if he guessed at her exhaustion, Hawke gave encouragement. "We'll stop soon.
What is your name?"

"Callie," she said but offered nothing more.

"Well, ye've done well, Callie." His deep voice rumbled against her cheek. The
compliment warmed her heavy heart and soothed the ache in her muscles.

"Thank ye," she said, so softly she wasn't sure if he would hear.

"And ye are welcome. But there is no need of thanks. I speak only the truth."

"As do I," she told him, closing her eyes and willing herself to hang on a few
minutes longer. He'd said they would be there soon. Wherever there was.

* * *

Callie. Hawke let the name linger in his mind. A prickly sensation slivered down his
spine, yet he pushed the feeling aside, unwilling to dwell on the sudden gut
reaction he had to the name.

Hawke couldn't help himself. He'd taken an immediate liking to this wee lass with
hair the color of brightest sunshine. Unlike anyone--man or woman--he'd ever met
before, with her crystal clear, blue eyes she'd held his gaze and challenged him in
return. She had not turned from him. Nor did it seem he frightened her. Even
though she'd not wanted to admit to carrying the documents he sought,
Covington's men had been following her, and she had acted quickly and
expeditiously.

If she'd hung back at all, he would have left her in the tavern to fend for herself. A
small wave of guilt swept through him. Well, he'd learned a long time ago a man
had to watch his own back, and he suspected she had learned the same. For this
short interlude they would do well together.

Indeed, they would.

Snuggled against him, she was warm and soft, fragile, yet strong. She smelled of
sweetest roses and made him think of unchecked courage. He never before
associated courage with a woman. But here it was in a neat little bundle of
femininity. Courage. Her tiny sounds through the night as she slept had filled him
with a burning need to hear sounds such as those when he made love to her. Her
small fingers pressing gently into his belly and resting even lower when she'd
fallen asleep had nearly undone him.

No getting around his needs, he wanted her, nay burned for her and he would
have her before this clandestine business with her was over. He had no doubt that
he could easily convince this lady to come to his bed.

Arrogant, he told himself with a soft chuckle. But he wasn't really. She was a
servant girl. Surely she'd had countless lovers. One more would never matter. He
would see to her pleasure, give her gifts that would make her smile and laugh.

Inwardly, he groaned. Business first. He had to have the information he looked for
and soon. If she didn't carry the documents he sought and proof of Covington's
treachery, he would have to gain access to the English Lord's castle.

He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a loaf of bread. Tearing off a large
hunk, he offered the piece to her.

She accepted the bread. He thought he could hear her sigh of pleasure.

"Ye always eat and ride?" she asked.

He liked the sound of her voice, a little too high for a lady grown, but it was soft
and she was well-spoken. She carried herself with the poise and grace of a lady
born. Perhaps she wasn't used to serving the rich folk. Perhaps she was a
governess, born on the wrong side of the bed sheets, a bastard. He paused

thoughtfully, letting the idea sink home.

"When I have to," he told her. "We do have Covington's men chasing us."

"I think not, well," she paused, "they are Covington's men, but if I'm right, he sent
them to bring me home."

"Bring ye home?" Hawke queried, his mind racing. He didn't want to be wrong
about her.

Against his back, he could feel her nod. But she didn't answer right away. "I ran
away."

She was Covington's mistress. Beneath his breath, he swore. So, he had been
wrong, and he'd fled the tavern before he could meet his contact. Months might
very well pass before he would have another opportunity. Somehow, he didn't
mind. Not with this pretty little thing tucked tight against him, her curves beckoning
him.

He could live with that very nicely.

"That's all ye've got to say? Ye saved my life, and I am indebted to ye."

"Then I would collect," he told her, his voice growing husky with the pent up desire
he felt for her. He'd felt her breasts pushed against his back for hours now, and he
longed to know the taste and texture of their rosebud tips, yearned to know if her
passion would rise within her until a sweet, hot tempest flowed between them.

"A gentleman would not say such a thing," she told him, her voice soft, slightly
teasing.

Despite her dire situation, she flirted with him, he realized. And he liked the idea.
He threw his head back and laughed. "What makes ye think I am a gentleman?"

He felt her sharply indrawn breath, and felt the slight tremble of her fingers where
they rested on his belly. Truly, he should not tease her so shamelessly.

"Because ye rescued me. Dispatched Covington's men as if they were children.
Because I have put my trust in your hands, and I don't know who ye are or what ye
are. Ye could be--"

She stopped abruptly.

"A murderer?" he questioned

"Yes."

"I assure ye I'm not a murderer. But neither do I pretend to be a gentleman."

"Then what are ye?" she asked.

"A man in dire trouble." He meant to tease.

"Because of me," she said, taking his words far too seriously. "I am sorry."

They fell silent then. The terrain changed slightly, the snow continuing to fall.
When he looked back, their tracks were covered.

Several times they stopped and she stretched her legs, seeing to her needs. Each
time she dismounted, he could tell it grew harder for her to get back onto the
horse. Every muscle and joint in her body must ache. Each time he forced them to
move on his concern for her grew.

Now the sun, its glow muted behind clouds, was slowly dropping in the sky. Soon
the large orb would rest on the western horizon.

She pressed her hands tighter against him, and he inhaled sharply. "Where are we
going? And I thought ye said we'd be there soon. That was this morning. By the
look of the sun, we are nearing evening."

"Ah, I think I like that. A woman who can tell time by the height of the sun."

He laughed when she graced him with an unladylike snort. "It is nothing. My father
taught me."

"If ye have a father, then why is Archibald Covington searching for ye? If ye have a
home, why are ye running? And who are ye running too?"

"My father died a few months past. I was seeking Colin MacPherson."

"The MacPherson?" he asked. For some reason he couldn't explain to himself, he
had no desire to tell her she had found the man she sought.

"Aye."

Her voice was so soft and filled with pain, his heart burned with the sorrow she felt.
He remembered when his own father had died and the ache that would never go
away. That pain still lingered when he recalled the man who had loved him and
raised him.

"And so ye have no one save the wicked Archibald Covington to count on and
protect ye."

"I have no one."

She must trust him completely, or she was not as wise as he had thought. Of
course, he acknowledged being wise was not always the same thing as being
smart. Vulnerable and alone in a world he didn't think she was used to, she had
been forced to put her life in his hands.

He, Colin MacPherson, was an honorable man, but he hadn't bargained for this
woman to come into his life. He was loyal to his clan, but he held no loyalty for a
stranger. Yet what if she wasn't as she seemed? Her fingers--holding tight across
his middle--were soft, her nails well-groomed. This lady was used to a life of ease.

So who was she really?

"Ye, sir," she spoke suddenly, "have evaded my question long enough."

Suddenly they emerged from the forest. Straight ahead she saw a castle rising
from the ocean, a narrow land bridge connecting it to the shoreline.

"I doubt if Covington's men will venture this far into the highlands. If they do, I will
welcome them. Then we will decide what to do."

"He is not really that smart nor does he have a whit of patience. I'm sure he will
abandon the search quickly," she told him.

"Perhaps--"

"Ye don't believe me."

"Ye haven't told me why he sent them after ye, lass."

She fell silent, and Hawke didn't like the quiet. Indeed, her reticence told him more
than she would ever know. The reasons for the search were grave, and if he
guessed correctly, he doubted Covington would call the men home until she was
found.

* * *

"Ye lost them?" Archibald Covington screamed at the messenger, his disbelief
changing to a simmering anger with the incompetence of his men. "A lady who has
never been on her own eluded my men? She escaped without a trace? Ye say she
met a man?"

The messenger nodded. "It wasn't just any man. It was Hawke. No one has ever
taken The MacPherson by surprise, least of all a dozen of your retainers."

Slowly, Archibald began to shake with fury, his face contorting with rage. "Hawke!"
His fist landed hard on the table, shattering the wooden furniture, the pieces
clamoring on the floor. "Hawke! He has taunted and teased from a safe distance.
He threatens, yet he is too afraid to enter my lands. The rumors... they are false!"
He whirled on the man. "I want them, Hawke and Lady Callie. Don't stop the
search until she is found. I want her alive, ye hear me. I want her alive because
she will marry as I see fit." His body heated with the rage simmering and sweeping
within. "She has no say."

"I will deliver the message." The man bowed and quickly backed from the room,
leaving behind a furious Archibald.

Archibald paced the length of the room, thinking, and dreaming up a horrific torture
for his darling, spoiled stepsister. A torture that would last for years if her aging
husband lived that long.

For the first time, Archibald smiled.

And he prayed the elderly husband he chose for Lady Callie wouldn't live very
long, because he had another man in mind when the first husband died. He'd
arranged it all, right down to the distribution of the inheritance. He would gain all
that was hers. Everything. The money. The lands. The title.

She didn't deserve Simon Huntington. He would have to wait to marry her.

Callie would once more be left with nothing. She would be vulnerable and at his
mercy.

Archibald laughed and rubbed his hands together. The gesture was an invitation
for his mistress to join him. He poured them both a glass of wine and settled on a
huge chair in his bedroom. The Lady Anne ventured from the other room, through
the connecting doors.

She was widowed and she always proved to be perfect company. She did as he
asked and never voiced an opinion unless it was to agree with him.

He handed her the glass. She sipped, her head tilting slightly and her eyes
beckoning him, her dark, sooty lashes fluttering softly against her alabaster
cheeks. She was pretty with large, voluptuous breasts and hips that flared
provocatively from a tiny waist. But what he liked best about Lady Anne was that
she was more than willing to do whatever pleased him.

"Come here," he said and patted his thighs. Ah, but she smelled of lavender. He'd
bought the perfume from a ship just in from France.

She purred and walked slowly, her gently rounded hips swinging enticingly, one
hand on the tie that kept her robe closed. She tugged slightly and the fastenings
fell free, the robe slipping from her slender arms to pool on the floor.

He could see her body now, outlined beneath the gauze-like veil of fabric flowing
around her. He wanted to taste her, explore the very essence of her and most of
all he wanted her to touch him everywhere. He groaned with need, and she
smiled, bending over him so that he had a perfect view of every sweet part of her.
She touched her mouth to his, her tongue tracing the seam of his lips. When he
opened to her, her tongue darted inside then out, quickly again and again in a
parody of the sex act.

He enclosed both her breasts in his hands and squeezed. She would stay the
night. Oh, yes, she was his for the night.

"Oh, Archi," she moaned softly. her gown slipping from her body until she was
beautifully naked in front of him. She straddled his thighs, and his fingers found
her moist, hot center.

"Anne," he said, unfastening his britches.

But it wasn't Lady Anne he thought about. It was his beautiful stepsister, Callie.

He would have her one day, he vowed.

Indeed, he would have her within his power.

Chapter Two

A battle cry wrent the air. Thundering hooves pounded the frozen earth.

Hawke and his men stopped their horses before they turned toward the woods.
Once again blue and white blurred together into one long column. Morning sunlight
glinted against finely honed steel.

"'Tis Covington's retainers." Hawke's voice sent a cold chill down Callie's spine.
She had prayed he wouldn't follow even though she was sure her prayers would
go unanswered. Archibald wanted the money and the power her marriage to Lord
Huntington would bring him. He had bargained her away as if she were chattel.

Nay, a thousand times nay. Blood pounded in her ears as loud as the hoof beats
descending upon them.

"They followed us." Hawke was grim, his body tense. His hand rested on the hilt of
his sword. When he turned in his saddle, Callie saw that his eyes had narrowed
and his dark brows were drawn together.

"Covington wants me. 'Tis naught to do with ye or your clan," Callie's voice shook,
fear spiraling through her. She gripped Hawke tighter, her fingers pressing into his
hard flesh. "Don't let them take me. Please," she whispered to him a shudder
racing through her. "I'd rather die."

"We will speak of this further when ye are safely tucked behind my battlements,"
he gritted out through clenched teeth, his voice ringing in her ears.

His stallion danced, seemingly eager to meet the enemy. Yet Hawke turned the
steed, setting his sights on the castle and Callie's safety. "For now, hold tight. Ian,
Lachlan, see what it is they want. I'll be right back."

He turned the stallion and they bolted forward, racing across the narrow pathway
to the castle. The roar of the wind and the stinging frozen air swept around her.
She gripped him tighter, clinging to him and then she closed her eyes.

"Dinna look down, lass," he warned her yet the wind swallowed his words as she
stared at the ocean waves crashing against jagged rocks below. Salt spray rose
toward them, reaching out icy tentacles, threatening to pull them from the narrow
pathway.

Ian and all Hawke's men remained behind, guarding their backs. Yet she heard no
sounds of battle, no clashing of swords or piercing screams.

Callie pressed her cheek against Hawke's back and tried to ease the terror welling
deep inside. For the briefest moment she put her fear to rest. Nestled so close to
Hawke she could almost imagine safety. He smelled of mist and heather and the
Highlands. She closed her eyes and wished. Yet her wishes were empty, her
dreams no longer viable. She had no home, no safe place to sleep. And now she
rushed forward, her future cloudy. She had placed herself in the hands of a man
she knew only by reputation.

Hawke.

Her stepbrother called him Hawke. And he spat his name as if it were evil. Yet
somehow she knew Hawke would give her a home and protection. In the light of
day, his features were no longer hazy from the darkness of night. When she'd first
encountered him at the tavern, she'd hoped she'd found Colin MacPherson. She
knew she had not. Hawke did not look like the man she remembered. She recalled
a handsome young man, no more than twenty-two, clean-shaven and with a glint
of amusement in his eye. This man's features were hard and rough-edged, his skin
was darkened by the sun, his long black hair gave him a sensual dangerous look
the other man had not worn.

Aye but her memory might well play havoc with her. At the time, she'd been no
more than twelve. She was riding with her father when they'd been set upon by
bandits. Her father had been severely wounded. In a rundown hunting lodge Colin
MacPherson had tended her father, had treated him with the greatest care. Colin
had stayed with them until her father could travel.

I am in your debt, she remembered her father saying. If ever in the future ye are in
need of a favor, young man, dinna hesitate to call on me.

The scene vivid in her mind, she repeated each word to herself, and prayed Colin
MacPherson felt the same loyalty to her as her father to him. She was prepared to
tell Colin exactly why he must help her, and why he must stand against her
stepbrother's retainers. She would do anything to gain Colin MacPherson's
protection. She shuddered at the thought. Anything might well encompass a great
deal of things she would rather not do. Yet the thought of the murder she saw her
stepbrother as well as her betrothed commit and the treachery surrounding him
made her willing to do most anything Colin MacPherson asked of her.

Now she rode toward The MacPherson castle.

And she was about to put her life into his hands.

* * *

Who was this lady who appeared at the Boar's Head Inn? Who was this lady who

had one of the most powerful lords in England sending retainers after her? Had
she committed some crime against Covington? If she had, Hawke applauded her.

Indeed, he would not hesitate to grant her sanctuary and his protection. She was
small and fragile. She clung to him as they rode hell-bent toward the entrance of
his castle, the huge wooden doors opening for them. Her delicate fingers pressed
into his belly, he suddenly felt the overwhelming need to know all he could about
her.

He wanted to understand what had caused her to flee her home unchaperoned
and alone. He wanted to know all about her, to understand everything. Ah, but he
wanted her in his bed, beneath him, wrapping loving arms around him.

He shouted to the men above as they rode through the portcullis. "Send five of my
best men to help the others," he cried out.

His horse roared into the courtyard. He did not dismount but helped the lady from
his stallion and into the able hands of one of his men.

"See to her needs."

"Colin?" his sister questioned, striding toward him, her long hair blowing in the
wind, her skirts tangling around her legs.

Suddenly, Callie's gaze froze upon Hawke, her features turning ashen.

"What is happening?" Lainie looked from Hawke to the girl.

"Huntington has come to our very walls." Quickly, and with no more said, Hawke
turned his horse and stampeded through the gates. With the roar of the surf below
him, he crossed the narrow pathway toward his brother, to join the others who
would fight for him if necessary.

He reached his men. Their swords were drawn, but there had been no blows
between them. Ian leaned nonchalantly, one broad, well-muscled forearm resting
on the saddle. A harsh smile graced Ian's features.

"Ian." Hawke reined in his horse, the beast skittish, his sides heaving. "Who are
these men? And what do they want?" he questioned even though he knew the
answer to the first part and guessed at the second.

"They want the girl. That is all. They don't want trouble," Ian said, his voice
sounding bitter, the muscles in his back tense, his eyes focused on the men.

"Why?" Hawke stiffened. He did not mean to turn the girl over to them. He knew
what Covington could do to a woman's reputation--how he could ruin her life. He

held no loyalties to the girl yet there was something about her that drew him,
fascinated him. Her raw courage in the face of such danger intrigued him.

His voice was hard-edged and with a low growl, Ian spoke to Hawke. "It seems the
Lady Callie Whitcomb has run away from him. She is his stepsister and was
supposed to marry Lord Huntington two days past."

Colin heard nothing after the surname Whitcomb. Anger surged within. A fine
sweat broke out upon his brow and horrific memories returned full force to hit him
in the gut.

"Holy Christ," Hawke muttered softly, his fingers tightening on his reins, anger
suddenly burning through every pore of his body.

"I thought that is what ye'd say." Ian stared at his brother, awaiting orders. "Ye will
send her back then? Give her over to Covington?"

Hawke said nothing, did not even flinch at the thought of returning the Lady Callie
Whitcomb to anyone. Nay she was his now. "A Whitcomb, ye say?" he asked,
slowly mulling over all the implications.

"So, do we hand her over, big brother?" Ian asked again, his gaze focused on
Hawke.

Lachlan swore beneath his breath, his blue eyes glittering with unspoken anger.
"How dare the wee lass deceive ye."

The wind shifted and whirled. Behind them the heavens roared with a loud
booming thunder. Horses shifted. Hands tightened around finely honed weapons.

Suddenly armor clanged. Claymores and swords were unsheathed. Tension
saturated the air while the wind howled around them. Heavy dark clouds grew
blacker with each passing moment and the snow threatened to fall once more.

"Never." Colin gritted out between clenched teeth, his hands tightening on the
saddle horn. Tension knifed between the men, the implications clear to all who
knew the history between the two families.

"Ye heard The MacPherson." Ian turned to one of the Englishmen. "She stays with
us. Tell Lord Covington he will never see the lass again."

"Lord Covington will not give in so easily on this matter. He will return with enough
men to lay siege if ye persist in this. Her betrothed will be with him and together
they will destroy ye. English law is on our side."

Hawke rode forward. "Tell Huntington the lady is no longer a virgin." His voice was

hard-edged and cold. "She will not honor him as his wife. She will bring to him only
betrayal and another man's child."

He would not touch Lady Whitcomb, nor would he defile his own hands by taking
her to his bed, but no one else had to know. His greatest enemy's daughter had
just fallen into his hands, and he vowed his revenge would be sweet and
justifiable.

He'd waited what seemed a lifetime for this. And he'd all but given up hope when
Lord David Whitcomb died.

Now the old man would watch them from the pits of hell and he would cringe,
would weep with despair over his evil misdeeds and he'd pray for his daughter's
deliverance.

Because Colin MacPherson would never forget the day Lord Whitcomb had
callously condemned his father to die. Colin had been ten years old and he'd
watched the trial, heard the execution command. Seared into his memories was
the sight of his father's head on a pole in the courtyard of Whitcomb's castle, a
brutal reminder that thievery as well as treachery would be dealt with harshly. Oh
yes, Colin's father had stolen from Whitcomb, but only after Whitcomb's men had
brutally raided his own castle, killing his wife.

The rivalry had lasted four long years. Colin had been too young to carry on the
feud, but he'd vowed his revenge. He remembered the day when Lord Whitcomb
had been set upon by bandits in the forest. Colin had not known who he was when
he rescued him. The man had aged, his once dark hair almost snow white and the
young girl who had been with the lord could not have been more than twelve or
thirteen.

He didn't regret saving the Englishman, only that he'd not known who he had
saved until he'd left the pair with the Lord's retainers.

Yet there was nothing he could do about the situation. Nothing he could do until
now. He would never fight an injured man or take revenge upon someone who
could not defend himself. Lady Callie had thought him a friend, and she'd come to
him for help. She must have never known about her father's treachery, and foul
misdeeds.

About the seething hatred between the two families.

Soon she would know everything.

His blood ran hot and thoughts of vengeance long denied him raced through his
head.

She was beautiful.

He had seen through the dirt and the weariness from the days of travel she must
have endured to reach MacPherson land. He had noticed her delicate beauty and
had been instantly seized by the need to know her intimately.

Ah, he thought, even as he turned his horse toward the castle, revenge could be
very sweet indeed.

Hawke felt Ian's presence beside him, felt the pressure of his gaze sear his back.
Ian had not been there. He had not seen what the Englishman had done to their
father. Nor did Ian feel the same burning need for restitution. Hawke knew he
would have a battle on his hands. He did not wish to argue with his siblings, but he
would have his way in this matter.

"What are your plans for Lady Whitcomb?" Ian asked even as he dropped back to
follow Hawke across the narrow pathway to the castle.

His plans were his own. "I haven't decided."

"She is a lass and guilty of no wrongdoing. Ye cannot think to punish her for her
father's sins."

"And why is that?" Hawke asked disdainfully, knowing his brother would give him
an earful. And yet Ian was right. She was not guilty of her father's crimes.

"Ye know why."

"Enlighten me, little brother." Someone had to pay for the cruelty to his family. The
lord was dead and so now his daughter would pay.

Ian snorted. "Ye are pig-headed and a fool as well. If ye cannot see this is
wrong..."

"Perhaps I am a fool," Hawke acknowledged, quickly cutting his brother's
forthcoming lecture off. "But I will never let her go. She will not find happiness,
peace or security in this lifetime. She is mine now to do with as I please. And she
has come to me of her own free will, seeking aide. I will not desert her in her time
of need. I promise that behind these walls she will find safety from her enemy."

"Which enemy, Hawke? Ye, Covington or the Lady Whitcomb's betrothed?"

Hawke shook his head, unable to reply, knowing he was just as much Callie's
enemy as the other men. The brothers rode into the courtyard and dismounted,
handing their horses over to the groomsmen.

"Where is she?" he questioned, slapping his gloves on his thighs as he walked
toward the great hall. He searched the room, his gaze raking over everyone.
Finally, he saw his sister, Lainie. She had been there when he'd ridden into the
bailey with Lady Whitcomb.

Lainie turned to him, a smile lighting her beautiful face. She was radiant and
headstrong, impulsive and more of a handful than he liked to admit. What she
needed was a brave Scottish highlander for a husband, children at her breast and
a home of her own.

"I put her in a solar. Lady Callie was tired, nay, exhausted from her travels. I gave
instructions for the servants to make her comfortable. A bath has been sent to her
as well as clean clothes and food."

He felt the growl slowly grow from the pit of his stomach. "Put her in the tower. The
southern tower. It is dry and warm. No harm will come to her there. And, she will
not be able to bring harm to any MacPhersons."

Her hiss of rapidly indrawn air rattled him slightly. He had not expected the fight to
begin so soon.

"Nay," she cried out. "Ye cannae mean to treat her so. What has she done to
warrant such a cruel isolation? She is a Lady born." Lainie replied.

"Ye do not know who she is. I cannot trust her. She is an enemy and a prisoner.
She is English. That is enough." Hawke turned from his sister, the threat hovering
in the tone of his voice.

"She is a well-born lady. She does not deserve to be locked in the tower. That is
all I need to know." Lainie rested her hand on her brother's shoulder. He would not
turn and look at her. He could not bear to stare into her eyes, for truly he might
give in to Lainie's wishes.

"I said nothing of locking her there but I will place a guard at her door. She will not
be allowed to roam the castle. But she will be given everything she asks for."

"Colin MacPherson!" Her face had grown red with anger and her tiny hands were
fisted at her sides. She looked ready to kill.

"She is a Whitcomb," Hawke said, barely able to utter the hated name.

"That doesnae..." Lainie MacPherson stopped. Her shoulders slumped with the
newfound knowledge. "I am sorry, Colin, but it is not right for ye to put her in the
tower. There is only a flea infested pallet for a bed. 'Tis where ye put your enemies
before the ransom money is delivered. Ye cannot presume to..."

"I could have her sent to the dungeon," he interrupted angrily. "I could do far worse
to her. For Lady Whitcomb there will be no ransom. And ye exaggerate mightily.
The mattress is not and never has been flea infested."

"Nay," but Lainie's protest had grown weak. "Colin, 'tis not like ye."

Lainie was right and a swift jolt of pain hit him. He had never hurt a woman or
touched a lady in anger. Now he was contemplating ruining Callie Whitcomb's
reputation which would tear her life into shreds. Strangely, he could not feel any
joy at the thought of her pain.

He told himself to forget she was a lady, to forget she had done nothing wrong as
he strode toward the solar where Lainie had put the Lady Whitcomb for a night of
rest. Once again, he vowed his revenge. But he was no longer so sure he could
exact restitution.

He slammed his fist against a wall and reveled in the self-induced pain. The need
had festered in his soul for fifteen long years. Now that he had the opportunity he'd
waited for, he didn't know if he could carry out his plan.

Not bothering to knock on her door, he pushed his way through the entrance. She
stood at the window, her back to him. Her hands rested on either side of the
casement and her slender form slumped slightly. Her sobs were heard clearly in
the silence of the room.

She turned to him, tears streaking her face. "My Lord." Her voice trembled but she
held her head high and her tear-filled gaze focused upon him. "Might I beg your
protection and the safety of your home? I have nowhere else to go, no friends to
turn to save ye."

* * *

Lord Huntington entered the hallway of the Whitcomb estate, racing up the tower
stairs. Two steps at a time, quickly and with a determined purpose, he moved with
deadly precision. If he could have bludgeoned Lady Callie's stepbrother, he would
have gladly done the deed.

The snake.

He hated Archibald with a passion so great his fury made him shake. Wanting
Callie for so many years had not appeased his anger at learning she'd
disappeared. No, he was beyond furious, and Archie would pay dearly if he could
not rescue the girl. Damn Hawke to hell.

Damn Archibald's ineptness.

If he guessed right, the Lady Callie Whitcomb would no longer be a virgin if many
more days passed with her in the custody of the notorious rogue, Hawke. Oh,
Hawke was a lady's man, nothing more. He would easily seduce the innocent
Callie. With his wit, his charm, and his well-practiced loving, he would have her
melting inside.

And he, Lord Simon, would not, could not accept a lady as his wife unless he was
assured of her virtue. That was why he'd made the trip to Archibald's castle. That
was why he'd planned on sampling the fair lady before he wed her.

Before he wed, he had to know if the lady of choice was a maiden still.

He shuddered at the thought of another man having her first. God, he'd waited an
eternity to taste Callie's sweetness. Her father had refused his suit and the offer of
a betrothal. He'd all but given up having the lady. But when Lord Whitcomb died
and Callie's stepbrother assumed her guardianship, he'd laughed with glee.
Archibald Covington could be easily bought. And he'd paid dearly for the right to
wed Callie.

Damn Archie's hide to hell! He'd lost her and all his men couldn't find a slip of a girl
in a wilderness. Stories abounded, and he'd heard she'd fled to MacPherson
castle. She had not known of the violent hatred between The MacPhersons and
the Whitcombs. Her father had never told her about the betrayal.

Her father had never told her that he, Simon Huntington, had planted evidence,
evidence that would convict James MacPherson of murder. Callie had never heard
the story about the trial and the sentencing, a sentence that would have been
carried out with great humanity if Huntington had not stepped in and taken over
the execution. No one knew he'd had James' decapitated head placed on a pole
for all to see.

Not even Colin MacPherson knew.

"What have ye learned?" Simon burst into Archie's study, startling the man, if he
could be called a man. Simon's gaze strayed to Archie's sagging belly and his
weak chin.

Archie cleared his throat, his eyes seeming to cross at the sight of Simon.
"Nothing. Nothing at all. We have no further word. She is still at The MacPherson
castle."

"Just as I thought. If she's not a virgin when she returns to your care, the deal is
off. I still want her, but I won't wed used merchandise. And the price will be cut in
half. She won't be worth nearly so much as I've offered if Hawke has had her.
And," he paused, "if she carries Hawke's bastard..."

He left the rest unsaid. But he didn't trust Archie, and the rumors that Archie had
betrothed Callie to another man troubled him.

With his hands on the desk, he leaned toward Archie until they were mere inches
apart. "I'm understood?" he asked, his voice dangerous. "Callie is mine!"

Once again, Archie cleared his throat. "Yes, she is yours whether ye are still willing
to wed her or not."

"Good." Simon moved back. Slowly, he strode around the room, looking at objects,
reading the titles of the books on the shelves. Then he turned. "Send for me
immediately when ye have her in your possession again." Simon was unwilling to
admit to Archie that he had plans of his own, men within The MacPherson castle
with orders to bring the lass to him.

Archie rose, his hand extended to Lord Huntington, but Huntington did not return
the gesture of friendship. "I will do that."

Simon liked the fear in Archie's voice, reveled in the way his sagging, weak chin
shook with terror. Archie would not sleep well this night.

Turning, Simon exited the room and in a few minutes the castle as well. He rode
hard and fast through the small village near the castle. Stopping at an inn, he
found a woman to see to his needs.

Ah, he thought, when he held Callie in his arms, it would be heaven on earth.

Chapter Three

The memory of his father's head on the pole at the Whitcomb castle haunted him.
Renewed anger swept through Hawke. Callie Whitcomb did not deserve his
protection or the shelter of his home. And beg? Yes, she would beg him for every
morsel and every stitch of clothing she received. By her own admission, she could
not or would not return to her stepbrother.

No, she was at his mercy--beholden to him.

Forgive and forget past discretions?

Never!

"Why should I give ye shelter?" His voice purred and a small smile rippled within.
He did all he could to keep his feelings in check. The satisfaction he felt at having
her under his roof was difficult to hide.

"Please, sir..." Callie began, but he waved his hand, motioning her to stop
speaking.

"I will see to your basic needs." And nothing more. "Ye can live here, but what do
ye offer in return?" He wondered if she'd brought a bargaining tool. She could not
buy his protection. He needed nothing she could give.

Yet curiosity rose to the forefront of his thoughts.

What indeed did she have to offer him?

Only her body. He looked at her thoughtfully. Beneath the ragged clothing, she
possessed curves that would nicely fill any man's hands. The memory of her body
pressed against him remained vivid. He never wanted her in his bed, but he
thought of his brother and of Lachlan. And he remembered his words to
Huntington's retainers.

She is no longer a virgin.

The thought of Huntington's anger made him smile with satisfaction. Huntington
must have wanted her, must have anticipated her body beneath his own.
Returning his attention to Callie, he marveled at the stiffening of her shoulders, the
thinning of her lips and the slight tilt to her uplifted chin.

A Lady born and bred, he mused. Ah, but she would no longer possess the status

of a lady. By surrendering herself to his mercy, she would become a common
serving wench.

"Anything." She paused, her eyes filled with pain and unshed tears. "Anything ye
wish, My Lord." She swallowed hard and he wondered at her thoughts.

"Anything?" he queried thoughtfully.

He watched her swallow again; saw the rapidly beating pulse at the base of her
neck, the stiffening of her spine.

"I will work--do any job," she told him in a barely audible whisper. "If necessary I,"
but she hesitated.

He shook his head and strode toward her. "I have enough servants. Perhaps I
want something else." His brows drew together. Blatantly he looked her over,
raking his gaze from the tips of her toes to her eyes. Then he watched her
shudder. Ways to humiliate her further came to mind, but he could not utter the
words that would cause her more shame.

She sucked in a deep breath of air before speaking. "I--" At her sides, her hands
fidgeted, clenching and unclenching the fabric of her tattered, soiled skirts.

He hated the tension and the fear he saw sweep through her, and abhorred the
insecurity he caused, guessing she offered herself only because she saw no
alternative. To his knowledge, she had no bargaining tool save herself--no gold
sewn into the hem of her gown--no secret documents that might prove Archibald
guilty of treason. For years now, Hawke had sought proof of Covington's
treacherous ways.

Covington's name had been linked to treason more than once.

"I have enough women in my bed, but if ye wish, I'm sure I could find another man
for ye. Lachlan perhaps or even Ian." He watched her confusion rise. Yet
strangely, the satisfaction he wanted, nay, needed to feel, did not surface.

He'd never treated a lady this way before.

He'd never stooped so low.

"Then I--" she began again. "I. Nay! I do not want--" Her hands were held out in
front of her as if the simple gesture warned him away.

"What do ye offer then? Ye are too finely shaped and too delicate for hard labor in
the kitchen, yet if ye refuse my offer--" He allowed his words to hang over her. She
could put her own ending to the sentence.

"To become a whore? That is no offer." Her indignation and stubborn
determination to cling to moral values she could no longer claim further satisfied
his need for revenge.

"A whore? I would not have put it so harshly. A mistress perhaps or a paramour."

Her shoulders trembled. She moistened her lips.

"I would work hard. I am stronger than I look."

He walked around her, studying her, wishing she did not carry the name
Whitcomb. "I doubt it."

"I obey orders."

He laughed, one eyebrow slanted upward.

"I have come to the conclusion ye have nothing to offer me and ye refuse to keep
company with my men."

"I would fail miserably," she whispered, her voice trembling.

His sigh was heavy. "Well then, I suppose I will have to trust your word and find a
place in the scullery for ye to work. Nothing is free."

"I did not ask for charity." Her chin rose a notch.

"I would much prefer to give ye a life of ease but I would never force ye."

Hawke did not like the gut-wrenching feeling in the pit of his stomach nor did he
want to believe something about her pulled at his heart. The need to take mercy
upon her consumed him and quickly assumed a powerful emotion that even now
seemed to be possessing the biggest spot in his mind.

Mercy?

Lord David Whitcomb had not chosen to show his father mercy. Mercy was not
viable.

Nay, he would not allow her sorrow-filled eyes or the defeated slump of her
shoulders to shake him from his hardened resolve. Indeed, he would go forth with
his plans to avenge his father.

"I understand," she told him, her fingers woven tightly together, a hint of a smile
rising.

"Good."

"When do I start?" she asked, wiping a sodden tear from beneath her eye.

Perhaps she should show more revulsion at the thought of working. Perhaps this
would not garner the restitution he sought from her. He needed her to suffer.

"Tomorrow morning."

She nodded and turned from him as if she were dismissing him. He would not
allow the impertinent offspring of his enemy to be rid of him so easily. "I've
changed my mind. Ye begin now. Follow me."

"Now?" she queried, her voice soft. Her entire body shook with fatigue or fear
mayhap. Yet she did not speak of it.

Somewhere in the depth of his soul, he should feel triumph because he wanted
this young lady to fear him. And yet...

Confusion and disillusionment warred within him.

"What better time to start than the present?" he asked, letting his question hang.

He thought she might have stumbled when she stepped forward, but she hid her
distress and fatigue beneath veiled features. Yet within her eyes was renewed
spark, a fire of determination and perhaps bewilderment.

"Of course," she said. "Now would be good."

He admired her fierce pride.

She had thought to garner a safe haven, had thought he was loyal to her father
and would treat her as a lady. But she'd lost that title the moment she stepped
onto his land.

"Callie," he motioned once more for her to follow, unsure as to the safety of turning
his back to her. His own sister kept a dirk hidden in her stockings. Lainie would
have used the weapon on him by now.

"Lady Whitcomb," she told him, her chin tilting upward. "Call me Lady Whitcomb."

He smiled. "Callie," he said to put her in her place. Strangely, he felt no
satisfaction in goading her.

Once more, her shoulders stiffened but she stepped past him, her bearing regal,

pretending to ignore him. Born and bred to nobility, he would never beat her down,
he mused thoughtfully, suddenly very intrigued by her and mesmerized by her
mercuric determination.

With her back to him, she spoke. "Might I have something to eat?" she asked, her
back still turned to him. "Before I go to work."

"When ye are finished with the chores cook assigns to ye, ye may eat." He
imagined her brows drawing together in concentration and perhaps anger. He felt
only admiration for her.

She whirled then and nearly lost her balance on the stairs. He reached out to
catch her from falling. Unnervingly, she was pressed next to him, the rise and fall
of her breasts against his chest sending unwanted sensual feelings flaming within
him. As if she were on fire, and disgusted with himself, Hawke quickly set her
away. The distance between them did little to dowse the inferno she'd
unintentionally sent racing inside.

She smoothed her skirts and once more looked at him with sorrow-filled blue eyes.
Her wheat-blond hair tangled in disarray around her face and neck. Truly, he
should offer her a bath and food before he sent her to the kitchen to work.

"What have I done to anger ye so?" she queried, her voice shaking. "I do not
understand." Unshed moisture once again welled in her eyes.

"Nothing." he said, one eyebrow quirking upward, the smile on his lips slowly
widening. "Ye, my dear, have done nothing. Absolutely nothing."

"Then--"

"Enough! Perhaps someday I will explain human nature and the treachery that
came many years ago. For now, I would rather ye wonder."

"My father vowed his loyalty to ye."

"Ah," he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "And ye believe I have done the same.
Foolish child," he said. "Therein lies your most grievous mistake. Ye should never
trust loyalty to be returned. It rarely is."

"Hawke?" Lainie stood on the steps, a tray of food in hand, so intrigued by Callie,
he had not heard his sister approach. Thoughtfully, he wondered just how much of
the conversation Lainie had heard.

Lainie put the tray on a table then turned to her brother. "I'd like to speak with ye--
in private." Lainie grabbed her brother's arm and led the way from the room,
making sure the door closed behind her.

"What is it, little sister?" Hawke asked, his tone condescending.

"How dare ye speak to her in that manner. She is a guest, and she is hungry and
tired. What are ye doing dragging her down the stairs to work in the kitchen? I
don't care if ye are laird of this castle, I will not allow ye to abuse the lass. She has
come here seeking your protection and a safe haven. Ye cannot treat her this
way."

"I can treat her in any manner I wish," he said, hoping Lainie would mind her own
business. And feeling the guilt swamp him.

Lainie stepped closer to her brother, her hand resting determinedly on his chest.
Hawke felt the need to laugh at his little sister, yet he tempered the emotion.
Allowing his softer side to surface was not something he wanted to happen.

His sister's eyes sparked. "Take heed, Colin MacPherson. The wee clootie in your
head has taken over your heart. Ye are not this kind of man. Ye could never harm
her no matter how much your heart wishes to do just that very thing. The treachery
was not of her making."

Callie opened the door. "'Tis all right," she spoke softly. "I will do what he asks and
then I will eat. He has done me no harm. He has only asked me to work for my
keep." Callie handed the tray back to Lainie, turning and continuing down the
steps as if neither he nor his sister existed.

"Leave the tray in the south tower," Hawke told Lainie while watching Callie regally
descend the stairs. Once again, she had casually dismissed him.

A spark of admiration coupled with anger flared within. Her royal highness, he
mused thoughtfully.

"Nay, she will not sleep there. She will sleep here, in this room," Lainie
determinedly told her brother.

"Ye have overstepped your bounds, Lainie," Hawke growled low. "Do as I say or I
will have ye locked in your solar until ye agree to marry the man I pick for ye."

Lainie turned ashen. Her sharply indrawn breath told Hawke he'd won this round.
Her shoulders began to shake, her fingers tightly clenching the fabric of her skirt.
Hawke knew how very much she did not wish to wed Lachlan, although the
highlander was a dear friend. She wanted a marriage of love, not convenience.
He'd scoffed at her and told her many times love did not exist. He told her love
was magic woven by poets for the weak and lonely.

"Very well," Lainie said, rebounding from Hawke's threat. "But I will find a way to

help her. She will no' be left to fend off the fleas and the biting cold."

Hawke raked his hands through his hair. "I don't doubt it for even a moment. Be
forewarned, the girl is mine. Do not interfere." He paused thoughtfully. "Perhaps I
will demand a ransom for her. What do ye think Huntington or Covington would
give for her?"

"Ye will not. I have heard what ye told Covington's retainers. The information will
travel throughout England like a wildfire. Ye tarnished her reputation with your
words and the spite ye hold for her father. He will not take her back and if he does,
Huntington will use her brutally. He will treat her as if she were a common whore.
It seems to me ye have exacted enough revenge on this innocent woman to
satisfy the darkest part of your soul."

"'Tis what I want," Hawke growled deep in his throat. "If I sent her back to her
stepbrother and Huntington, they would find a husband for her and I would still be
left with the bitterness, the pain and the memory of Lord Whitcombs actions
against my father."

"Sell her, ye mean. With your callous and uncaring words ye have turned her into
chattel to be used by any man with the means to pay for her."

"Nay. She will be safe here."

"Your arrogance does not become ye, Colin. If our mother were to see ye behave
this way, she would find a torture of her own to inflict upon ye."

"'Tis not arrogance driving me."

"Ye don't know what ye want. Retaliation against those weaker than ye has never
been a driving force. Ye will never harm her. I know ye. But ye will bluster and
storm around in a maddening mood, making everyone walk a wide berth around
ye. Already ye are unbearable."

"Hawke. Hawke, come quick," Lachlan called out to him from below. "The lass has
collapsed."

His heart in his throat, Hawke raced down the steps, Lainie behind him. "What?"

Hawke knelt beside Callie, his work-roughened finger touching the pulse at the
base of her neck. The beat of her heart was weak and the blood had left her face.

She was such a wee slip of a girl.

With the softest skin he'd ever touched.

Yet she'd survived.

Hawke scooped her into his arms and rising with her, he started toward the south
tower. Beneath his breath, he swore, then turned up the stairs toward the solar,
the room his sister had given Callie. He scowled at Lainie's knowing smile and
stalked past her. Kicking in the door, he yelled at the servants to bring food and
water, warm bedding and candles.

This was only temporary, he told himself.

Gently, he settled her on the bed, knowing he was a man well and truly damned.

Lainie suddenly stood beside him. Her smile had grown wider. "She is weak. I'm
sure the journey here was not easy. We do not know what she had to endure."

"I'm sure she found many willing men to ease her way," Hawke told her.

"Ye will not give over on this issue will ye, Colin? Many times I have thought better
of ye." Lainie stepped closer, pulling up a chair, to sit close to Callie.

Hawke bent over Callie, touching her cheek, her forehead and her pulse,
examining her while Lainie hovered. She was too cold and too pale. He motioned
to Lainie to bring him a thick, warm, blanket. At this moment, talking to his all-
knowing sister was not something he wished for. And he did not like the
triumphant gaze Lainie shot him.

"Ye must learn forgiveness." Lainie gave the covering to Hawke. "'Tis something
ye've never been able to do. It is time ye learned."

"Never." His words stung deeply. Memories of his father assailed him. "Never," he
said more softly. "If ye had been there and seen what Lord Whitcomb did to our
father, ye would not find the ability to forgive either. Ye were but two years old
when our mother was slain and when our father was executed unjustly." His hands
tightened around the blanket until his knuckles were white.

Her hand rested on his. "It is time for the feuding to end. When all this transpired,
she would not have been much older than I was. She is not a part of this and
never has been. She is innocent. Do not exact your revenge on someone weaker
than yourself."

Indeed, when he looked upon her she did appear an angel--innocent of all
wrongdoing. Her hair had come loose and flowed softly over the pillows. Now that
she rested, color had begun to return to her cheeks. Yet she didn't wake. Her
breath was shallow. An immediate surge of fear for her life swept through him. If
she died, he would never find the satisfaction he sought.

"She is only tired," Lainie told him, but he wasn't at all sure of the truth of her
words.

"I will stay with her," Hawke said.

"Nay, ye will not. Ye've done enough to tarnish her reputation."

But the glare Hawke sent Lainie sent her scurrying from the room, and he was left
alone with Callie and with his thoughts and memories of his father.

* * *

Callie did not regret leaving Archibald or fleeing the unwanted marriage to Simon
Huntington, yet she knew she would miss her home and the lands she should
have inherited. Tossing restlessly, Callie closed her eyes and slept. She dreamed
about her stepbrother and a time long ago, a time when her life should have been
free of care and fear. She had only been six years old when Archie came into her
life.

The sun shone brightly on the crisp autumn day. Archie, her new stepbrother, had
run off, leaving her behind in the tiny wooded glade. She stamped her foot, the
beginnings of a tantrum. He wasn't supposed to leave her. But he always did. This
time they'd ventured farther into the woods than they'd ever gone before. This time
she didn't know where she was. She could hear him taunting her, calling out to
her, telling her she was just a horrid, little coward. She shivered despite the heat
and wished Archie would stop teasing her. She didn't like him when he teased her.

Yet suddenly she couldn't hear him. All, save the chirping of a few birds, was quiet.
Silence filled the air, and she began to shake with fear. She didn't know what to do
or where to go. "Archie, where are ye? Where did ye go?" she cried out. She ran,
darting one way and then another. Tears welled in the back of her throat, and
slipped down her cheeks. Still, she ran and cried, calling out his name even while
she knew she would never find her way home.

She was lost in the woods, and she was hungry and tired. What was she going to
do? She wanted to eat the blueberry muffins she saw the cook making this
morning. She wanted to sleep in her own bed. She wanted the forest and her new
stepbrother to vanish.

She sat down. Her father had told her he would always find her if she lost her way.

Callie hugged her knees to her chin. She cried and waited. The forest grew darker,
and her stomach rumbled loudly.

"Callie." She woke with a start and a blinding headache. Lainie stood over her, the
scent of hot broth making her stomach rumble anew, reminding her that in the past

few days she'd had almost nothing to eat. Hunger filled every nerve, every sense.

She moaned and brought her hand to her head. The flesh was hot and dry, her
mouth parched. Every part of her ached.

"Water," she croaked.

"Ye're awake." Lainie bent over her and helped her to a sitting position. "Now sip
this slowly. Ye were having a bad dream... Do ye want to talk?"

Callie nodded, her head still pounding as she did Lainie's bidding. Slowly she
drank the water, feeling better as each second passed.

Lainie fed her.

"Why does Colin hate me so?" she asked, not understanding but realizing she'd
made a horrific mistake by assuming Colin MacPherson was a friend and loyal to
her father. "I have done nothing to him."

Lainie shook her head, her eyes sad. She brushed away a tear. "I cannot say."

"But ye know why." Callie wanted to scream with frustration.

"Aye, I do but it does not matter. He will no' change his mind and see ye for
yourself. I have talked until I was blue in the face and all he does is threaten me
with an unwanted marriage."

"I understand," Callie said.

"Nay, ye do not, but I pray someday ye will know what drives him and will forgive
him."

Callie leaned back and closed her eyes, the pounding in her head easing slightly.
The man she'd risked her life to find despised her. He was not loyal to her father
as she had thought. She was indeed in grave danger.

"What is to become of me?" Callie asked. "I cannot stay here."

"Of course ye can."

Callie shook her head. "I have nowhere to go."

"Your home is here now."

"Nay, Hawke is sure to hand me over to Archibald when he comes for me."

"Even if ye had somewhere to go, Colin would never let ye leave. He has his own
plans for ye."

"Ah, she is awake. 'Tis about time." Hawke sauntered into the solar, his long
strides beating a soft cadence on the stone floor. The glance he shot his sister
was warm--yet filled with warning.

Lainie bent close and whispered to Callie. "I will return shortly. Don't let the ogre
get the best of ye. He is softhearted. And tell him nothing. He won't listen anyway."

Callie grimaced. Softhearted? Not this man with the steel, unrelenting eyes and
the hard, chiseled features. She saw only ruthlessness and danger in this man.

She would do well to keep her distance. Yet now, confined to the bed, distance
was impossible. A fine trembling swept through her.

"My sister will bring food and clothes. She has ordered a bath for ye." Hawke
spoke softly, his tone light, and yet she sensed his tension.

Lainie hovered near the doorway, unmoving.

Callie nodded, keeping her hands folded demurely in front of her. Truly, she didn't
know what to say to Hawke. All she thought of would make this horrific situation
worse. Still, she owed him her life. He could have turned her over to Huntington.
He could have forbidden her entrance to the castle.

But he'd done none of those things.

Soon he would have her working in the kitchen. Nay, she would endure anything
to keep from going back to England.

"I plan on offering a ransom." He watched her, schooling his own features so she
could not read his expression.

"Nay!" Callie sat up so quickly her head thundered in pain. "Ye cannot do that."

Lainie approached her brother. "After what ye told Covington's men, no one would
pay for her return. Why do ye taunt her with such things: things ye have no
intention of proceeding with?"

"She cannot stay in this room and I will not allow ye to stand in my way every time
I try to put her in the tower," Hawke nearly growled. "I cannot stand to look upon
her."

Chapter Four

"Find Hawke." A few weeks later, Ian stood on the battlements, the brilliant
afternoon sun nearly blinding. Despite the glare, he could see Huntington's flag
and his retainers behind him. Three men begged admittance to The MacPherson
castle.

They were long-standing enemies to The MacPhersons.

"I'm here." Hawke stood beside his brother. He didn't have to wonder why his
enemies wanted inside; they sought Lady Whitcomb. Handing her over to them
was not something he was willing to do. She was his for as long as he wanted her.

"What do ye suppose they want?" Ian asked, his tone condemning.

"Need ye ask little brother? They want to discern the truth about the Whitcomb
lass. They want to know if, indeed, I have ruined her. And if I have not, they mean
to return her to Huntington or Archibald."

"What is the truth?" Ian asked thoughtfully.

Hawke sensed his brother's disapproval but knew Ian would say little. "She is the
daughter of Lord David Whitcomb. Our father's murderer. My paramour."

"But she is not," Ian protested vehemently. "Ye would never force her, nor would
ye seduce the daughter of your enemy."

Hawke felt his blood run cold. "Huntington will not know that. And we will allow
them admittance. Let them see firsthand what she is to me."

Ian appeared baffled. Hawke smiled, yet the north wind whistled around them and
a chill of foreboding rushed through him. "Don't worry little brother."

"My concern is for your soul," Ian said.

"Ah, my soul. Ye think I am paying too high a price?"

"Aye, big brother."

"Callie will play along with me and will not divulge the ruse. She understands what
fate awaits her."

"And what is that?"

Hawke laughed. Yet he was concerned. "If she does not convince Huntington's
men of her lack of innocence--if Lainie has correctly discerned the truth... Lady
Whitcomb despises Huntington more than she fears me."

"Holy Christ," Ian swore softly. "For good reasons or for bad, ye will ruin the lass."

"Revenge can be sweet."

"Ye believe she will play the game to the bitter end?"

"I do," Hawke said. His hands rested on the stone as he watched the men below
and gave a signal for the gates to open.

"Lachlan will watch Callie when I am not by her side. Ye will also keep a close eye
on her. I expect Huntington's men to try and seize Callie and take her away."

Ian didn't look at Hawke when he spoke. "Despite my feelings about this, I will
watch Callie, and Lainie will act the mother hen."

"Make arrangements to have Callie's belongings placed in my solar. She will not
want to be there, but I see no other choice. Neither of us must let down our guard."

"In your solar? Ye dare too much."

"If we sleep alone, it will give Huntington's men opportunity to seize her. Nor will
they believe the story I've woven. We must do everything we can to make them
believe she sleeps in my bed each night."

Ian's sharp indrawn breath gave Hawke a moment's pause. Guilt filled his heart
and robbed his soul but he pushed the unwanted and unwarranted emotions to the
back of his mind where they belonged. Nothing, he vowed to himself, would stand
in his way. Not his brother's tender emotions or the sad, vulnerable look in Callie's
eyes.

Nothing would stop this now that his plans had been set in motion.

Hawke wondered why revenge did not feel sweeter and why the bitter taste in his
mouth did not vanish.

He leaned forward, his eyes closed, and let the sun beat down upon his back. He
heard Ian's booted strides as his brother left the battlements to carry out his
orders.

For his father's memory, for all the evil done to The MacPherson clan by the
Whitcombs, he must finish what had been set in motion so many years ago.

Together they had to convince Huntington she was no longer chaste, no longer
suitable as a bride to the powerful lord. For reasons he no longer understood, he
would never give up Callie.

Damn, but a woman's virtue was all she had in this world. He would callously take
it from Callie.

And yet he would not.

But in the end, it meant the same thing. She would be scorned by her own class.
Relegated to a life of nothing, no husband, no estate, no power.

Closing his eyes and letting the salt spray from the ocean below cleanse his soul,
he tried desperately to convince himself that what he planned was the only way to
save Callie.

The scent of roses floated on the air. Lainie's scent reminded him of his mother. It
was one of the few good memories he recalled from his childhood.

"I know what ye are going to say." Hawke spoke to Lainie, who now stood beside
him, her hair flowing in the breeze, her long, delicate fingers touching the walls of
the castle.

Suddenly he felt as if his heart had turned to stone. Painful memories assailed him
and he was more determined than ever to allow Callie the protection she sought.

"Nay, I doubt it. Because I agree with ye."

"Now that comes as a surprise."

"Begrudgingly anyway. Ian explained your plans. Taking her belongings to your
solar may be the only way to keep Callie away from Huntington. She does not
want to marry him. She went to great lengths to flee him and her stepbrother's
plans for her." Lainie paused then and Hawke felt her move closer. "But if ye hurt
her," she warned stubbornly, "I will seek my own restitution against ye."

"I will not hurt her." Hawke sighed heavily. Already he grew tired of this argument.
And he wondered if Lady Callie Whitcomb wasn't seeking some type of revenge of
her own. He certainly hadn't felt a moment's peace since the lady arrived.

"I mean it, Hawke."

"I know ye do." Hawke knew only admiration for his fiery, spirited sister. She would
lead some man a merry dance someday. Lainie had a way of burrowing into his
skin and sticking like a tick. Yet at the same time, when she smiled, warmth filled
him and settled deep in the pit of his stomach. He could well imagine how easily

she'd have any man foolish enough to fall in love with her wrapped around her
little finger.

"Will ye tell Callie why I hate her so?" Hawke asked. He didn't want her to know,
but if Lainie had already told her, he would have to walk a different course with
her.

"Nay, I didn't take ye for a coward. 'Tis your job and no one else's. Ye have sought
to ruin her good name, and 'tis ye who must explain why ye have moved her into
your bed chambers and compromised her good name."

"I don't want her to know about our father and how cruelly he was treated at the
hands of the Whitcombs. Not yet. But I will explain a few things to her before she
is forced to mingle with Huntington's men." Hawke offered Lainie his arm. She
accepted his gallantry and together they walked from the battlements, then down
the long, winding steps to the great hall.

Hawke assumed Callie was still in the solar Lainie had put her in the day she
arrived at the castle. A few weeks had passed and Callie had slowly regained her
strength.

And her beauty. Her skin was almost translucent. So very fragile and delicate he
feared if he but touched her flesh, he would mar it somehow. Whenever she
encountered him, her cheeks would glow and turn the most charming shade of
pink.

She embarrassed easily.

He remembered how the first sight of her had sparked a feeling inside he'd never
felt before.

He'd wanted her until he discovered her name.

So far, she'd lived a life of ease, servants waiting on her, Lainie pampering her as
if she were royalty.

She was royalty.

In another life, she was a Lady. No longer. Now she belonged to him and she
owed her very existence to his charity.

He groaned aloud, realizing the arrogance of his thoughts.

"What is it?" Lainie asked, stopping and turning to stare accusingly at him.

One eyebrow quirked upward as he paused in thought long enough to think of a

plausible answer to her question, one that would not have her asking for more
information than he wanted to give. "And have ye used my thoughts against me?"
he queried softly, bending low so no one around them might hear their friendly
banter.

"I would use anything I could if the information would help Callie."

Ignoring Lainie's answer, Hawke motioned to his retainer. "Lachlan," he called out,
spying the giant of a man across the hall.

Lachlan nodded and quickened his steps as he headed toward Hawke. "She is
resting quietly in your bed chamber. The Lady Whitcomb was not pleased to be
moved there and she let me know her feelings. I don't know what ye plan, but are
ye sure ye know what ye do?"

Hawke felt little amusement at Callie's apparent indignation. Nor did he enjoy the
humiliation he caused at her expense. Yet he reminded himself she deserved all
that came her way. Her father had been a villain of the vilest sort and David had
died before he paid for his crimes against The MacPherson.

Now Callie would pay.

"Who is with her now?" Hawke asked.

"Ian stands guard at the door."

"Go to him and relieve him of his duties. I will be up shortly. Then I want Ian to see
to Huntington's men. Make sure they are comfortable and given all the amenities
befitting their stations. Inform me of all their movements within the castle. If
anything at all becomes suspicious, I want to know."

Lachlan nodded, then left. Hawke watched him walk away before returning his
gaze to the main hall. He studied everyone, knowing his people were loyal. No one
would go against his orders nor would they betray him in any way.

Lainie had left his side and now talked with their people.

Ian walked through the hall, glancing Hawke's way only once, but their gazes held
for a moment. In that moment, Hawke saw a steely determination in Ian and a
heated resolve to stand with him no matter what course he decided upon. Ian
disapproved because he didn't understand. In time, he would win Ian to his side.
But for now, Hawke would have to brace himself for his brother's silent
disapproval.

He supposed he would feel the same as Ian if he had not been there and seen his
father's head on the pole. Ian had only heard the stories.

Huntington's men were ushered into the great hall and greeted by Ian. Hawke
watched while the men were each relieved of their weapons and given food and
drink.

He turned and walked to his solar. Lachlan stood guard at the door. Hawke drew
in a long, deep breath before pushing open the heavy wood door. He saw her
standing by the fire, her long hair catching the firelight and shimmering with a
multitude of colors.

With her back rigid, her chin held high and her fingers tightly laced together in front
of her, she appeared to wait for her jailer. Once again, he was shaken by the
forlorn vulnerability he saw in her eyes. Yet he admired the rigid courage with
which she faced him.

"Are ye comfortable?" Hawke stepped farther into the room, letting the door swing
shut behind him.

"Nay," she replied, her back stiffening. "I would prefer my own quarters or perhaps
the southern tower."

Silence knifed between them, tension filling the fragile distance, a distance he
meant to close. She would have to become comfortable with him. The barriers she
placed before them would have to fall. And he mused thoughtfully, he would have
to become comfortable with her.

He touched her cheek. She gasped, drawing away from him as if he'd hurt her.

"Ye said ye would do anything. Remember?" he questioned, still searching for
some other way.

She nodded, her tongue darting quickly to moisten her lips. He saw the rapid rise
and fall of her breasts. She was indeed a study in contrasts.

Courageous, yet vulnerable.

Determined, yet defenseless.

He stood by the fire, resting one foot on the hearth and watched the flames flicker
and glow. She moved away from him.

"Huntington has sent three men to the castle." He waited for a reply but she said
nothing. "They mean to find out the truth of my words."

Still she said nothing and he wasn't at all sure if she understood.

With his booted foot, he pushed a glowing ember off the hearth and into the fire.
"They want to know if ye are indeed soiled goods."

He knew she stiffened, heard the long breath of air she inhaled, and he knew she
fought emotions she'd never had to deal with before.

He turned then. He wanted to see her eyes when he spoke. "How would ye go
about proving my words to them?" She needed to come to a solution on her own.

Her face had turned ashen, her lips nearly blue. She had wrapped her arms
around herself as if she could protect herself from him--or perhaps from the entire
world.

She couldn't.

Callie was shaking her head and moving away from him, slowly backing herself
into a corner. For the longest time she didn't breathe. Her back was against the
wall. She could not escape him. Nor could she escape Huntington unless she
understood the terms. There was nowhere for her to go.

Very soon she would have to choose sides.

The lesser of two evils?

Would she see him that way?

As he gazed into her crystal clear blue eyes and watched her, he wasn't at all sure
he was the lesser evil. But he meant to have her answer. And he wanted the
course of action to come from her.

Her eyes widened; slowly her chin slanted upward and she squared her shoulders.
"I will have to pretend I like ye."

He smiled, his brows drawing together in concentration. "And how will ye go about
doing that?"

Color began to rise to her face. Her body trembled slightly. "I don't know," she
whispered, barely able to say the words. "How does one go about pretending to
like someone who despises them for no apparent reason?"

"I think ye know. And ye will have to do more than pretend to like me. We are
supposed to be lovers." He goaded her and waited for her reply.

Silence cloaked the room. Suddenly he felt as if the walls closed in around them.
He needed air--fresh air. He wanted to gaze out upon the ocean and watch the
surf crash against the rocks.

For a moment, he wished she'd never appeared in his life to torment him.

"I have never been good at pretense, nor do I know how lovers act," she told him.
"I--"

"Ye have kin who have no problem with lies and subterfuge," he said, his body
tense, anger clouding good judgment.

"I would never deny my stepbrother's evil ways. He is all I loathe in a man, in any
human being." She stepped forward, her hands dropping to her side.

He noticed the pulse at the base of her neck and the way she so heatedly
enunciated each word. "I do have a score or two to settle with Archibald
Covington, but I speak of your father."

"My father?"

"Aye, your father," he repeated. But he didn't want to speak of her father to her. In
time, he would tell her. For now he wanted her to think on it and wonder why he
hated her father, Lord David Whitcomb.

"I don't understand."

"Clearly ye cannot be blind to the ways of the man who raised ye. If ye failed to
notice his evil, then ye are as guilty as he."

"What is it ye want me to do?"

"Ye change the subject so very innocently. I think ye know more than ye are willing
to acknowledge." He paused thoughtfully. "What do I want ye to do? Ye are to
pretend we are lovers. Ye must convince Huntington's men. If ye fail, he may well
take matters into his own hands. He will wish to see if indeed we sleep together."
He turned his head to the bed and then back to her. Color rose on her once ashen
cheeks. She inhaled deeply.

"Nay, I will not sleep with ye."

"Ye may not have a choice. Huntington's men may well stoop so low as to enter
my solar on some pretense and expect to see us in bed together. And if he does,
we must be ready."

"I detest ye," she spoke slowly, wishing she could escape this place, escape the
horrific degradation she was about to incur upon herself. Her head thundered and
her pulse pounded.

"I would think less of ye if ye did not." He grinned. "Nevertheless."

"I will do what I must." Her nerves unraveled, snapping one strand at a time.

"Then come with me. We will put on a show no one will forget." He held out his
arm but she did not accept the invitation.

She would not touch him until she had to, until there was no other choice. Silently
she watched him, every nerve strung taut. She sensed his attention bone-deep,
and her heart thundered, every instinct within calling out to her to refuse him, to
refuse this deplorable lie.

Her body trembled and her nails dug into her palms.

Still gazing in her direction, he walked toward the door and beckoned to her to
follow. It seemed he waited for her to make some move toward him. Yet her feet
were frozen to the spot she stood.

"Huntington's men will wonder where ye are."

She stepped forward and through the open door. A blast of cold air hit her. For a
moment, a death-filled silence greeted her and then she heard talking, laughter
and music.

Merriment filled the castle.

Hawke followed her down the steps toward the great hall. Callie felt the man's
presence, vividly recalled the steel gray of his eyes, the unusual coldness of his
expression and the fierce hatred he harbored for her.

His hand settled on the small of her back, guiding her and in a strange way
reassuring her. The hall was filled with people. Huntington's men sat at a table,
mugs of ale in hand. When they stepped inside, it seemed the men gazed their
way.

Hawke casually dropped an arm around her shoulder, his fingers playing with the
wisps of hair that had fallen loose from the coil she had arranged.

"Smile," he whispered, close to her ear. "Pretend we are lovers."

She stiffened.

"Relax..." He brushed a lingering daytime kiss across her cheek.

The men rose quickly from the table and walked toward them. Chills swept through
her. Unforgiving, unrelenting waves of cold filled her with unbidden terror. Even

while she tried for courage.

"Hawke?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"Stay with me, lass," he told her. "They will not take ye. We have unfinished
business, ye and I."

Striding boldly through the hall, they met Huntington's men. Hawke set her slightly
behind him. She was thankful for the small, protective gesture.

"We would talk to the Lady Whitcomb--alone," one of the men told Hawke.

"Nay," he said, his voice low, commanding the attention of all who could hear.

"We must."

"I will be with her or she will not speak to any of ye."

"I love him," she suddenly blurted out. "I love Colin." Despite her horrible fear of
The MacPherson and what he meant to do to her when Huntington's men left, she
meant to stay here. She stepped closer to Hawke, and encircled his waist with her
arm, slowly gazing up at him and inviting a kiss. Demurely, she lowered her lashes
then stared at him once more.

Was this truly better than marrying Huntington? She had abandoned a home, a
family, and now she was committing herself to this man. An uncertain future at
best.

The minutes seemed to speed by and Callie held on tightly to Colin MacPherson,
to Hawke. Muscle rippled and bunched beneath her fingers, warmth from his body
fended off the cold that encompassed her when she saw the men Huntington sent
to bring her back.

Musicians played a lively tune. A dog barked and the throbbing noise filled her with
a deep foreboding when she should have felt nothing but joy and security.
Suddenly, he swept her into his arms, dancing with her to the bold music, sending
a message that none in the great hall could ignore. She was sorely tempted to
push out of his arms and let fate take its course. But the image of her fiancé
loomed in her head and a fine, trembling shudder swept through her.

She closed her eyes, clinging more tightly to Hawke. Beneath the fabric of his
shirt, she could see the steady flow of his breath into and out of his chest. He
seemed filled with strength and raw courage, and smelled of Scottish heather and
mist. His midnight black hair fell free from the leather thong he had bound it with.
While they danced, the strands flowed freely around his neck and whispered
across her cheek. His hair was soft, silken. Vividly, she recalled the night they rode

from the Boar's Head Inn. Before that night, she had never touched a man's hair or
felt the softness of the locks slide across her face.

Before that night, she had never held herself so close to a man. A shiver wracked
her body, and it seemed he felt her tremble against him. So very much had
changed.

"Only a moment more, lass," he told her, but he didn't stop, nor did he seem to
want a reply. She pushed away from him. He tightened his grip and pulled her
closer. The need to lean into him assailed her along with her fears and the aching
loneliness she'd felt since her father died.

Despite his hatred for her, he sheltered and protected her. When he could have
given her over to Huntington's men, he refused. Surely, he risked a great deal.
Huntington was well liked by the King and wielded great power at court.

The music faded and when they stopped dancing, she wondered at the emptiness
of the great hall. A few men remained, among them Ian, Lachlan and Huntington's
men. His fingers brushed the underside of her chin, lifting her head. Their eyes
met. Slowly, his lips closed over hers, his hand pulling her closer, until there was
nothing save fabric between them. She stiffened, her hands pushing at his chest,
but he would not let her protest or draw away. For a moment, she forgot her vows
and her need to convince Huntington's men of her lost innocence.

With great effort, her heart in the pit of her stomach, she relaxed into Hawke. He
deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding back and forth across her lips.

"Open for me," he whispered encouragingly. "Convince them."

She moaned softly and did his bidding. His tongue swept the inside of her mouth.
Heat built within and surged through her. All conscious thought fled with his touch.
Instinctively, her arms rose and she wound her hands around his neck, threading
her fingers through his hair. Needing to find comfort and a small measure of
security from his strength, she pulled him closer. His hands roamed, touched her
everywhere. Sensations she'd never felt before coursed within.

She sought to deny the mercuric emotions he evoked, and yet at the same time
she reminded herself, she must convince these men she loved Hawke.

His was a demanding kiss, a searing kiss, and she found that liquid fire surged
inside. She felt raw, nearly torn apart by the simmering emotions and the
confusion his kiss summoned.

She heard herself sigh, and he once again deepened the kiss, his hand on her
back, his fingers running the length, up then down. The inferno followed each
searing caress, every bold move. She no longer questioned his actions, no longer

cared. Lost in a sea of new sensations she gave in to his every demand. "Good
lass," he said quietly and then to the few spectators left in the hall. "If ye'll excuse
us..." He turned her and with his hand at the small of her back, urged her to move
quickly toward his solar.

"Hawke," she tried to question him, so confused by his actions.

"Hurry, do not doubt they follow and will find some excuse to gain entrance to my
chambers. I hope Lachlan will guard the door well, but do not tarry here. We will
have only a short time before I am sure they will knock on our door or barge in
without an invitation."

Ian stepped in front of Huntington's men. Two more of Hawke's men flanked them,
cutting off access to the rooms above. Callie heard Ian's command. She breathed
a bit more easily now. Hawke's brother had stood against Huntington's men and
protected his back and her own.

A few minutes later, they were in Hawke's room. Lachlan had followed them and
stood guard. Callie stood beside the fire, watching, waiting for what she wasn't at
all sure.

Quickly, Hawke stripped off his shirt and his hose. He turned back the covering on
the bed then strode to the door, listening for several heart-thundering minutes.

"Undress and get into bed," Hawke bade her harshly, never looking her way. His
earlier gentleness had vanished.

She didn't move, could only stand and stare at his back, wondering at his words.
He'd told her he would not defile his hands by making love to her.

When he'd spoken those words, she'd believed him.

And yet...

Looking to the bed, then to Hawke's broad back, she shuddered, fear racing
through her. Her hand rose to her throat as if the gesture would help her breathe.
Nothing helped. Gasping short little breaths of air, Callie nearly fainted.

"Do as I say." Hawke turned from the door, his hands resting on the handle of his
claymore.

"Ye would not--" She nearly cried out, afraid he meant to kill her.

"Nay," he waved one hand in the air.

A scuffle in the hall, loud banging on the door and Lachlan's shout of warning

mobilized Hawke. In two strides he stood beside Callie, his fingers winding into the
neck of her gown. Fabric ripped.

"Nay," Callie cried out, trembling with fright. Yet before she could protest again,
Hawke's lips closed over hers, one hand rapidly uncoiling her long hair. In
disarray, the long strands tumbled around her shoulders.

Cold air swept across her naked back and then his calloused hands caressed and
pulled her tightly to him until she stood between his massive thighs and pressed
against his hard, muscled length.

"Hawke!" Lachlan cried out.

The door thundered against the wall. Huntington's retainers stood silhouetted in
the doorframe. Quickly, Hawke turned to face the intruders, pushing Callie behind,
shielding her from them.

Chapter Five

Clinging to her torn gown, Callie pressed the tattered fabric to her breasts. She
stood in Hawke's solar, nearly naked and trembling with fear. Huntington's men
were framed in the doorway, Hawke's men behind them.

"What is this?" Hawke's hand rested on the claymore which was still strapped to
his side.

"Forgive us," one said, in a silken, evil tone. "We merely had questions that
needed answers. We thought ye would be more than willing to speak with us."

"At this hour? Your rudeness is unforgivable." Hawke stepped boldly forward,
pushing the men into the hall. "Speak with ye? When ye have come here
unbidden? Ye dare barge into the laird's solar? I could have ye placed in the
dungeon."

"We meant no harm." The man arrogantly moved forward, insinuating himself
closer to Hawke and Callie.

Ian matched each of the man's moves with a counter move of his own standing
behind them, Lachlan beside Ian. "We will see them to their rooms and make sure
they are gone in the morning," Lachlan told Hawke.

"No," one of Huntington's men said, daring to defy Lachlan, his voice clear and
resonant. "We go nowhere until we have the information we were sent for."

"No?" Hawke tilted his head, astonished by the man's audacity. "No? I have given
an order and mean to have it followed."

"Before we leave we demand to have proof of Lady Whitcomb's purity."

The man nearly choked on his words, sweat rising to a heavy sheen across his
brow, his body tense as if he already waited for the blow Hawke would very much
like to inflict upon them all for daring to speak such tainted thoughts.

Revulsion swept through Hawke. "Ye are in no position to demand anything. As
long as I live, no man's hand will touch Lady Whitcomb save my own." He stepped
toward Huntington's man, his hand clenched tightly around the Claymore, yet
knowing he didn't dare kill this man. This man, Bertram, was one of the King's own
men. So why did he don Huntington's colors?

"We have brought a healer, a doctor to make the test," the man persisted.

"No!" He could stand no more of this distasteful conversation. He had a foul taste
in his mouth. He felt Callie behind him, trembling, her cold arms pressing against
the nakedness of his back. He had nearly wrent her gown from neck to floor. The
clothing would be tattered to shreds, leaving her vulnerable to these men if
anything should happen to him. Protecting her was now paramount in his mind.

He had guessed the men would follow, but he'd believed this little display of
lovemaking would satisfy their needs. He had thought Callie would be safely
tucked into his bed before the Huntington's men arrived, pounding upon his door.

He had been horribly wrong.

"Ian! Lachlan!" No more words were needed yet Hawke gave orders. "Take these
men away and see they do no more harm this night."

More of Hawke's men lined the walls behind his brother and trusted friend. But
they all saw Callie and her state of dishabille. His gut clenched. No man would see
her like this again, he vowed. No one.

She was his.

Finally, the door closed, Huntington's men escorted to their chambers in another
wing of the castle at sword point. He breathed in deeply, trying for the first time this
evening to relax. The scent of fear mingled with a softer feminine scent. Jasmine
floated around him.

He liked her scent, but he never wanted to see her fear. When he turned to her, he
knew he would witness her terror. She stood rigidly in front of the fire. Yet he
doubted the blaze did little to warm her. He walked toward her, touched her ashen
cheek with the back of his hand.

"Are ye all right?" He spoke gently, knowing any harshness would not ease the
terror she felt. And he wondered if she understood what the men had asked of
him.

"Ye knew they would come," she told him, her voice barely audible. "Ye planned
this."

Rightfully she accused him. "Aye," he said. "I guessed they would follow. It is why I
wanted ye undressed and safely tucked into my bed."

"Why didn't ye explain?"

His fists tightened. "There was no time." He withdrew into himself, refusing to allow
the tenderness, the fragile vulnerability she elicited within him to surface.

"I see," she spoke stiffly, her terror seeming to abate. "What now?"

He raked his hand through his hair, closing his eyes and wishing with all his heart
that she had not put him in such an untenable position.

"Go to bed," he said.

"Nay," she backed away, her eyes wide once more with fear.

She was still clinging to the torn remnants of her gown. Uncomfortably, he realized
the terror he saw this time was for him and what he'd asked of her.

"I will sleep in the chair." He spoke gruffly, silently examining the chair.

Trembling, she shook her head in silent protest. "I do not trust ye."

"Ye will not be safe until they leave," he told her but he found he did care if she
trusted him. She had thoroughly unnerved him. At his wit's end and not willing to
bend any farther for the daughter of his enemy, he stripped and climbed into bed.
"Ye take the chair then."

Panic-struck, she appeared as if she thought to flee his chamber. He didn't want
her frantically racing through the halls of the castle. He wielded the power here in
his home. If she escaped his jurisdiction, there was little he could do to protect her
from Huntington's men. They would capture her and return her to Simon. Knowing
her misery, her fear and her need to escape the same men he detested tempered
his need for restitution.

"Lachlan stands guard at the door. Ye would not get five steps down the hall
before he caught ye and brought ye back to my solar," he told her, exhausted from
the tension of the past week as well as the fear for Callie's life.

She nodded and cautiously moved to the chair, wrapping a plaid around her to
ward off the chill.

What irony, he thought. Here he was, playing the benevolent protector of a
Whitcomb.

He could find no humor in the thought. He lay in bed, his eyes open, staring at the
ceiling and listening to Callie toss and turn on the chair beside the fire. Surely, she
must be cold. But he feared if he rose, even to offer her a blanket that she would
panic again.

And despite his hatred for her family, he could find no satisfaction in her
discomfort. Knowing how terrified she'd been when Huntington's men burst in

upon them did little to ease the burden he carried.

The moon slanted silver beams of light into the solar and across Callie. Her hair
shimmered, flowing around her shoulders and across her breasts. Alabaster skin
glowed with radiance where the light touched.

He rose and walked to her. Sweeping her into his arms, he carried her to the huge
bed. For a moment, her eyes flickered open and then she stared at him, watching
him. Within his arms, he felt her tense. But he didn't sense fear, only curiosity. And
to his relief, it seemed, she was half-asleep.

"Hawke?" she asked, reaching out her hand as if she meant to touch him.

His name whispered in the silken night sent a strange sensation down his spine. A
sudden warmth filled him, yet he pushed away the feelings he did not want to have
for this lady aside.

"Hush," he said. His voice was gruff and he immediately hated himself. He should
have let her stay in the chair. The choice had been hers and hers alone. He'd
offered her the protective warmth of his bed.

Her smile was hesitant, questioning. "Is it time to rise." To no avail, she tried to
wiggle from his arms.

"Nay," he said, and settled her on his bed before stepping back. "Sleep."

She rose quickly to a sitting position, wide-awake now and indignantly sputtering,
"Not in your bed."

He heard the aversion in her words, sensed the fear and the apprehension. Her
hatred for him had been of his own making and he knew he should be glad
restitution was so close at hand. Aye, he should feel naught but pleasure at her
discomfort and fear. "Sleep. Ye will need your rest on the morrow."

Quickly, he dressed and left the room. Lachlan stood guard outside the door.
"Don't leave. Don't let anyone enter," Hawke commanded as his long strides
carried him away from his solar and the woman who seemed to torment him
simply by being there.

Lachlan merely nodded, an understanding smile quirking his lips and irritating
Hawke.

Hawke strode determinedly through the castle and to the stables. Needing the
wind on his face and his powerful stallion beneath him, he meant to ride until he
could find some measure of peace. To shake thoughts of who Callie was from the
forefront of his mind was paramount.

Bright moonlight gave the night an eerie cast and at the same time lit the trail.
Hawke leaned over his mount, racing the wind and the demons within. Beneath
him, the stallion's hooves pounded the earth and above, the wind whistled creating
a chilling, mournful cry. The sounds of the night fit his bitter, confused mood. For
what seemed like endless hours Hawke rode, yet nothing within him eased.

He found no solace, no peace.

With revenge, he had thought he would find peace.

At the loch, he pulled up short. His horse danced skittishly, hooves flailing on the
beach. The water rippled, magically catching each beam of light set upon it. He
dismounted and strode forward. His mind raced, his thoughts centering around the
lady in his bed.

The lady--his sworn enemy.

He warred within himself.

Without thought of the danger or the chilling cold that was about to catch his
breath, he tossed off his clothes and strode into the lake. The water was icy yet
strangely comforting. He shivered but did not stop. Waist deep he dove into the
water. Darkness surrounded him. He swam beneath the surface until he thought
his lungs might burst. As his head parted the water, he gulped pure fresh air. He
dove again, pushing himself, testing his muscles and his endurance.

Callie was a fever within, teasing all his vows, all his moral convictions, tormenting
him. The murder of his father had driven him for fifteen long years and now his
most hated enemy's daughter tested his integrity. With every breath, every fragile
glance and delicate gesture, she challenged him in ways no other person, man or
woman, had ever done.

He surfaced, shaking the water from his eyes and his hair. "Callie," he cried out,
treading water for a moment and wondering if he had indeed lost his mind.

"Callie," he whispered and the wind stole the sound.

Then with strong, sure strokes he swam to the shore. Dripping, water soaking his
clothes, he dressed and mounted. Ian met him.

Sitting atop his horse, Ian was framed by the moonlight.

"Hawke." Ian nodded, his voice curt.

"Ye shouldn't be here," Hawke said, wondering what demons drove his brother.

Yet Hawke knew his brother had followed him to give protection.

Together and at an easy lope, they turned to the castle.

"Who would guard your back, big brother?" Ian asked, his voice filled with a light
humor neither man felt.

"I don't need a guard," Hawke gritted out between clenched teeth. The exhaustion
he'd hoped would ease his tension had done nothing. With his brother's
appearance, he was once again reminded of the decisions he would soon have to
make.

Callie? What would he do with her?

* * *

Callie woke to warm porridge and hot cider by her bedside. A new set of clothes
lay upon a chair by the hearth. Lainie hummed a merry tune and poked at the fire,
never casting even a sideways glance her way.

"About time ye woke," Lainie said. "Half the day has passed. Are ye always such a
lazy bones, Callie?" she queried in good humor, turning then, a broad smile on her
delicately shaped face.

Callie smiled and pushed her hair from her eyes. "Nay, I am never abed past the
rising of the sun. There was always so much to do. But here," she paused, "here, I
have naught to do save pace the bed chamber and poke at the fire." And lose
myself in my own fears, recreating demons in my mind.

"Ye must keep to these rooms. For once, I am in complete agreement with Colin.
'Tis not safe for ye anywhere in the castle until Huntington's men leave. Did ye
know they watch the stairs and then they whisper to each other? I dinna trust them
farther than I could toss a caber."

"I don't trust them either. I know the man who retains them. He is evil. But, Lainie, I
cannot stay here forever. I will never find happiness here." She closed her eyes
for a moment, wishing her words were not true. "When will they leave?"

"As soon as the two of ye can convince them ye are truly lovers. Last eve, by the
recounting of events, yours and Colin's actions were not too convincing. Even
Lachlan says it was a poor showing. Colin looked as if he wanted to throttle ye, not
make love to ye. And ye, sweet innocent, appeared to fear his very touch."

Callie gasped a thin ragged breath of air. To hear Lainie talk so causally of
lovemaking embarrassed her, and yet she'd always wished for someone she could
talk to about such things. She'd never dared to approach her stepmother and she

had no close friend to whom she could share her fantasies and dreams.

A commotion in the hall caught Lainie's attention. Turning away from her, Colin's
sister strode to the door and discovered her oldest brother about to enter.

"Hawke? Shouldn't ye be out slaying monsters or something?" Lainie asked
sweetly, her challenge evident in every gesture and not so subtle smile with which
she treated her brother. "Ye run out on Callie in the middle of the night, and ye
don't return until midmorning."

"'Tis none of your concern, Lainie."

Hawke strode past Lainie, his gaze riveted on Callie, who stood by the fire in
dishabille, trying desperately to cover herself with the clothes Lainie had brought
for her.

"Would ye leave us please?" Hawke asked Lainie.

"Nay," Lainie strode toward Hawke. "I've ordered a bath for Callie."

"All the more reason for ye to leave." Hawke focused all his attention on Callie.

Lainie straightened, indignation rising quickly. "Ye cannae mean that."

Hawke smiled. "I do mean every word and I'll treat her as I see fit. Go, or I will
have Lachlan carry ye out of the room. He would not take great pleasure in tossing
ye over his shoulder. However," Hawke paused, "if I ordered him to do so, he
would follow every command."

Lainie turned to Callie. "Say something. Protest this horrible treatment!" she cried
out in obvious anger.

Callie shook her head, denying Lainie, denying herself and her feelings. "'Tis
milord's wishes. I will do what he says," she said softly.

And she watched in growing despair as men lugged in the bath and then followed
with steaming water. Lainie stood in a corner, looking apprehensive and
determined to stay. When Hawke stepped toward the door, she lifted the hem of
her skirt from the floor and fled.

"The water grows cold," Hawke told Callie, his back turned away from her.

"Ye would not watch?" Callie asked, testing the water with one fingertip.

"I would do what pleases me," Hawke told her.

She watched him. He settled in a chair and drew it close to the fire, his back still
turned away from her. He leaned his head on the backrest and folded his hands in
his lap, his feet crossed in front of him. If she had the nerve to walk around and
look at him, she guessed his eyes would be closed.

Quickly, she eased into the water. It was warm and soothing and if she had the
time, she dearly longed to soak until she grew wrinkled.

She dare not.

Soaping herself and hurriedly washing every inch then her hair, she rose and
grabbed the huge bath sheet Hawke's men had left.

"Are ye finished?" Hawke asked, startling her. He turned then and walked to the
tub, and as he walked he shed his clothing.

Wide-eyed, she watched as he uncovered himself. He stepped into the water,
heaving a huge sigh, and settled into the water. Still, she watched.

He closed his eyes.

"If ye are going to stare at me, I'll have to return the gesture sometime," he told
her. "If I'm of such great interest to ye, ye could wash my back. I wouldnae
complain," he said and opened his eyes, a wide smile gracing his features.

She gasped and quickly turned her back, but she could still hear his deep chuckle.
Color and heat rose to her cheeks. With the back of her hand, she tried to cool
herself. The gesture was to no avail and she called herself a fool and a half-wit for
staring at him.

Water rustled in the tub, splashed and sloshed. She heard him rise and she heard
the sound of the bath sheet rubbing against his body.

A fine trembling swept within her. She closed her eyes. It was all she could do to
keep her imagination from running away with itself. She wondered then what it
would be like to be promised to a man such as Hawke. A strong, handsome man,
an honest and caring man. Never mind she was his reviled enemy; she'd seen
Hawke, watched him with his men. He was so very much like her father and she
wanted to tell him so, needed to talk to him and pour out all her fears.

She didn't dare.

His fingers brushed her hair from her neck. "Come, ye must dry your hair before ye
take sick. Ye mustn't get cold."

Startled, she turned and nearly bumped into him he was so close. He was dressed

and holding a brush in one hand. A smile on his face, he guided her to a stool by
the fire. "Sit," he said, "and I'll tell ye a story."

She did what he asked and he combed her hair. She closed her eyes, reveling in
his gentle touch.

"Why?" She asked the same question of Hawke she'd asked his sister.

"Why what?" he queried back.

She knew he played games, that he waited and he would speak of this when he
felt the time was right. But she didn't want to wait nor did she want to hear a story.
It was time he told her the truth. "Why am I your enemy? I have done nothing
wrong. Ye have alluded to my father, but he was a good, kind man. He was very
much like ye."

Behind her she felt Hawke stiffen, felt the comb pull at a snarl. Before the
question, she'd known only his gentleness. Now the way he moved the comb
through her hair, she felt the intensity of his hatred rise.

"Do not think to compare me with your father. He was a brutal man." Hawke let the
comb fall to the floor. He strode to the window. His shoulders shook as he leaned
forward, his hands braced on either side of the window, staring into the sky.

"Then ye did not know my father," she told him, squaring her shoulders, refusing to
allow Hawke to intimidate her. She walked to the window and stood beside him,
determined he would know her father through her eyes.

"Truly ye are right. I did not know him, but I saw firsthand what he was capable of
doing."

"Surely ye can tell me."

"Nay, the thought brings an ache to my heart, to my very soul. Should I recount
those events, the memories might do irreparable harm to ye. It is true I've vowed
vengeance but..."

"But?" She wasn't at all sure she should coax out the truth, yet she felt there was
much she didn't know and more she didn't understand.

"Enough!"

Anger made him shake, made his fists clench at his sides. She thought to draw
back, but the need to understand overpowered common sense.

She persisted. "It is not enough," she told him, her voice wavering in the light of his

anger. Still she held firm, determined to discover the hidden demons whirling in
Hawke's mind.

"'Twas a long time ago."

"So long ago? Your anger surfaces as if the deed had happened only yesterday."

"Your father sentenced mine to death for something he did not do."

"Those words make no sense. My father did not believe in senseless killings and
he never sentenced anyone to death except for the most horrific crimes against
humanity," she said, studying him and watching as the raw fury turned to a deeper
emotion. She read love in his eyes, vulnerability and loss.

"I was but ten years old." Hawke spoke more slowly, his voice tempered with
longing.

"So ye might be wrong. Ye might not have understood all that happened."

"I know my father did not murder the man he was accused of killing. I know his
men did not rape the other man's wife. All this I know because I was with him.
Before your father's men captured The MacPherson, my own father ordered me to
hide so they would not find me too. I believe my father knew what was about to
happen, but he did not have time to tell me about it. I heard him whisper about the
evil and the treachery that was afoot, but I knew not what to make of his words."

She sat down, folding her hands upon her lap and watched Hawke. Saw the set of
his jaw and the stiffness of his spine, saw the vulnerability he must have felt at ten
years of age and unable to help the man he loved, the man who sired him.

"My father was not behind this. He was not evil." Her confidence grew with every
word Hawke spoke about the events, and yet she could think of no way to
convince Hawke what she said was true.

He turned on her, hatred gleaming in his eyes, all trace of vulnerability vanishing
with her words. "Ye were not there. Ye did not hear him pass sentence, did not
hear the venom in his words."

"No. I was but a small child, a babe. But I do not believe my father would change
so much in the following years. Do ye?" she challenged Hawke, hoping he would
begin to understand he was wrong.

"I heard the sentence."

"How?"

"I was in the hall listening, waiting for the verdict to be passed down. Your father
could not have known I was there. He did not see me nor I him."

"That still does not mean..."

"Hawke!" Lachlan pounded on the door. "Huntington's men grow restless. They
are wanting to see Callie again. Nay, they insist. I do not think they will ever leave
if they are left alone. And--they speak of a wedding. If ye will not hand Callie over
to them, they are insisting ye wed her."

"I will be there shortly," Hawke told Lachlan.

"Marriage?" Callie whispered, "I will not wed a man who despises me."

"Are ye your father's only heir?" he asked.

She nodded. He turned from her and walked the length of the room.

"The Whitcomb estate is no longer my concern." Her voice trembled with anger
and frustration as she spoke. "He can have it all."

Once again, Hawke stood in front of her. His expression grim, he seemed to be
filled with raw fury.

"Archibald Covington III," Hawke muttered and swore beneath his breath, shaking
with anger. Her own fear overpowered her rational thought. She didn't understand
his anger at her stepbrother, yet she could equate the fury with a deep-seated
hatred for her father and the familial bond existing between them.

Long seconds passed while they stared at each other.

Then, without warning, he left the room. And she heard him tell Lachlan to stay at
his post.

She listened to his footsteps as he descended the stairs, then she watched him
ride from the castle. She would not have had to peer outside to know, for she
heard the cry of his men as he raced away.

But she stood at the solar window watching the forest beyond.

Silence swirled around her, seeming to envelope her. She touched her cheeks and
felt the coldness. Tears burned in the back of her throat and despite every effort,
they began to fall.

She was alone in Hawke's solar with only her thoughts to wrap around her.

Dressing in the clothes Lainie brought her, she walked to the window. The day had
turned cloudy and a light mist fell from the skies. She stared wistfully at the hills
beyond, then the ocean below. Confinement did not set well with her. She needed
to ride and race the wind, feel the air whisper across her face.

All she'd done the past week was pace within the confines of whatever room
Hawke gave her, wishing for company. When Hawke came to see her, he made
her tremble with anger and sometimes with fear. But there were moments when
she felt the strangest longing deep inside. She didn't understand the aching need
that rose within her when he was near, but she was beginning to accept the
strange burning sensations.

Nay, she would never accept the loneliness nor would she accept her plight.

Callie stepped from the window and her musings. She walked to the door. Pushing
on it slightly, the heavy oak door swung open.

The hallway was empty.

* * *

Trapped by one of Huntington's men, Lainie raced through the halls, hoping to find
an unlocked door. Her hunt was to no avail. She felt his beefy hand close around
her upper arm, smelled the foul scent of his breath wrap around her. Tremors
shimmied up her spine. Fear for her life rose to the forefront of her mind.

Quickly inhaling, she slowed her pace and turned to face her assailant.

"Unhand me!"

He grinned, his cheeks jiggling. "I would show ye pleasure if ye'd let me." He
spoke slowly, as if she were a half-wit.

"Never." The urge to slap the smirk off his face rose. His beady pig-eyes leered at
her.

"Don't play coy with me. Everyone knows the highland lasses like their men
rough."

Bile rose in her throat.

"My brothers will kill ye." Lainie knew Ian and Colin would take great satisfaction in
the deed. "If ye touch me again, I will tell them ye forced me."

"Then ye'll be ruined. Besides, I won't force ye. By the time I am through with ye,
ye will be quite," he paused, "placid and compliant."

"Never."

"Your brothers are not here," he told her, sneering at her, watching her as if she
were already his possession.

She tried to hide her fear and her hatred. She had not known Colin and Ian were
gone and she didn't like the idea they had left her here alone with English ruffians
so close at hand. Unprotected and without benefit of a chaperone, she would have
to fend for herself.

The man stepped back and let his hand drop from her arm. "Call me Bertie," he
told her, a thin stream of saliva sliding from his lips. "Mayhap we could begin this
again."

"Nay." She turned to leave, but he maneuvered his great bulk around her and
blocked her way.

"Would ye dine with me this evening?" he asked. "In my room?"

"I wouldnae do anything with ye," she spoke quickly and once again attempted to
side step him, fear terrorizing her.

With his chest, he touched her breasts and pretended to stumble upon her, his
fingers exploring all that he could in the brief moment. He held her hips and
squeezed ruthlessly, touching, exploring, hurting her.

His hateful touch would leave bruises, but in places no one would see.

"Sorry," he muttered, yet the lecherous grin told Lainie he felt no regret.

But his ploy created an opening for Lainie. Lifting her skirts high, she ran.

Chapter Six

Hawke rode hard and fast. His blood pounded a chilling staccato in his head.

Forgiving himself for harboring his enemy impossible, he urged his horse to run
faster, ever harder. Brambles and briars tore at his clothes as he raced onward
toward the small parish nestled between two craggy hills.

She'd used him too. He knew that for a fact, even though he couldn't explain what
she'd done. He could feel the betrayal in the deepest part of his soul.

Archibald Covington III was a rogue, a womanizer and a scoundrel of the worst
sort. Was she anything like her stepbrother? Or her father? He pondered the
thought while he raced the wind.

No, she couldn't be. From the first moment he'd seen her, she'd appeared to him
innocence and light. She was a sweetness that coursed through his veins when he
let his guard down. Desire and passion had driven him. Pure honey to the soul,
that was Callie Whitcomb. He'd pushed those thoughts of Callie Whitcomb aside.
They were enemies.

She was the heir to her father's estate.

With marriage, he could claim all she owned. What sweet revenge.

Claiming the land, the power, and the wealth of his enemy and knowing David
Whitcomb could do nothing to stop him gave his injured soul some satisfaction.
Archibald was the stepbrother and the only way the man could inherit would be by
manipulating Callie's marriage or by treachery.

What did he owe himself? Integrity. Honesty. The need to right the horrible wrong
done to his family.

He would find satisfaction. He would gain the land and turn the holdings over to his
brother Ian. A gift to his brother and the land would now be controlled by his clan.

By The MacPhersons.

She should have fled to a nunnery.

Her property as well as her body would have been safe there.

He raced onward. The priest in the small village he rode toward was well known to

him and his family. And he prayed the man would agree to his plan. Paul
MacMurdo might not understand the demons driving him.

He could not lie to the priest. So he would have to find a way to convince Paul
what he did was best for all.

The hill rose in front of him and Hawke knew that beyond the rise he would find the
village. He stopped at the top and scanned the countryside. There had been no
sign of Covington's or Huntington's retainers. He had not been cautious, so he
thanked the lucky star he must have been born under for keeping him safe despite
his carelessness and plunged down the hill.

Chickens squawked and children peered from their homes. The smell of peat
smoke hung in the air. No one ventured forward although the people of the village
knew him well. Because of this he was sure they recognized the grim expression
on his face and the determination that had settled in his heart and simmered
fiercely.

He dismounted in front of the church.

"Paul," he called out to his boyhood friend even as he strode quickly toward the
building.

God, it was good to see Paul as he stepped from the door, his arms stretched out
in greeting.

"Hawke, what can I do for ye this beautiful day?" Paul grinned.

"Let's walk." Hawke stared into the distance, his emotions churning, guilt for what
he was about to do resurfacing. He pushed the feeling aside. There was no room
in his heart for guilt or remorse. Lady Callie would be given a choice. No force or
coercion would be part of this. He would not treat her unkindly.

"All right," Paul said, seeming to sense the emotions seething within Hawke.

They walked down a well-trodden path. Neither said anything until they were sure
no one would overhear. "I want ye to come with me. Stay for a few days at the
castle."

"Why?" Paul asked.

They had known each other for so very long. There was a time, Hawke was sure,
Paul could guess each and every thought within his head. Perhaps Paul still could.
"Your suspicious nature, the one I remember from when we were lads, does not
become ye now."

Mid-stride, Paul stopped, his hand on Hawke's shoulder, his brows drawn together
in fierce concentration. "In these times perhaps suspicion is a good trait. I have
heard rumors. Huntington's men have been seen in the Highlands. Tell me, does
this have anything to do with ye? Or the girl I've heard tell of?"

The concern in Paul voice touched Hawke and brought back more childhood
memories. "Perhaps. I will tell ye what this is all about and what I want from ye
while we ride. I need ye, Paul, and I don't have time to inform ye of everything right
now." Hawke's voice carried a note of regret and warning that Paul was not going
to The MacPherson castle for festivities.

"I have duties here, Hawke. I cannot just pick up and leave at my whim or yours.
The people here need me." Paul was shaking his head. "Ye will have to tell--"

"Ye have no choice. I am desperate. Trust me." Hawke implied so very much.
Desperate. "'Tis a lady involved. And no," he was holding his hands in the air, "''tis
not Lainie I speak of, although I wish ye could convince her Lachlan would be a
fine husband. I would have ye marry her this very day."

"Then she is willing?" Paul asked, for a moment, a smile on his face.

"Nay, if she would only agree, but enough of Lainie. Will ye come with me?"

"I dinna like this," Paul said, his voice soft. "Are ye sure your plans are
necessary?"

"Aye, I'm sure. Will ye come with me?" Hawke asked once more.

MacMurdo paused in thought and Hawke wasn't at all sure of the answer.

"Aye," Paul said, softly. "Ye wouldn't ask if this task was not important."

"Thank ye." Hawke's words were heartfelt and sincere.

They walked back to the village. Hawke led his horse to the rear of the church
where Paul had his own horse stabled. They mounted and rode through town at
an easy pace.

No one spoke and Hawke liked the silence. The tension between them seemed to
ease. Still, he didn't relish the thought of telling Paul who it was he planned to wed.

A Whitcomb.

Christ, but he didn't understand what had happened. Hawke knew Paul well
enough to know he would refuse at first.

"Tell me what is going on." Paul's question and his tone searching for everything
Hawke was willing to reveal.

"Tis a matter of honor," Hawke said quietly. "A man goes through life with certain
obligations. I will honor this one completely." Hawke knew he spoke in riddles and
wished he could tell Paul everything.

Eventually he would have to, but for now he wanted to be far enough away from
the small parish so Paul would think twice before turning back.

"Honor, ye speak of that which has no substance and tends to get many a grown
man into desperate trouble," Paul said, his voice filled with concern.

Hawke didn't speak for the longest time. He knew the priest would not like the
answer, but he didn't intend to lie. "The rumors ye have heard are true. But there is
more. A lady came to the castle seeking asylum."

"Who?"

"Lady Callie Whitcomb."

Paul's sharp intake of air proved Hawke right. "Why, for God's sake?"

"Because she mistakenly thought I was loyal to her father." Hawke spurred his
horse forward, dismissing further questions, and hoped the priest would do the
same.

The steady beat of the horse's hooves behind Hawke told him Paul was not
finished with his questions, but the fact he didn't push his horse harder told him
Paul was willing to let the issue rest--at least for the moment.

Finally, Paul pulled close to Hawke. "I won't be performing last rites here, will I?"

"Nay, that would be too easy."

"What do ye want of me then?" Paul asked.

Hawke turned slightly. "She has no choice. She is a Lady, the Lady Callie
Whitcomb."

"I don't understand what it is ye want." Once again, Paul's sharp indrawn breath
told Hawke he remembered the incidents surrounding The MacPherson clan and
remembered them very well.

"Her father?" Paul questioned.

"Has passed on. She has been promised to Simon Huntington and Archibald
Covington is her stepbrother."

This time Paul dropped back and Hawke knew the priest was not going to ask any
more questions. When they were boys Paul had helped Hawke through the
despair when Hawke's father was executed. Paul had long ago given up
dissuading Hawke from seeking revenge against the Whitcombs.

Paul would guess all had gone terribly awry in the Whitcomb household if Callie
had been driven away.

Oh, God, but he was about to do something he might well regret for a lifetime.

But he was doing this for the sake of honor.

For the sake of honor, he reminded himself.

* * *

"Where do ye think Hawke went?" Callie gazed out the window to the courtyard
below. Lainie stood beside her, her breath racing from thoughts of the narrow
escape she'd just had with Bertram.

"I don't know, but I mean to stay in this room until he returns. With Lachlan
guarding the door and Ian close by, 'tis the safest place in the castle," Lainie
spoke, quickly and furiously.

Callie turned to Lainie. Speaking from her heart, she said, "I'm truly sorry I've
brought these horrible men to your home. I never meant any harm. Yet I knew
Huntington, Archibald or perhaps both of them would send their retainers after
me."

Lainie's fists tightened and she squared her shoulders. "Ye are not responsible for
the actions of others. Bertram is a lecherous man, used to getting whatever he
wants and taking by force anyone who refuses him."

"Still--"

"Nay." Lainie waved her arms to stop Callie. "I want to hear no more of this. Colin
will be home soon, I am sure of it. Until then, I will stay with ye."

Callie knew in her heart she'd made a friend in Lainie. She only wished Lainie
could convince Hawke she would never do him harm or betray him. But she didn't
understand why the hate would carry over to her. The more she thought about
Hawke's recounting of the events leading to his father's murder, the more
determined she was to find out the truth. She never doubted Hawke remembered

the events vividly, but he was only a boy and perhaps there was more to what
happened than he knew.

"I see them," Lainie said. "On the horizon. Two men--oh, one is Paul. I haven't
seen him in the longest time." Lainie whirled and ran for the door, but stopped just
short of opening it. Her head fell and Callie watched her, the slump of her
shoulders, the slightest trembling of her body. Then Lainie turned toward Callie.
"Nay, I will wait. When I was younger, I used to rush out to see Paul, and he would
twirl me around and sometimes toss me into the air." She paused a moment
seeming to think on her declaration. "He is a priest now."

"Ye were in love with him then?" Callie asked with sudden insight.

"I thought I was. But he is as old as my brother is. I was naught but a little girl to
him."

"I see," Callie said, but truly, she did not. Her own childhood had been empty and
very lonely. For her there had been no childhood loves. She'd had no one except
Archie. And he was hardly someone she could have fallen in love with. At first,
she'd idolized him, but that emotion soon changed to fear. Even as a young man,
he'd been cruel and thoughtless.

"They will be here soon. Do ye wonder what Hawke was doing and why he
brought Paul to the castle? I do. Paul MacMurdo has not been to see us in over a
year, although the village where he lives is not far away."

Callie breathed in a deep, raw breath of air. Over the past few days, her nerves
had been shredded. Now that Hawke returned, her heart thundered against her
breasts. "I have thought of nothing but Hawke's disappearance. When he is gone,
I don't like the helplessness and the vulnerability I feel. At least when Hawke is
here I know..." What did she know?

Callie paused, for indeed she believed Hawke would not harm her. Just as Lainie
had told her, he had protected her and sheltered her from those who would use
force against her. He might hate her father and truly wish to deal out some type of
justice or revenge, but Callie had never believed he would harm her.

Welcoming shouts from the bailey below filtered in through the window. Lainie
leaned out and waved at the men. Once again, Callie's heart was torn asunder,
and she felt the chill of the loneliness sweep through her. The shouts of welcome,
the happiness of the greetings all filled her with a desperate longing. Once she
had known that kind of camaraderie. When her father lived, she'd been adored
and cherished. Her mother had loved her dearly. The hugs and the cheerful
chatter had been a part of every day.

After Archie and his mother entered her life, all that changed. As a child, she'd

spent most of the time alone in her room, afraid to step into the great hall,
frightened of shadows.

"They see me." Lainie clapped her hands and jumped up and down several times
with childish delight.

"What?" Callie snapped from her daydreaming.

Lainie waved to the men. Hawke and Paul waved back and Hawke called out
something. But the wind whisked the words away. Then he slapped the priest on
the back and they both threw their heads back in laughter.

"I think they will be here shortly," Lainie spoke excitedly, her head and half her
body hanging out the window.

"I hope so," and Callie remembered the kiss she shared with Hawke, and touched
her lips. Heat rushed to her cheeks and a strange warmth swept through her.

Lainie whirled. "Do ye?" Her eyes were alight and Callie was certain Lainie read
something she hadn't meant to imply into her statement. "Ye like him. Don't ye?"

Callie dipped her head and stared at the floor for a moment. "Yes." She did like
Hawke, even though she should be afraid of him and the threat he hung over her
head.

Lainie stepped toward her and put her arm around Callie's shoulder. "I am glad. I
see the way he looks at ye and the way ye look at him. I don't think he despises ye
any longer. I'm sure he will never forgive your father, but in time maybe the two of
ye can be friends as we are. I wouldn't dare hope for more. But, Callie, this is not a
terrible place to live. It is certainly better than a life with your stepbrother or Simon
Huntington."

"In that we agree completely." Callie laughed, unsure where the conversation
would go from here. She wouldn't give her heart away to Lainie.

Hawke, Paul and Ian burst into the solar. Lainie flew at Paul, who swept her into
his arms and twirled her around and around.

When he set Lainie onto her feet, her cheeks were flushed and her hair had flown
loose from the coil she'd wound around her head. "Welcome," Lainie said
breathlessly. "It's been far too long since we've seen ye."

Paul stepped backed. "My and how ye have grown, little one. Ye are a young lady
now."

"Thank ye," Lainie said, her cheeks growing even redder.

Hawke cleared his throat and nodded to the door.

Paul nodded back, his smile vanishing for a moment. "Come, Lainie, let's go
somewhere we can talk."

"'Tis not safe," Lainie blurted.

"What do ye mean?" Hawke stepped forward, his brows drawn tightly together as
he gritted out the words. "Not safe in my own castle?"

Callie knew Lainie regretted her rash statement the moment the words left her
mouth. She'd hoped the incident would not be repeated and prayed nothing would
come of it. Too much trouble had come their way. Callie understood Lainie's
silence all too well.

"One of Huntington's men spoke to her out of turn," Callie told Hawke. "She is fine.
I don't think Bertie will bother her again now that ye have returned."

Hawke turned on Callie, his voice a low growl. "Out of turn?" he questioned.

"'Twas nothing," Lainie stepped between her brother and Callie. "Everything is
fine."

"Fine?" One eyebrow quirked skyward. Callie knew Hawke well enough now to
know he wasn't satisfied by her meager explanation.

"I'm going with Paul." Lainie grabbed her friend's arm and turned her back on
Hawke, tugging the priest out the door in apparent haste.

Callie couldn't help but admire Lainie's daring. She didn't believe she would have
that much courage if Hawke growled at her in such a manner.

Hawke watched the pair leave, his breaths deep and long. "What happened?"

Hawke didn't turn. He kept his back to her, and she was relieved she couldn't see
his expression. His voice barely controlled was raw with emotion.

"Bertram, one of the King's own men, made advances toward your sister. He was
rude and insufferable but that was all. Nothing happened and Lainie kept in your
solar with me until ye returned."

Hawke's fists were clenched tightly by his side and he turned slowly. "I'll kill him."

"Ye can't."

"Why not?" he questioned, his anger clearly growing. He walked to a table and
poured them both wine. Then he handed a glass to her.

She sipped the wine before replying. "Because Bertram is highly regarded by the
King. Ye cannot dare to bring Henry's wrath down upon your lands. Your sister
has stayed here until your return," Callie repeated, determined to convince Hawke
that prudence in this matter was necessary. "The incident would have never
occurred if ye hadn't left."

He stepped closer. She could smell mint on his breath as the scent whispered
across her cheek. "Ye dare accuse me of neglect?"

"Nay, I but made a comment that is true."

"Every man is accountable for what he does. I am not responsible for Bertie's
rudeness but I will make sure he understands my position in this."

"And well ye should. But I would tread lightly where Bertie is concerned. He is as
evil as Simon and Archibald."

Hawke strode to the window and stared outside. "Ye have caused naught but
trouble since your arrival."

"I will leave." Oh, but in the deepest part of her heart and soul, she prayed he
would object.

"Nay!" His voice was harsh. "Ye will stay here until I say ye can leave. 'Tis not your
decision. Your life is in my hands."

Resting his head on the hard casement, he said nothing. Endless seconds passed
between them. Callie stepped toward the fireplace, watching the flames dance
within the grate and the embers pop and hiss. Her heart sped and her nerves
seemed to grow tighter with each passing moment of silence.

A soft rain fell and she listened to the drops hit the castle. It had been so long
since she'd stepped outside, since she'd felt the wind in her hair, the sun on her
face and smelled the sweet scent of heather on the breeze. Tears of self-pity
welled inside her, but she pushed them back, determined to see this through. Self-
pity would never help. She had caused this and she would not wallow in despair at
her plight.

"I have come to some decisions," he told her, never moving or turning to look upon
her.

She knew he could not bear her presence or the sight of her, and she felt the deep
animosity beginning to rise within him.

"What decisions?" she asked, dreading the answers he might give. "Ye would not
turn me over to Huntington?" At the thought, her knees nearly buckled.

"Nay," he said softly.

She fell silent, once more relieved at his decision. Curiosity drove her. "What then?
What will ye do with me?" Yet at the same time she wasn't sure she wanted to
know what he planned for her.

Hawke turned and watched her. His glacial blue-eyed stare sent a wave of chills
down her spine. She clenched the fabric of her gown, praying for deliverance from
his hatred.

"Ye will do all that I say."

She wasn't sure if his words were meant as a question or a command. "Yes."
Doing all he said might indeed mean a life without Simon Huntington, and yet by
doing his bidding it might mean a life of servitude with him. She would serve him
gladly if he kept her away from her stepbrother and her fiancé.

"Ye must be sure. We have already started down a dangerous path."

He watched her reaction to his words and marveled at the stiffness of her spine
and the regal bearing she maintained despite the fear he read in her eyes.

"What path?" Her voice wavered and moisture glistened in her eyes. "I would that
ye tell me of the dangers I have not already endured."

"What is it ye want to know?" he questioned.

"Why ye despise me so. Why ye cannot find forgiveness in your heart. What it is
ye have planned for me. I would do most anything." She spoke quickly and he
wondered if she had time to breathe.

"I have told ye," he said, his words rasping in the back of his parched throat.

"I don't believe ye," she told him quickly.

"Then there is nothing more I can say." This time he spoke softly and he stepped
close to her. He felt the heat from her body, the whisper of breath from her lips and
watched fascinated as she lowered her long dark lashes before looking at him. In
that one gesture she challenged him, perhaps taunted him. Her bearing was regal,
her manners impeccable.

She was a Lady.

She fought her battles as a Lady born.

Hawke touched the back of his hand to her cheek and felt her slight flinch, saw the
fear in her eyes and wondered at his own sanity to plot such a laughable revenge.

"Ye must learn not to shy away when I touch ye." Once again, he spoke softly, his
tone meant to seduce and conquer. Conquer. He wondered at that, openly
marveled at the sweet possibility and the enduring promise.

Lady Callie would not willingly surrender to anyone, least of all Colin MacPherson.
No, now that she knew most of the story, she would fight him in her own way,
subtly and artfully. She would flirt and dance attendance upon him when they were
surrounded by people she needed to enchant, but when they were alone she
would lift her chin and dismiss him silently.

He would never understand what motivated her.

Yet he wanted to win this contest--this battle of wills. He needed to have her need
him, to want him and to come to him with her darkest fears and in her loneliest
hours. And he wanted her to burn for him just as intensely as the flames rose
within him.

All the loathing he felt for her--for her father and her family remained--still...

He picked up her hand in his and studied her long, delicate fingers. Hands that
had never seen a day's hard work. Hands that had pursued the finer arts, stitchery
perhaps. He knew so little about Callie Whitcomb and what he now planned would
weld them together for eternity.

This could only result in heartache for both of them. And yet...

Her face now framed by his hands, he traced her jaw line, marveled at the
softness.

"Hawke," she whispered his name and the sound was bittersweet.

"Nay, do not try to figure out why we have been thrust together. Do not try to
understand what I am about to ask of ye for ye will not be able to make sense of
that which I am about to tell ye."

"I--" she began.

"Hush." He lowered his lips to hers, and brushed them softly with his own. He
lingered upon the lush ripeness beneath his mouth, he feathered kisses--light
kisses--where he would have liked to delve deeper and taste all that was Lady

Callie Whitcomb.

He held himself back with the greatest restraint. Yet he was sure she responded to
him, sure she leaned slightly toward him and relaxed against him.

She opened to him like a soft spring flower opening to the warmth of the sun and
gentleness of the April rains. Her hands pressed against his chest, then rose
higher to wind around his neck, her fingers threading themselves into his hair.

"This is for your good as well as that of my clan," he whispered to her, his hands
on the small of her back, bringing her closer. He wanted to explore the swell of her
hips and the curve of her spine. To touch her naked flesh and taste every inch of
her became a fever in his mind, his heart and his soul.

And he hated himself for his thoughts of debauchery. Guilt swept through him,
betrayal of his father's memory surged to the forefront of his mind. Abruptly, he
pushed away from Callie, yearning to wipe the taste of her from his lips, yet unable
to do so.

"Hawke?" Her eyes were wide and, within their depths, he read confusion.

She appeared stunned, shaken to her core. He should revel in that but he felt no
joy.

"We will wed this evening. 'Tis why Father MacMurdo accompanied me." He drank
one last time from the goblet of wine before turning and leaving the room.

* * *

Lainie could not stop herself from taunting Bertie, lifting her chin higher when she
walked through the great hall on the arm of Lachlan and with her brother Ian
beside her. Protected from him, she felt brazen and confident. Now that her
brothers were home, Bertie could not touch her.

"Sit with me," she told Lachlan and watched the braw, Scottish highlander's smile
grow wider and warmer with her words. Immediately she hated herself for using
him so, but Colin had told Lachlan not to leave her side.

To protect her at all cost.

Yet she never meant to give him false impressions. Guilt swept through her. She
liked Lachlan but she knew she would never fall in love with him.

She wanted a love that would last through eternity.

Ian sat on the other side and whispered to her. "Do not tease the man, little sister.

He has a heart of pure gold and ye know he wants to wed ye. Lachlan only waits
for a sweet word from your lips before asking Colin for your hand in marriage.
'Twould not be a bad thing--marriage to Lachlan."

"Nay," Lainie replied for Ian's ears only. "I dinna love him." Yet she looked back to
where Lachlan sat. He was big and strong and so handsome he should turn any
lass's head. Now he was joking and laughing with a friend and Lainie prayed
Lachlan had not heard Ian's words. "Colin would never marry me to any man
without my consent. He promised me I could find true love and that he would not
force a marriage even though he says 'tis what is best."

Ian guffawed loudly. "Lainie, our big brother indulges ye to no end. There is no
such thing as true love. Love is for poets and bards. A woman marries to better the
estate. She is but a pawn and ye know that for a fact. Colin believes ye could be
happy with Lachlan. He is a good, fine man and he would not beat ye."

Anger churned within her. "Would not beat me?" She was hard-pressed to keep
her words low pitched. "What kind of recommendation is that?"

"If ye are asking me, it is a very fine one. Who knows what kind of man ye would
find on your own. Ye can be so very vexing that your actions would drive many a
man to lay a strap to ye. Ye know very well it would be within his rights. Lachlan
merely smiles at ye when ye are obnoxious. He dotes on ye and he would spoil ye
as Colin has done the past fifteen years."

"I am not spoiled." She was truly growing tired of this conversation.

Bertie had pushed back his chair and stood. His cold gaze raked over her as he
walked her way. Chills raced down her spine. Once again, she turned her attention
to Lachlan.

He was a good man, just as her brother had said. He would understand if she
flirted a little too much. She would tell him what happened and explain to him that
he was a good and trusted friend, but she would never love him.

Chapter Seven

Hawke barged into his brother's solar, his head near bursting, his nerves very
nearly unraveled. To his astonishment, Ian leaned back in his chair, his booted
feet propped on a table in front of him and grinned shamelessly.

"I see your temper has not cooled," Ian commented with a strong Scottish burr. He
set his feet on the ground and stood, his smile still broad. He gave Hawke a
friendly swat on the back of his shoulder, his blue eyes dancing.

"Don't sass your elders," Hawke murmured dryly, walking past Ian to stand at the
window and stare at the courtyard below where lights from the lanterns cast an
ethereal glow. Ian sauntered across the room to the table where wine and goblets
waited. He looked over his shoulder at Hawke as he poured the wine.

Suddenly, without warning, he set the goblet back upon the table, wine sloshing
over the sides, and strode toward his brother. "The girl is not worth all this distress,
Hawke," Ian said grating his teeth. "Give her to Huntington and be done with this
or hand her over to her stepbrother. She has nothing we want or need."

Despite the pounding headache, Hawke laughed softly, catching his brother's
gaze and holding it for the longest second. He had thought of Ian's plan many
times. Oh, yes, giving her over to her enemies would be the cruelest form of
revenge. But he knew Ian did not mean what he said. Indeed, Hawke knew Ian
would go to great lengths to stop him if he tried to send Callie Whitcomb away. "Ye
know I would never put any woman into the hands of Simon Huntington or
Archibald Covington. I have more than one reason for keeping Callie here." He
paused, one eyebrow raised in intense concentration. "Despite your disapproval, I
plan on carrying out my own plan where Callie is concerned," he said, rubbing his
temples as if the gesture would relieve the pain.

"Do ye truly know what this can mean? What might very well happen?" Ian
frowned suddenly, sensing that something bothered Hawke. "Should we prepare
for siege?" he asked his brother, somberly walking down the length of the table to
pluck up a goblet and hand it to Hawke. "The castle is buzzing with the rumors.
The clan supports ye and they would willingly keep the girl. Simply put, in the short
time she has lived with us, she has managed to find her way into many a soft
heart. Yet, ye must know that to put your people at risk for no other reason than
revenge belittles ye."

Hawke sipped the wine, suddenly pensive as he thought of David Whitcomb and
the trial so many years ago. Ah, but it was amazing who could fall into one's lap if
ye wished hard enough.

Yesterday, he had decided upon a course of action he might truly come to regret.
Just this morning, he'd set plans in motion he would not change now.

"This has progressed far past the simple pleasure of revenge," Hawke said
thoughtfully, sipping the wine his brother had given him and letting the warmth
ease the doubt he'd harbored since leaving the castle yesterday.

"Ye brought Paul here. Well then, do ye plan to marry the girl to someone in the
clan? A marriage such as that, one between a clan member and Callie would
solidify her position here. Her brother could do naught but grit his teeth and bewail
the loss of the Whitcomb property."

"Aye," he told his brother thoughtfully. "'Tis what I plan."

And so Hawke sat before the fire now with his brother, thinking, oddly, of the many
times he had dreamed of the moment when he could exact the restitution he had
sought diligently for so many years

Yet nothing he'd faced so far would be more difficult than convincing Ian that what
was to come was what he wanted, was entirely his choice. Yet it was something
he was determined to do--nay, hell-bent upon achieving.

"I ask again," Ian said. "Who is it among our people ye plan to wed Callie to?
Lachlan perhaps? He has been a valued member of the clan, and he is ever loyal
and honest."

Hawke shrugged and arched one eyebrow, studying his brother. "Oh, if deciding
were so easy as ye make it out to be, life would be satisfying indeed. Perhaps I've
decided ye would be the proud husband. I've always fancied Lachlan for Lainie."

"Enough!" Ian spoke, his temper seeming to rise from nothing. "'Tis not seemly for
ye to mock and jest about a situation so important and dangerous. Ye and I both
know ye would never force an unwanted marriage on any of the clan members.
Lachlan wants Lainie, that's a fact, but she doesn't love him and ye promised her a
marriage of love. Although we both know such a thing does not exist. Love! 'Tis for
fanciful women."

Hawke knew Ian had never wanted to be like him, never wanted the terrible
burden of responsibility he carried on his shoulders and had never sought to rule
over so many people. Ian's life had been carefree and fun, filled with few
responsibilities and Hawke knew Ian liked it that way. Deep inside Ian knew he
would not saddle him with a wife, an unwilling one at that.

Suddenly, the dawn of knowledge seemed to break through. Once again, Ian
grinned yet he spoke with a touch of awe to his words. "Ye plan to wed her?" Even

as Ian spoke, Hawke saw the light of understanding glow in Ian's eyes. Ian knew
Hawke would never force a marriage between Callie and himself. And now there
was a shimmer of suspicion in Ian's dark blue eyes, a definite query to the tilt of his
head.

Hawke was not yet ready to answer Ian's pointed question. He gazed upon his
brother and thought with the deepest admiration that his brother was a strong,
braw highlander, just past twenty and capable of breaking many a lass's heart. But
Ian would not wait for an answer. "Hawke, I will have the truth in this," he insisted.
"Tell me if I have guessed right."

Hawke slowly brought the goblet of wine to his lips and finished off the contents
before speaking to Ian. "Well, I was just thinking about the damsels that still need
rescuing and the hearts ye will most likely break before ye find the right time to
wed. Ye will have to wed someday."

"I have no thoughts of breaking any hearts," Ian said dryly. "Actually, I was
wondering when ye became so adept at changing the subject. Be advised, Hawke,
I won't be swayed from what I want to know."

"Ian, it is simple. I would not have Lady Whitcomb returned to a man who would
abuse her, mentally or physically, even though those deeds are within his rights.
We have no choice. I must either wed her or turn her over to her brother. I have no
claim to her otherwise. Along with her hand in marriage will come her property and
the power of the Whitcomb name."

"The MacPhersons will hold Whitcomb land. I suppose there is some justice in that
and perhaps the end to the feud and the hatred."

"Aye, there is justice. I will give the estate over to ye to rule, and I will give ye the
power to change the ways of the people who live upon the land. The Whitcomb
castle sits on disputed land, borderland. The English who reside there cannot be
all bad. Many, I am sure, are part Scottish in heritage."

"My land would abut Huntington land." Ian paused in thought, a light twinkling in
his eyes. "I am not sure I would be able to keep my men from starting fights,
raiding and pillaging. Lord knows, Huntington slips around in the dark of the night
and then will not admit to the wrongs and injustices."

"Ye will have to control your men. Need I remind ye, Huntington is a powerful man
and has the ear of the English King," Hawke said, now knowing Ian would do his
bidding.

"I have never known ye to jump foolishly into a plan without thinking of the
consequences. Ye will be bound to this woman for life. Is that what ye want?"

"Ian, I have not jumped foolishly into something ever. And I have not done so this
time either. There is nothing hasty about my decision." He realized even as he
spoke the true nature of his feelings, he wasn't lying to himself or Ian. Much about
the lady appealed to him. From the first moment he'd set eyes upon her, he had
felt a burning need deep inside to have her.

"And Callie?" his brother inquired with an ebony brow arched high.

"And what of Callie..." he murmured. He lifted his hands. "She is stunning. Young.
Blond. Not pale blond--shimmering blond. Her hair is like the wheat blowing in the
wind. She is slender, lithe, curvaceous--"

"All of that and more," Ian said matter-of-fact, with a wry bit of humor lacing his
voice. "I've taken the time to speak with her, too, and I've listened to Lainie bend
my ear about all her fine attributes. Still, ye cannot force her."

Hawke grinned suddenly, watching his brother. "Perhaps I should have thought
more on a marriage between the two of ye. Alas, it is too late, my mind is set."

The slightest smile curved his lips as well. "Touché, my brother," he murmured.
"But I do remember a vow ye and I made to each other. Let me see, it seems we
were to remain unwed until we reached the ripe old age of thirty. Ye still have
several years left if my counting is right."

"A man can change his mind. Circumstances have forced me to rethink mine."

"'Tis a likely story. Perhaps ye are not thinking with your brain but a different part
of your anatomy," he muttered, yet he could not hide the grin slowly spreading
across his handsome features. He leaned back, closing his eyes, appearing very
weary for a moment. "And Callie has agreed, I imagine, poor thing. Although her
agreement comes as a surprise." Ian sat up quickly, his eyes wide open now.
"Holy Christ, I am shocked she would come to terms with a marriage such as this
so easily. She is a Whitcomb."

"I must be less of a threat than Huntington."

"Does she realize the marriage will be one of convenience?" Ian asked.

Hawke's body stiffened. He remembered the words he'd spoken to his brother.
Words he'd said in the heat of anger. Vividly, he remembered telling his brother
he'd never defile his hands by touching Callie. Yet, Ian knew him well enough to
goad him in this.

"'Tis none of your business, little brother, what kind of marriage I have," Hawke
reminded Ian harshly.

Ian studied his brother shrewdly for a moment. "I'm not so sure ye have any idea
what will happen on the wedding night, but whatever path ye take, be aware the
course ye choose will change your life forever."

"I understand the repercussions," he began indignantly, but then realized Ian was
maneuvering him right where he wanted him. "Repercussions indeed. If she is not
with child in a matter of months, Huntington will be breathing down my neck once
more. He won't want her, but he will cry foul and pretend I have dishonored him."

"So what will ye do?"

"I want her, Ian. Just as I live and breathe."

And that, he was equally surprised to discover, was true as well. He did want the
Englishman's daughter. With his kisses, he wanted to silence her adamant refusal
to believe David Whitcomb was evil. He wanted to wrap the silken strands of her
hair around his body, see its gold against the bronze of his skin. He was intrigued
by the determination and passion in her eyes. And he was mesmerized by the soft
English accent that was hers and hers alone.

"But ye do not love her," Ian said.

He sighed heavily. "Ian, I've only known her little more than a week. And I'm afraid
love has never been one of the real requisites for marriage, and it won't be for this
one. Love, if the state did indeed exist, plays no part in a marriage."

"Maybe not," Ian said, striding to the window, looking once again down at the
courtyard. "Though our mother and father loved each other dearly." He hesitated
for a moment, and then he too sighed. "I swear, Hawke, I would gladly fight
Huntington and Covington and fight them strenuously if it didn't involve Henry. But
these times are so turbulent and our own Scottish king, King James, does not
need clans stirring up trouble on their own. One feud could very well lead to a
bloody war."

"Ian, I do not want ye fighting anyone for me. This will all be resolved by this
evening. 'Tis why Brother Paul came home with me. Despite all of what has gone
on here over the last week, I would never do something I was adamantly against,
no matter what the threats," he assured his brother. And once again, Hawke
realized he was speaking the truth. Aye, he'd proposed the marriage hastily and
partly to offer Callie sanctuary in his home.

But if there hadn't been something about the Lady...

If he hadn't wanted her...

From the very beginning, he'd seen a spark, felt a flame and had known...

What was it he had known?

* * *

"Nay," Callie spoke to an empty room. During a quick morning visit, Colin had told
her they would wed this very evening. Then, not waiting for a reply, he'd walked
out the door. Jesu, she could not do what he asked. In her wildest imagination,
she had never thought he would ask her to marry him. Nay.

He would not force her.

He could not force her.

She would fight him with every breath in her body.

Callie walked to the table and poured herself another goblet of wine. She drank
quickly, hoping the heady brew would give her the courage she lacked, the much-
needed fortitude. Marriage to Colin MacPherson? Why on earth would he want to
marry his enemy? He had made his feelings abundantly clear. He despised her
family, loathed all they stood for and would give anything to see her father's head
on a pole. If he were still alive, she thought.

Still, he just asked for her hand in marriage. Nay, he had not asked. He had told
her what would happen.

Then the questions he'd asked before leaving.

Are ye the heir?

Suddenly all was clear. He would gain her estate, holding all she valued away
from her. The punishment would last a lifetime.

Satisfaction would be sweet.

The blood drained from her face, and she gripped the table to keep from falling to
the floor as her head spun and her stomach churned.

Suddenly, the door banged open, thundering against the wall. The room filled with
lively chattering servants, a tub, clothes. Lainie followed the commotion into the
room, directing all around her. "Put the tub by the fire, the clothes on the bed."

She turned to Callie, clapping her hands together. "I'm so happy. Ye are about to
become my sister. I've always wanted a sister. Someone I can talk to besides my
brothers. Someone who will understand what I am thinking."

"Lainie--" Callie inhaled deeply, her arms extended in wonder. "What is all of this?
I--"

"Your wedding. Ye did say ye would wed Hawke. Didn't ye? And the dress," she
held it up. "A silk acquired straight from the Byzantine empire!" Lainie exclaimed.
"Do ye like it?"

Callie realized Lainie had gone to great lengths for the wedding and in such a
short time. Lainie asked so many questions Callie didn't quite know where to begin
answering. She chattered nonstop. "He gave me no time to agree or disagree. He
told me what I would do. What would happen." Callie paused thoughtfully, gazing
at the beautiful gown. She'd owned many a gown and many had been very lovely,
but this one was exquisite and it was to be her wedding dress. "The gown is
beautiful, Lainie. Yes, I love it. Thank ye."

Lainie paled slightly, her earlier confidence waning with Callie's words of concern
about Hawke. She seemed not to hear a word about the dress. "Ye are going to
marry him. Aren't ye?"

Callie drank down the last drops of wine in her goblet. The courage she so
desperately sought did not come with the wine, only a desperately sick feeling.
This was not what she had expected.

"Nay," she told Lainie. "I cannot marry Hawke. Marriage to a man who seeks
revenge through me would be wrong."

"Ye have no choice. 'Tis Colin or Simon."

Lainie gripped her skirts tightly in her fingers, then she let go and poured herself
another goblet of wine, swallowing the liquid, then setting the goblet down hard
upon the table. Wine sloshed over the rim and pooled on the table.

"I don't understand anything that has happened since I arrived here." Callie
stepped away from the tub, away from the servants and away from Lainie.

Lainie grew agitated. She spoke quickly, as if she could not say enough words fast
enough. "If ye dinna marry Hawke tonight, he will have to let Huntington and his
men take ye away. There is no other recourse. Is that what ye want?"

"What? And why doesn't Hawke let Simon take me? Why? 'Twould be sweet
revenge to give me over to a man such as Simon. Still, he wants to torture me
further by keeping me with him for a lifetime. Jesu, it makes no sense, Lainie. Why
would he want to torture himself as well?" Lainie's statement stole Callie's breath
and made her limbs tremble anew. Once again, Callie used the table to keep
herself from collapsing.

"Your brother and Huntington have too much power as well as the English king's
gratitude for their support."

"They do not support Henry. They plot against him when his back is turned. They
have murdered and planned treason against King Henry. I know they wield power
and they have the King fooled but--"

"If he is fooled then, well, sometime your pompous English King Henry will
discover the truth. Until then," Lainie shrugged. "Ye must act as if they are Henry's
most trusted allies."

"Until then," Callie repeated, "I have no choice. And by the time Henry knows the
truth, it will be too late." Her heart raced. She did not dread this marriage as she
thought she might and yet...

Lainie tested the water. "Come, ye have only an hour to get yourself ready. The
water is warm. The bath will soothe and relax ye. And I will pour ye another glass
of wine. It will help with your wedding jitters."

Callie looked at the tub longingly, then back to Hawke's sister. She wished she
could close her eyes, soak in the tub forever and forget about the men who so
unfairly ruled her life. Lainie already had soap and bath towels beside the tub.

She turned her back on Callie, gesturing with her hands. "Shoo, go on with ye."
Lainie pushed the servants from the room before turning to Callie to speak her
mind once more. "No matter what has stood between ye and my brother, Colin
MacPherson is, in my opinion, an extremely fine match for one of the most
beautiful ladies I've ever met. Hawke is many fine things. But, Callie, ye must keep
in mind Hawke is also very proud, ever determined, and extremely Scottish in his
way of thinking. His will is a powerful one; what is his, he will keep. What he claims
once, he will never give up."

Callie felt herself shivering. What was Lainie trying so hard to tell her? And why did
she so desperately want Hawke to feel those very things for her? "Where is
Hawke?" Callie asked suddenly, slipping from her gown and testing the water with
a fingertip.

"I don't know. He must be somewhere in the castle getting himself ready. Perhaps
he carouses with Ian and Lachlan. I do not pretend to know what men do before
weddings. For that matter," Lainie paused, her eyebrows drawing together as if in
fierce concentration, "I don't understand men at all."

Callie let out a long, heartfelt sigh as the heated water closed over her skin. She
didn't understand men either. She didn't understand the struggle for power, the
need to fight, or the pleasure they felt from revenge. Nor did she understand their
unwillingness to forgive.

For a moment, she did lean back and close her eyes. Yet the moment could not
last long. She must wed Hawke. What would he expect of her tonight? she
wondered.

Goose bumps raced through her. What indeed? Thoughts of his kiss swept
through her. A strange spiraling heat raced within, as well as a trepidation so
strong, she nearly swooned.

"What are ye thinking?" Lainie asked as she handed Callie a sponge. "Ye have a
most interesting look upon your face."

Callie felt her cheeks grow hot and she was thankful, Lainie turned away to pour a
goblet of wine. "Nothing," she murmured hoping the sound of water running over
her head muffled the lie she told so easily. She dipped under the water, then
scrubbed her hair. Lainie said nothing more but stood behind her with rinse water.

"Nothing?" Lainie questioned. "Then why are your cheeks flushed? Why do your
hands tremble and your breath comes in ragged little gulps? I believe ye were
thinking of the wedding night and my big brother. He is a handsome man, don't ye
think?" she queried pointedly.

Callie blushed even more and, standing, accepted the bath sheet from Lainie. "I
was thinking about tonight," and Callie felt the trembling in her legs. "Oh, Lainie,
I'm so frightened. I have no idea--"

"I ken it." Lainie told her. "I ken only what I overhear my brothers talking about
when they don't think I am near. None of it sounds too terrible. They laugh and talk
about what goes on between a man and a woman as if the act gave great
pleasure."

Silence filled the room, as if both girls were thinking on Lainie's words and unable
to react or speak.

At long last, "Will he," Callie began again, this time wondering if Hawke would
want to touch her, to kiss her, to sleep with her. "Will he want to give me
pleasure?" And yet not so long ago she had vowed to fight Hawke, to fight the
wedding.

And the man.

"I don't know if he will sleep with ye, make love to ye," Lainie told Callie frankly.
"He swore he'd never touch ye, but I've seen his eyes sparkle after he kissed ye,
and I've watched the way he watches ye when he thinks no one is looking. His
eyes follow ye hungrily."

"He swore he'd never touch me," Callie said, confused by Lainie's statement.

"Hawke has thought on that idea long and hard, I wager. But he is not a cruel man.
And I believe he feels more for ye than he is willing to admit even to himself. Ye
are sweet and innocent. Ye have come to this castle seeking asylum. And ye were
honest with my brother. He values honesty and loyalty. Ye have all those fine
qualities."

"Hearing ye explain it that way does make this easier," Callie said, but she wasn't
sure about the absolute truth of Lainie's words. Would anything really make
marriage to a man who despised her easier?

"Are ye ready?" The pounding on the door and Lachlan's voice startled Callie.

Ready?

"Nay," she called out, panic-struck. "I'm not dressed. I must have more time."

"Best ye hurry. Hawke grows impatient. More of Huntington's men are on the
horizon as well as the flag of your stepbrother. Ye do not have time to linger with
maidenly fears."

Callie swallowed hard. Nay. "I will be down in a moment." She rushed with her
hair, and with the gown Lainie had brought for her. It was truly beautiful. The
shade was a pale blue and the sleeves were full with silver thread woven into the
fabric.

She turned to Lainie, hoping for a vote of appreciation.

"Ye look beautiful."

For a moment, Callie thought about her father and how special this day could have
been for him if the man she was about to marry was not Colin MacPherson.

"Thank ye," Callie said and sipped the wine Lainie handed her. Truly, she felt a bit
lightheaded and somewhat tipsy. She had been drinking wine all afternoon.
Perhaps the effects of the wine would help her through the night.

Or perhaps not.

Lainie opened the door. "We are ready," she began, but Ian stood in the hallway,
offering his arm to Callie.

"Ye will make a beautiful bride for my brother." Ian bent down and whispered the
words of encouragement to Callie. "Father MacMurdo waits at the church."

Callie's legs trembled and her heart thundered against her ribs. She looked at Ian
and saw much of Hawke in his features. But when she gazed upon Ian
MacPherson, she felt no catch in her breath and when he touched her, she did not
feel the need to withdraw her hand because the touch had been so very hot she
burned.

Ian shortened his strides, and he talked while they continued down the long
hallway. "The wedding will be quick. Nothing important will be left out; no vows or
sacraments, but we only have a short time to seal the marriage and draw up the
final papers. The festivities will be on the morrow after the consummation. And
hopefully, after we have convinced your stepbrother ye are truly married to
Hawke."

Callie inhaled sharply. Hawke would take her to his bed this night. He was the kind
of man who would want nothing less than a real marriage. This would be no
marriage of convenience. Why had she even wondered?

Because ye are terrified of what ye don't know.

And because ye had hoped and prayed for forgiveness.

Callie walked down the long steps to the great hall, then to the church. The
MacPherson clan greeted her, calling out her name and wishing her well. The
mood was light and festive, the sun bright yet nearing the horizon.

Callie breathed in deeply. The smell of roasted boar, meat pies and other foods
filled the air. This wedding was a show they were putting on for her enemies. Men
would celebrate the marriage this evening in the great hall.

And yet...

What would happen after the wedding? What did Hawke plan for them?

They walked into the church. At the alter, Father MacMurdo and Hawke stood,
talking to each other. And all the people seemed to fade away in a roar. Yet she
scarce saw anyone save Hawke. His head was bare, his ebony-dark hair tied back
with a leather thong. He wore The MacPherson dress tartan, and he appeared
extremely tall, broad-shouldered, imposing. The fierce blue of his eyes touched
upon hers, and she seemed to hear a rush of warnings in her head. If she agreed
to this, she must be willing to be his wife. If she agreed...

Together, the Father and Hawke watched her, Hawke's simmering blue eyes
piercing.

Her gaze slipped down the length of Hawke and she noticed his hands. They were
large, with very long fingers, and clean, clipped nails. They were folded in front of

him and she could remember the way she felt when... Her breath caught.

Quickly, she looked up.

Father MacMurdo smiled.

She couldn't do this. She couldn't. She nearly bolted. She nearly stopped dead in
her tracks to turn to flee in the opposite direction.

But there was nowhere for her to go and it seemed Ian sensed her fear and
confusion. His grip upon her arm tightened; gave warning to her.

Hawke appeared grim, his features taut, his eyes cold. And Callie believed at that
moment Hawke did not want to marry her. He did this only to protect her and keep
her safe from her enemies. Perhaps when this was finished, her name well and
truly ruined, he would seek an annulment.

Then she'd have no recourse but to seek protection with the nuns. Her wealth and
her lands would remain in MacPherson hands. Perhaps it was for the best.
Mayhap if her father had played a part in the events that saw the execution of his
father so many years ago, Hawke's plan was right and just. She willed her fingers
not to tremble upon Ian's arm. Father MacMurdo seemed to reach inside her soul
and read what was in her mind.

Clearing his throat, "The bride is willing?" Father MacMurdo asked as he watched
her eyes.

She lowered her lashes. And Callie knew the good father saw the fear in her eyes,
the anxiety she could not hide. She must pretend. "What?" Callie looked at the
priest in front of her with wide eyes. "Willing?" she asked and was sorely tempted
to laugh.

Hawke threw her a warning glare. His eyes showed little emotion. Willing? she
wondered. Was she? Did she have a choice in this?

Nay. She had no choice.

Aye, she was being coerced in every way. But she was not forced here.

Then Ian placed her hand into Colin MacPherson's. Once again, Callie felt a wild
rise of panic. She nearly bolted, nearly screamed. There seemed an awful heat in
his touch, a staggering force, a power. She felt his eyes on her, but could not look
his way.

"No one has forced me here," she said which made more sense to her than telling
the priest she was willing.

For she was not.

She knelt beside Hawke. Father MacMurdo cleared his throat and slowly began
speaking the words that would forever bind them. Truly, she did not hear the
words the good father spoke. Yet suddenly, she found herself saying I do. And
then just as suddenly the father announced that they were wed. Now Hawke
owned her and all she held dear, all her property. For better or worse he had
married his enemy. Hawke's fingers wound around hers. He surveyed her with his
customary hard stare. Then suddenly he grasped her hand and slipped a gold
band upon her finger. It was a little snug and she felt a tremor in her heart.

And then she felt Hawke's hands upon her, drawing her to her feet. A taunt filled
his eyes; a reckless, mocking smile curled his lip.

Suddenly, she found herself crushed very hard against him, his arms
encompassing her. His lips fell upon hers with a sure and easy command. His
fingers at her nape held her still. She was resigned to this marriage kiss, a kiss
that seemed to sweep fire into her body and soul, sweep her breath and nearly her
very life away. She didn't want to feel the spreading warmth, the weakness that
brought a new trembling to her. The sudden promise of something more in his
arms, something hinted, something that tantalized.

Cheers and shouts went up around them. She heard the sudden wailing of a
bagpipe, and Lachlan cried out. "Ach, now there, my fine braw highlanders, is a
kiss."

The crowd was rough and rowdy, ready to celebrate their Lord's marriage.

But then she felt Hawke withdraw from her and heard the urgency in his voice.

"Quickly, now," she heard Ian say and his words wrenched her thoughts away
from the tight fitting ring. "We have but a few minutes to escape to the tunnel and
the Aphrodite."

Escape? Her heart beat alarmingly and seemed to be lodged in her throat.
Tunnel?

Lachlan stayed behind with Lainie. "Good luck," she heard Lainie call out as
Lachlan escorted Lainie from the church. All was silent now and dark. Together,
they stood at the entrance to the hidden tunnel, united, she thought.

United against Huntington.

Together against Covington.

The harsh sound of hinges creaking and the swish of a door shuddering open
turned her attention back to her own plight. Hawke stood behind her, his hands at
her waist, nudging her forward.

"'Tis all right, Callie. I know the tunnel is dark and winding but it is the only way we
can go. 'Tis spider free, I assure ye."

"Spiders?" she whispered, wondering, what about the rats and the bats and
anything else that might creep and crawl?

"Absolutely none," he reassured her.

She shook her head and pushed against Hawke's fingers. "Nay, I cannot go there.
Ye cannot make me."

His eyebrow rose in question, yet his words though strong were whispered as if he
could lesson the sting. "In that ye are wrong," he said softly, "I can make ye. If I
were ye, I would recall that ye just wed me, vowed your undying love to me as well
as your obedience."

She inhaled deeply, hoping for courage to face the unknown, knowing what Hawke
said was true. He owned her, her land, her obedience and all she'd ever
possessed--all she'd once thought was hers. But then he'd outmaneuvered
Huntington and her stepbrother. All that was now Hawke's would have been Lord
Huntington's.

Imagining her stepbrother's anger and the evil contortion of his face when his
plans went awry did not ease her fear or her trepidation. Stepping forward, she
found the tunnel to be well-lit and indeed cobweb free. Many had passed by here.
And today if she were not mistaken.

"We must hurry," Hawke told her urgently, leading the way now, her hand folded
into his own and tucked beneath his arm. It seemed they rushed downward, until
she could hear the sea, feel the ocean breeze and taste the salt in the air. A cold
chill swept through the tunnel, dampness swirled around her feet and seemed to
seep through her to her very core.

She began to shake. The trembling was not caused by fear, she told herself. Yet
the quaking she felt was. She could not deny the fear just as she could not deny
the bone-chilling cold. Suddenly, fresh sea air assailed her. Moonbeams
shimmered across ocean water.

She stopped, despite the tugging she felt upon her hand. "Hawke?" she queried
softly, her hands at her breasts. "Hawke, where are we?" The beauty stole her
breath.

Ethereal and magical, the sight surrounded them, engulfed them. Yet Hawke did
not seem surprised nor did he want to dally.

A sailing ship sat moored in front of her, its sails down and yet she could almost
feel the sway of the ocean beneath her when she stared upon the sight.

"'Tis Aphrodite, I call her," Hawke whispered beside her cheek, his breath
feathering a strange, simmering warmth within. "Welcome aboard. She is a
goddess. Beautiful. Alluring. She has cast a spell upon me. We will spend our
wedding night aboard her. The tunnel is guarded now by my men. No one will
disturb us."

Chapter Eight

"Where is she?" Huntington strode through The MacPherson castle. His fury sent
many of the servants scurrying out of his way. He slammed his fist against the
heavy oak table and whirled on Ian. "Where is she?" he roared the question once
more. "Hand her over, now!"

Nonchalantly, Ian leaned back in his chair and set his feet upon a table near the
fire. One of his hounds nosed his hand and Ian rubbed the dog's ears. The other
hound growled at Huntington.

"Lady MacPherson?" he queried softly. "Or do ye speak of some other lady?" Ian
sipped the ale that had been set before him. He rose suddenly, his hands braced
on the table, one eyebrow quirked upward. "Why, Lord Huntington, where are my
manners? Ye and your men must be hungry and nearly parched after the long
journey to the Highlands." He called out to one of the servants and waved a hand.
"See that Lord Huntington and his men are well fed and have plenty to drink. They
will need a place to stay, too. Make sure they are all comfortable."

Huntington sputtered, his eyes wild, his jaw clenched tight. "Lady MacPherson?
Surely ye jest? Callie would never marry ye, a MacPherson."

Ian stood, his own anger beginning to simmer and burn within. Yet he willed
himself to control the seething boil. "My brother is wed to her. Do not carry your
insults toward The MacPherson clan too far. Ye might come to regret your words
as well as your attitude."

Clearly taken by surprise, Huntington still tried to ignore the less than subtle threat
Ian hurled his way. "Who? Who in their right mind would wed a MacPherson to a
Whitcomb? There is no priest in the land who would do such a thing." Simon
strode the length of the hall, then back, his fists clenched at his sides, a nervous
tic at the base of his neck. "A fool, that is what he is. Show me this so-called
priest."

Father MacMurdo stepped forward, his shoulders squared, a grim determined look
on his features. "I married them. They are very much in love. Smitten, one might
say."

Huntington whirled, his temper now directed toward Father MacMurdo. "How dare
ye. I am her betrothed. She had no permission to wed anyone save me."

"Yet she did."

"Then undo it!" Huntington roared.

Paul shrugged. "I did not know. Lady Callie made no mention of a betrothed to me
and she said her vows quite enthusiastically. I'm deeply sorry, but this cannot be
undone, as ye so casually phrase the marriage."

"That is no excuse," Huntington railed once more. "I will have this undone. The
marriage will be annulled."

Paul stepped forward. Once again he spoke, "Ye cannot have this marriage
undone or annulled. The lady was willing, as was Colin. Once the vows are
consummated there is naught ye can do."

"I will stop this fiasco." Huntington turned and strode toward the stairs leading to
the rooms above. "Where are they?" He shouted to his men. "Find them!"

Lachlan and several other men stepped in front of Huntington, whose hand was
now on the hilt of his sword, his jaw clenched tight.

"Nay, ye cannae enter the upstairs without the laird's permission. I cannot allow
this," Lachlan said with authority, his eyes alight with a simmering fury and with the
promise of a good fight.

"I will go where I want." Huntington turned to his own men. Bertie moved quickly to
his side, his own hand settled and battle-ready on the hilt of his sword.

"Nay," Lachlan began once again.

"Let them," Ian said, his voice a low growl. Yet Ian knew this would not end here
tonight. And he knew Huntington's rage would be even hotter when he learned the
bride and groom were not above in the groom's solar.

"Go!" Huntington roared to his men as Lachlan stepped aside.

"We have nothing to hide." Ian forced a grin and leaned casually against the wall,
his arms crossed in front of him, staring at the men as they filed one by one
upstairs.

Huntington turned once more, sputtering. "This is a useless ploy. They are not
there, are they? Where are they? Ye do not want to bring Henry's wrath down
upon your heads. Tell me where they are!"

"Ye will not find them. They have left the castle to celebrate their wedding alone.
And Henry would never dare to interfere in affairs of the church unless it was to
change or annul a marriage of his own. Ye know that. Callie is wed. Forget about
her and find some other young heiress to bolster your wealth."

Huntington breathed in deeply then let the air out slowly, his face a livid, red color.
"Ye have not heard the last of this."

Father MacMurdo stepped forward, a holy smile upon his face. "Those God has
joined together in holy matrimony, let no man stand in the way."

Huntington whirled on one boot heel. "Where are my quarters?"

Ian nodded to one of his men. "Show them the way."

* * *

Flimsy wisps of clouds drifted across the moon and a slight breeze blew in from
the north. Stars twinkled in the midnight black sky. Callie wrapped her arms tightly
around herself, warding off the chill of the cold night air and fear of the new events
to come.

The small boat that carried them to Hawke's ship rocked with the soft lapping
waves that washed against the sides. Hawke rode in the bow of the boat, his long
legs stretched out in front of him, his hands resting on his thighs.

He watched her, his eyes penetrating, his expression grim and filled with some
tenuous feeling she didn't understand. The deep searing blue of his eyes seemed
to impale her. Tears stung her eyes. Oh, she knew he loathed her father and the
Whitcomb name, but she was never sure how he felt about her.

Marriage, though?

She froze. Her body stiffened. The thought sent more chills sweeping through her,
sending shivers within. He must truly despise her, her name, her family and all she
represented. The English and the Scots had long been enemies. This marriage
would have been difficult under any circumstances. Scottish highlanders did not
marry English ladies. Yet, deep in the bottom of her heart, she knew her father had
never been capable of deeds such as Hawke had described to her. Her father
would have discovered the facts in the case, and he would have never done
something so horrible as to put a man's head on pole where all could gawk.

If there had been any evidence to prove otherwise...

The deed Hawk had illustrated so clearly sounded more like something Archibald
would do, and then Archibald would laugh at those who suffered. Someday, she
vowed, she'd discover the truth.

For now, she would have to make the best of this situation. Yet she knew not how.
His ship, the Aphrodite, loomed large and imposing, its silhouette dark against the

water and the bright moonlit sky. To Callie the ship seemed much like Hawke at
the moment, dark and foreboding.

What awaited her within the ship?

He could lock her away there.

Never, her heart cried out.

She paused as a noise from above caught her attention. She looked toward the
deck of the ship. A rope ladder was lowered and swung with the breeze, banging
haphazardly against the hull. Slowly, her gaze traveled the length of the rope down
to the bottom, then up to the top. Her heart lodged in her throat.

"Hawke," she gasped, her frantic whisper sending her heart racing and her blood
roaring in her ears.

Suddenly he sat up straight, his gaze penetrating. "Can ye climb the ladder? It is
not too difficult," he said. "I never thought--"

She swallowed the lump that had lodged in her throat, then nodded. How difficult
could it be? One step at a time and she would not, she vowed, let him see her
fear.

Yet it seemed he sensed the terror racing within her. He placed his hands around
her waist and brought her to a standing position within the tiny boat as it rocked
precariously with each beat of the waves against the sides. Then he held her, his
hands still encircling her waist yet encouraging her to move toward the ladder.

"Lainie had trouble the first time too," he said, his voice soft--gentle. "Ye are a
strong lass, courageous too. Ye can defeat a wee bit of rope."

"I suppose Lainie was but a slip of a girl the first time she attempted this," Callie
said, and did not dare look back and see his eyes for the answer she knew was
true.

"I will be right behind ye." His breath whispered and caressed the side of her face.
"'Tis perfectly safe. A child can manage quite easily."

And she was sure she heard tender concern as well as amusement in his voice.
When she touched the ladder, the rope was rough and the fibers bit into her
hands. Yet she was so very determined to conquer this first obstacle Hawke had
placed in front of her.

She gritted her teeth, wishing for a way to escape. One step at a time, she told
herself.

One foot in front of the other.

"Don't look down," he reminded her and as if the words gave her incentive to do
something she had not thought of doing before he uttered them, she looked to the
sea, the water below. Her already frayed nerves snapped, panic filling her. White-
knuckled, and unmoving she clung desperately to the ladder. She closed her eyes
and rested her cheek against the backs of her hands, praying all the while some
gust of wind would not tumble her to a watery grave. Waves rocked the Aphrodite
and her, sending a sweeping terror surging inside.

One foot at a time, she whispered to herself.

Don't let this defeat ye.

She breathed in deeply, hoping for raw courage. With more strength than she
knew she possessed, she began her ascent again. She pulled harder, her muscles
bunching and straining against her weight. She moved steadily upward and did not
look at the ocean below.

Suddenly she reached the top.

Her hands touched smooth wood.

One of Hawke's men helped her aboard. Her feet found the hard planking of the
ship and she inhaled deeply, smelling the salt air and feeling such great relief to
know her feet had found purchase on solid wood, the sensation nearly made her
gasp and her knees buckle.

Hawke launched himself over the edge of the ship, a smile on his face.

"Well done," he told her. Then, "Our cabin is to the left." Once again, she felt his
hand on her waist, felt the fire and the strength where his body touched hers.
Firmly, as if he thought she might leap over the edge of the ship to the water
below, he nudged her forward.

The cabin to the left was bright with light and rode high above the water. She
climbed the steps and soon was inside. The bed sat in one corner, large and
forbidding, covered with a dark burgundy quilt. A bookshelf and a desk were in
front of her. On a table, maps and charts were spread and on another table food
was piled high. A crystal container of wine along with two goblets sat next to the
food.

Callie stopped, her hands in front of her, her fingers nervously twining in and out of
the fabric of her gown. For a moment, she closed her eyes and felt Hawke walk by
her, his masculine scent whirling around her. When she looked up, he poured wine

for both of them, then turned to her, offering her a goblet, one eyebrow quirked
upward in speculation.

He held one in his own hand and after she accepted the wine, he spoke softly, "To
ye, Callie MacPherson, may ye live a long life with me, filled with happiness and
many children."

Many children.

Oh, yes, she'd wanted children.

"How many?" she asked, her voice quivering, before she swallowed a large
quantity of wine and felt the warmth fill her.

"Ten, maybe twenty." His words unnerved her even though she guessed he but
teased her.

She sputtered. Her gaze flew to meet the steel cobalt of his own, yet a slow smile
spread across his face. "Twenty?" she gasped.

"Perhaps we should start with one."

"One." It seemed he'd reduced her to a blithering idiot.

"Are ye hungry?" Adeptly, he changed the subject.

"Starving," she said, yet she wasn't. The thought of eating made her stomach
churn.

He seemed to see through her ploy, smiling even while he heaped her plate with
more food than she'd eat in an entire day.

Then he served himself a generous portion and beckoned her to sit at the table.

Feeling the effects of the wine and the stress of the day, she could do little more
than push her food around her plate.

"'Tis not of your liking?" he asked, leaning forward his weight on his elbows.

"Nay, it's just that--"

"That?"

Oh, the beast, she thought ruefully. She met his gaze. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" he queried. But he rose and held out his hand, insinuating that she take

it in her own.

He led her to the window where a golden moonbeam lit a glimmering path across
the water. The light danced with the dip of the waves.

"I love this ship," he spoke softly, and his words whispered across her cheek. "We
would not have spent this night aboard the Aphrodite save the fact that Huntington
still pursued ye. In that, I am heartily glad. I could think of no finer place for a
wedding night than here."

His lips brushed her neck, then moved softly across her cheek, slowly brushing
her lips. She knew she should protest, should cry nay. She should tell him she
would leave and he could keep all that he'd acquired by her marriage. And yet she
could not speak, could not stop him. Indeed, she wanted to feel his touch upon
her.

"Hawke," she whispered, yet his lips molded more firmly over hers, his tongue
stroking the soft fullness of her lips. Heat and fire swept through her, simmering.
All that he did stoked a rising, molten inferno within her.

He pulled away from her and watched her, his eyes questioning, perhaps
challenging. "Callie..." He whispered her name gently, his hands on either side of
her neck, his thumbs gently stroking her chin and once more the line of her lips.
"Ye have the softest lips I have ever kissed."

"Then ye haven't much to compare them with?" she asked, and wondered at how
inane she sounded.

But he laughed and kissed her once more, this time her lips seeming to part of
their own accord. His tongue stroked and plunged. She swayed into him,
remembering his other kisses and the heat that seemed to explode within her
whenever he touched her so very intimately and so very gently. Nay, whenever he
touched her at all.

He chose not to answer her question. "Ye tremble from head to foot. I will not hurt
ye. Ye are my wife, and ye will be the mother of my children. I promise I will
cherish ye always and keep ye safe." Hawke's voice was soft and gentle, yet still
he commanded answers; demanded submission without even asking. He seduced
by just a look, a simple touch, a smile.

His hands ran down the length of her quivering arms and back again. His stare
probed and sought answers where she could give none. Then he swore softly
beneath his breath and turned from her, striding swiftly away from her. Forcefully,
his fist slammed against the wall.

Her heart jumped and she backed against the wood and the cool glass behind her

until it pressed into her flesh. He was angry and he terrified her. Yet she sensed
he did not want to scare her.

Still--

Once again he turned toward her and walking back to her, with his fingers, he
lifted her chin, never letting her go, yet demanding she look at him, challenging her
with each breath she inhaled.

"I will not force ye," he said, his words bittersweet. Nay, he did not force or coerce
in any way. And she had chosen her fate, her destiny by accepting the marriage
and willingly saying vows that would bind her to him for life. She had chosen a
man whom she did not know quite so well as the other. A man who was not
surrounded by evil. Yet what did she know of Colin MacPherson, the man they
called Hawke?

"Ye detest me and all I hold dear," she told him.

His hands tightened around her, his lips thinned, and it seemed once again she
had enraged him. Then he spoke, "Ye have only to tell me no. Say the word now
and I will sleep alone, but on the morrow, ye will be returned untouched to
Huntington. I will have Father MacMurdo annul the marriage."

"Do not speak Huntington's name again. I will do whatever ye bid me. Whatever is
necessary."

"Will ye sleep with me?"

She nodded, yet she knew he saw the fear in her eyes, felt it in the trembling of
her body next to his.

"Aye, and now I have a warm and willing wife to hold within my arms." He sighed
deeply, yet he did not relinquish his hold upon her.

He touched her lips with his again. Then he stopped and watched her. "Was that
so bad?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Tell me how ye feel, how my touch makes ye feel." He could not help but
command and demand, yet he deserved to know. She did not want to probe so
deeply within herself for answers. Telling him how his touch caused her heart to
pound and heat to rush through her, made her tremble even more.

She bit down on her lip in hopes the pain would make her understand better why
she fell so willingly into his arms.

"Tell me," and his fingers tightened around her arms where they had fallen to rest
a few moments earlier.

"Good." She lowered her lashes, refusing to look at him, refusing to see whatever
emotion might indeed cross his face. Her body thrummed with energy and
excitement. Anticipation swept within.

"Good? Is that all?" he asked, "Perhaps I should try a little harder."

Her head jerked up. "If ye tried harder, I--" she paused, "my knees might give
way."

He laughed, "Well, then, I would have to scoop ye into my arms and carry ye to the
bed."

Her eyes widened. "To the bed?"

"'Tis where we will end up this night if ye do not tell me no. Callie," he paused, his
gaze lingering on her lips, "do ye intend to stop me?"

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "No matter what happens I fully intend to
honor the vows I made. I will obey ye."

"Jesu! That is not exactly what I want," he said. "This is not a prison and I am not
your jailer."

"I don't understand."

Hawke ran his hands through his hair, clearly mystified by her statements. "But I
think ye will eventually."

Without warning, he pulled her into his arms, his hands running up and down her
back. She moaned softly when his lips once again closed over hers, his hands
now pressing her so close she could feel his hardness, feel a strange pulsing
against her belly.

"Say no if ye wish," he persisted. His hands roamed everywhere, insistent,
exciting. "Ye are exquisite," he told her. "A breath of fresh air. I would have never
believed an English born Lady could have enticed me so, could have woven me
into an unearthly magical spell so binding I would never be able to break its hold."

The warmth of his hands were on her shoulders, gently easing her sleeves down
her shoulders. "Hawke, should ye do that?" she questioned yet at the same time
realized the stupidity of her words.

"Aye," he said and his lips touched down upon her collarbone, feathering lightly
across the delicate flesh, sending shivers of heat racing within.

Her own fingers wove into his hair. She remembered touching his silken locks
before and wondering at the softness of a man's hair. She pressed close to him
and she thought, one more moment, nay, perhaps one more minute in his arms.

Yet she could not protest, had vowed to obey his every command.

She was his wife.

He would return her to Huntington if she protested.

Suddenly her dress slipped from her, pooling at her feet. He was adept, she
thought suddenly, with women's clothes. She had not even realized he'd
unfastened the gown. She stood before him in her chemise and he was fully
dressed.

"'Tis not fair," she murmured, suddenly caught within a frenzy of emotions that
confused and frightened her yet excited her beyond anything she'd known.

Her fingers tore at the lacings of his shirt and he laughed, "Impatient, little one?"
Quickly, he tossed his shirt aside and her hands rested on his bare chest. She felt
the heat of him, the hardness and the fire.

Wide-eyed, she looked at Hawke and he smiled, as if he knew the wonder with
which she gazed upon him. "There will be no regrets here tonight."

She shook her head, yet she wondered at the truth of his words. All of this was
regrettable. He'd been forced to marry the daughter of his enemy. And she would
have to lie in that man's arms...

...and she should detest Hawke. Should hate and loathe him just as her father
must have. Her father must have thought his father terribly evil to have sentenced
him to such an execution. And her father would have believed the son to follow in
the father's footsteps.

But she did not believe that.

She'd watched Hawke and seen his gentleness, the way he cared for his people.

He scooped her into his arms and brought her to the bed. He set her there and his
hard length came down on top of her, but he eased away and rose up slightly,
pressing against the bed with his forearms.

"Callie?" he questioned, seeming to give her time once again to stop him.

"Hawke," she breathed softly, unable to string a coherent thought together.

This time his kiss seared and demanded that she return all he gave. She touched
his lips with her tongue, and she found that his fingers toyed with the ribbons on
her chemise, cool air flowing over her where the fabric parted.

He pushed away again, smiling down upon her, a conqueror's smile, she thought.
Yet she was heartily glad he seemed to like what he saw.

"Would that ye had come to me with a different surname," he murmured softly,
feathering butterfly kisses down her neck and across her collarbone, "we would
not have wasted so much time in arriving here. In my bed."

She inhaled sharply, her heart racing when the palm of his hands brushed across
her breasts. Her body tightened with need for him, for his touch.

But she was far past calling out his name or protesting his skillful exploration. She
wanted to return each caress, wanted to feel the inferno sweep within her and
wanted to learn about Hawke--the man. She prayed she would never regret this
night. And she would not allow herself to feel ashamed of what she yearned to do,
to feel, to learn.

Yet she could not push a sense of guilt from her mind and the knowledge she
betrayed her father from her heart. This was bittersweet. Whatever happened here
this night, she knew there might very well be regrets.

Her hands brushed across his nipples and she heard him groan; a deep,
masculine, primal sound. Somehow she knew he liked what she had done.

"Hawke?" she queried. "I--" and she moistened her lips, wishing she knew what to
ask of him.

"Yes," he said and then, before she could ask again before he could answer, his
lips closed over a nipple, sucking caressing, sending her chasing the wind and the
moonbeams as they danced across the water.

Heat simmered through her, and her nails bit into his flesh. She had lost control of
her mind and her body.

"God, ye are beautiful," he said, and Hawke knew at that moment he must have
died and gone to heaven. He could have never imagined these feelings, so deep
and strong they rocked him to the very core.

Her skin was alabaster, her nipples tipped with the softest coral, and her scent one
that would linger in his mind forever. He'd wanted desperately to tell her they had

long ago ceased being enemies. But she still sought to prove her father had not
done the horrific deeds he had seen that day so many years past.

He wasn't sure how much he could trust her. She was a Whitcomb, deceitful by
nature. But Jesu, he wanted to trust her with his heart and his very soul.

"Callie, touch me," he whispered to her and it seemed she did not know what he
meant. Good God, he'd never made love with an innocent before and he suddenly
wasn't so sure he would not hurt her.

Each of her fingers he kissed lightly and reveled in her response. When he
brushed light kisses across her tender flesh, he delighted in the sensual quivering
of her limbs, the straining of her body. He hoped she felt the same tense need he
felt to be close to her, to be one with her.

Every part of her was beyond his dreams, beautifully exquisite, the flare of her
hips, the length of her legs, the perfectly shaped breasts tipped with coral
rosebuds.

She whimpered as he redirected his attention back to her breasts, then the
delicate contour of her neck and ears.

"Protest now, sweet Callie, or I don't think I'd be able to stop."

"Nay, we must," she said. "For the sake of all of us, we must not stop."

"Indeed, we must not stop." Her words hurt, stung him to the very core of all he
was. He needed her to want him as much as he wanted her. And indeed, it
seemed she did, at least sexually. But he was sorely afraid his feelings were
growing more intense, eclipsing those she felt for him.

He vowed he would never fall in love with his wife. With an English born lady. With
a Whitcomb.

He gritted his teeth in a valiant attempt to hold back, to slow the pace. Because he
was terribly afraid he'd lied to her, that he would hurt her.

His fingers brushed the soft curls at the apex of her legs. She was soft and moist,
ready for him if she were experienced in such things.

In lovemaking, he could thrust within her velvet depths and bring them both to
dizzying heights.

He could do it right now--this very moment.

But she was not experienced. And he must take great care not to hurt her.

Gently, he eased himself between her legs, spreading them wider and she
clenched her knees to him pressing him tight.

An act of protest or uninhibited response? he wondered.

"This may cause some pain, Callie. It cannot be helped."

He was holding her head between his hands, her eyes now wide with alarm.

"Pain?" she questioned him.

"Aye, but I will try to ease it. It cannot be helped, Callie. This is your first time. I
would give anything for--" and he paused, for he suddenly very fiercely was glad
she was a virgin. He vowed then that as long as he lived he would protect her with
his very life.

She ran her finger across his lips, and he was touched by her gentleness and the
caring. "I will be fine."

True, God had made it so. Had created this woman to fit him perfectly. But he
would cause her pain, and if it were in his power, he would stop it if he could.

He touched her lips lightly with his own, circled the shape of them with his tongue,
plunged within the fullness of her mouth once again. He sank lower and lower
against her, creating a havoc and a tempest within his own blood, yet either some
angel or some demon drove him. No matter what the rigor and agony within his
own searing body, he was determined his wild English bride would not be able to
look back on her wedding night and claim in her own heart that she was anything
but willing at the final moment. His fingers stroked over her belly; the hot damp trail
of his tongue followed behind. Lower and lower he moved, touching her, his
fingers brushing the golden triangle that guarded her innocence, then exploring
most intimately, parting her, stroking her, bringing her to a heaven she had never
known before.

"Callie," he whispered softly, moving higher, watching her. "Ye are too beautiful for
words."

Her fingers tightened on his shoulders, her nails biting into his flesh. Within
seconds, he felt the warmth inside her. She was ready for him.

"Hawke, please."

A moment only after Callie's words he thrust deep inside her. One powerful move
filled her and then he held still, perfectly still, for he'd heard her soft cry of pain and
saw the single glistening tear on her cheek.

"Jesu, I'm sorry. I did not wish to cause pain."

He kissed the moisture away and wished desperately that easing the pain were so
easy as kissing away a tear. It was not, but he held himself still and instead of
driving deeper and harder inside her until he climaxed, he kissed her cheeks, "I'm
so sorry," he murmured softly. Then he feathered kisses across her closed eyelids
and sipped one more drop of moisture that had pooled in the corner. "Tell me ye're
all right." His lips touched her ear and felt her shudder against him, felt the light
movement beneath him.

"Hawke, I want ye," she said softly and turned her head, her lips brushing against
his own.

"Do ye?" he queried, already feeling an undulating rhythm of sensual need
beneath him.

"Please, Hawke," she said.

And he felt with each new determination to seduce her, he found himself newly
hungered, his body tensing, muscles bunching, loins near screaming in protest.
The sweet feminine scent of her, the way she moaned so softly, responded so
passionately...

In her innocence, she had seduced him.

Her fingers were entwined in his hair. Jesu, the hunger for her. He could want her
now with a force unlike any he had ever known before.

On his elbows, he rose above her. Her eyes were closed, her ivory flesh pale.

"Callie..."

He locked his fingers with hers. Then he began to move, a slow stroke, then
another. Her eyes opened wide upon him, showed no fear or anguish. He had not
expected the calm that seemed to descend over her, nor the awe he saw in her
eyes. Suddenly she arched against him. He lowered his head, his lips touching
hers, forming over them; gently, sweetly. He kissed her with all the gentleness he
could summon from within, until he could bear it no longer. Slowly once more, he
moved within her. All the years of longing for revenge dissolved with each stroke.
Yet when he felt the fire ripping and burning in him, so ready to explode, he gritted
his teeth and willed his hunger to abate, seeking to bring her with him. Her fingers
dug into his back, her face lay buried against his sweat-sheened throat.

Chapter Nine

A muffled cry suddenly tore from Callie's throat. She arched violently, her fingertips
tearing into his shoulders. Then she lay trembling beneath him.

"Hawke?" she whispered, her voice filled with wonder.

To Hawke, his name on her lips was sweet and all he'd ever yearned for.

And yet...

A roaring tempest rushed into his ears and Hawke burst into a violent climax. His
body filled hers, the very life of himself, seeming to spill out of him and into her.

"Callie," he cried out. "Jesu." After-tremors seized him, gripped him again and
again, until at last he groaned, sweetly amazed, incredibly replete.

She clung to him, her fingers warm against his heated flesh. "Hawke, I don't
know."

"Callie, dear God, ye are quite amazing," he whispered softly.

Then, he fell to her side, struggling back to sanity from the blinding sunburst of
pleasure he had discovered with his English bride. The need to pull her close, the
daughter of his sworn enemy, and hold her to him forever overwhelmed him. He
shuddered and wondered at his sanity.

"Oh!" She moaned and turned from him, curling away, her knees drawn to her
chest.

Hawke frowned, puzzled by her behavior, and the embarrassment he heard in her
voice. The emotion was so at odds with what had just happened between them,
still longing to linger with her neatly tucked in his arms, and growing more and
more irritated that she turned from him now.

"Callie? What is it?" he asked, knowing he had given her a sweet pleasure.

"N-nothing," she stammered.

He would not allow her to withdraw from him and what just happened between
them. "An explanation might be in order." He rolled himself, hiking up on an elbow,
his chest nearly brushing her back. All that golden glorious hair of hers was
tangled around both of them, and he eased a lock of it from beneath his elbow,

then studied the woman who so befuddled him. He longed to see into her mind,
perhaps read what was in her heart.

Yet, she denied him now.

She had turned away from him.

He would not allow it.

"I did my damnedest to ease this night for ye. And lie all ye will--"

Her shoulders trembled. And then, "I never lie!" she cried out, still huddled beneath
the covers, her back still facing him. "I, oh, never mind..." Her voice was a thin,
thready wail of despair.

"Then tell me why ye deny me and the wild unrestrained pleasure that coursed
between us. Tell me what foul creature has entered into your head. Jesu, after
what we just shared."

"Ye wouldn't understand," she mumbled, still hidden by the covers. But she turned
to him, her face flushed, her eyes filled with panic--simmering. "How wretched that
ye would mock me and what just happened between us. I know how ye must feel.
I have understood all along what ye seek in this marriage. But to pretend--"

Once again, she turned away from him and buried her head beneath the covers,
pulling them high.

Pretend what? he wondered. Suddenly he felt weary and so damned tired of the
misunderstanding between them. And yet to bare his soul to her filled him with a
strange fear. "Nay, Callie, I mean no mockery, for I have been deeply touched and
satisfied by this night and this marriage of ours. Your beauty, your warmth...my
God, I burn for ye even now." He left off then, unwilling to say more.

He touched her upper arm gently. She flinched. "I pretend nothing." He gritted his
teeth, and eased his fingers up and down her ivory flesh, noting with a new and
fantastic pleasure each subtle nuance of her beauty.

"Please, Hawke," her voice trembled anew.

"Please ye? Yes, Callie, in every way."

"That is not what I meant."

He chose to ignore her not so subtle plea. "Ye are incredibly beautiful. But then ye
must know that already. Oh, yes," he paused. "Your breasts are wonderful, so full
and firm, your waist was so very slim. And the feel of your naked flesh..."

Ah, but he needed her to admit the truth of what had just occurred between them.
Before this night--his wedding night--ended, he meant to hear the words. Nay, he
was determined to hear the words as well as his name upon her lips when she
reached her release. "Quit deciding how I feel and admit our lovemaking was not
so terrible," he demanded in grating tones.

She did not answer, and he refused to let her hide from him, rolling her to him. Her
lashes veiled her eyes.

"Look at me," he ordered, his frustration now changing to a slow, simmering anger.

Her lashes rose at his command. Her eyes were all aqua-blue defiance.

"I gave ye fair warning, Callie," he told her softly, "before we wed--several times. I
told ye I would take no bride in name only for convenience's sake. I crave a son,
children. And ye will give them to me."

She trembled beneath him, despite the wild look in her eyes. Her lashes fell again.
Still, she hid from him and the truth, refusing to answer.

He understood nothing about her yet he craved her as he had craved no other
woman. "Then hate me!" he snapped suddenly, his patience vanishing with the
new game of hide and seek she played. He loathed games and refused to be
caught up within them now.

Her gaze rose to his, a moisture casting a sheen in her eyes. "I--I do not hate ye!"
she whispered, the words soft and pained. Then more of them spilled from her
lips, honest words, still so softly spoken he had to bend close to hear. "I was
grateful for your kindness to my father and believed the two of ye to truly be
friends. And I thought I could count on ye in my time of need. Ye must understand.
It is simply that ye--that ye loathe and detest my family. I feel such guilt at the
betrayal. I feel as if ye mock me. I do not know what to do. My father--"

Love me. He wanted to pour out his heart and soul to her. Instead, he watched
her, searching her eyes, trying to see if she spoke true. He could see only wild
blue eyes gazing upon him and a fierce pride he wanted to bend to his will, and yet
in bending her to him, he might truly lose the prize.

Her courage was undeniable.

Her honesty--well, she'd been true to her word and her marriage vows. Indeed,
she'd told him most everything except that which he wanted to hear most.

Perhaps in time...

He swore again and rose from the bed, heard a tiny gasp. He was stark naked.
Yet he didn't look back to see if her surprise was seeing his nakedness or that he'd
left the bed so abruptly. Instead he strode to the basin of water left there by his
men for their use. He returned, wet cloth in hand, sitting on her side of the bed.

"This must be taken care of," he spoke softly and yet he felt little gentleness about
him. "We must give proof of your virginity and the consummation of our marriage."
Watching the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the covers, needing to touch
again the alabaster softness of her flesh, control was difficult to maintain.

She looked at him, still wide-eyed and consciously rebelling. She didn't know what
he intended, and she would indeed protest. This was something needing attention.
And he meant to taunt Huntington with the blood-stained sheets. But that would
come later, perhaps in the morning, tomorrow or the evening when the festivities
were to take place.

He'd like to keep Callie all to himself for as long as he could. Already he was
making plans to take her to the isolated hunting lodge. He needed time alone with
her.

"Then obey me, Callie," he warned, stroking her cheek. "And quit berating yourself
for human behavior."

She pushed up suddenly, seeking out his eyes. "I do not berate myself! My father
would have never allowed this marriage if he had lived."

He sighed with exasperation, pressing her head back down again. "We must put
the past behind us. Your father is no longer here and admit it, Callie, your new
guardian, Archibald, did not have your best interest at heart. I repeat, put the past
behind ye. Ye must learn to forget and forgive."

"If I cannot?"

If she could not? he wondered. This marriage might indeed be a living hell. Nay,
he would not allow himself to believe that could happen. Nor would he allow his life
to become hell on earth. He threaded his fingers into the tangled mass of her hair
and drew her face back to his once again, whispering softly, "If ye cannot, we will
live a wretched existence. Though I do not intend to allow that to happen."

"What if ye cannot?" she responded with her chin high and eyes challenging once
again. "Have ye forgotten so soon? Ye have vowed revenge against my family."

"Nay, not against your family, against your father. I already have put the past
behind me. Ye will bear me fine, strong sons who will learn and will forgive and will
have your family's blood running within them. They will be Scottish highlanders,
but they will also bear their English ancestry with pride."

"One time together will not guarantee ye fine, strong sons or even daughters!" she
told him sweetly.

"One time?" He arched a brow. "I think ye misunderstand our relationship."

Too late, she saw her mistake. Her gaze quickly darted from his and down the
naked length of him, seeing that he was most assuredly aroused once more, and
moving quickly to get back within the covers of the bed again.

"Dear Lady, ye have shattered my confidence. I shall have to practice and practice
until I am most assured to have sired a child."

"Colin!" she cried softly, using his given name this time. Her eyes wild, her soft,
delicate fingertips against his chest. "Ye cannot mean to--"

Oh, but he was sorely tempted to back down and leave her. But he would not give
in to her pleas. He had told her he had forgotten the past and now he must prove it
to himself and to her.

"Callie, I am neither a fool, a brute, nor inexperienced," he told her gently. "I know
ye received some pleasure when I touched ye--when I made love to ye a few
minutes ago. Trust me." Forget the past.

She flushed at his words, not denying them, but shook her head in defiance. A soft
glaze of valiantly fought tears shimmered in her eyes. "Aye, ye gave
me...pleasure," she whispered. "But, Hawke, pain, too."

"I see," he murmured. "But I swear, Callie, there will be no pain this time. I promise
ye. No more pain, ever."

Her fingernails bit into his flesh. Yet he pursued his course. He pressed her back
against the soft bed amidst the down pillows, cupped her cheek and kissed her.

"Only pleasure," he whispered. Her heartbeat raced fiercely beneath his fingers as
he caressed her breast, exploring again its fullness and contours and the pebble-
hard crest. His initial desire slaked, he could truly take his time, letting fire and
passion build within them both.

Slowly she began to respond, his seduction seeming to work much more rapidly
this second time than it had the first, her fingers soft upon his neck, stroking over
his chest, nails grazing him.

"Callie, tell me no if ye must. But, I do intend to please ye," he challenged her.

She said nothing but she stroked his back, his arms and then her fingers wove into

his hair, pressing him close to her, begging for him. Having her had done nothing
to ease his fascination; rather he found the allure of Callie MacPherson even
stronger. He tasted and stroked the length of her, pressing kisses behind her
knees, upon the arches of her feet, stroking her calf and thigh, making love to her
all around the point of her greatest sensitivity, then parting the golden down with
the thrust of his thumb, finding her heat, her liquid warmth.

She arched against him and a small, delicate whimper eased from her lips.

He stopped then and gazed at her face, found her eyes to be closed. "Look at
me," he challenged, but she shook her head, her hair swirling around her in
beautiful disarray. "Nay, do not ask it of me," she cried. He did not press the issue
then, but rather pursued his own course, parting her, stroking her, bringing wildfire
with his hot liquid caresses and demanding she respond to him.

When he rose above her again, he paused briefly, very softly commanding, "Now,
Callie, look at me." She did so, eyes beautifully glazed with passion and yes,
pleasure. At least, in that moment, he thought, she was his, and that perhaps in
time she would not fight him. They were no longer enemies, and he no longer felt
the urgent need for revenge.

For this one precious moment, she was his wife, he was her husband--but perhaps
that was not even the point. She was simply his, as any wife might be a
husband's, and what passed between them was theirs only, and would be seared
within some shared and mutual memory.

He smiled at her, ran his finger across her cheekbone tenderly, then spoke softly
above them. "I promise ye, Callie. No pain."

And there was none, he was quite certain. For when he thrust within her, a soft
gasp of wonder caught within her throat. Her arms wound around his back as she
pressed against him, begging with every instinctive feminine ploy for more.

And within seconds, she moved with him, fluid, graceful, incredibly arousing and
exciting. Her arms, her body, gloving his...

Once more, within her, he waited until he felt her body strain wildly, then allowed
free rein to his own passions. He reached a fantastic climax, and when he was
spent, he lay back, soaked, exhausted, and once again amazed by the lady he
had married.

He had never imagined he could discover such a sweet-tasting ecstasy with her.

"No pain?" he whispered softly.

"No pain," she admitted, lowering her lashes. He drew her to him, her back resting

against the length of his chest and body, his arms protectively around her.

In time, they dozed, but he awoke later and discovered he had grown hard against
her, that her back was every bit as arousing as her front.

"Callie." He spoke softly so as not to wake her. "What ever am I going to do. I will
never give ye my heart." And yet he was sure he already had.

She slept, but he stroked her flesh up and down the long enticing column of her
spine until, even in her half-awake state, she writhed against him. Then he woke
her, sliding within her from behind, pulling her hard back upon him.

"Hawke." He heard her gasp his name, yet there was no whisper of protest, and
even as the surcease of climax came upon him, he heard the softest cry escape
her, and he buried his face within her hair, incredulous once again, amazed to
have discovered such a wondrous prize when he had been so very determined not
to have her. And he wondered that he had ever thought to lock her away in the
south tower.

For a few long moments, he held her in silence, absorbing her warmth and praying
he comforted her. He also prayed that sometime during the long night she had
reached some conclusions of her own. He rose, discovering he had acquired an
appetite. He thought she slept again, but she asked softly, "Have we water? The
wine is certainly potent and good, but I am not accustomed to it, and I pray I'll not
have a pounding head tomorrow."

He smiled, not replying and wondering just when she'd had a pounding head from
too much wine. She was sitting up, the linen sheets pulled to her breasts, her hair
spilling gloriously all around them. "Water or whatever else ye want is either on
board the Aphrodite or I will give the command to my men to fetch it."

"Thank ye." She flushed slightly, but offered him a tentative smile, and he brought
her water and a plate with food.

"Ye're welcome."

He sat at the foot of the bed, slicing the bread and cheese, offering her the first
cuts. She accepted them from him hesitantly. She quickly, if still delicately, ate
what he had given her. She leaned forward reaching for a slice of bread, lost her
sheet, flushed, and grasped at it once again.

"Is the food to your liking?" He grinned and might have told her there was
absolutely no need for such great modesty, but held his tongue in check. Instead,
he plucked up the piece she'd reached for, tore off a bite-size portion, and held it
to her lips. She hesitated again, then accepted it, her lashes fluttering closed as
she chewed.

He rose again, restless, and remembered the tub in the corner of his cabin. He
walked to the door and called out several orders to one of his men who stood near
the stern of the Aphrodite. Then he returned to the bed, sitting beside her once
more. Only a few moments passed before his men filed by with hot water to fill the
tub. When water filled the bath, he stepped into it, sighing as the heat burned into
his muscles, closing his eyes to luxuriate within the warmth. He opened an eye to
her then, and found her watching him.

"What is it ye're thinking behind those wild aqua eyes of yours?" he asked, curious
to know her and what she thought about everything. His curiosity about her
surprised him. Ah, but his lady was indeed very hard to resist.

She choked upon her water, and her flesh took on a flush now that somewhat
alarmed yet at the same time enchanted him.

"Only that I don't understand," she told him after a few moments of composing
herself.

"What?" he asked, a soft smile curving his lips. The heated water soothed his
muscles and he wished he dared ask her to join him.

"I don't understand why ye married me." She watched him and did not want to tell
him the truth. To tell him how much she cared about him would leave her
vulnerable. She longed to hear words of love from him. But then he'd fascinated
her from the first moment she'd seen him standing on the porch at the Boar's Head
Inn.

He leaned forward, his arms braced on the rim of the tub, still smiling, almost as if
he knew what she thought--what she didn't tell him. "What, Callie? Tell me why my
questions make your skin grow rosy with the heat of embarrassment."

Wildly she shook her head, her heart pounding. "Nay, I cannot."

"Ye refuse to answer? What if I commanded it?"

She moistened her lips but she did not reply.

He drew back, his smile vanishing, one lock of dark ebony hair falling across his
face. He pushed it back impatiently, then ducked beneath the water. When he
rose, water sluiced down his face and chest, his eyebrows drawn tightly together.

She shuddered. As a friend and a lover he had been gentle, but now as an enemy
she knew he would be formidable. And she suddenly knew she did not want this
man as her enemy.

"I'm s-sorry," she stammered, her nerves nearly stripped raw. "I'm afraid."

"Afraid of what? Of me? Tonight, have I given ye any reason to fear me?"

"Nay," she spoke true. "'Tis just that I'm afraid of my feelings. Of what--" She
paused then, so close to telling Hawke. So close to opening herself to him.

Suddenly, he rose from the water and reached for a towel, wrapping it quickly
around his waist. Then he walked toward her and sat on the bed beside her. His
arms braced on either side of her, he watched her, studied her and seemed to
question all she'd said.

Then, without warning, he leaned toward her and his lips brushed hers. His fingers
lightly swept across her collarbone. All ability to think fled. She closed her eyes,
wishing she could tell him her feelings, knowing she should.

He'd not spoken of any tender or romantic emotions for her. He most probably
held no great love for her in his heart. This marriage was--simply--convenient. He'd
said he wanted sons, not that love would have a place in his heart.

"I'm hungry," she told him, her eyes now open slightly, her fingers gripping the
covers of the bed.

He laughed softly, his eyes alight with humor, yet she sensed an underlying
current of anger, perhaps even disgust or frustration. She certainly didn't know him
well enough to read his thoughts. He kept so much inside himself.

"Ye do that well," he said.

Her lashes flew up, her heart in her throat. "What?" she queried, still not wishing to
give her heart away to this man who could rip it to shreds.

"Change the subject." He spoke softly, his gaze resting on her.

"I am hungry," she told him indignantly, but she knew he'd seen through her ploy.

His muscles tightened and his jaw clenched. "More bread?" He turned from her
and went to the table where the food sat. "Cheese?"

She nodded. Yet there was suddenly a huge lump in her stomach and when she
tried to swallow, the food simply did not want to go down. "I guess I'm not so
hungry after all," she said, and sat there, bathed in the lantern light, her skin
glowing softly, her hair reflecting the beams cast her way.

He tossed aside his towel and took her within his arms. "We should sleep," he
said. "Tomorrow may prove to be a very long day."

"Ye mean today," she corrected him, for the night had already begun to lighten.
The velvet blackness that had cloaked the sky changed its tone to a muted violet.
The sky to the east was beginning to glow with the softest of peach colors along
the thinnest line of the horizon. His eyes met hers. Suddenly she entwined her
fingers behind his neck and then she lifted her lips to his, parting them to his kiss.

It was later, much later, when he lay sleeping beside her again that she looked to
the ceiling and sighed, clenching her fingers within the covers.

Men never gave away their hearts.

When she had wanted to offer the truth, to keep herself from giving her own heart
over to him, she used a power she had just learned. Her kisses could waylay his
questions better than any attempt at changing the subject. He was too smart, too
adept at verbal exchanges to fall victim to her own less experienced ploys. And
she'd discovered this night that he seemed to lose himself and his thoughts when
he kissed her, when his lips closed over hers most gently.

When they made love.

Perhaps he would not betray her or use her feelings against her, but she was not
yet ready to trust him or to believe he had so easily forgotten the burning hatred he
carried for so long in his heart. Loyalty and trust had to be earned. In all, the night
had been incredibly sweet and her fears of the marriage bed had all been put to
rest. She looked at her sleeping husband once again and felt a sweet, erotic
tension seize hold of her. She had not imagined any man could create such a
desire within her. The magic of his touch, the sweet mystery she'd encountered
within his arms; she simply could not imagine any greater joy. He slept with little
covering him and she was so tempted to run her fingers across his broad chest, to
once again explore the taste and texture of his flesh.

Well, he was her husband. The vows were spoken and fully consummated.
Archibald could do nothing to change what had occurred here, nor could Simon. At
last she was free of them.

Then why did she feel this irritating doubt that ran cold along her spine? Why did
she feel something terrible might happen to Hawke?

She didn't understand the foreboding, and she was so very tired she could scarce
keep her eyes open. She needed sleep. Just as he'd said earlier, today might
prove long and stressful. She curled against him, seeking and needing his warmth,
his strength and his will to protect her.

For somehow she knew this night had solved nothing.

* * *

She awoke slowly, as if she had come from the depth of a deep and vivid dream.
At first she couldn't place where she was. Warmth encompassed her back.
Smooth linen sheets covered her. Suddenly she began to remember a wedding
night and the tenderness of the man who now slept behind her. She found that she
was cuddled, cradled protectively within his arms.

She dared not move. Facing him now and his all-knowing smile would only serve
to embarrass her further. Because in truth he had pleased her greatly. And she
had responded wildly and with more passion than she had never known she
possessed. She would always remember the night with pleasure. But at the
moment, had she wanted to flee, she would not have been able. Her hair was
caught beneath his shoulders, and he'd cast his leg atop hers. His hand with his
long dark fingers was splayed possessively across her belly.

Her being here seemed so strange. Her father...

Ah, but she must forget about the past, he'd warned her. She must forget what
might have been, had her father lived. She should have never married an enemy,
but Hawke had said he'd put the past behind them. And now, she was hopelessly
entangled, with no way out. And the worst or the best of it, she was no longer
certain, was that she no longer wanted a way out.

She had heard so many things about marriage, yet most of what she'd heard was
gossip or whispers behind closed doors. Her imagination could have never painted
a picture of the night she'd spent in Hawke's arms. The splendor, the exquisite
magic of the night was indeed something she'd remember forever.

And Hawke had been so tender and so determinedly seductive. Tell me no, she
remembered him saying. But she had not wanted to stop him, had needed to
discover what he could offer her. Even the threat of returning to Huntington had
meant nothing to her. She had wanted Hawke and would have never told him no.
It seemed absolutely amazing, the difference a night could make. She had
believed he hated her. When she discovered the truth, it had been easy to blame
him for the treachery between the two families and for the guilt she felt at betraying
her own father. And perhaps she'd wanted the night to be one of misery so he
could never really claim her heart and soul. Yet she knew he'd claimed her heart
completely days before.

Lying awake, afraid to move, she suddenly focused her attention on the small
window and watched snow white clouds drift across the bright morning sky.
Suddenly she needed to hold onto the moment. She couldn't remember ever
feeling so sublimely peaceful. She had never felt so protected. She had never
begun to imagine the magic she could feel. If she was afraid of anything, she was
afraid she might never come to a place in her life again when she could know such

sweet pleasure, to rest again in secure comfort. Eventually she would have to
move, have to come to terms with this new world of hers that was unfolding
miraculously minute by minute. She could not forget her ancestry or that she owed
her father her loyalty.

But then there was Huntington to contend with and her stepbrother, Archibald.
Even though Hawke ordered her to put the past behind her she vowed that before
this was over she meant to discover the truth of that horrific day years ago when
Hawke's father was put to death.

She moved slightly, then realized Hawke was awake. She turned slowly within his
arms and met his gaze with her own. He smiled upon her.

"Hawke?" she whispered, slightly in awe yet unwilling to let him know just how
much she should thank him for the night before.

"Callie?" he asked in return.

By the twinkle in his eyes, she sensed he'd been awake all along. His pillow was
more highly propped than her own, and he had easily been able to study her face.
Heat suddenly rose to her cheeks and she wondered at his thoughts, her lashes
falling quickly lest she give away any more of her own. She told herself he could
not read her mind.

"I want ye," he warned. "I need ye right now."

Then she wasn't wondering at his thoughts anymore. She felt his body stiffen and
his muscles flex next to hers, felt the tenderness of his caress upon her cheek,
and before she could reply, his mouth came down upon hers; tender, seductive,
compelling. In truth, she wanted him too make love to her. And had she wanted to
protest she would have never found the strength. She allowed herself the freedom
to explore his body in return, finding a curious excitement in the hot feel of his
flesh beneath her fingers, the great, rippling expanse of muscle upon his chest and
shoulders.

"Oh, Hawke," she sighed softly. Then she closed her eyes and savored the
sensations that swept through her until they burned anew. She reached for
surcease, and rose there at last on a sweet pinnacle of wildfire. She drifted down
slowly, felt again the security of his arms around her and she thought, if only they
had not been enemies.

When she at last opened her eyes, she found him on an elbow studying her again,
and again she flushed, instinctively pulling the sheet to her breast, her fingers
moving nervously upon the linen. He didn't stop her, but when she looked into his
eyes again, they were still grave and intense.

"What?" she asked in some dismay.

"I'd give so much to discover what was going on in your mind," he said lightly, yet
the tension that seemed to surround him had not ceased.

Another wave of heat rose to her cheeks, and her lashes lowered. And then she
decided to simply tell him the truth.

"I was wishing ye were the man my father would have chosen for me."

He inhaled a deep ragged breath of air. "Hasn't my vow to put the past behind me
had any affect upon ye? Even if I have not been able to forgive your father, I no
longer place any blame upon ye. Ye were a babe then. Ye are not responsible for
the misdeeds of another."

Still, she couldn't quite look at him. "Many things ye have said have eased the
tension I have felt. And yet I simply cannot forget that ye wanted to kill my father.
Ye still look upon those occurrences as his misdeeds. And had things taken a
slightly different turn, I would be imprisoned in the south tower."

In truth, her statement did make him pause in thought. Had he wanted to kill her
father? "Nay," he replied softly. "I never wanted to see your father dead. 'Tis not
my way. I wanted revenge and perhaps it is why I never found the peace revenge
would have brought. I had no idea how to seek restitution. I wanted him to suffer
as I have. Nay, death was too easy and murder hardly honorable." Once again, he
paused as if deep in thought. "Ye would not have stayed in the south tower long."

He laughed and sat up, suddenly sweeping her into the circle of his arms. She
didn't struggle and was startled to see the tenderness in his eyes when his gaze
touched hers. There was still amusement within them, but it was a gentle humor
now. His eyes had never seemed so light a blue, so sky-like; she had never seen
such a curve to his lip. His hair was tousled and a rakish black lock fell over his
forehead. She didn't think she had realized his youth before, that he wasn't really
so very many years older than she was. She should count herself lucky to have
fallen into this marriage so easily. He was the ultimate leader. He had been cast
into the role of The MacPherson, head of the clan, and wielded ultimate power for
so long that he seemed too assured, too confident, too powerful, to ever be really
young. When she had first encountered him, she had not thought he could be
charming as well as striking, nor had she known he could laugh so pleasantly.

And certainly, she had never imagined he could look at her as he did now, with
that laughter in his eyes. A look so very close to tenderness.

Then she shuddered at the thought of spending time like this with Lord Huntington.
There would have been no tenderness, no sweet seduction or laughter. And once
again, she knew she must find out what happened to his father, who really

condemned The MacPherson to such a brutal death.

She sensed his gaze upon her and when she looked at him, she quickly lowered
her eyes. His was no longer a laughing mood, his eyes no longer twinkled with
unspoken humor.

"Callie, look at me," he said. "Leave off this search for answers."

She gasped. How did he guess? "Nay, I cannot. My father was not behind the
judgment passed down upon yours. I believe it with all my heart."

"Which is one more reason to obey me. I'm not asking. I command it," he warned
her.

Within his arms, she gazed curiously at him and then found she was shivering
from cold.

Slowly, her chin lifted and she met his gaze with a challenge of her own. "Why?
Surely I deserve a reason."

He smiled sadly. "Nay, ye are my wife now and by the laws of our country ye
deserve no reasons, but in respect, I offer a few. If indeed your father was as ye
believe him to be, a good and honest man, there was treachery afoot even then. If
ye were to pursue this, asking questions when so much has lain dormant over the
years, ye might very well stir up a hornets' nest of trouble. I sense evil brewing."

"Then we should discover the truth." She wanted to push away from him. His
earlier warmth had vanished and she felt as if she were a pawn within his retinue
of players.

"Nay, Callie. Obey me in this."

She had taken a vow of obedience. He wielded great power over her. And she
should surely do as he commanded and yet she had to discover the truth.

"As ye wish." She recoiled at her sudden meekness and at the possible lie she so
easily told her new husband. For she knew she would not seek answers, but if any
information came to light she would not ignore it. And in spite of her very best
efforts, her lashes fell, and her voice was breathless.

"I'm relieved," he said lightly. "Yet why do I not entirely believe ye?" His fingers
wove into her hair and she looked to him again, mesmerized once more with the
handsome planes of his face, the cobalt sizzle within his eyes. "The fact that ye
have complied so easily to my wishes this morning does not change the fact that I
will keep a vigilant eye upon ye. I am not convinced that ye might not stumble
upon something so interesting ye cannot let go of the information."

She flushed, wishing she did not give herself away so quickly in this manner she
could not control.

"And there is truth in your eyes. It seems I have grown so close to ye last eve that I
find I can read what it is ye are thinking," he whispered softly. But he smoothed his
fingers over her cheeks, reflective for a moment. "But a truce for the rest of the
day. We must present a united front. Are ye ready to tackle the demons within my
castle?"

Chapter Ten

It seemed as if everyone stared at her as she walked through the great hall on
Hawke's arm. Beneath her fingertips, she felt the tension within Hawke, knew his
gaze searched through the crowds of cheering people for her stepbrother and
Huntington.

She couldn't find them.

Conspicuously, they were missing.

"Where are they?" she whispered to Hawke.

"I don't know. Vanished. It seems I received my wish," he told her with a wry grin.

Lainie rushed up to them with a smile lighting her face, wisps of nearly white-blond
hair spiraling around her face, her eyes sparkling and her skirts whirling.

"We thought ye would sleep the day away, we did," she said excitedly, an impish
smile dancing across her delicate features.

Callie flushed again, heat simmering within her as she recalled all the things she
and Hawke had done last night, all the places he had touched her--kissed her.

"Nay," Callie said softly, somewhat overwhelmed by her new sister-in-law. "We but
spent the time getting to know each other."

Callie felt the slow rise of laughter building in Hawke and too late, she knew her
mistake. "We talked," she said quickly, yet the laughter around them grew.

"I'm sure ye did nothing but talk." Ian winked at his older brother while the smirk
upon his devilishly handsome face grew with each passing moment.

Hawke said nothing in return, his fingers tightening gently around Callie's, a sign of
encouragement, she assumed. Still, the heat grew on her cheeks, something she
could not hide.

"Come, we must eat," Hawke said to Callie. "I'm famished."

Once more laughter echoed around them, but this time Ian ignored the merriment.
"Aye, there is food aplenty and much we have to talk about." Ian's expression and
tone were grave, giving silent warning to Hawke that all was not as it should be.

The tables were piled high with food. Callie instantly smelled the fascinating aroma
that wafted from the tray. Her stomach growled hungrily, and once again she
sensed the amusement in Hawke. The delectable scent of roasted meat was
nearly more than she could bear. She had eaten so little in the past few days, and
now she was ravenous.

"Over here," he told her as he led her to the head of the table. The chairs were
huge with cushions in deep red adorning them. Hawke helped her to the chair and
then sat down next to her.

He sliced a portion of the meat and picked it up with the end of a knife that had
protruded from the haunch of venison sitting before them. He nibbled at it hungrily,
sucking the juice from his thumb as he watched her.

She hesitated. All eyes seemed to be on the two of them and it seemed as if
everyone waited for her to begin eating. He sensed her anxiety and quickly sliced
a piece of meat for her. She accepted the offering delicately with her fingers, then
nearly swallowed it whole. He laughed and cut her more, and poured out chalices
of cool water for them both.

Ian stood, his glass in hand. "A toast to the newly married laird and his beautiful
bride," he cried out.

"Here, here," the clans people shouted.

"May their lives be long and prosperous," Ian said. Then glasses clinked and
shouts followed.

Lachlan rose. "May they have many sons." He winked.

Callie blushed.

Hawke rose and once again downed the contents of his glass. "Thank ye. Now eat
and be merry."

Suddenly the silence in the hall ended. Once again, everyone laughed and
chattered. Knives clanked against the tables and sounds of people celebrating a
wedding and partaking in the feast afterward filled the room. Hawke sat down and
turned his attention to the food.

When they finished eating, Callie leaned back against the chair. And then Hawke's
fingers entwined with her own. Replete, they both watched the celebration. So
many years had passed since she'd felt such an inner joy. These were her people
now. She was Hawke's wife, and despite the differences, she meant to be the very
best wife she could possibly be.

He turned to her, a gentle smile gracing his handsome face. "I have a gift for ye,"
he said softly. "Something ye will always have, a place where ye can find safety
and security if ye ever have the need."

"Ye do?"

"Aye." He paused.

"What is it?"

"A hunting lodge. It lies just south of the loch. I would take ye there. We could
begin our journey this afternoon if all is well. It seems we have some missing
guests. And I would find out more about their departure before we leave." Once
more, his gaze raked over the room, searching for their unwanted guests.

"A hunting lodge? And I have given ye an entire estate with a castle and
everything," she teased, wondering what had prompted him to gift her with
something so special.

He laughed outright, leaning back in his chair, hands folded in his lap. "The castle I
am giving over to Ian. Your land lies near the border and, who knows, perhaps we
can help bring a lasting peace among the people who live there. Besides, if I had
not received this noble piece of property, Huntington would have," he reminded
her.

She shuddered at the thought, then cast away the unease she suddenly felt. He
was right. Perhaps all this could bring about a lasting peace among the people
who lived in the lowlands. She should not think about this marriage as one made
only to win the property of another. Marriages of convenience were the way of the
world. And in truth, Hawke had never claimed any great interest in possessing her
land. English land. His visions, she knew, had encompassed the health and vigor
of his own lands, of his own people, The MacPhersons.

And of revenge.

Desperately trying to put the past behind her, she threw off that thought too, and
lifting her chalice, though it carried nothing but cool water, she rose and said to the
people seated before her. "To my new home and the happiness of the people who
live here. I am truly pleased to be living among ye. And in answer, to the fine sons,
'tis entirely up to Hawke." She felt color and heat flood her cheeks, but she smiled
and drank from her glass.

Hawke stood too and smiling upon her, lifted his own chalice, "Indeed, to ye, all of
ye and to my new bride who makes me exceptionally proud this day"--he extended
his hand to his people--"To your health, happiness and prosperity. Now drink, eat
and dance the night away. We celebrate the laird's marriage."

The hall erupted in cheers. "Here, here," they cried again and again. And almost in
unison, "To the laird and his new wife." The people rose and, lifting their cups,
drank long and deep.

Then Ian rose and toasted the couple. "To the health and happiness of Hawke and
his new bride, Callie. May they have many daughters too." Ian winked at his
brother, then downed the glass of wine in one long swallow.

Once again, the hall erupted, but this time the shouts were bawdy and the cheers
carried a lighthearted note with many suggestive ideas for the newly married
couple.

Callie flushed deeply, her cheeks burning with the embarrassment of the moment.
Hawke laughed, and in keeping with the chants, he said, "Kiss the bride." He
swept Callie into his arms. His lips met hers and sealed the marriage vows with a
very public and very intimate kiss.

"More," the clan yelled and Hawke, keeping one arm around Callie's waist, bowed
to his people.

"I believe," he spoke softly, his gaze resting upon Callie, "that we will leave the rest
up to your very wild imaginations and our own private bed chamber." He stepped
away from his chair and swept her into his arms. She gave a little cry but he
whispered to her and carried her to the dance floor. She landed firmly on her feet a
few seconds later when Hawke gave a signal for the musicians to begin playing.

He twirled her and lifted her high into the air, the music beating a merry tune. She
laughed delightedly and clung to his shoulders. They danced and the people
joined them. Breathless, her heart pounding, she cried out to him, "Cease!" Bent
over at the waist, she inhaled long deep breaths.

His hand rested possessively on her back as he too bent over and spoke to Callie.
"What? Are ye tired so soon?" He laughed again and pulled her close, his lips
finding hers in a friendly kiss. "My wife must have more endurance than this if I am
to sire many sons and daughters."

"Aye," she told him softly when they parted, her hands placed delicately on his
chest. "It seems ye kept me up most of the night, trying to do just that."

Once again he laughed, his arm locked nonchalantly around her. "Then we must
rest." He nodded to Lainie and she quickly stopped dancing, walking to her
brother's side. "Walk with Callie to our room. See that she has sufficient clothes
and necessities for a week's stay at the hunting lodge. I want my new bride to see
my gift to her."

Lainie nodded and Hawke watched the pair disappear up the stairs. He turned to
Ian and motioned for Lachlan to come to his side. "What happened?" he queried.
"Where are Simon and Archibald?"

Ian rubbed his jaw. "We do not know. They vanished with their men in the dark of
the night. The grooms tell me they left around midnight. Our man who was
attending the horses at the time was found in the morning bound and gagged so
he could not inform me of their hasty departure."

Hawke walked to the front door and stared out upon the bailey, looking toward the
stables and then the portcullis. Moving slowly and studying the grounds, he made
his way to the gates and looked to the rolling hills beyond. This land was his and
the beauty never failed to astound him. Now a soft, rolling mist carpeted the rocky
landscape. He listened to the surf pound the shoreline below. It was just past
noon. Soon the sun would burn through the cloud covering. The grass, the rocks
and heather would sparkle, glistening in the light.

Suddenly, "What do ye make of it?" Hawke turned to his brother, who had followed
him and now stood, hands behind his back, feet braced apart. "What are they up
to?"

"No good I suspect."

"Aye, and that's a fact. I just wish I understood what was going on."

Ian's expression was grim and determined. "I have sent men to the various inns
and crossroads. No one has reported yet. If I were ye, I would not go to the
hunting lodge until we hear news of their travels. We cannot possibly second-
guess them. Huntington is a wily devil and if he is after something--well--" Ian
paused for a moment, raking his fingers through his hair. "I would like to stay
ahead of him in this game he plays but I cannot wait for him to show his hand. I
feel deep in my heart that some of our questions will be answered at the hunting
lodge. I've always felt that my father's friend, Jarrod, knew more than he has told.
He was with James in England, had been there when our father was tried and
executed. Perhaps Jarrod has just been waiting for the right moment."

Hawke fell silent. Tied to the unknown, waiting to see what others would do were
all things he abhorred. He'd been eager to get Callie away, to have her alone
again. Too soon, the duties of the laird would infringe on what little time they had
together. His holdings were large and, in the past, he'd spent weeks away from
home seeing to the needs of his people.

He wanted, nay, needed to bind Callie to him before he had to leave her.

"Send a guard. Have them follow just far enough behind us that Callie won't
realize they are there. I don't want her frightened. And," Hawke paused, "let me

know as soon as ye can what has happened to our enemies." Hawke turned then
and strode into the castle. He was in a hurry to check on Callie, in a hurry to take
her into his arms and his bed. He groaned inwardly; taking her into his bed would
have to wait.

He met Lainie, skirts flying, on the stairs leading to his solar. She was grinning and
breathing hard.

"Callie is resting." Lainie's breathless whisper sent a strange sensation down
Hawke's spine. "If ye don't wish to join her, I suggest ye wait. She will need sleep
to make the journey ye have planned. And something tells me she did not get
much rest last night."

Hawke smiled, thoughts of the night before foremost in his thoughts. It was, he told
himself, a night to cherish in his heart and remember forever. She'd given herself
to him easily and most pleasantly. She'd responded wantonly. She pleased him
greatly.

Ah, but if only he didn't have her stepbrother and Huntington to contend with, they
would have the most pleasant sojourn at the hunting lodge. As it was, he meant to
do a little research while they were there. He agreed wholeheartedly with Ian. His
father had kept journals and they were at the lodge. Perhaps something his father
wrote before he left for England would give him some clues. Perhaps Ian was right
about Jarrod.

* * *

"Hold on," he told Callie as he spurred his horse. The stallion leapt forward, his
muscles bunching and his tail flying.

Her mare followed suit and she did as he told her. The frigid wind whistled around
her face, the cold biting. Yet the ride was exhilarating.

The man fascinating and formidable.

This was Hawke.

Her husband.

She trembled anew. The horse seemed to fly with the wind and Callie held on
tightly to the reins, bending close to the horse's neck. The mare's muscles rippled
and bunched beneath her, warmth from the heavy cloak Hawke had given her
keeping her from feeling the brunt of the numbing cold. It seemed as if they had
been riding forever.

He didn't speak and neither did she.

But she watched him--the way he sat his horse, the way he moved so easily and
gracefully.

The horse's hooves pounded the cracked, frozen earth. A lark cried out and she
felt a strange joy. It seemed Hawke heard the cry too, for he quickly looked in the
direction from whence it came. Suddenly, he turned east, riding along a narrow
path. A trembling shudder swept through her.

She pulled her cloak high, pressing her cheek and her nose into the fabric, clinging
more tightly to the reins. She could hear the rapid beat of her heart, the ragged
flow of her breath into and out of her lungs.

As they rode, she watched the countryside race past her. This was where she
wanted to live, she realized suddenly. The land reminded her of strength and
courage, and smelled of Scottish heather and mist. She had married a strong man,
a brave man, a gentle man, and she truly had no regrets.

She watched Hawke. His midnight black hair fell free from the leather thong he
had bound it with. The strands blew around him. Horse and rider moved as one
with an easy fluid grace she admired. Still, she saw the tension in his muscles and
the rigid set to his shoulders.

A shiver wracked her body, and it seemed he sensed her avid attention; perhaps
he understood her desire.

He turned, looking over his shoulder at her. "Are ye all right?" he asked. But he
didn't slow the steed nor did he seem to want a reply. She pressed her horse to
run faster to close the distance between them, tightening her grip and letting the
warmth of the cloak once more fend off the freezing night, her fears and the aching
loneliness she'd felt since her father died. She wanted desperately for Hawke to fill
that void.

Heavy snow began to fall, and she wondered when the clouds had arrived to cover
the moon. The snow was both a blessing and a curse. The horse would leave a
trail a child could follow, but if snowflakes continued to fall, they might well cover
the tracks left behind by Hawke's horse and hers. They didn't even know if anyone
would follow. Hawke had not spoken of such a possibility but she knew
Huntington, had lived with her stepbrother for so long. They would not let her go so
easily. This racing through the countryside, the fear she felt and the sense that
someone watched her could all be for naught.

The sky was dark now, so very dark she could barely see her hand in front of her
face.

With time, she and her horse seemed to fall into a rhythm. Dawn was beginning to

deepen the sky with muted colors: mauve, a soft apricot and the deepest
amethyst. Now the snowfall was light. He'd slowed the horse to a walk. Her own
followed suit. This time the silence was comforting.

Thick forest rose to meet the sky on one side and a swift river traced a path to the
ocean on the other side.

The constant ache in the pit of her stomach made Callie realize how very hungry
she was. Despite the abundance of food, she'd eaten very little at the celebration
and, at this moment, she couldn't remember what she'd eaten.

As if he guessed at her exhaustion, he gave encouragement. "We'll stop soon.
Ye've done well, Callie." His deep voice rumbled through the heavy night air. The
compliment warmed her heavy heart and soothed the searing ache in her
muscles.

"Thank ye," she said, so softly she wasn't sure if he would hear. "But I thought this
was a short trip."

"And ye're welcome. But there is no need of thanks. I speak only the truth. We've
had to take a circuitous route. I could not be sure of the danger. We have ridden a
great deal out of the way."

"Ye could have told me," she told him, closing her eyes and willing herself to hang
on a few minutes longer. Soon they would arrive at his hunting lodge. Nay, her
hunting lodge. He had gifted her with the dwelling.

Despite all the differences between them and the first few strained days they'd
known each other, he knew he wanted her. Unlike anyone, man or woman, he'd
ever met before, with her crystal clear, blue eyes she'd held his gaze and
challenged him in return.

She had not turned from him.

She had never backed down.

If she had protested vehemently, told him a resounding no to his proposal, he
would have handed her over to her stepbrother. A small wave of guilt swept
through him. They would do well together.

Indeed, they would suit each other quite nicely.

Ah, but the wedding night had been glorious. Unable to sleep, he'd watched her
for many hours. Her tiny sounds through the night as she slept had filled him with
a burning need to hear sounds such as those when he made love to her. His
raging need for her even after they'd made love twice, had nearly undone him.

No getting around his needs. He wanted her again. After the initial shock of
discovering who she was, he had tried to put her from his mind, had fought a battle
of wills within himself. He wanted to hate her.

Marriage?

Jesu, but he'd never for a moment thought he'd ask her to marry him.

Inwardly, he groaned. He prayed his father had written something in a journal and
that he could find some clue to that horrendous day his father was executed for a
crime he did not commit.

The trail had widened somewhat and assumed a gentler slope. He dropped back
so they could ride side by side for a short distance.

"We might have Covington's men chasing us."

"I think not, well," she paused, "I hope not. One would think Huntington would give
up on this. I'm married now and there is naught he can do."

"Give up?" he queried. "If I died, ye'd be fair game once more. Huntington could
petition the king and he would probably give ye to him. Indeed..." he said
thoughtfully, watching her for a reaction.

She closed her eyes and her shoulders trembled slightly before she spoke. "If ye
died, I would find a nunnery. The money would be lost to Huntington and my
stepbrother. Whatever deviltry they've hatched over the years will not take place,
and whatever plans they have for my inheritance will not fall into their hands."

"Ye are not suited to that type of life," he muttered, his gaze raking over the length
of her, and his thoughts returning to their wedding night.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"After last night? Need ye ask?" he told her, his voice growing husky with the pent
up desire he felt for her. He'd remembered the taste and texture of her breasts for
hours now, and he longed to reach the lodge before morning dawned. He yearned
to know if her passion would rise within her once more; rise until a sweet, hot
tempest flowed between them.

"A gentleman would not say such a thing," she told him, her voice soft, slightly
teasing, yet her lashes fluttered closed for a moment.

Despite this situation and her apparent exhaustion, she flirted with him, he
realized. And he liked the idea. He threw his head back and laughed. "After last

night, I can say most anything I please."

He heard her sharply indrawn breath, and saw the slight tremble of her fingers.
Truly, he should not tease her so shamelessly.

"Ye would tease me then?" she asked with the slightest challenge in her voice.

She stopped abruptly.

"I would make love to ye as soon as we can find a soft bed," he said.

She didn't answer yet her cheeks colored delightfully.

"I assure ye, I will never pretend to be a gentle man. I am rough around the edges
and I will never be like the pompous men in King Henry's court. I'm a Scotsman all
the way to my very core. But then, I do believe I've told ye that before."

"Then--" She paused in thought.

He pointed toward a bird soaring on an current of air. She turned her gaze upward.
For a few long seconds they were both silent.

And then he spoke. "Callie, all I want right now is to slip beneath warm covers with
my new wife."

They fell silent then. The terrain changed slightly, the snow continuing to fall.
When he looked back, their tracks were covered.

She pressed her lips together. Then she spoke, "Tell me about the hunting lodge,
your people. I would know all that is important."

"Ah, I think I like that. Interest in my clan is important."

"Our clan," she corrected him softly.

"True enough. The time we spent together in each other's arms last night is all the
proof I need."

He laughed when she graced him with an unladylike snort. "Is that all ye think
about?" she asked.

"Aye, when I gaze upon your beauty."

"Hawke, I wish my father could have attended our wedding."

Her voice was so soft and filled with pain, his heart burned with the sorrow she felt.

He remembered when his own father had died and the ache that wouldn't go
away. It still lingered when he recalled the man who had loved him and raised him.
When he recalled how his father died.

Despite the past and the unresolved feelings, he needed her trust. And she
needed him. Vulnerable and alone in a brand new world, she had been forced to
put her life in his hands.

He, Colin MacPherson, was an honorable man, but he hadn't bargained for this
woman to come into his life. He was loyal to his clan, and she was part of his clan
now, his life, his hopes and his dreams. Yet what if she wasn't as she seemed? He
needed to put the past behind. He didn't want to doubt his new wife. But he
couldn't help but wonder if all she'd told him were true.

"How much longer?" she asked him again. "I ache from head to toe."

"Soon," he laughed.

"Ye, my dear husband," she spoke suddenly, "have evaded my question long
enough. Your reticence makes me think ye don't know where we are. Ye are lost.
Admit it."

"I have never been lost," he said, feigning indignation.

"When will we be there?" she challenged.

He laughed with good humor, then looked upward and pointed. "Ye wound me,"
he told her.

She looked where he pointed. High above she could see a dark shape.

"It's the lodge. It sits atop the rocks, and from the eagles nest I built above the
second floor one can see for miles around. I doubt if Covington's men, or your
stepbrother, will venture this high or brave this treacherous country. We will stay
there for a few days, or until I am sure they have not followed us. Then we will
enjoy ourselves."

"They are not really that smart, nor does my stepbrother have a whit of patience.
I'm sure he will not bother to follow," she told him.

"Perhaps--"

"Ye don't believe me."

"There is much at stake here, lass. Where ye are concerned, I will take no
chances."

She fell silent, and the quiet unnerved him. Indeed, her reticence told him more
than she would ever know.

A few minutes later, they crested the hill and rode their horses to the stables. It
was dark inside and quiet. The room smelled of fresh hay.

"How do ye feel?" he asked as he dismounted and led his horse toward a stall,
studying the shadows.

"Exhausted," she told him, but her smile melted his heart.

"Hawke." A man walked from a room in the back of the stables and took the reins
from Hawke.

"Jarrod," Hawke replied. "See to the horses."

"Yes, sir," Jarrod said and accepted the reins.

Hawke looked at Callie and stretched out his arms to her. His fingers on her waist,
he lifted her from the horse. He wanted to hold onto her forever, yet he didn't. He
set her on the ground and brushed a wisp of hair from her face.

"What would ye like first?" he asked. "A bath, food, or sleep?"

"A bath and then food," she said, laughing, despite her apparent weariness.

"A bath and then food," he repeated. Hawke had been afraid she would not
weather the trip well. But she'd kept up his pace. He wondered if she would have
said anything even if she'd been about to drop. She looked bone-weary now.

"Nay," she said softly. "But--"

"But?" he couldn't help himself. He touched her chin with his finger and lifted it until
he could look into her eyes.

"But I know what ye mean to do in bed. And I don't think--"

Suddenly his lips brushed hers, softly at first and then demanding. Swept away by
the rising inferno within, and with a mighty effort he withdrew.

"Let's get ye inside where it's warm," he whispered next to her ear, so very
tempted to kiss her again, perhaps make love to her on the stable floor.

"Let's," she said and turned her head so their lips met once more.

He swept her into his arms and strode quickly across the grounds to the lodge.
The door opened for him, a serving lass waited for them.

"Ye may go," he told the lass.

"The water is hot and ready for the bath if ye want it," she said, curtsying as she
left.

Hawke didn't want to set Callie on her feet. Nay, he wanted to carry her upstairs
and lay her in the huge bed he'd had custom made.

Instead, he carried her to the fire and settled her on top a fur rug. She rubbed her
hands together for warmth as she leaned close to the fire. He piled his arms high
with platters of food. He set the meat and the cheese on a small end table, and
poured wine into one chalice. He sipped the wine, then handed it to Callie.
Smiling, she looked over the rim of the cup at him then lowered her lashes.

The food was wonderful, and in what had seemed like only a short time, it had
vanished from the platters.

Hawke filled the tub.

"Relax in the hot water," he told her. "I have matters of importance to take care of.
If I'm not back when ye're ready for bed, go on without me."

"But Hawke," she said. "What is it? I know your men are here. Do ye really think
my stepbrother or Huntington would try to follow us?"

"Don't worry about it," he told her and kissed her forehead. "Get warm and I'll be
back as soon as I can."

Yes, he did think they might follow them and he meant to take every precaution.
He stepped into the chill night air. Ian appeared at his side. Then they walked
away from the lodge, stopping at a point where they could see down onto the
valley floor. The terrain was rough and incredibly beautiful. The night was clear of
fog. Hawke would have preferred otherwise.

A night owl called out and below them a lark sounded. Then the night fell silent
once more.

"Covington has three men searching for ye. Huntington left four men at the Boar's
Head Inn. Rumor has it he is waiting for more men to follow and yet I don't
understand why."

"Neither do I," Hawke said, "but I feel something else drives them."

"So we must discover the truth before we are surprised." Ian's voice was harsh
and filled with disgust. "Do ye have any idea what it is?"

"Aye," Hawke said softly, "I do."

Ian waited for an answer, still watching the terrain below and listening.

"All this has something to do with our father's death. By coming to MacPherson
castle, Callie unknowingly reopened something Covington and Huntington thought
had been put to rest. I'm truly not sure what it is, but Callie is positive her father
would not have ordered the execution of anyone and particularly in the manner
this one was carried out. Our father may have known something or seen
something. I mean to find out what it was."

Ian rocked back on the balls of his feet. Hawke watched his brother. Ian's muscles
flexed and he rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.

"Perhaps I should travel south," Ian said, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"Perhaps ye should be careful. Take Lachlan with ye. Right now, I believe
Huntington and Covington just want to discover if we know anything, or if Callie
does. Ye've got to admit her flight here raises a great deal of questions. They must
truly think she knows about the real events of those trying days."

"But she doesn't?" Ian queried.

"Nay, she is as perplexed as the two of us," Hawke told his brother. "Ye must find
out what they are up to. Perhaps it would be wise to don a disguise."

"I will," Ian said. "I will dress in the manner of Father MacMurdo."

"Then God speed," Hawke said. "We will stay here two more days, then I will
return to the castle. Keep me informed."

The two men stayed on the crest of the hill. The wind whistled with a keening cry
and the fog had begun to roll into the valley below. In a few more minutes the
blanket of mist would be so heavy, Ian could easily disappear without anyone
knowing.

As if Ian read Hawke's mind, he turned quickly and walked to the stable. Then,
with Lachlan by Ian's side, they left.

Chapter Eleven

Callie soaked in the tub, letting the heat of the water soothe her aching muscles.
Yet, when she should be half-dead from exhaustion and ready to fall into bed, she
was not. She was restless and filled with a strange impulsive energy. Quickly she
rose from the bath and, after toweling herself dry, she dressed in her shift.

She walked around the room. It was handsomely furnished. A mahogany
bookshelf in one corner of the room held letters and books along with a few
trinkets. She picked up a gold lion. The figurine was smooth to the touch. She set
it back, then let her gaze travel the room. A Persian rug, rich in colors, deep red
velvet drapes, statues, all spoke of the wealth of The MacPhersons. They were
merchants and fisherman. The Aphrodite had not been the only boat moored in
the tiny inlet.

They'd drunk French wine on board the ship and she'd noticed the ivory comb and
the ebony giraffe. Perhaps he'd traveled with his crew and seen countries she'd
only heard about. Perhaps he'd been to Africa and the Crimea, sailing past the
minarets of Constantinople.

For a few moments, she closed her eyes, letting her imagination wander through
all the possibilities. He'd seen places she'd only dreamed about. She imagined the
rocking of the ship with each wave and the salt-scented wind in her face. Her
thoughts drifted to the people he must have encountered and the dangers along
the way. There was so very much she didn't know about her new husband. Her
body shuddered and suddenly her heart raced with excitement and perhaps
anticipation of the night to come. Oh, but she intended to find out all she could
about Hawke.

She opened her eyes and once more let her gaze wander the main room. She
stepped through a doorway and discovered steps leading upward. Callie walked to
the ladder. Her fingers trailed over the smooth, mahogany rungs. Hawke had not
told her she could not explore the hunting lodge.

Indeed, the lodge was hers.

Yet she possessed no deed, no papers proclaiming the building to be hers. It was
hers by his word only. Unsure of herself, her stomach somersaulted nervously.

She trusted Hawke.

Aye, she had already trusted him with her life.

And yet... could she trust him with her heart.

With both hands, she held tightly onto the sides of the ladder and looked upward.
Silver starlight and golden moonlight drifted through the windows in the room
above. Hesitating for only a moment before she started to climb, Callie told herself
not to think about Hawke or his reaction.

Nay, she would not think about Hawke. This was her lodge now.

There could not possibly be a complaint from Hawke.

When they arrived, she sensed his wariness, and she was sure he had another
motive besides spending time alone with her. Aye, he had more than one reason,
and she sensed the reason revolved around his father's execution and perhaps
the murder her father was unjustly accused of committing. She meant to find out
what he knew or what he thought he might discover here.

As she slowly moved upward, she was reminded of her awkward climb to board
his ship. This ladder didn't sway though, and neither did it promise a sudden drop
to frigid water below if she lost her grip. This was much easier and far less
perilous. Still, her fingers tightened around the smooth wood. Her heart pounded
furiously and she felt as if every nerve within her body was snapping. She reached
the top, pulling herself awkwardly onto the landing as if she were a fish flopping on
dry land. She smiled, her thoughts taking a sudden turn to her childhood and the
little tree house her father had built her.

Archibald had destroyed the refuge when he discovered she loved it. Her
stepbrother had taken great pleasure in dismantling it, one piece at a time.

Despite the time separating the incident from the present, tears stung her eyes
and despair welled up within her. She had learned hate that summer. She had
also learned to keep her distance from Archibald. Her father, so mesmerized by
his new wife, Archibald's mother, had not noticed her stepbrother's cruelty at first.

Once again Callie cringed, her body tensing as if Archibald might burst through the
small opening to the loft. Nay. She didn't want to think of her past--not now--when
nothing had changed for her.

She stood. The landing was like a crow's nest on board a sailing vessel. All that
was missing was the wind upon her face and the sway of the ship. When she
turned, she could see all around the valley. For miles and miles, she could see the
land and the roads leading to the lodge. If the moon hadn't been so bright and the
clouds so few, the land would have been cloaked in blackness. She was sure she
could hear the sounds of men or horses if she pushed open the window.

She stepped closer to one of the windows and searched the grounds for Hawke.

Men milled around the stables--at least ten men she could count--but she couldn't
make out Hawke. In the darkness, the men were just black shapes, wraith-like,
gliding silently from place to place. Two riders rode from the stables. Because of
his size, one had to be Lachlan. If she had to hazard a guess, the other man was
Ian.

For several more seconds she watched, her hands resting on the windowpanes.
Once again, she felt restless energy surge through her. There was nothing more of
interest on the landing or the valley below. Other than a round table and two
chairs, the landing was empty of furniture. There were no lanterns or candles, no
decorative figurines.

She would have liked to have a refuge like this when she was younger. She sat
down, her elbows on the table, and stared into the night, listening to the sounds.
They weren't too different from those in the lowlands where she grew up. The
sound of an owl, the bark of a dog, a frog croaking, all floated through the window.

One of the doors in the lodge opened and closed. She heard sounds of someone
she was sure was Hawke walk through the front room then through the back door,
almost as if he followed her path inside the lodge. Then she heard him stop at the
ladder.

"Callie?" he questioned, his voice soft yet commanding. "Are ye up there?"

"Aye," she said, her shoulders suddenly trembling with the night's chill, or was it
anxiety?, at the possible confrontation with Hawke yet to come. "Is it all right? I
wasn't tired and I wanted to look around."

She heard his steps on the ladder, but he didn't say anything while he was
climbing upward. Nervously, she moved to the opening and watched him. Her
hands tightened around the part of the ladder extending into the landing.

"Of course it's all right. This is your lodge now." His head appeared through the
opening, and then he pulled himself onto the landing. His entrance was much
more graceful than hers had been.

"Hawke?" She found she was suddenly breathless and tongue-tied. His hair was
damp and he wore no shirt. She swallowed hard as she followed the line of chest
hair to the top his trousers.

"Do ye like it?" he asked, standing over her, his eyes soft with some emotion she
didn't understand. With the back of his hand, he touched her cheek.

All Callie could think about was the man standing before her. "'Tis so very
beautiful," she told him. Then with a sweep of her hand, gesturing so the

movement encompassed the entire circle that was the loft, she said, "Why did ye
have this built?"

"My father did. He loved to look at his land. He would spend hours here, writing
and painting pictures." Hawke spoke with a reverence she'd never heard from him
before. Indeed, she'd never heard anything like this in her life. She knew how very
much he loved this place and then wondered why he had gifted her with
something he cared so deeply for. The thought touched her heart.

"He was an artist? Are ye?" she queried, tilting her head slightly. Oh, how she
wanted to learn all she could about Hawke. About The MacPherson. As a child
she'd heard stories about him and as a young adult she'd watched him save her
father.

And she wondered just where the truth lie.

"The pictures of the landscapes below were all done by him, and no," Hawke told
her, laughing. "I am not."

"Ye say he wrote?" Still she questioned, walking around the perimeter of the
landing and staring into the blackness of the night. There were no longer dark
human shapes below and she guessed all but a few had retired for the night.

"Only in his journals. He wrote about his family and friends. And the day-to-day life
among his people. If ye read them, ye would find naught but boring words."

"I doubt that," she said, sensing Hawke was trying to hide something from her. "I
think all that he wrote would be fascinating. Did he tell stories of your childhood?"

"Most likely. And ye would be wrong. His journals are filled with facts, not fantasy.
He told of the babies born and those who fell sick. Many times he wrote of the
remedies; those who survived and those who did not. Sometimes he compiled the
facts into charts trying to figure out the best cures for different sicknesses.
Tirelessly he listed herbs and what they were thought to do."

"Nay," she spoke softly, her gaze meeting his. "Ye would be wrong. I find all that
mesmerizing."

He laughed. "Ye would find folklore and herb lore mesmerizing?" He questioned
her as if he didn't believe her.

He did not offer to show her the journals though. She knew he wouldn't. He didn't
want her delving into his past; his family's past. Yet she couldn't help her next
question. "Could I look at his works sometime?"

Hawke shook his head. "Nay, I do not know where he kept them."

He looked so sincere, she was sure he wasn't lying. Indeed, he looked as if he
wanted to find them himself. She was never more sure that he thought he might
find some piece of information within the journals about his father's execution or
her stepbrother and Huntington. Perhaps he might even discover the truth of what
happened that horrible day.

Discover who had truly ordered the execution.

"Perhaps they are in the lodge somewhere. It is not such a large place. He might
have hidden them somewhere."

Hawke's gaze grew hot. Suddenly, the cobalt sizzle nearly undid her. And once
more, she vowed to herself she would never become his enemy.

"Perhaps not," he charged her. "I have told ye, nay, I have ordered ye not to seek
information about the execution of my father. Yet ye continue to look for answers
that are not there." He stooped close to her, and picking up her hand in his, he
asked, "Why? I thought we agreed to put the past behind us."

She closed her eyes for a moment and swallowed the lump in her throat. Her hand
shook within his, yet she thought to bend him perhaps to her will with newfound
coquettish ploys. Fluttering her lashes and gazing into his eyes, she moistened her
lips. She watched as a slow smile curved his lips. Slowly, he bent toward her, his
mouth closing over her own. He deepened the kiss, his tongue demanding
entrance. She opened for him, leaning into him and letting her hands run across
his shoulders, then into his hair. His hands closed around her waist. Then his
fingers pressed higher until he cupped her breast in his palm, his thumb roving
across the crest until her blood ran hot and she could do naught but moan softly.

Suddenly he pulled away, his eyes piercing yet the smile still firm upon his face.
"Why?" he repeated.

"Why?" she questioned, her lashes slowly opening before she looked at him again.
She was suddenly unable to recall anything but the kiss and her own heated
response, including her need for more. She moistened her lips and searched for
the means to utter words.

"Ye have forgotten so soon?" he queried, his breath whispering across her cheek,
his thumb still playing havoc upon her senses and her ability to think.

She nodded and looked at him again, yet slowly she remembered what she had
brazenly tried to do, and knew he was much more adept at this game of flirtation
than she was.

She lowered her lashes, her fingers grasping the fabric of her dress just as she

tried to grasp a reason he would believe, yet the truth seemed eminently
preferable. "Because I cannot let it go, Hawke. I want, no, I need to clear my
father's name." Her words rushed from her and she stood watching him,
breathless.

"'Tis not your father's name that needs clearing. Your father, according to all the
records, was very justified in what he did." Hawke sighed deeply and walked to the
window, the palms of his hands resting on the window ledge, his forehead pressed
against the pane.

"I mean in your eyes. I don't want ye to hate my father and believe the worst of
him. I don't want our marriage to be constantly plagued by the unknown and your
need for revenge."

He turned then, so quickly she stumbled backward. "Callie, listen to me carefully. I
no longer believe the worst of David Whitcomb. I am trying to believe ye when ye
tell me he is a good and honest man. It is hard. Yet I've seen with my own eyes
the daughter he raised. An evil man could not have raised one so sweet, kind and,
unfortunately, curious and too ready to toss her life into the midst of danger. After
the events of the last few weeks, I think there is something or someone else
involved here." He paused for several seconds, his gaze raking across her. Then
he continued. "But ye will listen to me and do as I say or I might find it necessary
to take measures ye would not like just to keep ye alive."

She inhaled sharply. "What measures?"

"I'd rather not speak of them at the moment."

Perhaps she shouldn't pursue her cause so diligently. "Ye do not believe anyone
would harm me."

The following silence sent her heart racing once more and cold chills caused from
fear to spiral within. Finally, Hawke spoke, "I do believe your stepbrother and
probably Huntington have invested a great deal of time and money into something
that needs to be kept secret. If that is the case, your life as well as my own is now
at risk."

"Nay," she said. "Archibald would taunt and tease me but he would never kill me.
He takes great delight in the sport and if his quarry does not exist then there would
be no fun."

"Yet Huntington is a different kind of man. He is a wise man and a careful one, but
he is also deadly. If Simon Huntington has anything to do with this game they play,
and I'm beginning to think it is a treasonous one, then all our lives are at stake.
Your stepbrother may only be a pawn in the game. An evil pawn."

She paused and fell silent for a time, then she looked to Hawke for more answers.
"Do ye believe that perhaps my stepmother might have something to do with this
also?"

"Anything is possible."

* * *

Bertram leaned back, his large beefy hands settled on the tabletop. Replete from
the meal, his belly jiggled along side the rough wooden table in the inn. His hunger
for food had been satisfied but not his hunger for The MacPherson wench. He
groaned, remembering the way her flesh quivered when he'd touched her. He
began to drool. With the back of his hand, he wiped the spittle from his lips.
Vividly, he recalled her softness of form, the shape of her breasts, the feminine
flare of her hips and the sweet smell of roses that lingered whenever Lainie had
passed by.

And he recalled the way she tasted.

Pure sugar to the soul.

Squirming in his chair, trying to readjust his trousers, he watched the people.
Angrily, he tapped the document set in front of him. It was a message from the
king. And the letter had made his plans take a decided turn. Not only had he been
promoted, but he'd been ordered back to England.

Immediately.

"We can't go back now," his friend, Rory, spoke, softly so no one would hear. "Ye
don't have what ye stayed here to get, a piece of that little gel. Nor do I have what
ye promised me."

"I mean to have me more than a piece," Bertram said, a jaundiced eye studying
the little weasel. Rory's hair, what there was of it, was nearly white and his face
was covered with aging, mottled skin. His nose had changed from straight to
crooked when an enemy delivered a hard right hook in a tavern fight ten years
ago. To Bertram, Rory seemed agelessly old and amazingly withered. And he
wondered why Rory suddenly appeared even older than usual. His shoulders were
stooped but he'd always walked slightly bent over.

"I know. I know," Rory said, nodding and sipping the drink in front of him.

"Hawke's away." Bertram leaned over the table, his elbows now resting there.
Beneath his arm, he felt a peg. He rubbed an itch with the rough protrusion and
sighed.

"Aye, Hawke's away, but only for a few days if our informants are right. What does
that have to with anything? If he finds out ye're here, he'll send someone to
convince us to leave."

"And we'll leave."

Rory glared at Bertram over the rim of his cup while he licked the circular edge
with his tongue. "We will?" He drank until he drained the container. "Why?"

"They hate Hawke. The men who volunteered to help us out--they hate The
MacPherson," Bertram said, methodically saying each word.

"Aye, and ye haven't answered my question." Rory scratched his head, then under
his arm. His eyes were now open wide and he'd cocked his head slightly as if he
were digesting each word Bertram spoke.

"Ian left for the Borderland early this morning." Bertram paused. "With Lainie's
bodyguard, Lachlan." Bertram was already making plans. Patience was the key.
He had plenty of patience, but the King had stepped in and changed everything.
Now time raced like sand through his fingers.

"Do ye think to saunter on up to the castle and walk inside?" Rory stood and
scratched his chin, his fingers delving beneath the tangled beard he wore.

"No, I'm going to wait until Lainie gets bored and leaves the safety of the castle
walls. She will, ye know." Bertram felt smug and so very satisfied with himself.
Lainie had been confined for a long time and she would come out for him. He'd
think of a way to get her outside.

"What's in it for me?" Rory demanded, his features reddening with anger as he
whined. "I want a piece."

"She won't be alone. Ye can have whoever comes with her."

Rory grunted. "Aye, and her companion will most likely be another of the same ilk
as that giant with oak trees for legs."

"Perhaps." Bertram's fingers tapped the tabletop again. "Or she'll sneak out and
only one of her lady attendants will be with her."

"Ye think she'd do that?"

Bertram nodded. "For now, though, I plan on enjoying myself with the local
peasants--Scottish whores all of them."

Several minutes more, his gaze swept the room. He grinned broadly and, lifting his

arm, he crooked his finger toward one of the serving girls. She was a pretty little
thing with carrot red hair and freckles splattered across her face. Her huge breasts
nearly popped from her low cut bodice. Slowly, she sashayed her fanny his way.

She wasn't Lainie.

Damn, but she'd have to do for now.

"What can I get ye?" she queried, leaning over, displaying herself for him then
turning so he could see her profile. She was short and well rounded everywhere it
counted. He wanted to bury himself inside her and forget, at least for a moment,
the Scottish lass he craved.

"Ye," Bertram said softly, his finger tracing a line just above the fabric of her dress
below her collarbone, lingering, enticing.

"Ooooh" she cooed and moved in closer to him. "Ye're a bonny man, ye know."

"What's your name?" If he wanted, he could close his fingers around her breast
and squeeze.

"Mary." She panted her name and licked her hungry, ripe lips.

He patted his leg and turned just enough so she could sit on his lap. His hands
settled on her waist, his thumbs circling gently beneath the swell of her breasts,
inching closer to the crest.

Her softly-rounded buttocks rubbed against him and he began to harden.

"Ah, Mary is a fine name. And how old are ye, Mary, lass?"

"I'm nearly fifteen," she purred softly. "Ye shouldn't be touching me like ye are."
But she leaned into him, a silent encouragement.

One hand wandered farther, his other hand creeping beneath the folds of her skirt
and sliding up her inner thigh. "That old, are ye? Do ye have any big brothers? Or
a father who would look after ye?" His voice grew husky, his heart pounded
against his ribs, his needs escalating.

She shook her head, red curls flying around her face and catching on her lips. She
smiled. One tooth was missing. He didn't care.

"I look after myself." She pressed into him, her breasts rubbing against his chest.
He could see one rosy nipple where her top had been pulled down by her
maneuverings. Now his fingers closed tightly around one breast. She gasped but
didn't move. He rubbed the budding crest, forcing the garment she wore even

lower, and pinched her. Oh, but he meant to do everything to her he intended to
do with Lainie.

"That hurt," she gasped.

"I know," he said. "Ye like it, don't ye?"

She whimpered when he squeezed again and nodded. He watched tears grow in
her eyes and smiled. She wouldn't tell him no. All women liked it rough. They just
liked to play as if they didn't; as if it hurt them. He knew better.

"Ye have a room upstairs?"

She nodded. "One I share. If the door is closed tight, though, no one is allowed
inside."

The swell of her thigh lay beneath his fingers. He squeezed. She squealed and
whimpered. His lips brushed hers as his hand roamed higher. The curls at the
apex of her thighs were soft and damp. He thought he might explode.

Bertram nodded at Rory. "We'll be back in a little while. Get the horses ready."

He rose quickly, the girl stumbling slightly as he set her on the floor. He grabbed
her hand and strode toward the stairs and the rooms above. Yet he wasn't sure he
could wait that long.

Breathless and excited from the tips of his toes to his head, he pulled her along
behind him and imagined the girl he was dragging to bed was Lainie. Throwing
open the door to the little room upstairs, he discovered it was hardly more than a
cubicle with a bed. He slammed the door shut behind him and pressed the girl
against it. Her lips were soft beneath his. She tasted like the ale they served below
and smelled of sweat, but he didn't care.

"Lainie," he moaned. He wanted to feel Lainie, to touch Lainie, and to bury himself
deep inside The MacPherson chit. As he slid his tongue over the plump curve of
Mary's bottom lip, he reminded himself that this little girl would have to give him
the satisfaction he craved, at least for now.

He deepened the kiss, telling himself that soon it would be Lainie. This girl wanted
his money, wanted sex hard and fast so she could find a new customer. But damn,
if he didn't touch those breasts of hers soon he was going to explode. Hers?
Mary's or Lainie's? he wondered.

It didn't matter.

She pressed against him and made a soft moaning sound that was like a shot of

whiskey straight to his veins. He forgot about everything; about who he really
wanted. This was sex.

Her lips parted and he plunged inside her hot little mouth but he wanted more. He
caught her hard in his arms, felt those full-rounded breasts spread across his
chest. He couldn't wait a moment longer. He tugged on the sleeves of her bodice,
knowing full well the material would give and slide down to her waist. It had been
made with just that purpose in mind. His coins jingled in his pocket. She
whimpered and clung to him. And he kept thinking of Lainie and imagining Lainie
beneath him. Oh, God, but then he had one hand on the sweet curve of her ass,
and he deepened the thrust of his tongue, but even that wasn't good enough
because he wanted to curl it around her nipples and slide it between her legs.

"Lainie," he whispered.

He wanted her to touch him. He wanted her on her knees in front of him, begging
him for his affections, begging him to take her. He could feel her wildness and the
cresting of her response. Her hands dug into his arms, her hips pushing and
thrusting against him, grinding.

He tugged at her skirt, bringing it ever higher. His fingers groped through moist
curls at the apex of her thighs to find her. His kiss was deep now, his tongue
stroking hers just as he was undoing the fastening of his trousers.

"Put your legs around my waist," he ordered.

She was crazy, just as needy as he was. And those sounds, just like fear, made
him smile with pleasure. Control. God, control was what this was all about. He
thrust inside her and reveled at the tight, smooth fit. She was writhing and he knew
she was trying to get away from him. He reached inside his pocket and dropped
one gold coin on the floor.

She stopped then and he felt moisture against his face. She was crying and trying
desperately not to fight him. Yet the fight was what he wanted.

"Don't stop now," he told her. "Fight me." One more coin fell to the floor. And the
girl hit him, and once again tried to move away from him, but he easily controlled
her. He pumped inside her hard and fast and finally climaxed.

He let her go then and she slid to the floor, her head in her hands, sobbing. He
dropped another coin in her lap.

"That was good, Lainie," he told her. "But I do believe ye could have fought
harder."

He stepped into the hall, readjusted his clothing and met Rory outside the tavern.

"To The MacPherson castle," he said.

Chapter Twelve

Hawke reached out to touch his sleeping wife, then withdrew his hand. She slept
soundly and peacefully. He needed to search the lodge without her knowledge.

He rose, wishing for more time with Callie, yearning to pull her close and make
love to her one more time. Instead, he turned and slipped into his clothes.

Pausing for a moment, he tried to delve into his subconscious for any memories of
his childhood which might lead him to something useful. Still, he could think of
nothing. He had spent what seemed like hours lying in bed watching Callie sleep,
trying to remember the past and wanting his wife in his arms.

She moaned softly and turned in the bed, the covers slipping to reveal a creamy
white shoulder and the rounded curve of one breast. Emotions he'd never felt
before, a strange tenderness, a need to protect, shelter and love this woman,
swept within.

Yet he turned his back on Callie and walked slowly through the lodge, studying
every inch of every room. He touched the walls and felt for hidden seams or loose
boards, but he found nothing.

He paused in thought then spoke out loud. "The best place to hide something is
where the object is looked at every day." He repeated the words that had suddenly
popped into his head. They were words his father had told him many times.

His gaze swept the room, but he saw nothing he could use. What was it he looked
for? He walked outside. The early morning sun shone down upon the ground and
a soft dew covered the grass and plants. The stables loomed in front of him.
Jarrod and his wife would be inside in his room near the back of the stables.
Jarrod had been with his father when all this happened.

In a matter of minutes, Hawke stood inside the stable, searching for the unknown.
Perhaps he was a fool on a fool's mission. Perhaps this thought of hidden
information was all in his imagination. His father was a private man, and yet he
recorded most everything he saw and heard. But he wasn't a man to take stock in
gossip or hearsay. If he penned anything, his father would have been sure the
words he wrote were true.

Jarrod was tossing fresh hay into the stables from the loft above. His back was
turned to the front of the stables and he sang while he worked. Several years ago,
Jarrod's dark black hair had begun to turn gray. He was still a strong, vibrant man,
but he'd asked Hawke if he could tend the stables at the hunting lodge. Hawke

understood and let him go, because he did need someone trustworthy to stay
here. He'd sent Jarrod's wife Elizabeth and two other trusted friends along with
him.

"Jarrod," Hawke called out, not wishing to startle him.

The older man turned, a wide grin greeting Hawke. "I wondered when ye'd be
down this morning. How is everything--your new bride?" Jarrod winked, a grin
creasing his weathered features.

"She's fine." Hawke bent down, picked up a piece of the fresh hay, and twirled it
between his fingers for a moment before he put it in his mouth.

Jarrod planted the pitchfork in a large pile of hay before climbing down the ladder
and sitting down on a nearby stool. He wiped sweat from his forehead before he
spoke. "Did ye come to look over the stock, or for conversation?" Jarrod asked.

"Both." Hawke leaned against a wooden rail, watching the older man, hoping
Jarrod would have the answers he sought.

Hawke pushed away and strolled the length of the stables then back. This time
Jarrod watched and waited, his light blue eyes crinkling with amusement and
knowledge, then sobering.

The wily old coot, Hawke thought. He knows why I'm here, or he's guessed.

Hawke sat down on a bale of hay, the piece of hay still in his mouth. Gut feelings
told him he might find answers here. He wondered why he hadn't thought of Jarrod
sooner. But then he'd never thought David Whitcomb to be innocent either. He'd
never sought answers, only revenge.

Until now.

Until he married a guileless and courageous young English lady who was just as
desperate for answers as he was for restitution.

But what if David wasn't innocent?

Finally, Hawke spoke, his words nearly whispered yet filled with emotion. "Tell me
about that day."

Jarrod nodded while he rubbed his chin. He didn't say anything for the longest
time. Hawke was never so aware of the absence of words than he was now. The
animals shifted restlessly in their stalls, the wind swept loose pieces of hay along
the floor, and a dog barked from somewhere outside. The scent of freshly baked
meat pies mingled with the aroma of new hay. Yet Jarrod still didn't speak. His

eyes were closed and he leaned against a post, the long sigh following telling
Hawke this wasn't something Jarrod wanted to remember.

"Ye sure ye want to open this door?" Jarrod asked, sitting up straight and now
staring at Hawke.

So he'd guessed right. Jarrod knew more than he'd told him.

Hawke nodded, his words grim yet leaving no place for changing his mind. "I have
to. I have to know the truth. For Callie's sake--for the sake of our marriage and the
children we are yet to have."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Still," Jarrod paused. "Perhaps this is for the best."

"My wife is a Whitcomb, Jarrod. Her father was the man I have believed for all
these years had ordered my father executed." Pain and loss swept through
Hawke.

"Your father told me ye'd come to me someday."

"Ye spoke to my father?"

"Aye, moments before he was executed. Few knew what happened that day. And
none who knew wishes to remember. But your father charged me with the task,
and I promised him."

"Well, I have come," Hawke said softly. "I need to know what happened that day,
but before ye say a word I want your solemn promise."

"Anything," the older man said, yet a look of puzzlement creased his brow. "What
is the promise?"

"Ye must never tell my wife anything. No matter how much she plagues ye or
promises ye the moon, do not tell her what happened."

"Does she not deserve to know?"

"Perhaps in time." Hawke paused, staring out the doorway of the stables toward
the lodge. "She is asleep still. At least I hope so. She is sure to come searching for
me if she is awake. Come, let us keep a vigilant eye. Overhearing our
conversation is not something I would want Callie to do."

"Then she deserves to hear, yet ye will not tell her. Should she know what part her
father played in this treason?"

Hawke stiffened at Jarrod's words. "Treason? David Whitcomb was a part of it?"

"Aye." Jarrod stroked his chin and for a moment, Hawke feared he might not agree
to keep the secret. Finally, "I will promise."

But he was hesitant and Hawke knew convincing the older man was in the works.

"Good," Hawke said, breathing a deep sigh of relief. "I believe this is a dangerous
situation. The less she knows the less I have to worry about her safety, although
she is a determined woman."

"Ye have my vow then, but Hawke, I am afraid I do not have all the pieces in this
scheme. Your father was not sure until the end that he was right. We only had a
few moments to talk. There were guards all around the cell. The fact I was let in to
see him was suspicious."

"Then tell me what ye know."

"It was in the summer. I'm sure ye recall the heat of the day. 'Twas a scorcher.
And the men were restless--"

"Hawke?" Callie's voice filtered through the stable doors.

His heart sped and he felt the searing heat of frustration and the deep unrelenting
need for revenge surface anew. Had Callie kept her own secrets? "Wait," Hawke
said to Jarrod before turning toward Callie. "This will have to wait. I will come back
tonight when she is asleep."

Hawke smiled as if he had not been embroiled up to his neck with intrigue only a
few moments earlier and walked toward Callie. She was silhouetted, framed in the
opening of the stable.

"I'm here," he said, his voice gentle.

"What are ye doing? The sun has barely risen." Her voice floated on the air,
whisper soft and enticing, the scent of jasmine following. He eyed the rafters
above and the hayloft with a rapidly beating pulse.

"And what are ye doing out of bed?" His imagination soared to the heights above,
yet common sense willed him to temper those ideas. "I thought ye would sleep
until noon." He stood in front of her now, his fingers itching to hold her, to touch
her and feel the silken softness of her body beneath his. There was nothing
stopping him, save Jarrod's presence and the very real possibility Elizabeth would
walk through the stable doors.

And...there were Jarrod's words condemning her father. He cautioned himself to
be wary of her.

"Ye didn't answer my question," she told him a bit gruffly and with a bit of
impatience.

"I was restless," he said, "and I didn't want to wake ye. I found Jarrod in the
stables working. He's a longtime and trustworthy friend." Hawke looked to Jarrod
who had risen and was once again putting hay in the stalls. "Callie, this is Jarrod. I
don't remember if ye met him last night."

"Good morning, Jarrod," she said sweetly. The old man smiled and winked at her.

"Would the two of ye like to ride?" he inquired politely, as if he knew something
they did not. "I'll saddle the horses. Just say the word."

She shook her head. "No."

Possessively, Hawke wrapped his arm around Callie and nodded toward Jarrod.
His man seemed to understand Hawke wanted to be alone with his wife because
Jarrod rose and strode away from them. "I have chores outside," he said, and
walked through the stable doors.

Hawke turned Callie in his arms, his hands around her waist. "Ah, a bit sore from
yesterday?" he asked, his thoughts wandering once more to the hayloft above and
the endless stream of possibilities. Yet the knowledge they could be interrupted in
something very private and intimate rose to the forefront of his mind. He wanted to
push those thoughts away.

Callie didn't answer. Instead, she cocked her head and looked at him critically
before she turned and started walking back to the lodge. "Stay," he said, hoping
she would. Then he reached out a hand to stop her.

Callie stopped and whirled around, her hair flying, the sun catching it and
highlighting the silken wisps. Her lips thinned in sudden anger, her eyes
simmering. "Ye were searching this morning. Did ye find anything?" A note of
accusation laced her voice.

"I should have known ye'd see through my ploy." He said each word softly, his
impatience rising quickly. "No, I found nothing." He raked his fingers through his
hair, frustration with her tenacity and fear for her life ever present in his mind. She
treaded in dangerous territory.

He would do anything to stop her.

To keep her alive.

She stepped closer to him, her eyes fired with fury. "Would ye admit it if ye found

any information? Would ye tell me?" she queried as if she already knew the
answer. "I have the right to know."

He agreed with her right to know but her life came first. "No."

"I see," she said and turned again, her slim back rigid, her shoulders squared. "Ye
said ye'd put the past behind ye." This time when she walked, there was no
delicate feminine sway to her hips, no lightness about her feet; nothing flirtatious
met his eye.

He wished she understood how dangerous this was for both of them. He wished
she understood the fact that Bertram had accompanied Huntington bothered him
too. What was one of the king's men doing with a minor Lord? There could only be
mischief afoot.

Long strides carried him quickly to Callie's side. Placing his hand on her shoulder,
he stopped her then turned her. The curve of her breasts brushed across his
chest. Gently, he cupped her face in his hands. With purpose and determination to
keep her safe from all the world's harms, his mouth closed over hers. She swayed
into him and to his delight blessed him with a little whimper of sexual desire.

His tongue plunged inside her mouth, delved and explored. Her hands rose to his
chest, her fingers closing around the fabric of his shirt. He deepened the kiss,
pulling her closer, needing to feel more of her and to know she was safe. And yet
this was not the place. Any of his men could walk in and find them. Jarrod could
return as well as Elizabeth. And yet he knew Jarrod had read his mind and would
not return for some time. Still, he pulled away from her, his breathing heavy, his
heart racing.

Control was underrated here.

"Jarrod?" she questioned impatiently while she pulled him closer.

He ignored her question then nodded to the loft above, damning himself for his
need and yet applauding his ingeniousness, all the while telling himself, he was a
fool. Arguing with himself, he fought every instinct he possessed.

She followed the line of his gaze. He saw the surprise in her eyes. When she
began to shake her head no, he knew in order to have his way, he had to promise
something infinitely sweet in return, something she could not resist.

"There is something I want to show ye," he told her, his breath whispering across
her cheek as he nibbled lightly down the long column of her neck. She smelled of
early morning sunshine and jasmine and she tasted sweet as honey.

He watched her swallow and noticed the set of her jaw. In her eyes, he read fear.

When he followed the line of her gaze, he saw the long, dangerous ladder looming
in front of her. She feared nothing but the height of the ladder. At least that was
what he told himself.

"Up there?" she questioned, her voice wavering as she studied the long,
precarious ladder she would have to climb if she were to give in to his wishes.

"Aye. 'Tis worth the climb," he promised softly.

"Ye are sure?"

He was pleased to hear the teasing quality in her voice, yet her tone retained an
element of fear which he wanted to wipe away.

"I am sure." He kissed the tip of her nose, her forehead, then gently brushed her
lips with his own.

She turned away and now her back rested against his chest. His arms wrapped
around her, and once again he thought he might not be able to wait to have her
until he convinced her to climb to the loft above. The overpowering need for his
new bride claimed him. Now nothing else mattered. Truly, by now, she should be
an expert at climbing long, rickety ladders.

She inhaled deeply, her breasts rising and falling against his forearms, teasing him
and tantalizing every sense he possessed. "Very well," she said and began the
short walk to the ladder.

"I will be right behind ye."

She paused in front of it, her hands trembling as she placed them on a rung. "To
catch me if I fall?"

"Ye will not fall. I would never allow such a thing," he told her. And yes, he would
be here to catch her if she fell. Yet she was nimble, graceful and exquisitely
formed. She had just not had older brothers who would taunt and tease until she
followed along behind. No, she had had an evil stepbrother, who treated her badly.

A man she hid from and feared.

She gazed upward once more and with a small laugh, said, "And ye can be so
sure of all these things? I would almost wish to prove ye wrong, but I do not want
to fall."

"Ye wish to prove your husband wrong?" He didn't know what to think of her
statement. Yet he found it in some ways amusing even when the words caused
anger to flare.

"Aye, but only in this matter. To erase some of your arrogance," she told him
sweetly.

He didn't say anything in return, for there was nothing he could think of to say that
would not make him sound like a lovesick fool. He held her hand in his and placed
a small kiss on the back before turning it over and kissing the heart of her palm.

"One would think ye had some hidden motive," she told him, her voice soft, her
lashes lowered suddenly as if in shyness. But he understood the coquettish game
she played. Aye, she was shy but she truly knew the natural ways of women and
flirtation. She would take advantage of him if he allowed such a thing.

He smiled down upon her, "'Tis a gamble for sure. Your virtue could be ripped to
shreds were ye to ascend the ladder with me. And yet I know your heart races.
The intrigue has ye nearly breathless with anticipation. There is something up
there for me to show ye, and ye must risk something in return to discover my
surprise."

She gasped slightly, her lashes fluttering, her eyes wide open and beautifully
shimmering. "Very well," she said and turned to the ladder, placing one hand on
the rung, her fingers gripping tightly.

He saw her breathe deeply and stiffen her shoulders as she began the climb.
Sorely tempted to help her, he resisted reaching out and placing one hand on the
curve of her buttocks. Inwardly, he laughed at himself and this unrelenting need he
had to be with her, to explore her. Surely the times he had lain with her, touched
her, drove inside her, should have calmed his need for her. Yet every time he
thought of her, saw her, or heard her, the heat swept through him, the ungodly
rush of sexual energy filled him.

She was torture and heaven to his heart and soul.

Bliss and punishment to his tortured body.

As he watched her climb, he was fascinated by the sway of her skirts and the slim
ankle flashing occasionally beneath her gown. Ah, but he would love to see a bit
higher beneath her skirts. And yet...

There was something much more intriguing about the promise of discovery.

She reached the top and stood. Her face was slightly flushed, her breathing a bit
ragged and her hair floated whimsically around her shoulders, the sunlight dancing
within the silken strands. Her hands were on her hips and her lips were pursed,
her head tilted to the side in question.

"I'm waiting," she told him, her foot tapping impatiently.

"It seems I have been waiting all my life. Ah, well, it seems I must wait a bit
longer."

"What?" she asked, sounding truly perplexed. Yet he didn't answer. Instead, he
walked toward a small window at the end of the loft then crouched down, his back
to her. "Here."

She followed and kneeled beside him then gave a little gasp of surprise. "Kittens!"

"Aye."

"How old are they? May I keep one?" She reached out and stroked an orange and
white tabby. Then she cooed softly to the newborn animal.

His heart swelled. He could not control nor could he conceal the grin spreading
admiringly across his face.

"Two weeks and yes, if ye'd like, ye may keep them all."

Callie turned, one kitten nestled in her arms, the mother cat eying her warily. The
kitten rubbed her nose against Callie's chin and squeaked. Callie closed her eyes
and let the warmth of the tiny animal creep into her soul. Memories of times long
past assailed her. Her body trembled.

Hawke touched her shoulder. "What's wrong? I thought--"

"Ye were right. The kittens are adorable, but--"

He watched her, confusion in his gaze yet caring and understanding too.

"But?" He urged her to tell him what was in her heart.

She tucked her bottom lip beneath her teeth, thinking, wishing she didn't have to
remember. She had planted those times firmly in the farthest recess of her mind.
Those were times best left unremembered, yet Hawke had a right to know, just as
she had a right to know about his past.

He wanted to keep her from his past.

Damn her safety!

"I had a kitten once," she began, stroking the kitten and relishing the soft purring
sounds rumbling around within the kitten, knowing the pain would once again
return to swamp her.

The knotting of her insides.

"Doesn't every little girl have a kitten of her own?" Hawke inquired.

"Perhaps." She bent over and kissed the top of the animal's head, nuzzling the fur.
Then she looked up. "I guess I wouldn't know."

Hawke watched her, his gaze directed at her, questioning her, perhaps even
challenging her to delve into her memories and bring them forth. She didn't want to
do that, bring back the past.

She'd buried the past.

"I was alone most of the time." She stroked the sleeping kitten.

"Ye had a stepbrother."

"One who was ten years older than I was and one who was incredibly shallow and
mean."

"Did he hurt ye Callie?" Suddenly nothing else mattered but Callie. He would kill
the bastard if he'd harmed her in any way.

"Not really, no--yes, he hurt me in ways my father couldn't see. He did cruel things
and then laughed when I cried. Archibald picked on the defenseless and the
weak."

"I promise he will never hurt ye again."

Yes, Hawke could promise, but he couldn't uphold the promise if anything were to
happen to him. He was Archibald's target now; Huntington's too.

And Callie, foolish naive woman that she was, thought she could make sure
nothing would happen to him. She knew he had been awake early and he'd
searched the house.

"He left me in the forest."

Hawke was surprised to hear her voice intrude into his thoughts, but he let her
continue.

"Hours passed before my father found me. I was cold and tired and, Hawke, I was
so very scared. My father cradled me in his arms and carried me all the way home,
promising me I would never get lost again. But I didn't tell him Archibald took me
there and left me. I couldn't."

"How old were ye?"

She shuddered before she spoke, her fingers tightening in the kitten's soft fur.
"Five." Callie lowered her lashes and watched the kitten through narrowed eyes.
Moisture had pooled in her own eyes, tears stung her throat and she wanted so
desperately not to let Hawke see the hurt and betrayal she had felt.

"That old?" he queried, yet his voice was hard and edged with anger.

"There is nothing ye can do about it now."

"Ah, but perhaps I could give him a bit of his own mischief."

She looked up quickly, startling the tiny bundle in her arms who had fallen sound
asleep. "What do ye mean?"

"These hills are rugged. If one did not know there way around them, they might
wander for days."

"Ye wouldn't."

"Not if ye told me no."

She paused in thought. "No. I would seek no restitution for what he has done to
me."

Hawke rose and walked to the window. He rested his hands on the sill and stared
out at the valley below.

Minutes passed without a word being said between them. The wind whistled
mournfully and the little kittens snuggled into the mother cat. Callie lifted the tiny
bundle in her lap and set her by the mother. She rose and walked to stand by
Hawke.

Her hand rested on his back, the heat and scent of his body filling her with a
strange, restless need. He turned and swept her into his arms, his mouth meeting
hers, his tongue diving into her mouth with expertise. Swept away by the
gentleness of his touch and the power of his hold upon her, she rose to meet his
kiss, demanding his response to her in return.

And then he enfolded her in his arms, holding her for a few moments before
sweeping her off her feet and carrying her to a mound of new hay. He set her
down and then came down atop her.

"Callie," he whispered. Hesitantly, she gazed up at the man who was her husband

now, at the strength of his shoulders, the power in his arms and the strong,
determined set to his jaw. He wanted her to leave matters to him and, by every
sound reason she could think of, she should do his bidding.

"Hawke," she whispered. "Please. I--"

"Please what?" he asked, yet she saw the slow rise of anger in his eyes. She
knew he understood what she meant to do and despite this interlude, all was
remembered by him. He would make love to her here in this out of the way spot
but nothing between them would be resolved.

"I can't leave it be," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"Of course ye can," he told her gently, yet there was menace in his tone and
determination in each word he spoke. "If I have to put ye in that tower I once
threatened ye with to keep ye out of harm's way, I will do it. I will keep ye under
lock and key. Do ye understand me, Callie?"

"No," she said, and she saw something both bereft and bewildered in his sizzling
blue eyes that nearly tore her apart.

He held both her hands in his and brought them over her head. His weight pinned
her down but she did not feel trapped. "I was afraid of that."

He loomed over her, letting her hands go free. He was no longer the gentle man
who had laughed with her as she found the kittens, but a real man stripping off his
shirt, revealing a well-developed chest with bulging muscles and mountainous
arms, and veins standing out like ropes on his flesh. A thick pelt of hair in the
middle of his chest tapered into an arrow-straight line that disappeared along a
hard, flat stomach into the waistband of his trousers.

She knew he worked hard within and without the castle walls to keep his clan
alive, and she'd seen him work side by side with his men, training for battle
readiness. She'd made love with him, but she was still not prepared for his
powerfully muscled body in the light of day. Always before the night had been
black or lit by a single candle. He had never seemed so overpowering and strong
as he did now.

With a desperation she had never felt before, she wanted him to make love to her;
needed his strength, the protection and the comfort he offered. She wanted to be
everything to him.

He kissed her lips, his hands exploring her body and she lost herself in that
moment. Beneath her skirt, he touched her thigh and his fingers rose higher,
delving in her softness with an intimacy she'd known for such a short time. She
moaned softly, shuddered, and knew she had slipped past reason. He seemed to

hold himself back, watching her as he loomed over her. Then he stroked her
intimately with a deep and gentle movement of his hand. She dug her fingers into
his shoulders and somewhere in the farthest recess of her mind, she heard her
short, frenzied pants.

"Callie." Briefly, his lips met hers, then with a hoarse exclamation, he plunged his
tongue into her mouth. Still he stroked her intimately. She felt herself shatter into a
thousand tiny pieces yet somehow he absorbed those pieces, swallowing her
cries, whispering nonsense to her as he brought her higher and higher. He
stopped to gaze upon her.

She lay beneath him, tense and vulnerable, the nape of her neck moist with soft
blond tendrils clinging to it. He felt her chest heave as she tried to draw breath.
She attempted to slide her thighs together. At the same time, she shuddered, and
he knew she wasn't done. He couldn't leave her like this. Yet he wondered at his
own sanity. She was his, yet he knew he didn't want to risk discovery. This was so
new between them and she was so very vulnerable. But he wanted her to have the
world. He stroked her again.

She gasped for breath and then began to tremble, signaling that her need was far
from satisfied. He resumed his stroking.

"No... Not without ye."

At the sound of her soft, whispered wail, he ached to drive himself deep inside her.
Nothing was holding him back save the very real fear of one of his men coming
upon them and the embarrassment that would surely follow.

He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to accept the fact that he shouldn't
finish this. Callie was too lost in passion to think straight, so he would have to do it
for both of them.

"Jarrod, my men, or Elizabeth could come back to the stables anytime," he told
her. Yet he knew Jarrod would wait until he saw them leave. He didn't completely
understand what held him back right now. Perhaps it was the anger he felt and the
raging frustration with her. She had not given him her word to stop searching for
answers. In fact, she'd done the opposite. And by Jarrod's accounting of events,
her father might be guilty of treason.

He knew it was more, though. And he knew that before he'd met Callie, he'd never
had such trouble with decisions. Lord, but she turned him upside down and inside
out all at the same time.

She slid her hand up his thigh and touched him. "Could I... " She tilted her head,
looked at him, and the uncertainty in her eyes cut through him. "Maybe I could do
the same thing to ye."

Her throat spasmed as she swallowed, and those eyes, as uncertain as a fawn's,
undid him. He simply couldn't let this go any farther. Gaining control of the
situation was paramount in his head.

"It's all right. I'm fine," he lied.

"But..."

He looked away from her wounded eyes. His hands weren't altogether steady as
he pulled her clothing up to cover her breasts.

"Jarrod?" The sweet sound of his stableman's wife filled the space below the loft.
"Jarrod, where are ye?"

"Hawke?" He heard panic in Callie's voice.

"Hush," he told her. "I'll take care of this." He adjusted his clothing and turned,
shielding Callie from view if Jarrod's wife were to climb the ladder looking for her
husband. Hawke had no doubt the two of them had spent some bliss-filled times in
this very loft.

Elizabeth's dancing red curls which held only a few streaks of gray, appeared.
With lips pursed softly together, she spied him.

"Hawke! What?"

"Jarrod is not here."

"Why didn't ye--" And then she saw Callie. Her face flushed and she quickly
dipped below the loft. "I'm sorry," she stammered, her voice wavering. If Hawke
had not been embarrassed for his new bride, he would have laughed. If this had
been a quick tryst in the hay with a sweet lass who wanted nothing more than just
that a quick dalliance with him, he would have laughed and continued the sensual
play.

But this was Callie.

He walked back to Callie and kneeled in front of her. Her face had changed from a
brilliant red to a pale-as-death white. "It's all right," he told her as he plucked a
piece of straw from her hair. "We are married."

"But Hawke--"

He silenced her with a finger to her lips. "It is all right. This is something all married
people do. And she saw nothing save your dishabille."

"Ye tried to warn me."

"Aye, I did and ye didn't want to listen. Neither did I. Ye are quite fetching with hay
in your hair." He plucked a long piece from her silken curls and twirled it between
his fingers.

"I don't think I will ever be able to look Elizabeth in the eye again. At least not
without thinking of this--of this moment and what she must think."

He leaned back on his heels, grinning. "Come, let's get something to eat.
Breakfast has a decided ring about it."

* * *

"Oh, Catriona," Lainie whispered as she gazed out the window. "The air is fresh,
the sun is shining and the hills are calling to me."

"Hush," Catriona said. "Ye were told to stay inside the castle walls until your
brother returns. 'Tis not safe out there and well ye ken it."

"I understand no such thing," Lainie said in an indignant huff. "Hawke has no right
to tell me what to do or what not to do. He is not here. The post last night said
Bertram rode south. He has gone back to England. And good riddance I say. He
can stay there forever. With Bertram gone, there is no threat to my safety. At least
not in these hills."

"I cannae let ye go, lass. Hawke will dismiss me and that I am sure of."

"Then stay here."

"He would never let us go even if I promised not to allow ye out of my sight."
Catriona inhaled a long deep breath. "I will call someone."

"I know ways out of the castle as well ye know. I would be gone before anyone
could come to lock me inside these stuffy chambers."

"Lainie."

"I will go. Ye can come or stay. What ye decide makes no matter to me," Lainie
said. Yet Lainie did want her companionship.

Lord, but she felt reckless and she'd been pinned inside for far too long. She had
to ride her horse and run free with the wind or she might certainly go mad.

"Very well," Catriona said. "But I dinna like this and I pray ye know what ye are

about. I would not wish any harm to come upon ye."

"Bertram is gone."

"Ye cannae be sure of that," Catriona whispered softly. "He is a wily devil and he is
not above a few tricks to deceive his enemies. And The MacPherson clan is his
enemy."

"I do not know what he wanted with me. I told him no very clearly. Besides,
Bertram would be a fool if he even thought to harm me. My brothers would kill
him."

"Nay, they would torture him. Ye are very special to your brothers and ye need to
understand ye cannot put them in a position to defend your honor."

"He is gone." Lainie whirled on Catriona. With all her heart, she believed he was
gone, but Catriona's words had left their mark. Suddenly there was doubt in her
mind where there had been none before. She shuddered, wondering at the dark
cloud that had just passed across the sun. A cooler breeze floated through the
open window and for a moment, Lainie thought to change her mind.

Then, just as suddenly, the cloud parted and the sun shone through with renewed
brilliance and heat. The sun warmed her flesh and eased her mind. She lifted her
chin to the glowing warmth.

"Let's take some baskets and we can gather a few herbs. We will have a purpose
then, and if Hawke discovers what we were about, at least we will have something
to show for our venture."

Catriona shook her head, but Lainie knew the girl would do her bidding. Lainie
loved Catriona, but at times, the girl was far too timid and shy.

Chapter Thirteen

"What do ye mean, ye don't know how to cook?" Hawke looked upon a pan of
congealed eggs and barely baked biscuits, his stomach churning.

She hid the grin tugging at her lips. "I believe I did quite well for my first attempt."

"Your first--" he began, but stopped, his mouth open and it seemed to Callie he
wanted to say something, yet he chose not to speak.

"My family was able to hire servants for such things. So I was never trained in the
art of cooking," she told him, unable to hide the bubbling laughter.

Dutifully, he spooned the food onto a plate and sat down at the table. He stirred
the mess around his plate and grimaced once more, looking very unhappy.

She watched, fascinated. "Ye won't hurt my feelings if ye don't eat the eggs or the
biscuits."

He stopped stirring and looked at her. "What did ye eat?" he asked suspiciously.
"Ye seem in too good a humor to be starving."

"Elizabeth made me breakfast. The food is gone, every delicious morsel eaten.
She said ye would eat with Jarrod, so I didn't save anything. Truly, if she was
wrong, I'm sorry."

He sputtered, then unable to think of anything to say, he swore.

"Well?" she queried. "Ye did eat?"

"I didn't."

She laughed softly and pointed to the fire, delighting in the game she played, yet
deciding the fun at Hawke's expense needed to end. "There is porridge in the
kettle. I believe it is palatable."

The glance he slanted her was hard to read. Yet even though she read danger in
the look, she also saw an underlying glint in his gray eyes that spoke of humorous
retaliation in return.

"Ye sure?" he questioned as he walked toward the fire and the kettle she'd said
was filled with food. "Something isn't going to jump out at me?"

"Nay," she said softly, fiddling with the folds of her dress and watching her fingers
before looking to him again.

His back was turned to her, and he had a bowl and spoon in hand.

She watched as he stirred the porridge before he filled his bowl. He turned then,
and watched her as he silently walked to the table.

Cautiously, he brought the spoon to his nose and sniffed. He smiled at her again.
"It smells and looks like porridge." Still he seemed reluctant.

"It is not poisoned if that is why ye hesitate," she told him, her indignation at his
mistrust apparent.

"Porridge," he said.

"Aye."

He tasted it and said nothing more as he downed the contents and refilled the
bowl. The silence felt normal. Watching Hawke had become enjoyable and Callie
wondered if she would always feel this way.

"Hawke?" Jarrod stepped inside the back door and walked to the table, his
expression grim.

"What is it?" Hawked asked, immediately pushing the food aside and standing.

"I need a word with ye." Jarrod looked to Callie, appearing miserable, then back to
Hawke.

Callie rose from the chair. "I have things to do. Excuse me." She nodded to
Hawke, knowing her presence was not welcome.

Her heart sped. She wanted to know what Jarrod had to say. What news could he
bring? She paced through the lodge, running her fingers across furniture as if to
wipe away imaginary dust. She could hear the quiet rumblings of the men, but
wished she could understand the words.

Hawke would never tell her.

He would keep whatever news Jarrod brought to himself or he would tell only what
he felt necessary. Stopping in front of a window, she breathed in deeply. Her gaze
roved the countryside, searching for untold danger, watching the clouds shift back
and forth across the sun.

The back door closed and then silence followed. She could still smell the porridge

which was beginning to burn.

"Callie?"

Startled by Hawke, she turned quickly, a tiny gasp rushing from her. "Aye? I didn't
hear ye. I thought ye'd--"

"We have to leave. Pack your things."

"But--we've only just arrived," she said. All business now, Hawke had already
dismissed any questions she might have for him.

He walked toward her, his hand outstretched as if he sought to soothe her injured
feelings. When he reached her, he touched her fingers and carefully brought them
to his lips, touching each one then staring into her eyes. "I'm sorry."

"I thought ye planned to stay a week," she told him.

"Things have changed." Already he distanced himself, the space suddenly
unbridgeable.

"What things?" She wanted to stamp her foot and demand he tell her everything
Jarrod had said. Instead, she hid her emotions from him just as he hid whatever
he and Jarrod discussed from her.

Hawke dropped her hand and turned from her. Silently, a simmering anger grew
within. She knew she had no rights, knew he didn't have any obligation to explain.
Hawke had never pretended. She knew her place in his life.

She withdrew from him and walked to the bedroom where she packed the few
belongings she had brought with her. He did the same.

Jarrod waited for them at the stables and helped her mount. He talked once more
with Hawke, his voice low and his words carefully guarded.

Her frustration grew.

"God speed," Jarrod said.

Hawke nodded to her and said nothing, his face masked of all emotions. He was
cold and dangerous.

"Follow in two days. I may have need of your services, but make sure these
grounds are secure before ye leave," Hawke told Jarrod.

"I will," the older man said.

They left and began the descent to the valley below, but they did not travel the
same path as their first journey to the hunting lodge.

Hawke felt the burn of her gaze upon his back. Inwardly, he sighed. He wished the
trust that had begun to develop between them had not just been shattered.

He brooded over Jarrod's words about that fateful day so long ago as well as the
news of Bertram.

He did not want to worry her or send her dashing to Lainie's rescue when he didn't
even know if Lainie needed rescuing. He was worried though. Bertram's presence
near The MacPherson castle did not bode well.

Nay, he was more than worried.

He was petrified.

And there was the added fear that if Bertram was seen, Archibald or Simon might
be nearby.

Before they left, Jarrod slipped him a small paper-bound box and a few documents
his father had written and given to Jarrod just prior to his father's execution.

Callie had seen and heard the story despite Hawke's watchful and wary gaze.

She would be furious.

He would have to deal with her anger, and he would have to learn just how much
he could tell her; what truths he could give her that would satisfy her curiosity
without putting her in more danger. Could she handle the truth about her father?

He didn't have the slightest notion what he could tell his wife--the daughter of his
sworn enemy. For nothing had changed. Nothing he heard or discovered
vindicated Callie's father of his crimes.

"This isn't the way we came," she called out from behind him, her irritation obvious
in the tone of her voice.

"No, it isn't."

Loose rocks rumbled down the hill. "Why?"

"It is faster." He looked behind him. In truth, he had not wanted to go this way. The
rough trail posed many hidden dangers. But she was a good rider and he needed
to reach the castle as soon as possible. The horrible foreboding deep in his gut

grew with each passing moment. The feeling that he was too late was ever
present.

What he was too late for he couldn't tell, but he didn't like the feelings coursing
through him. And so he pushed on ever faster, knowing that when they arrived at
the castle, Callie would be tired and sore from the journey but in one piece. He
didn't know if he would be able to say the same for his sister.

"Ye know," Callie said "I might understand if ye would explain. And I might not
want to send a dagger into your back, if ye could give me one good reason why
we have not stopped for supper."

* * *

"Surely ye jest!" Catriona cried out, her indignation apparent in her tone.

Lainie leaned from the window and breathed deeply of the crisp clean air. Far
below she watched the men practice with sword and other instruments of war.
Carts filled with goods streamed in through the castle gates. "Nay, ye can come or
go with me. 'Tis up to ye."

"Hawke will be furious. And he will ask me why I let ye leave this safe haven. I
thought we had been over this once before. 'Tis too dangerous."

Lainie breathed in deeply again, her body tingling with strange sensations and the
need to run wild and free over the hills. "And that was yesterday. Today ye will tell
him ye could not have stopped me to save your life."

Catriona shook her head and let out a long, deep moan. When Lainie turned from
the window and picked up a basket, Catriona was wringing her hands and nearly
had her apron tied in knots.

"If I don't feel the wind in my hair and the soft grass beneath my feet, I do believe I
will go crazy."

Catriona grabbed two capes and started after Lainie. "How do ye think to escape
the castle? Your brother has put men to watching all the gates and doors. Ye will
never make it past the sentries."

"But they don't watch for me," Lainie countered. "They watch for our enemies."

"Aye, but they were told not to let ye leave the castle walls unattended."

"Ye attend me."

"That is not what Hawke meant. I can no more defend your honor than a sparrow

could. How can ye put your life at risk this way?"

Lainie swirled so quickly her long skirt nearly tripped her, yet she caught her
balance before she replied. "I do not put my life or yours at risk. We will not go far.
And this land, as ye well know, is secure. Neither Archibald or Simon have been
seen in these parts for several days. They have gone back to England. Good
riddance, I say."

"And what about the nasty general? The man who was panting and drooling after
ye, his fat belly jiggling as he lumbered up the stairs."

Lainie shuddered at the mention of Bertram. Yet, at another time, the picture
Catriona painted of the general might have made her laugh. "He has not been
seen either. I heard one of Hawke's men talking to another. They heard the
general was called back to England. Immediately." She whirled on one heel, "By
the King."

Knowing Bertram had left Scotland lightened Lainie's heart. She thought she might
laugh. Catriona looked as if she would swoon that very moment.

"Ye're sure?"

"I am sure," Lainie said. Truly, if she thought for a moment Bertram still lurked
around these parts, she would not venture from the castle. But these were
MacPherson lands and the threat to her had left for England.

"Very well," Catriona said, looking resigned yet fearful, her huge brown eyes
tearing slightly. "How do ye plan to escape the castle?"

"There is a seldom used tunnel. Few people know about its existence. 'Tis the very
way Callie and Hawke left the castle on their wedding night. It leads to the sea but
there is also a narrow pathway one can take that opens out on a meadow."

Catriona remained silent as they made their way through the castle and to the
door leading to the tunnel. No one stopped or even talked to them.

Then, just as Lainie turned the door handle... "Are ye sure?" Catriona questioned.
"'Tis not too late to turn back and pretend we've been in our rooms all along."

Lainie twirled gaily and smiled at her friend, her heart dancing with anticipation. "I
would not trade a walk in the meadows for all the gold in Scotland. I know ye don't
want to go? I understand. Truly, I do. Ye do not have to follow me, and I don't
need protection. The land around the castle is secure and safe."

"Lead the way," Catriona told her, so grim her features that suddenly Lainie did
have second thoughts. A wave of foreboding swept through her, but she shook the

doom and gloom off and stepped into the tunnel.

Several minutes later, they emerged and walked the pathway that lead to the
meadow.

"It is so beautiful. Look, a fox." Lainie pointed at the animal who slipped over the
rise.

Catriona had fallen behind, but she looked up when Lainie spoke. "I don't see
anything."

"'Tis because ye lagged behind," Lainie said, while she waited for Catriona to
reach her.

"Well, I can not keep up with ye no matter how I try. I'm winded, quite out of
breath."

"Then sit down and rest a spell. There is a nice big rock to lean against and if ye
are too hot, ye can find shade nearby. Suit yourself." Lainie shielded her eyes and
looked to the sun and the hills surrounding them.

"And what are ye going to do?"

Lainie set the basket in the flower-strewn meadow and breathed in the wonderful
scent. She spread her arms and whirled in several tight circles, drinking in the
warmth of the sun and thoroughly enjoying the moment.

"I don't know," she said, softly. But she hummed and danced around the meadow.
"See that hill over there? I'm going to find out what is on the other side. I'll be
back," she cried and raced through the meadow, her skirts flying around her legs.

"Lainie don't go so far. Hold."

But Lainie didn't listen to Catriona's pleas. She ran and reveled in the freedom and
the fresh sun-drenched air. She crested the hill and ran down the other side. In
front of her was the river that flowed from the loch. Behind her, she could see the
top of the parapets of the castle. She would not go much farther, she decided. Yet
her wandering spirit seized hold of her and she continued, oblivious of all save the
beauty of the day.

The sun started its downward decent and a cool breeze whispered through the
trees. Now the river was below her, a steep embankment to the right.

"Well." The sound of a voice startled Lainie. Recognizing the sound, she froze.
"I've been looking forward to this meeting for some time now."

Bertram.

She whirled then, denying her fear and the knowledge she was alone, unprotected
and far from the castle. Nay! Her heart thundered in her chest. Run! She clenched
her fists tight by her sides and prayed for a miracle. A granite wall loomed to one
side and a steep drop to the river below lay behind her. Bertram stood in front of
her and Rory, his servant, to the side. Two horses were tethered beyond.

She stiffened, her chin tilting slightly, and stole a glance in the direction of the
castle. She wished fervently she told someone--anyone besides Catriona--she'd
left.

But she stood her ground, calling the act foolish courage. She could not outrun
him if he were mounted. "What are ye doing here?" she demanded of Bertram.

"Now," he paused, rubbing his chin with his hand and letting his gaze rake the
length of her then back up, "I would think my reasons would be obvious."

She felt soiled, as if he'd just undressed her. His eyes were filled with lust. He
licked saliva from his lips.

"It's not. This is private property and ye are not welcome." Lainie stepped back,
preparing to run if he moved closer. Yet she knew she should run now, flee for her
very life.

He made no response this time, just slanted her an unsettling stare. He glanced at
Rory, then turned his gaze upon her. His smile, the look in his cold gray eyes--she
knew what he was going to do.

He looked at her, and once again let his gaze wander over her, resting at her
breasts then lower.

Nay! Lainie gasped and her hands flew to her face in horror. Nay, this is not
happening, her brain sputtered. She felt an arctic coldness rush through her chest.
A black liquid pit of terror opened before her. She stepped backward, edging ever
closer to the ledge, planning to hurl herself over if Bertram moved closer.

Flee! she cried out to herself. Escape this madman. Half-blinded by tears, too late,
Lainie whirled and raced to the edge of the embankment. Bertram was too quick.
His hand flashed out and grabbed her by the hair. He jerked her to him viciously.
Her back was against his chest, his other arm encircled her waist.

"No, ye don't," he whispered close to her ear. "Hold, I said." Lainie jerked her head
back and hit him. "Why, ye regal bitch--" Releasing her hair, he twisted her around
and slapped her hard in the face. The shock of the blow set her brain on fire. Fear
evaporated and she felt full of a white light of pure, blinding hate. Spitting like a

wild animal, she attacked him, clawing and kicking.

"Hawke will kill ye," she cried out.

He laughed, ignoring her threat and held on to her, pushing her to the ground and
pulling her arms above her head. "That's it, Lainie. Fight me. Fight me with every
ounce of strength ye possess."

His weight held her fast to the cold, damp earth. She bucked and squirmed, trying
desperately to push him off.

He studied Lainie through narrowed lids for a few seconds. "Now I like a little spirit
in my women, but ye carry this a might too far. But I mean to enjoy myself right
now before I take ye with me. Ye see, Lainie, ye're mine. Ye always have been."

While he spoke, he uncoiled the rope Rory handed him. He held it above her.
While the length fell around her, he smiled down upon her as if he enjoyed the
terror he inflicted. A rise of panic brought new energy to her, and she fought once
more. But he was ready. Turning her over roughly, he pushed her face into the dirt
while he dragged her arms behind her back. He was tying her, and she had no
strength left to resist. She cursed him from an unknown reservoir of vileness until
she choked on dust and her own tears. When he rolled her back to face him, her
rage sputtered out and turned to primitive, unspeakable fear. He straddled her and
struck her in the face with the back of his hand. "I'm going to teach ye who's in
control," he said slowly. Then he smiled. "Ye think your brothers will search for ye,
perhaps seek vengeance, but they're dead. Lachlan too. Rory killed them."

"Nay!" she cried out, struggling against his hold once more. "We would have
heard. Our men are all over these hills. Liar."

"Trust me. I know who your brothers are and they were killed by two of my fine
English soldiers last evening."

"Nay," she cried once more, putting her own plight to the back of her mind. "Callie?
What happened to her?"

"Taken to her fiancé's castle where she belongs," he sneered.

"Ye lie," she whispered fiercely.

"Perhaps, perhaps not."

His mouth closed over hers, his lips pressing against hers, his teeth drawing
blood. Then he stopped, moving over her, adjusting his weight and his position so
he could watch her. His hands touched her, explored her, all the while telling her
what he meant to do.

Lainie closed her eyes, and something in her let go. She heard his filthy talk, felt
his cruel hands as they tore at her clothing and touched her intimately, but it was
all through a purplish haze of unreality. It didn't matter any more what he did to
her. Nothing matters, nothing matters, she sang to herself, blocking out the touch
of his hands on her body. If only she could remain detached, if she could stay up
here in the red and gold cloud, away from the horror--

But now Bertram clutched the sides of her face and shouted at her. "Look at me!
Damn ye, open your eyes." She opened her eyes and it was as if she stared into
Satan's face. "Say my name." She shook her head in denial and disbelief and
wished for the sanctuary of the haze he'd just pulled her from. "Say it!" He hit her
again.

"Bertram!" she choked, seeing him now only vaguely through a haze of tears.

"Bertram," he repeated, satisfied.

Bile rose in her throat at his painful, intimate touch. He leaned closer and told her
in a hoarse whisper what he was going to do to her. She felt herself about to fly
into madness, and in desperation, her mind seized on the feel of the rope cutting
into her wrists. The rough cording hurt her it was so tight. She twisted her swollen
wrists to feel the burn more acutely. Her senses shut down and she focused
obsessively on the feel of the rope on her wrists, burning, stinging, tightening,
constricting. Yet loosening. She saw through a curtain of bright red light, and the
hateful sound of Bertram's voice was lost in a deafening roar that filled her ears.

Suddenly, Bertram's weight vanished. He rose quickly. She heard voices and the
thundering of horses. She scrambled to her feet and in a blind panic threw herself
down the embankment, stumbling, rolling and eating dirt. She landed with a heavy
thud at the bottom. The ropes binding her wrists had been hastily bound and in the
fall, they'd loosened enough for her to slip her hands free. On all fours, she
scrambled for cover, hiding behind river bushes and reeds.

Above her, she heard voices and shouts but she didn't recognize them. Then she
heard Lachlan speak. His anger rose above the din of the other voices. And she
wanted to hurl herself from the bushes and run to him. Instead, she remained
hidden, knowing she could not reveal herself, understanding that the awful truth of
what happened to her had to remain a secret.

"Oh, God," she moaned softly. If anyone of the clan discovered the truth, they
would kill Bertram. She could not let that happen. She could never risk her
brothers' lives or that of anyone else's. Bertram was in the English King's army and
well respected, she reminded herself.

Darkness fell. The men moved on and the silence was deafening. When she was

sure she was alone, she moved from her hiding place and tried to cover herself
with her torn, ragged clothing.

"Lainie? Where are ye?"

"Oh, Catriona, over here." Lainie stood and watched Catriona slip and slide down
the hill to her.

"I was so afraid for ye. Are ye all right?"

"Aye," Lainie said. "How much do ye know?"

Catriona ignored Lainie's question. "Nay, ye are not all right. Ye are hurt."

"I will be fine. And there is to be no talk of this. No one can find out what
happened."

"Why? Your brothers would seek revenge. And--"

"And they would die," Lainie said softly, remembering Bertram's words, Your
brothers are dead. My men killed them. She shuddered, her body weakened, her
heart and her life so suddenly and viciously torn apart. She inhaled a deep breath,
praying for courage. "Promise me. Nothing is to be said."

"Very well," Catriona agreed.

"Now, keep watch for me." Lainie stripped her tattered clothing from her body as
she walked toward the river. The water closed over her and she tried desperately
to wash away the terror. Yet when Lainie closed her eyes, she could feel his
hands on her, his body pressing inside her, the pain. With each breath, she relived
the pain. Tears welled in her throat and eyes. Nay, she tried to tell herself even as
she rubbed river sand on her until she was raw. Yet nothing seemed to help.

"Lainie, ye must stop. Come out now. We must get back to the castle." Catriona's
strangled cry reached her through the numbing haze she'd once again enveloped
herself within. She wanted to hide from this, pretend it did not happen.

Lainie nodded and woodenly walked from the river. Catriona handed her the
clothing she'd discarded and helped her dress. Hours seemed to pass before they
reached the back entrance to the castle.

"I will bring ye warm water as soon as ye are safely tucked into your room,"
Catriona said hastily.

"Thank ye. I pray no one discovers us." She feared her brother had returned and
would be looking for her. Nay, she paused, Bertram had said her brothers were

dead, Lachlan too. And if Hawke were alive, he would still be with his new bride at
the Hunting lodge.

Yet she'd heard Lachlan.

Perhaps all was not lost.

* * *

"Lainie!" Hawke pounded on the door to Lainie's room. "I need to talk to ye. Now."
He punctuated each word with a fist hitting her door.

"Bertram has been seen," he called out.

Thank God, Hawke was alive and Bertram had lied. Her greatest fears had just
been put to rest.

Lainie slipped deeper into the hot water, wishing she could stay there forever and
wash the feel of Bertram's ugly hands from her flesh, yet knowing she had to talk
to Hawke before he did something all might come to regret. She needed to think of
something to say, a reason why her face was bruised and her eyes were red from
crying.

"Lainie is in the bath right now." Catriona's words through the heavy door to
Hawke gave Lainie time to think and plan.

"Get her out," Hawke growled, his anger and fury plainly heard in each word.

"What is the hurry?" she asked, "Lainie is exhausted and must rest." Catriona still
spoke through the closed door. And Lainie prayed Catriona would not open the
door and try to slip through. Right now, the door was her only defense against the
world and the pain. Now it was firmly bolted and Lainie meant to keep it that way
until she was ready to speak with her brother.

Hawke did not answer. "Just tell her I want to talk to her."

"I will," Catriona said softly, her gaze drifting back to Lainie.

"I will," she whispered, then turned from the door.

"I'm not going anywhere tonight save my bed. Truly, Hawke can wait to interrogate
me," Lainie said. She had no doubts the conversation would feel like an
executioner's questioning. She could not withstand such intensity. She leaned
back in the tub and closed her eyes. Yet no relief followed. Nothing seemed to
wash away the pain and the memory of Bertram's hands on her body.

She breathed in deeply and rose from the bath, steeling herself to put on a happy
face in the company of others. Her shame and humiliation was only meant for
privacy. Catriona would be the only other living soul who would know what
happened. And for the others?

Well--

She vowed to herself she would never, ever let a man touch her. Never again
would she undergo such horrific pain. Yet even with her vow, she wondered at the
delighted appearance of Callie the night after. Perhaps Hawke had been gentle
and the pain not too great. Perhaps--

Nay!

She had made up her mind.

Chapter Fourteen

In a private corner and sitting in his favorite chair, Hawke slowly opened the
package Jarrod had given him before he and Callie left the lodge. His fingers
trembled as they undid the strings surrounding the small parcel. When he realized
what the box held, his breath caught in his throat.

For a few seconds, he simply stared at the contents in his hands. His stomach
turned and rolled a couple of times. He broke out in a cold sweat, his breath a
quick gasp. What might have happened to Lainie, forgotten for the moment. The
implications he saw were devastating. Finally, after all these years, he knew why
his father had died. The written explanation was not necessary. He recognized the
seal and understood more of what happened that day. Now all he needed to know
was who betrayed his father.

He could guess.

And he was sure his suspicions were right. But he wanted solid proof. He unfolded
the letter, understanding he must find a safe place to keep the ring. No further
details were contained in the missive from Jarrod. Only that the ring was not the
original. Yet it appeared so real only an expert would be able to tell.

Hawke quickly slipped the ring into the box and sealed it again. He leaned back
and closed his eyes, wishing he could share this information with Callie and
praying this would not come back again to haunt The MacPherson clan.

He didn't dare share this with Callie.

She was far too impulsive--too naive. She would think she could right this wrong
with a few simple words. She still wanted to prove her father innocent.

Words would not correct the mistake and deviltry that day in his past.

And his sister Lainie...

He knew something had happened to her. His instincts were seldom wrong. Yet
she had not confided in him. The quick report from Lachlan had told him little to
confirm his suspicions. Lachlan said he'd talked to Bertram the day before, and
he'd been close to the castle, but he'd seen no one save Rory. Bertram had told
him he was returning to England.

So what had happened?

Why wouldn't Lainie speak to him?

"Hawke?" Callie stood in front of him. "What are ye thinking about? Ye look so far
away."

He didn't reply. She was so beautiful and fragile, delicate in so many ways, yet her
courage could not be denied. At times, he believed her to be fearless, a trait in her
that made him afraid for her very life.

She sat on the hearth beside his chair, her back now turned to him. She watched
the flames of the fire dance and spark as she held out her hands for warmth.

"I was thinking of Lainie," he told her, leaning forward, his forearms resting on his
thighs. He wanted to touch Callie's hair where the firelight danced. He yearned to
undress her and run one fingertip down the long column of her spine. Yet he felt
dishonest somehow, almost as if he'd betrayed her.

He rarely kept secrets.

Nay, he merely kept her alive.

If she discovered what was in this box, she would run to the English King with the
information. Or she would confront her stepbrother. She might go to Huntington.
And that would be the worst thing she could do, because Hawke felt Huntington
was the man and the brains behind the treason. Archibald's cruelty was well
known, but Huntington was cunning and ambitious. He had always sought to rule
more than just his lands. He would do most anything to gain more power and
wealth.

But treason--

And where did Callie's father fit into the scheme?

Had Callie come to him even now, in order to find the ring?

If she found the seal, would she use it as a weapon against him?

This treachery had all occurred years ago. He'd heard of no trouble since. Perhaps
they were afraid his father had told more people than Jarrod. Mayhap they had
other secrets that might be unearthed.

And so, over the years, they had kept silent. Waiting and watching.

Why had they allowed Jarrod to live? Why hadn't they implicated Jarrod in the
treason also?

Tapping his fingers on the armrest, Hawke swore softly beneath his breath,
puzzled even more by all this. Nothing made sense. None of the pieces of this
conundrum fit together.

Callie turned, her eyes sparkling, yet a slow frown crossed her brow. "What is it?"
She rested one hand upon his knee as she waited for his reply, her hand slipping
higher. He rested his own hand on top of hers, to stop her from the easy seduction
or to show her how much he liked her boldness, he wasn't sure. "Ye are too deep
in thought."

"I don't know," he told her truthfully. "I'm worried about ye, about Lainie. I wish I
had not sent Ian away, because suddenly I'm afraid for him too. There is evil afoot
and I don't know from which direction it comes." His sigh was heartfelt, long and
deep. "And now I sound like an old man who has naught to do but worry."

"Oh, for a crystal ball right now," she told him, her fingers sending currents of heat
through his body. "I would share whatever knowledge I gained with ye."

His heart surged. Her words stung. But then they were meant to, he knew that.
Still, he decided to change the subject. "Or a huge bed and a long night of
lovemaking." He smoothed her brow with a fingertip, wishing to touch more private
skin, places more intimate.

Callie blushed charmingly, but then her expression changed and she grew very
serious once more. "Ye are hiding something from me Colin MacPherson, and I
plan to discover the truth one way or another." Her hand inched even higher. He
groaned inwardly.

"Ye mean to seduce the truth from me?" he queried, suddenly enjoying the
moment, his own hand tightening over hers, protectively, knowing they must move
to private chambers to carry this any farther. But the day was young, and for the
next hours, he had other plans.

"Aye," she told him, her smile charming him. "And yet I see ye have other business
to finish." At a sudden noise, she looked up. "There is Lainie."

He nodded and motioned Lainie to sit by them. She walked slowly, as if every joint
in her body ached, and when she drew close, he could see the bruises on her
face. Still, she sought to hide the pain and the truth from him with false laughter
and a forced smile.

A determined expression on her strained features, she met his gaze. Her chin
tilted upward and her shoulders suddenly grew rigid. Lainie would not tell him the
truth. Whatever happened to her would remain forever her secret.

"Your face," Callie gasped as Lainie drew closer. "What happened?"

Seeing the purple and blue smudges, Hawke swore beneath his breath. Perhaps
his guileless wife could drag the truth from his stoic sister.

"I fell." Lainie turned to the fire then back to them. She sat in a chair next to Hawke
and leaned back, closing her eyes as he watched. He was resigned to her silence.

"That's a hand print on your cheek," Callie whispered tensely. "Ye could not have
fallen."

"Nay, I fell," Lainie replied, never opening her eyes, her hands resting in her lap,
her fingers entwined so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

"Hawke--" Callie turned to him. "Do something."

He could do naught but shrug his shoulders and feel helpless. He had tried every
thing he could think of and still his sister remained silent. He could not force the
truth from Lainie.

Lainie sat up, a broad smile replacing her earlier tense expression. "Has Lachlan
returned?"

"Aye, and he will leave on the morrow to meet with Ian again. Do ye want to see
him?" Hawke nodded toward the big man who had just entered the hall. Lainie
rose and walked to him, hips swinging provocatively, a welcoming, come-hither
smile painted on her face. Lachlan saw her approach, one eyebrow raised in
question. He shot Hawke a mystified glance.

Hawke watched her and wondered at the change in her. Flirtatiously, she
approached Lachlan. Lainie had never tried to charm her childhood friend. She
had never wanted any kind of relationship with Lachlan save friendship, a brother-
sister camaraderie.

"Be wary my friend. There is something terribly wrong here." Hawke spoke to
himself, yet he knew Callie heard.

Even while Hawke marveled at the change in his sister, she danced away from
Lachlan and turned her attentions on another unsuspecting lad. She flirted with
danger, his sister did. She had never toyed with young men's hearts before.

"What do ye suppose has happened?" Callie asked.

"I don't think we will ever know," Hawke said. "Would ye like to ride?"

* * *

The day was a rare one for winter in the highlands of Scotland. An azure sky and a
bright sun welcomed the two riders on that afternoon in February. The usual mists
and heavy rains were not part of this day. Callie threw back the hood on her riding
cape and let the crisp air touch her face.

"Where are we going?" she asked as they rode side by side across a vivid green
meadow. Even before she asked the question, she had guessed his intentions.

They were two-fold.

"To find a private spot, a place where we can eat and," he paused thoughtfully as
he turned to look her way. Then his roguish smile captured her heart. He could
make her heart melt with just a smile.

"And?" she queried even as her cheeks heated, knowing the answer before he
spoke.

His grin widened, then he winked. "Race ye to the trees." He waited silently for her
to accept the challenge he tossed her way.

"Ye would like that wouldn't ye? But I won't fall for the bait ye toss my way. We
both know who has the fastest horse."

"And who would that be?" he asked, laughing.

"I do." She had waited long enough for him to drop back a few strides, giving her
more of a head start than she knew he would have allowed. She gave a silent
command to her horse. The mare lunged forward.

"Callie--" she heard him cry out her name, laughingly. "Cheater. I'll get my
revenge."

She bent low over her mare and urged her to run faster, but she heard pounding
hooves and knew he would overtake her before they reached the trees. He did.
They raced side by side for a few seconds and then he surged past her.

"I would have never believed ye capable of such deviltry," he told her as he pulled
his horse to a stop and leapt from the saddle.

"Ye should be a better winner." She tilted her chin in the air, pretending offense.

But she had already reigned in her horse. He held out his arms for her. Setting her
hands on his shoulders, she let him help her from the horse. He held on to her.
Her feet settled on the ground and she looked at him. His gaze met hers and held
it for several long seconds. Slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was
soft and gentle, a daytime kiss, one meant to be enjoyed and savored with the

promise of something much more soul shattering when the sunset and the moon
rose.

Their lips parted, yet he still held her. His breath smelled of mint. His eyes
promised more. She wanted to touch him. His hands settled at the small of her
back and he pulled her closer still.

"I'm a very good winner." He kissed her again, a butterfly kiss to her forehead, and
let her go.

"Ye jest."

"Ah, but ye will find I speak only the truth."

She turned in a tight circle, looking over the land she'd never seen before. "It's
beautiful." She walked toward the river and, looking down a steep embankment,
watched the water tumble merrily between the rocks. "Where are we?"

"Well, I believe we are close to the spot where Lachlan talked to Bertram last
night."

She whirled, nearly loosing her balance. He lurched forward, catching her by the
arm lest she fall down the steep slope.

"Ye think to find something?" Yes, her guess had been right. He was after the
information his sister had not given. He wasn't stupid. She was sure he guessed
the same thing she did.

"Aye, I hope to garner some clue as to what happened here last night, and why
Lainie is acting so strangely."

"But ye really don't think ye will," Callie finished for Hawke. Callie was sure she
knew what happened to Lainie. And she was equally sure she knew why Lainie
would never tell her brother. The knowledge would get Hawke killed because he
would seek revenge. And Bertram was one of the English king's own men.

He rode under the English king's banner.

"Nay, Lachlan heard nothing. And Bertram didn't seem to hesitate or hide
anything. Lachlan can read people well. Still, I can't help but feel a deep loss and
pain when I watch Lainie. She is hurting."

"Lachlan found no sign of Lainie?"

"Nay to that also," Hawke said. "Yet she hides in her room and when she does
come out she is not herself. She puts on a face. She smiles and flirts and--"

Hawke shrugged his shoulders. "There is something wrong."

"She is a young woman, Hawke. We go through changes. Perhaps she sees some
kind of future for herself ye do not. I know ye are thinking of Lachlan and that ye
want her to wed him. Perhaps she agrees. She did flirt something terrible with him
before he left to seek out Ian."

"Aye and she flirted with every other unwed lad in the castle as well. She has
never done that before."

"Is that so bad?"

Hawke raked his hands through his hair and breathed in deeply. "Perhaps not.
And yet--"

Silence seemed to envelope her. Tension wrapped itself around the two of them
until she could barely breathe and for a brief moment, she was sure her heart had
truly stopped. Lainie was a puzzle to her also.

"And yet?" Callie queried softly.

"I don't know. There is something not right," he said once more.

Callie walked to Hawke then, and rested her hand on his chest. She wanted so
much to ease his fears, so much to soothe the battered emotions she knew raged
inside him. She could do naught but be there for him if he needed her. Still she
knew they would have their share of battles. He didn't want her to see what was
inside the box he'd held only a few hours earlier, and she had every intention of
knowing what he hid from her. He had explained repeatedly why he wouldn't tell
her but this incident that cast a shadow over their marriage was too much a part of
her life to let go.

She had every right to know.

He was probably just as determined to discover Lainie's secrets.

Furthermore, he had every right to know what happened to his little sister.

Pain twisted inside. Fear for the life they might have together coupled with anxiety
over the rapidly changing events made her tremble.

Hawke turned and walked from her. His gaze roamed over the grasses, shrubs
and trees, stopping every once in a while as if he saw something, as if the
information he sought would jump out at them and proclaim Here I am!

But there was naught to see.

Then he walked, searching everywhere. His strides were slow and measured. To
Callie, it seemed he would leave no rock unturned, no piece of ground that was
not carefully scrutinized. She found she'd stopped breathing and inhaled swiftly,
choking then coughing.

Still, Hawke did not hesitate in his examination of the land. She turned from him
and walked down a narrow ledge to the river below. The footpath she followed was
steep. Her own strides were measured. When she reached the bottom, she gazed
over the river, watching the current rise and dance around the rocks, foaming and
bubbling in their race to the sea.

She sat on a rock, mesmerized by the scene and wishing desperately she could
chart some different direction to these events. Twirling her hand in a small pool of
still water beside the rock, she looked down. In the pool was a strip of material no
bigger than a twig. She inhaled swiftly, recognizing the scrap.

A shadow blotted out the sun. When she looked up, Hawke stood beside her, a
grim expression on his handsome face.

"Did ye find what ye sought?" she queried softly, fingering the material and
wondering what she would do with the damning piece of evidence. It told a story
that might truly unravel at their feet if he knew what she found. Still, it might tell
them nothing.

"Nay," he said and held out his hand for her. "Let's eat. I would not want cook's
efforts to go to waste."

She nodded and accepted his help, realizing, at least for the moment her prayers
had been granted. His mind had veered in a different direction. She tucked the
piece of fabric into a crevice as she rose.

"I'm famished, too," Callie said brightly.

And Hawke laughed. "Ye are always hungry. My wee sparrow might well turn into
a fat robin."

She poked him with one fingertip. "Ye are always dragging me off somewhere and
forgetting that a lady must keep up her strength. As long as ye keep pestering me,
I will be thin as a rail."

"Aye, ye are right." He smiled. "Because I do indeed mean to collect payment on
the food ye consume. And the race--I did win." His eyes warmed with desire and
his hand closed more tightly around her own, his thumb brushing softly across the
underside of her wrist.

She trembled with desire for Hawke, streaks of lightening racing up her arm where
he had so casually touched her. And when she tried not to think of Hawke, she
remembered everything about him. The way he moved, his scent, his smile, the
twinkle in his eyes and the heat they generated when they made love.

"Ye are more than willing to pay, aren't ye my love?" His hand settled around her
waist and he pulled her close to his side while they walked to their horses and the
basket of food he'd set on the ground near a huge tree.

My love?

Did he love her?

Hawke was right though. She was more than willing to make love to him. But not
here. Not in the open where anyone could come upon them.

Not where Lainie had been attacked and possibly raped.

"Perhaps ye would be willing to wait until we return home," she told him.

The rogue in Hawke never more apparent, shown through his smile and dancing
eyes. He would take what he wanted, when he wanted and wherever he wanted.

"Wait?" he questioned.

"Aye," she told him. "Wait."

"Whatever for?"

Or he would seduce.

Her heart fluttered, then beat more wildly. She touched her hand to her throat.

He knew.

He knew exactly what she was thinking and how she felt. He'd seduced her
already. Because she knew once he touched her intimately, she would melt and
she would do whatever he bade her. She was his.

"What do ye think cook packed in the basket? She has many special delicacies."

Love potion.

She choked on that thought. Hawke would never need a love potion--even if such
a thing existed. His eyes mesmerized, his smile stole her heart and the heat of his
touch removed all thoughts save those of him.

He left her, gawking and feeling foolish. Hawke rummaged through the basket of
food before tossing a woolen blanket on the ground and sitting close to the middle.

"Cook thinks of everything," he said, looking at her thoughtfully.

"Perhaps not," she told him sweetly. Because at this point she did not plan on
getting close enough for him to have his wicked way with her. He could wait to
make love to her until they returned to the privacy of their bedroom.

"Skittish?" he queried as he pulled meat pies, haggis and shortbread from the
basket. He stopped one hand poised to bring out more food. "I won't bite. Ye can
come closer."

Indeed, she was nervous. "Nay," she told him, trying desperately to hide telltale
signs of simmering desire flooding through her.

"What are ye afraid of?"

Of my feelings for ye. "Nothing." She sat down on the farthest corner of the blanket
from him. That I might loose my heart to ye and ye will never feel the same for me.

"Ye're still afraid of me," he paused thoughtfully.

"Nay," she said, wishing she could think of some way to convince him without
pouring out her heart.

He didn't laugh, his expression turning serious. "I believe we've been through this
already. I will not do anything ye don't want me to do. I would never hurt ye."

That's what I'm afraid of. "I know," she said, her gaze settling on her tightly laced
fingers. "Ye have proved yourself, Hawke. I don't fear ye."

He poured her a drink and handed the cup to her. He studied her for a few long
seconds. "Ye are beautiful, Callie MacPherson." With that said, he ignored her and
turned his attention to the food. She shivered and drew her cape more closely
about her. The weather had changed swiftly as it often did in the highlands. Clouds
drifted across the sky and a brisk wind blew.

Hawke seemed to notice the changes too. "We best get back before the skies
flood us."

She nodded and stood, understanding they might well be caught in a downpour.

He helped her mount, then they raced to the warm, protective shelter of the castle.
Yet Callie felt the exhilaration of the ride, tasted the spring rain, and reveled in her

newfound freedom, something she'd once thought lost to her.

* * *

Covered from head to toe in monk's robes, and within the confines of the hood
which darkened and hid his features, Ian looked over his shoulder then turned his
attention to the hazardous path in front of him. His heart pounded and a fighting
energy swept through him. He'd been bred to fight, trained to fight and he was
ready to confront the unseen enemy flanking him.

One more time he glanced back. The forest appeared dark and forbidding behind
him, surrounding him, yet in front of him a meadow opened up, dotted with late
winter and early spring wild flowers, giving an illusion of peace and serenity. The
night was nearly cloudless and a half-moon shown down upon him.

He would be in the meadow soon. A blessing or a curse? He couldn't decide.

Three men followed him from Edinburgh and the grimy tavern he'd visited. He'd
noticed shadows at least a mile back, and he'd heard the soft muffle of carefully
guarded hooves. When the wind floated his way, he smelled them. The air reeked
of sweet perfume, covering unwashed bodies as well as the stench of barns.

He pulled the missive from one of Callie's servants from his pocket. As he rode, he
went over the message. Time and again he'd reread the words. In his mind, he'd
recalled them, and he'd memorized them repeating them over and over. He'd gone
to Edinburgh because of the contents of the letter, and he'd fallen into a carefully
planned trap. He'd thought he would discover the truth of his father's death there.
Instead, he'd discovered three men bent on killing him.

He cared deeply about helping his brother. In his own mind he'd put the past
behind him long ago. He feared for Hawke. Because of that fear, he'd let common
sense fail him and he'd rushed blindly into a dangerous situation.

"Sweet, Jesu," he swore under his breath. He had not been born yesterday, yet
he'd raced after this piece of evidence as if he were a babe without a wit of
intelligence. When Hawke found out what he'd done, he would have his hide for
doing something this stupid.

Damn! In his mind, he could still see the dimly lit tavern, the whore's swinging hips,
full breasts and pouty lips. He hadn't truly been intoxicated with the girl, but she
had promised certain things. Like an untried lad, he'd fallen for the promises.

Nay, she'd promised information about Simon Huntington. And that, Ian reflected
grimly, should have tipped him off that things weren't exactly right. A tavern whore
would know little to nothing about the comings and goings of a lord, a powerful
lord.

Aye, she might have overheard conversation. Ian knew Huntington well, and he
knew Huntington would never risk his life by letting information slip to unreliable
sources.

Well, he thought admonishing himself for his foolishness, he had come to his
senses but just in time to escape out a window, with the briefest of clothing
adorning his hulking frame. Then he'd wrestled the monk's robe from his
saddlebags and slipped the coarse material on, covering himself. He laughed at
his indecent attire beneath the robe.

Never again, he berated himself.

Never again.

He continued through the forest, slowly, listening to all the sounds and focusing on
the men following him. He recalled everything about them. He'd seen them in a
dark corner of the tavern. Although his senses had warned him, his gut instinct
crying out to him, he hadn't listened. Not listening to instincts could well cost a man
his life.

They would attack soon.

Being outnumbered he had to be ready. He fingered the weapon at his side.
Knowing the sword, his brawn and his wits were all that stood between him and
certain death.

He smelled death. Chills spiraled within and tremors shook his body. The night
was frigid but the coldness of the air did not cause the chills or the smell of death.

Nay, it was not his death he tasted. Yet, this did not bode well for him. He was
certain he would come to regret this night and the folly in the tavern.

He rode a narrow trail, thick, heavy forest rising on either side of him.

Suddenly, a calculated blow blind-sided him. His horse reared then bolted down
the path. The horse stopped and reared again, his huge hooves pawing the air.
Unseated, Ian landed hard on the flower-strewn meadow. Quickly springing to his
feet, his hand on the hilt of his sword, he waited and watched. A wild cry rose from
one single horseman. Ian stood his ground. The man cried out then urged his
horse forward. Ian's horse pranced around him, well trained in war. Yet, Ian could
not get close enough to mount the stallion.

The man cried out again and charged. Ian unsheathed his sword and sliced the
warriors leg when he passed by. A cry of pain and a bellow of outrage followed.
Yet the man whirled his horse and charged again, the war horse's hooves

pounding a dangerous staccato.

Blood stained the wildflowers.

"Bastard," Ian cried.

"Son of a whore," the other man yelled.

Ian was slowly backed farther into the open meadow, horse and rider charging,
toying, playing with Ian. This was a deadly game. The rider, knowing he had the
edge, sought to torture and prolong the kill. Ian was naught but an animal to this
man.

"Why?" Ian cried out. "Why would ye send me to my death?"

The warrior's laugh was demonic, his sneer evil, filled with hate. Yet he chose not
to answer.

This was not one of the men who had followed him. This man had not been inside
the tavern and he'd come at him from a different direction.

The man charged again. Ian lunged at the beast and the rider, praying to unseat
the man.

The stallion reared, his deadly hooves pawing the air. Surprised by Ian's tactic, the
rider lost hold of the reins and fell from his horse.

Slightly dazed by the fall and the quick turn of events, the rider did not respond.
Ian stood over him, waiting for him to rise and fight, his fingers tightening around
the hilt of his sword. Ian could have pierced the man's heart, yet he chose to wait
and fight fairly.

Moments ticked by; an eerie wail rose from the forest behind them. An owl hooted
in the night and a bullfrog croaked. Then, as if the world had suddenly stopped
turning, all fell silent. The warrior stood and their weapons clashed, the clang of
steel resounding through the night.

Evenly matched the men fought on, watching waiting, countering each move with
forceful, deadly blows. Ian fell to his knees. The man stood over him; his arms
raised high, both hands on the weapon ready to deliver the last and killing blow.

Ian rolled, his feet sweeping beneath the other man's. The warrior toppled to the
ground and Ian sent the side of his sword across his enemy's head. He fell,
stunned by the blow. The man lay unmoving upon the very wildflowers that
heralded spring.

Another yell wrent the night. Ian was attacked from behind. With one swing of his
sword, he sliced the man across the chest and his assailant fell dead.

Then Ian's head exploded with pain. Sword in hand, he whirled, his blade slicing
the last opponent nearly in half. Ian's world turned brilliant, lights shining in the
darkness of his mind. He felt nothing save a cold chilling empty void.

Hawke, he thought.

And then the world went blank.

Chapter Fifteen

"I can't stay here," Lainie told Catriona while she paced the solar. "I feel as if the
walls are closing around me--as if everyone knows what has happened. I cannot
bear to remember. The memories are more than I can deal with."

"And what if ye are with child?" Catriona asked pointedly. "What then?" They were
folding the winter clothes and putting them away until next year.

Lainie paused. "I will deal with that if it happens, but I don't think I am. It has been
almost a month. There are no signs. I would ken such a thing. Wouldn't I?" Lainie
choked back the now ever present tears. A child--she had always wished for a
baby. But a child of Bertram's? A child conceived in fear and loathing?

"And where will ye be going? I can think of nowhere save the castle that ye will be
safe from that man. Inside these walls your brothers will protect ye."

"He has had what he wants. I cannot believe for a moment he would--" Lainie
stopped. Shudders wracked her body. Memories best left forgotten washed
through her again. "I cannot forget what he did while I look out upon the very hills
where it happened."

"Perhaps ye are right. But where will ye go?" Catriona asked again. "Where will ye
find the peace ye seek?"

"We have friends near Ayr. I think Hawke will let me travel there and perhaps stay
the summer, at least until harvest time. I can stay busy, perhaps work at the Inn."

"And perhaps he will not. Do ye know where he went this afternoon?"

Lainie flinched, staring out the window again. "Where? Where did he go?"

"To the hills where Bertram attacked ye. He searches for clues, for evidence. He
will not let this rest. Hawke searches when ever he finds the time."

"He has to, because he will discover nothing. And Catriona, ye know ye must
never tell him." Lainie's heart raced and she nearly cried out in fear and anger. Her
brother could never discover the truth.

"I promised ye I would not, and I understand the danger."

"Then we are safe."

"Perhaps not as safe as ye want to be. I heard what Bertram said to ye. He wanted
ye until he grew tired of ye. A man does not grow tired of a lass he has stalked so
soon. Ye must be very careful."

"I will be." Lainie felt a rush of cold as if chill winter winds swept down from the
arctic. Her soul seemed to have vanished from her body, and she wondered if she
even cared if she lived. Bertram had taken all her hopes and dreams from her. In a
few seconds of time, he had changed her forever. Nothing was left of her save a
hollow shell.

"Good." Catriona folded a shirt and slipped it atop the pile in front of her. "Talk to
your brother and find out when we can leave. I will go with ye."

"I will ask Hawke tonight. I'm sure they will be home soon. Look, it has begun to
rain." Lainie stood at the window overlooking the hills and valleys.

"They will be tired and frozen to the very bone." Catriona stood beside Lainie now,
one hand resting upon Lainie's shoulder. "Ye must find peace."

"He will say yes. He has to." Lainie turned from the window and paced the room
again, stopping occasionally to stare out at the hills beyond the castle. She had
played games and flirted with every man in this fortress. The smile she had
plastered to her face had caused many male eyes to twinkle in anticipation. But
now she knew what they wanted.

Never again, she vowed one more time would she let any man touch her.

* * *

Two months had passed. The valleys blossomed. Lainie had left with Catriona for
Ayr. Ian and Lachlan were still gone, and it seemed Ian had vanished from the
earth. No one could find Ian, and no one had heard from him. They all feared the
worst but no one spoke their fears.

Lachlan, as well as the men Hawke could spare, searched for Hawke's brother but
had no luck in finding him. Just yesterday Callie discovered where Hawke had
hidden the box Jarrod had given him at the hunting lodge.

His favorite hound had given him away.

Now she waited for Hawke to leave. He was going hunting and he would be gone
most of the day. Callie wasn't sure what they hunted though, animals or human
vermin.

She walked into the bailey to say goodbye to Hawke, anticipation nearly undoing
her and giving her away, her hands trembling and her heart racing.

Hawke. His men and the horses were all gathered there for the outing. Horses
pranced. The men talked excitedly.

Hawke touched her cheek with the back of his hand, smiling, trusting her.

She was about to deceive him.

"What is wrong? Ye are flushed. Ye would not be sick?" he asked.

Truly, she might be sick if they waited much longer to leave. "Nay, I am not sick,"
she replied quickly. "Just anxious for ye." But he must have noticed how pale she
was in the mornings and--

"Take care then and do not worry. We will be back before the sun sets. Wait for
me." He bent close and brushed a whisper-soft kiss on her lips then stepped back,
his gaze penetrating so completely she was sure he read her mind, knew what she
intended.

Oh, but he could not read minds. He did not have the power. "I will have a hot bath
ready and waiting."

"We will share the bath," he told her quickly.

She nodded. And, if all goes well, I will tell ye I carry your child.

Yet, the thought of discovering the contents of the box made her nerves unravel.
He bent over; his fingers beneath her chin lifted her face until they gazed at each
other. Once again, she was certain he knew what she intended.

"Ye will be famished," she said.

"Only for ye in my arms."

She tried to look down, but he stopped her. His hands framed her face and then
he bent down to kiss her. His lips touched hers sweetly at first then a bit more
demanding. She returned the kiss, wrapping her arms around him, pulling him
close.

So much was at stake here. Their lives. Hawke was so worried about Ian. He had
sent men to find him. They had all returned, disheartened by their journeys.

No one had seen or heard anything save a few rumors that led nowhere.

And thoughts of betrayal; Huntington's and her stepbrother's names always
followed. Still, Hawke sent more men to search. She didn't doubt for a moment this

hunting trip of his might have more than one purpose.

"Ye have spent so much time pacing and worrying about Ian. Use this time well,"
she said, praying they would find success.

Yet, what could Hawke discover in a day's outing where his other men could not
find out in weeks of searching?

"We're ready," one of Hawke's men cried out. He let her go and mounted his
horse. Then he tipped his hat to her.

She watched his back as he rode from the castle, knowing when he returned, she
would have betrayed his trust.

She had never lied to him, had told him from the very beginning she would do all in
her power to find out why her father had sentenced his father to death.

Perhaps it had not been her father.

She would discover that too.

Making her way to the castle and up the long winding steps to the south tower, she
knew she was about to change her life and Hawke's forever. Until now, she had
not realized how deeply she loved Hawke. She rested her hand on her stomach.
His child, his son, grew in her womb.

After she entered the room, she sat on a chair and stared at the wall in front of her.
Within the wall lay the answer to secrets. Hesitating, her hands trembling, she
rose. She ran her fingers over the wall, searching for the magical spot. She found
it and pushed. Slowly the brick moved backward then to the side.

Within the dark narrow confines, she saw nothing. No box. No secret.

Her hand rested on her throat. She closed her eyes, trying desperately to steady
her breathing.

What had Hawke done with it?

Where could he have put it?

Just last evening she had followed him. She had seen him take out the box and
then after turning it over in his hands, he had put it back inside the little cubbyhole.
When he'd turned to leave, she'd raced down the steps nearly tripping over her
long skirts and tumbling to the bottom.

She had been so sure she would find the box here and at long last find out what

was inside.

Hawke. Curse his tenacity. Despite her hasty flight, he must have known she was
there.

And he had known she would come today to find it.

Hawke had tricked her.

Anger turned to admiration. Her husband was just as determined in his own ways
as she was in hers. She wanted to curse him, yet she could not. She yearned to
tell him how brave and noble he was but she was too furious with him.

But a storm was brewing. And she knew Hawke would find himself in the middle.

Because she had come to him for protection.

How strange to have come to the home of her enemy, seeking shelter and finding
exactly that--protection, safety--a husband. Now she loved her enemy with all her
heart. She would bear his child in seven months time. Ah, and perhaps he had
been right to keep trying and trying until his seed took root, although she might
truly have conceived this child on that first time.

His gentleness and caring had won her over.

Callie didn't know what to do. She had watched and waited for this opportunity and
now--

She had accomplished nothing.

And she would have to start again. Callie left and closed the door behind her,
wondering where he would have secured the box.

Hawke, she spoke silently to herself. Where did ye put the box? I would give most
anything to know the answer.

Suddenly she was very afraid those words would come back to haunt her. She
wanted Hawke's arms around her. She needed his warmth and his comfort,
needed to find peace. She prayed he would stop thinking of her as his enemy.

* * *

Hawke rolled the ring around in his hand. She had come so close to discovering it.
If he hadn't noticed the soft scent of jasmine floating in the air, he would have
never realized she watched him.

Yet would she recognize the seal and understand the significance?

"What are ye going to do with the ring?" Jarrod asked. They had ridden silently for
miles. "Ye cannot keep it. Even now, if Huntington suspected ye had found it, he
would cry treason and ye would end up with your head on the chopping block."

Hawke rubbed his neck, thinking and all the while wondering the same things as
Jarrod. His gaze drifted upward and he watched a hawk soar on the wind currents.
To be as free as the hawk and as strong in purpose, Hawke thought. Sometimes
he longed for a simpler life, a life where he had no responsibilities save to the
woman he'd wed. That was not to be though. He knew he could take no chances
with his life or Callie's. "If given the opportunity, Huntington would make Callie's
existence a living hell. She had truly come to him in good faith. She wasn't
Huntington's pawn."

"I ken it," Jarrod agreed. "The man is evil through to his very soul. All that know
him understand he has no heart, his thoughts are dark and evil."

"Perhaps I should send a messenger with the ring to King Henry. I could implicate
the very men who plotted against him so many years ago."

"And your explanation for possessing the seal--the duplicate?" Jarrod asked, while
he thoughtfully rubbed his chin. "I would have an answer before I stuck my neck in
a noose."

He shrugged. Complications were not what Hawke wanted right now. "There is no
explanation that is believable."

"Ye could lose the ring."

Perhaps simplicity would win out. "Bury the impostor deep in the ground. Or send
it back to Huntington. Let him bury it himself."

"And what of Ian. Ye don't know where he is so ye cannot take any chances with
his life. Huntington or Covington could have him imprisoned. 'Tis not likely but ye
cannae take a chance."

Chances, rumors, Hawke could deal with none of them. "No one has heard
anything. Someone has to know."

"Whoever it is, is not speaking." Jarrod flinched slightly, his head turning,
searching. "Did ye hear anything?" he queried.

"Nay," he said.

Jarrod relaxed slightly. "Nay," he spoke softly, his body tense. "The last we knew,

Ian was near the coast, traveling as a priest."

"No one has seen him since."

"But there are rumors."

"Such as--" Hawke began. But there was no time for an answer. An arrow whizzed
by him then another and more flew at him and his men.

"Ambush," Jarrod cried out as they all spurred there horses, seeking a place to
stand and fight the unseen enemy.

When the arrow raked his flesh, Hawke barely felt the pain. "To that pile of rocks,"
he cried out.

The men rode and jumping from there horses, pulled them to safety. Then they
searched for the unseen foe who had attacked them. Nothing surrounded them
save a deathly silence.

The arrows stopped flying.

"Ye've been hit." Jarrod stood beside Hawke.

"'Tis nothing."

Jarrod snorted. Hawke peeled off his shirt. The arrow had grazed his skin. Blood
slowly oozed from the wound.

"We should clean this."

"It can wait." Hawke strode forward, staying low to the ground and taking cover
where he could. There was no one around.

"No one can disappear into thin air."

"No, they cannot. And we are not speaking of just one person."

Hawke stood with his hands on hips, slowly turning, scrutinizing everything.

"But someone has."

Hawke shook his head. "Nay, they are out there still."

He walked back to his men. "Mount up."

In a few minutes, they rode from the clearing, circling back. Still there was no sign

of man or beast.

Resting with forearm on the saddle horn, Hawke swore softly. "Where are they?
And why don't they kill us. We are sitting targets right now."

"Perhaps all they wanted was to scare ye--or give warning."

"Mayhap. And yet--"

"And yet, Ian has disappeared. No one can find him."

"Could be bandits. And when they saw we were armed and ready to fight they
melted into the darkness of the trees."

The silence still clung to the forest. The back of his neck tingled and a shiver ran
the length of his spine. His thoughts went to Callie. And he had the strangest need
to race back to the castle. He wanted to see her and touch her. Needed to make
sure she was safe and in one piece.

Jarrod guessed his thoughts. "Callie?"

"Aye, I am worried. What if this was some ploy to pull us from the castle?"

"'Twas no ploy. Ye have only trusted and loyal men among ye. The plans for this
outing were made this morning."

Hawke nodded, still wondering on the wisdom of all that had been said.

"Should we go home?"

"Aye," Hawke told Jarrod. "I want to see Callie."

* * *

"They are home," Elizabeth cried out, clapping her hands together with glee while
she leaned far out the window in Callie's solar. "Hawke and Jarrod, they are back
and all the men. Come see for yourself."

Callie raced to the window and leaning on the ledge, she peered out, searching
the horsemen below for Hawke. Her heart pounded faster when she saw him and
she waved her hand. He looked up and waved back then leapt from his horse,
handing the reigns to a lad.

Callie watched as Hawke's long strides carried him swiftly to the castle. She lifted
her skirts and raced from the room then down the long winding stairs, eager to see
him. Elizabeth was right behind her.

"Hawke." She saw him framed in the doorway. She paused, her gaze hungry,
roaming the length of his body. She saw the blood and rushed forward. "Ye're
hurt." She touched the fabric near the wound. "This must be tended to."

"Nay," he said softly, his voice ragged. "There is something that must be tended to
sooner." He pulled her into his arms and held her close, her face pressed tightly
against his chest, one hand stroking her hair. She heard the rapid beating of his
heart, felt the warmth from his caress as he ran his other hand the length of her
back then up once more.

"Aye," she told him determinedly. "The wound must be seen to, now." For a
moment, she tried to push away. He wouldn't allow her the distance. He held her
close and she reveled in the feelings and the knowledge he cared for her.

Despite the need to see to his wound, the sensual pull of Hawke was too much for
Callie to withstand. She leaned into him. All thoughts vanished save ones of the
man. Cherishing his strength and power, Callie allowed herself a few moment's
indulgence. But wounds had a way of festering and killing any man who sought to
ignore them.

"Hawke," she whispered, "truly ye must let me see to the wound. 'Tis angry looking
and--"

"Jarrod cleaned the scrape well," he told her, his hands wandering more
intimately. "We must find someplace private soon, or I will not be responsible for
what is about to happen."

"I will not let ye seduce me, Colin MacPherson. Not until I am satisfied ye are safe
and properly looked after. Now, has he gotten rid of all the fibers of cloth and all
the dirt. I will see for myself."

"Most likely, Jarrod nagged and nagged until I allowed him to probe and pick and
keep the blood flowing from this tiny scratch. Aye, he caused me more pain than
the arrow. I swear he did."

"One of your men shot ye?" she queried softly, shocked to even mention the
possibility. This time he allowed her some distance, seeming to want to look at
her. With his thumbs, he smoothed her eyebrows and then he held very still.

"Nay," he paused, still watching her, his hands framing her face.

She pushed his hands aside, suddenly furious with him for taking chances, for
putting his life in jeopardy. And the clarity of the picture finally dawned on her. "Ye
were ambushed."

He didn't reply, but sighed heavily. "We were, but no one was hurt."

"Save yourself."

"I am not hurt. A small wound, that is all. Callie, I do not want to argue about this
with ye."

"Was it my stepbrother? Was it Huntington? I will write a letter to the King. They
cannot be allowed to--"

Hawke set his finger on her lips. "Hush, no more of this talk about Huntington and
your stepbrother. Come, let's walk to the solar." He turned to Jarrod who waited
patiently near his side. "Have cook send us some food and drink." Then he turned
back to Callie, clasping her hand in his. "I do not know who it was. Like the
cowards they are, they all fled before we could discover their identity."

"Would ye like hot water for a bath?" Jarrod asked.

"I would."

Jarrod nodded then left to carry out his duties.

"Ye let them get away?" she asked. "This does not sound like Colin MacPherson."

He arched one eyebrow, meticulously studying her. "Nay, I did not intend such a
thing, but by the time we found cover and were ready to fight the hidden archers
there was no one about. I could not fight an enemy I could not see."

"Well, ye have returned home with no game."

"Aye."

"Did ye find out what happened to Ian?"

"Nay."

"Well, it seems the trip was unsuccessful."

His gaze upon her penetrated her defenses and probed her mind. He knew she
sought her own answers and he knew she'd gone to the tower to search for the
box.

"We discovered nothing new about Ian and the game was incredibly scarce."

She bristled. Subtlety was getting her nowhere. "And would ye tell me if ye had?"

"Perhaps," he said softly. "Truly, Callie, I do not wish to withhold information from
ye, nor do I wish to continue this argument. Neither of us will change our mind."

"'Tis only for my safety that ye keep secrets," she said, repeating his words. "If I
knew what was going on, I could help."

"Nay, ye would do something foolish. I ken it."

"Ye understand nothing," she told him, her frustration with him simmering.
Obstinate, man, she thought.

His solar door stood open, a warm fire crackled on the hearth. Servants hustled to
and fro. One brought water for a bath. Another brought food and drink. Hawke
stood in the doorway and watched his people. Callie understood Hawke's love for
the men and women who were part of the clan MacPherson. She had once felt the
same way about the people who populated the Whitcomb estate. She was sure
Ian would give all the love in his heart to the people who lived and worked there.

"Callie?" Hawke questioned softly, one hand set gently upon her shoulder. "Ye are
miles away."

"I miss Lainie, and I worry about her. I'm frightened to death for Ian." And for ye.
"Where is Ian and why haven't we heard from him?"

"Don't be frightened. Lainie is in good hands. She will be well protected, and as for
Ian. He can take care of himself. We will hear from him soon."

"Ye cannot know that," she said and walked into the room. Hawke, close behind
her. Then she whirled, furious with him and his silence. "Ye cannot foresee the
future."

Casually, he leaned against the doorframe, watching her when she turned to
speak to him once again. "I will fill the tub. The water is hot."

He pushed away from the wall, quickly striding to her side, and lifting the hot water
from the fire before she could. "This is heavy. I would not have ye wait on me this
way."

"This way," she queried. "But ye would have me do it some other way?"

"Aye," he said as he poured the steaming liquid into the bath. "I would have ye join
me and perhaps wash my back, perhaps other parts, too."

She was startled by his request. Surprised indeed, because there was barely
enough room in the small tub for his huge frame let alone two people. And it
seemed far too intimate to bathe with each other.

Hawke would do anything, try anything, she determined. He feared no man.

"I will wash your back, but--" she paused thoughtfully unable to tell him no and
wishing there might be some way to fit two people into the bath.

One eyebrow rose in question. "But?"

"We would not fit."

"I believe we fit quite nicely together," he said, tossing the challenge back her way.

This was not going the way she'd intended. An ember popped from the fire,
sizzling on the hearth. She watched the flames glow and heat just as her body did.
He had already begun to disrobe and despite several months of marriage, she felt
more heat flood her cheeks.

He approached her and swept her into his arms. Twirling her around and around,
he finally stopped to kiss her. "Ye delight me," he whispered next to her ear before
setting her down. "Wash my back then, but I claim the right to wash yours too."

She blushed anew. A few seconds later Hawke was in the tub, soap and cloth in
hand, his smile wide.

He held the cloth out to her. An offering she did not wish to refuse.

"Ah," he said, leaning back into the tub and closing his eyes. "Indeed, I believe
there is room for two. Look there is plenty of space."

She knelt beside the tub, soaping the cloth and running it across his chest. "Surely
ye jest. Ye barely fit."

"Nay, if ye would join me, I would make room." He caught her hand in his, then
leaned forward so she could indeed wash his back. He groaned softly but did not
sit up.

Jesu, he thought. I am a man about to unravel. She is vixen and siren and naive
little girl all wrapped up in one fine, delicate package. Thoughts of pulling her in
with him, clothes and all then making love to her flashed through his head and
remained to haunt. He groaned once more. He would control himself, he decided,
but with each passing moment control grew harder and harder.

"I do not need a bath," she told him indignantly. "Besides, the food is growing cold,
and I have something important to tell ye."

His heart lurched and for a brief moment he was afraid she'd discovered the secret

that sent his father to his execution. The secret that might very well send him to his
own death if he did not figure out what to do with the ring. But only he knew where
the ring was. His gaze flew to his shirt which she had folded and placed on top of
his trunk. It was in need of washing and if he didn't remove the ring--

"Something that won't wait until after we eat?" he queried gently, curiosity tugging
at him.

"It will wait." Yet he sensed an impatience within her and was pleased when she
continued washing him, exploring and touching him.

"But if it is important?" he asked, even while he gritted his teeth together and
clenched his hands tightly around the rim of the tub.

"It will wait," she told him more firmly this time, running her knuckles over his
chest, her head slightly bent to the task.

He grinned, thinking she would tell him some bit of castle gossip. "Until we are
satisfied in every way?"

"Nay, I will tell ye while we eat."

She continued at her play for some moments, then let her hand stray lower,
fingers delicately teasing the flesh there, then curling around the length of him that
hardened and found life with an amazing speed. She caught his gaze again, saw
the passion within his eyes.

He could wait no longer, food now a secondary choice. He rose then, water
sloshing onto the floor. She handed him a bath sheet but he ignored the offering.
He swept her off her feet and carried her to the welcoming breadth of their bed,
and lay down with her. His gaze roamed the length of her then came back to meet
the simmering passion she offered him. He slid his hand along her leg, over the
length of her hose, to the bareness of flesh above it. She cried out, seemingly
startled by his very bold touch of his hand upon her, one finger sliding within her
and then another. He watched as she closed her eyes, her breath leaving her
body, her lips parting. He kissed her and he felt as if she breathed fire within him.
Her tunic was thrust high around her hips. He was naked, dripping from the bath.
He waited no longer but thrust within her again and again. His desire grew to a
burning need and it seemed hers did too. Her eyes opened and she met his; she
was trembling beneath him and he was burning anew with the piercing fire he
found within them.

"Sweet Jesu, cry out my name!" he commanded her. "Cry out, whisper to me..."

Chapter Sixteen

She did cry out. The world around him exploded with the sweetness of her climax
and he was barely aware of the thrust that brought him to his own. He drifted in
sweet sensation, for the moment spent, yet still disturbed by the light in her eyes.
Seconds later he rose, and pulled her to her feet, helping her to discard her
clothing. He was careless of where the garments fell, sweeping her back into his
arms the moment their clothing was discarded. The damp bed coverings were
swept aside as he laid her down once again, coming beside her to draw that
warmth back around them both, his arms around her. He ran his knuckles up and
down her spine. She moved, curling against him, returning the touch, exploring
and enticing him. He wanted her again and he knew he would never be satisfied.
She was a fire in his blood, and in his soul. Magical and mysterious, she would
always intrigue him. And she would always make him burn with desire.

Yet there were things that needed attending. Another dalliance while sweet must
wait until the night, until the business at hand had been discussed. He had
decided what he would do and she would have to make promises to him.

And he would hold her to those vows.

Doubts assailed him.

Still, she stroked him, touched him, and begged him to make love one more time.
And it seemed her tender soft touches had aroused him once again. So dinner and
business would have to wait. He was in her hands now and he would enjoy
himself. She lowered herself very slowly against him, teasing, stroking, touching,
holding. Covering him with warm, liquid caresses. He was a willing enough
participant to her leisurely play.

"Cry out!" she commanded him, rising above him, seeking his eyes. "Whisper to
me..."

"Indeed!" He liked what she did.

Quickly, he lifted her from him, and set her upon her knees, her fingers now wound
tight around the wooden headboard of the bed. He was behind her, his hands
around her breasts, caressing, the fullness of him deeply inside her again,
thrusting in a burning rhythm that drove all reason from his head.

She cried out again and it pleased him.

"Hawke," she whispered, and he whispered her name in return so quietly he was

sure she never heard. He had wanted to cry out her name, to give her the
satisfaction she seemed to crave, yet he dared not. Once again he studied her. He
had taken advantage of her. It was something that could not be helped. He would
not be coerced into words by any torment of lust. He prayed she would come to
understand and in the future when all this was done, he could give more of his
heart to her, let her know she possessed his soul. He saw tears rise in her eyes
and saw her hastily wipe them away. Rolling closer to her, he said softly, "One
would think ye might truly have put the past behind ye."

"I've tried."

"But ye cannot. Ye still strive to meddle in business ye should not."

The tears rose again. She rolled from him, but he caught her arm and brought her
body back against his. His muscles tensed, his heart pounded. He found that her
hair tickled his nose.

"As ye keep telling me, no one has asked me to change my mind or change how I
act or what I do. Here ye are an English lady sleeping in a Scotsman's bed. Ye
believe ye were once my enemy. I tell ye time and again ye are not. Ye will not let
go of a time and a matter best forgotten."

"Neither can ye."

"But I'm a man. And I must deal with this situation in the best way I can. It must be
dealt with and ye must stay in the castle where ye will be protected from the
dangers wrought by Simon Huntington."

"What about Archibald?"

"He is no real threat to either of us."

"How do ye know that?"

He threaded his fingers through her hair, easing himself down once again. "Trust
me."

"Without knowledge 'tis near impossible."

His lips curled into a smile. "But ye will manage, my love."

"If ye say so. I did vow to obey, and I believe ye mean well. Forgive me though. I
am beginning to know ye and your insatiable curiosity. When I cannot see ye, I
fear for your life."

"Ye do not think I fear for yours?" He kissed her lips suddenly. "I'm famished. We

must dine, and ye must tell me what ye wished to speak of over dinner," he told
her, then leaped from the bed, crossed the room, and bent down before one of his
trunks. He came back to her, sat beside her, and offered his hand to her, long
calloused fingers opening from the palm.

"Hawke," she whispered, clearly startled by the unexpected gift, her eyes shining.

"What do ye think?" he queried softly.

Upon his hand was a brooch made of golden filigree, finely crafted and extremely
beautiful, at the center of it a large and beautiful sapphire. Still the beauty of the
piece was in its workmanship; the filigree was so very fine, and it was evidently
very old.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, puzzled. "But what...?"

"It's just a gift to welcome spring and all the beauty and joy that comes with the
new season."

"'Tis more than just a gift."

Hawke shrugged. "I thought long and hard on the matter, and wondered what to
give an English lady turned Scots, who might have had all that she desired all of
her life--other than complete knowledge."

"Ye try blackmail?"

He shook his head. "Nay. I cannot grant ye the knowledge ye seek, but this I
thought ye might enjoy. It came to me from my mother, and came to her through
her great grandmother who was an English lady; its old Anglo-Saxon
craftsmanship, and is a rare and precious piece. The sapphire reminded me of
your eyes."

She bit her lips and once again, he saw the rise of tears. He wondered if he could
ever say or do anything that would not cause her to turn melancholy. He had
meant to gift her with a little joy, not more sadness. But her words surprised him.

"'Tis truly lovely, and ye've made me absurdly happy. Ye have given me a gift with
great thought."

"Take it."

Her fingers were trembling, but she took the brooch from him, her fingers curling
around it. She came to her knees and quickly kissed his lips. "It's wonderful and I
am grateful, and there is truly nothing more I could imagine being so beautiful and
courteous a gift." She leaped up, blushing just a little to realize it seemed natural to

move about naked before him, and strode to one of her own trunks. She carefully
set the brooch into a compartment within, tenderly placing it there, and picked up
the bundle of cloth that lay topmost within the trunk. She brought it to him almost
hesitantly, then took out the fabric to show him a cloak made of the finest wool and
dyed cobalt-blue, with fine embroidery upon the back in gold, the design of his
coat of arms.

He arched a brow. "Ye made this?"

"In part, one of the sheepherders wives--Elizabeth introduced us--fashioned the
cape. She spins the softest, warmest wool. The embroidery I did, along with
Elizabeth."

She stopped suddenly and she was in his arms. He bore her down upon the
beautiful new mantle and kissed her. "'Tis a remarkable gift. I am delighted that ye
made it for me."

"I told ye, I did not--"

"But ye did," he said, and kissed her again.

She smiled. "I've another gift," she told him. "But I will give it to ye after we dine. I
hope this one will also be a wonderful gift--nay, I pray it will."

"Tell me now," he insisted.

She shook her head.

"Callie--"

"Nay, ye must be patient a bit longer," she said primly.

* * *

Callie put fresh clothes on the bed for Hawke and he quickly slipped into them.
Earlier a cloth had been spread on the floor by the fire, and she sat there,
absorbing the warmth, her legs curled beneath her, pouring wine and serving food
on the plates. Even though spring was just a few days away, the nights were still
cold and sometimes the wind swept through the halls in the castle and seemed to
permeate the cracks.

"I intend to eat my fill before we talk about anything," she told him with a
determined set to her shoulders, her head tilted slightly while she studied him, her
gaze resting on his eyes. "Ye cannot think to intimidate me into telling ye before I
am ready. All day I have been worried about ye and impatient for your return. I had
fears ye would disappear just as Ian has done."

He accepted the chalice she handed him and sat down beside her. "Then ye care
about me just a little?" he questioned, teasing her.

"Ye are my husband."

"And ye are my wife. I would worry about ye if ye were gone all day. 'Tis natural."
He was sorely afraid he'd lost his heart to her. As well as his soul. "And if she were
gone all day, he would send search parties to find her."

"Oh, Hawke, there is so much to worry about these days. Ye keep your thoughts to
yourself. I've seen the box and your hiding place," she admitted. "And as ye have
already guessed, I went to the tower this morning after ye left."

"I thought ye might."

"I found nothing. How did ye know I had been there and seen ye?"

His fingers thrummed on the fireplace. He had turned his face from her. He didn't
want her to read his thoughts, see the fear that simmered and grew within him.
With each passing day danger crept closer to them. Sometimes he felt Callie could
see into his soul. "I cannot tell ye."

"Why?" She demanded answers he could not give her. Nay would not give.

"Because," he said, still watching the flames leap and dance. He swallowed his
wine and ate a few bites of the food in front of him. He no longer had much of an
appetite. He had known all along she would follow him and seek out the
knowledge confined in the box.

He had no idea how to stop her quest.

Her own frustration was obvious now. She resented all he hid from her, all he
would not explain or reveal.

"The arguments are all too old to begin them again. Ye are a stubborn man
Hawke. I wish I could find a way to change your mind, yet I know I cannot."

"Nay, ye cannot. Is this all that ye wanted to speak of?" he queried softly, impatient
for so many things and so very tired. He felt as if he might fall asleep, basking in
the warmth, on the soft fur. If he could coerce Callie closer, with his wife in his
arms, he would truly find heaven on earth. "If it is, I can think of some more
enjoyable way to pass the hours. Ways that may ease your mind from the
thoughts plaguing it now."

"I think we've already thoroughly explored what ye have in mind."

"Never thoroughly."

He watched her look down at her tightly folded hands, knuckles nearly white.
Suddenly his heart raced and his mouth was parched. He watched her swallow
hard as if she dreaded what she was about to say.

"Is it so very hard?" he asked, moving closer and seeing her move away.

"Do not get so close. I cannot think--" She looked up and met his gaze. Behind
her, the setting sun had cast a brilliant display of red and gold. The sky seemed to
burn. Her shoulders suddenly trembled. He wanted to take her into his arms and
ease her fear.

"Aye, 'tis very hard," she whispered. "I believe ye will be pleased, but--"

He didn't say anything. He waited.

"I know ye want children," she began.

His head pounded. His heart lurched. He had simply not anticipated the gist of this
conversation and the turn it seemed to be taking. "Aye. Look at me."

He leaned closer and touched her fingers, easing her hands apart and holding
them within his own. They were fragile, delicate yet strong. A moment later, she
gazed into his eyes. Warmth swept through him. A longing he'd never known
before filled him. He wanted to hear the words he'd just guessed.

"Callie?"

She met his gaze. "I carry your child."

He whooped and he was sure the entire castle heard him. Then he swept her into
his arms and twirled her in tight, fast circles, setting her on the floor before
wondering at his sanity.

"When?" he asked. "When will he be born?"

"She," she answered him with quiet confidence.

"Ye are stubborn too, Callie MacPherson. When will the child be born, for it
matters not to me whether it is a boy or a girl. A healthy child is all anyone can ask
for."

"I believe the child will be born the end of August or early September."

He grinned shamelessly. "I do believe ye might have conceived on our wedding
night."

"Arrogant," she said and laughed, softly punching his shoulder.

Once again, he swept her into his arms but this time he carried her to his bed and
settled her upon the covers. He came down beside her, cradling her in his arms,
kissing her tenderly, stroking the hair from her face.

"Are ye feeling all right?" he asked. A child, yet, he berated himself. Women died
in childbirth. Suddenly in front of him was another threat to Callie's life. He meant
to make her as comfortable as possible and keep her healthy. "The heir must be
kept safe."

Beside him, she stiffened. He swore softly, knowing his unthinking words would be
hard to erase. Even after the time they'd spent together and the efforts he'd made
to make her believe he had truly put the past behind him, she had doubts. His
callous and hastily spoken words would do little to ease those doubts.

"I am sorry, Callie. I did not mean for ye to think I cared only for the child's safety.
Ye must know by now, I put your life before all others."

She began to shiver, trembling so hard from head to toe, he feared for her.

She touched him gently. "I'm truly happy and I understand what ye said. I hold
nothing over your head nor do I have expectations for things that will never be. But
Hawke, I'm afraid for our unborn child. Afraid I will lose what I hold--that this
happiness will not last."

He pulled her into his arms, against his chest, within his legs and stilled her
shivering. They watched the fire. He kissed her throat, told her that her hair was
gold, and her eyes were precious, haunting gems of sapphire-blue. He said
nothing of love, and though she craved the words from his lips, it didn't matter.
She had never longed so deeply to hold on to a night as she did this one. Yet even
as she prayed, these precious moments could last forever. Her eyes began to
close as they sat before the fire. He lifted her and brought her to bed, holding on to
her as if she were a child herself.

She was half asleep when she heard him speaking to her. "If ye could have one
wish, what would it be?"

She smiled, her eyes closed and curved against him. "To have this night forever,"
she whispered. "To...feel so safe, so secure and cherished--" She broke off unsure
of how deeply she should reveal her feelings.

"Go on," he commanded.

"To be cherished forever by a Scotsman so strong; one who listens, who gives
support, stands his ground, and yet does not dominate."

His arms curled around her.

She pressed her body closer to his. "What would it be that ye would have?"

"Your solemn promise," he told her, and suddenly, no matter how warm and
secure his arms, she felt shivering within her once again, and she prayed fervently
that just once--just once--her determination to do something good for others did
not in turn do ill to her.

Callie knew he didn't expect an answer or a promise. She would never promise
what he asked.

Although she wished fervently she could.

She didn't sleep until it was very late.

For once she lay awake longer than Hawke, for she could hear his even breathing
even as she lay beside him. Then she cursed both Simon and Archibald for being
such evil men capable of horrific deeds that put so many beautiful and wonderful
people in danger.

Their evilness must end.

* * *

The next day the entire castle seemed to awaken early. A messenger with news of
Ian came and went. On the coastline in a small village near Eddington, someone
had seen a man dressed in priest's robes who resembled Ian. Hawke sent men to
search, leaving the castle buzzing about the laird's brother. The mood wasn't
festive but there was hope now and everyone seemed to be walking around with
smiles.

Jarrod and Hawke found a quiet nook to talk and Callie paced nervously. She
knew they made plans, and she tried desperately to overhear. Frustration and
anxiety about what Hawke planned with Jarrod overshadowed the better news of
Ian's whereabouts. Yet it seemed Callie was given her chance. Jarrod rose and
left Hawke to himself. Callie followed Jarrod with great hopes of overhearing
something when the man let his guard down.

Jarrod was loyal and trustworthy. Callie knew Hawke regarded him a friend. But
Jarrod wasn't Hawke. He wasn't infallible nor would he expect the laird's wife to
spy on him, seeking out clues.

Callie took grave care at first, making sure she kept to shadows and far enough
behind Jarrod he would not think anyone followed him. Then she came upon him
in the stables. Hawke stood beside him, a small bag in hand, while another man
saddled Hawke's horse.

Without a word, he was leaving.

"Keep track of her for me," he told Jarrod, turning to his friend, one hand on
Jarrod's shoulder. "She will try to find out where I have gone. She is to know
nothing of this or my whereabouts. Do ye understand?"

Jarrod nodded but he looked miserable. "I will not tell a soul about the forged ring
or that ye go to confront Simon Huntington and the treason that brought so much
havoc to your family years ago. I pray it does not do the same now. I have a
horrible feeling about this."

The two men moved on, walking toward the front of the stables, and Callie didn't
dare follow. The boards in the stable tended to creak, and she didn't want to give
her presence away to either man. If Hawke were to know what she'd overheard,
he'd lock her in the tower room.

And she would have no chance to implement her newly hatched plans.

She mulled over what had been said and watched as Hawke mounted, getting
ready to ride into England and certain peril. She would have to reach Simon before
Hawke did, but she didn't know how.

"What of Ian?" Jarrod asked. "I would have news. I could go there myself but ye
have charged me to keep an eye on your wife. Perhaps Elizabeth could watch her
for me."

Impatiently, Hawke waved his hand at Jarrod. "Nay, Callie will lead ye a merry
dance, but she'd have Elizabeth in tears before the day was finished. I will ride into
Eddington before I head to the Huntington estate. 'Twould be nice to have
someone by my side besides Lachlan. The treachery that nearly surfaced with my
father's knowledge of the ring may very well find its way out once again."

"'Tis why I don't like leaving ye to go off on your own."

"Just keep Callie safe for me. She is far too precious and too inquisitive to be left
alone. Do not let her out of your sight and make sure the door to the solar is
barred from the outside each night. Put a guard there too."

Jarrod nodded. "God keep ye safe."

Hawke nodded then rode quickly from the stables and the castle. She would have
liked to say goodbye at least but he hadn't even seen fit to tell her of his hasty
departure let alone his destination.

He might very well be gone for weeks.

"Jarrod," she whispered and watched him jump, his hand flying to his chest.

"Oh, my! Callie?" Jarrod said. "Where did ye come from? What did ye hear?
Hawke would be--"

"Jarrod." She stepped forward and took his gnarled hand in her own. "Look at me.
I would have ye saddle a horse. I'd like to ride with Hawke."

"Nay, ye cannae do that."

"Why?" she asked, innocently and wide eyed, hoping to learn more.

"Because he is going--" Jarrod broke off, seeming to realize his mistake.

"Where is he going? He spoke naught of a trip to me."

"He doesn't want ye to know," Jarrod said, "and I promised to keep his secret."

"Then ye've signed his death warrant," Callie said. "He knows nothing about
Huntington and how very evil the man can be. He will walk into a trap or an
ambush just as he did with his men the other day. And what of this talk of a ring?
The King's ring. 'Twould be a forgery of his seal now wouldn't it?"

"My vow--"

"What if he doesn't find Ian? What then? What if Lachlan is still looking for
Hawke's brother and is not at the Whitcomb estate? Hawke will be riding alone
and into certain peril."

"He will find Lachlan. I will not betray Hawke. I can tell ye no more, nor can I let ye
go. Ye heard what he said. If I deem it necessary, Hawke said to lock ye in the
solar."

She took his wrinkled cheeks between her hands and forced him to meet her
gaze. "This is no betrayal. Hawke is in very real danger. I need to help him with
this. I know ways to get into the castle. Jarrod, I know about the ring, and I've
figured out that there is treason here. If Hawke is discovered with the ring, he will
die just as his father died. I have guessed what happened, and I know my own
father had little to do with the events of that day. I know Huntington and my
stepbrother had a hand in the treachery. They were protecting themselves from a

fate that would have been far worse than the one that met Hawke's father."

"Ah, Milady," he said distressed.

"I will never breathe your name, I swear it. Hawke will need never know."

"I would never keep the truth from Hawke. Not for myself. But I agree with Hawke,
ye are too rash and too impulsive and I am very afraid for ye."

"I am afraid enough on that count for both of us. I have lived with my stepbrother
and I have seen enough of Simon to be wary. He is an evil man. Please, Jarrod,
come with me. Ye can keep me safe and if I am with ye, Hawke would not fear for
my life."

"Ye cannot go anywhere. I have made promises that must be kept."

"Ye know very well that I would find a way out of this castle. Ye cannot watch me
all of the time, nor can Elizabeth. At least if ye come with me, ye will be by my
side. I won't be alone."

"Lady--"

"Ye will be protecting me, just as Hawke bade ye to do."

Jarrod ran his hands through his hair and shook his head. "I will rue the day I ever
agreed with ye, but in this matter I do heartily agree."

"Thank, God. When can ye be ready to go? We can beat Hawke if he detours to
the coast. I know we can and I will find a way to protect Hawke. I will."

Jarrod nodded, still very unhappy. But Callie knew this was what had to be done.

And she had no doubt that if she didn't intervene in some way, Hawke would die.
Fear for Hawke's life settled deep within her. Her instincts had always been
reliable.

Oh, Hawke, please stay safe.

Jarrod left to tell Elizabeth and put together a few belongings. She did the same
and they met at the stables a little while later.

* * *

"Ian is dead." Huntington said, his voice gruff, praying his words proved true. He
rubbed his hands together then adjusted his breeches.

"Nay, my lord, at least I'm not sure," his retainer said, clearly unhappy, cowering
by the door as if he wanted to make his escape as quickly as possible. For a few
long seconds he stared at the floor.

"Nay!" Huntington roared, clearly taken aback and furious at the man's information.
"Why not?"

"It seems we were not the only ones who wanted him dead. There were others--"
he paused, staring again at the floor yet inhaling deeply before continuing.

Huntington didn't give him time, nor did he want to listen to excuses. He wanted
Ian's body and he wanted proof the man would not plague him ever again. "Then
he should be dead," Huntington snarled.

"I thought," the man swallowed hard, hesitated, choked on his words, "I thought he
was. When I left him, he was not moving. He was as still as death, his skin pasty
white." The man backed against the door now, his hand pressing against the solid
oak at his back.

"Liar."

"Nay, my lord. He might be. I don't know. There were rumors." The man shrugged,
his shoulders quivering.

"Ye left the scene without checking the body, without making sure. Or were ye
even there? Did someone beat ye to him? I don't care who killed Ian
MacPherson."

Huntington strode forward, stopping inches from the man, spittle running from the
side of his mouth. His fury had never risen so quickly or so intensely. He despised
incompetence, hated a man who could not do the job he was sent to perform. A
small blade in his hand, he placed the tip beneath the man's chin. Thoughts of
skewering him through rose to delight him, yet he controlled his impulse.

Blood on the floor in his solar was so very messy.

He inhaled deeply and whispered, his voice still gruff. "Ye will go back to the forest
or to the meadow and ye will find out if he is alive or not. Ye will find out who else
wants him dead. Am I understood?"

"Aye."

"Good then." Huntington withdrew the blade and wiped the flat edge on the man's
shirt, still thinking of turning the sharp side of the blade on the incompetent fool
who stood before him.

The man stood by the door for a few seconds, his back pressed tight against the
planked oak as if he could melt through, then, with no further word from
Huntington, he slinked from the room.

"Well, well, well." Archibald rose, clapping his hands from the chair where he'd
been sitting. "I applaud your restraint. We shouldn't be at odds with anyone else
who wishes to see the entire MacPherson clan dead."

"Nay, we should not. But I don't want the entire MacPherson clan dead."
Huntington poured himself a chalice of wine and drank heavily. A drop of wine ran
down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

"I understand. Ye want Callie for yourself. I promise ye, ye will have her. One way
or the other, I will see the vow I made to ye is fulfilled."

One eyebrow slanted haughtily. "Ye'd better."

"My stepsister should have never escaped." Archibald paced the room.

Huntington laughed. "Whose fault was that?"

Archibald shuddered. "Mine, and yet, I cannot help but think that if ye had not
called me away, she would have never found the chance to run to The
MacPherson. 'Twas the very day I came to see ye. She borrowed clothing and
went for a ride. No one was wiser despite the guard who was supposed to follow
her everywhere."

"Her escape can be still be used against her."

Archibald appeared clearly intrigued, his eyes simmering with curiosity. "How?"

Huntington's fingers drummed against the chalice. "Ye haven't figured that out
yet?" he queried pointedly. "Why Archi, I thought ye were wiser than that--more
crafty."

"Nay." Archibald shook his head, clearly puzzled, yet licking his lips with
anticipation.

Repulsed by the man's stupidity and his incredible ego, Huntington merely shook
his head. "The MacPherson will be led to believe Callie is part of our plan. Despite
the apparent feud, he will believe we sent her to his home to entice him. To
bedevil him and lead him to our clutches where we will torture him, or better yet
turn him over to the King of England for treason."

"And just how will we go about doing that? My spies tell me, the woman is in love
with her husband."

Huntington whirled on Archibald, his hand slamming on the table in front of him,
blood red wine sloshing from the chalice he held to pool on the floor at his feet.

"Ye fool!"

Archibald blinked. He ran his trembling hands through his hair. "Fool?" he
questioned. "I don't think--"

"That is the very problem, Archie. Ye don't think. Aye, it matters not if Callie has
fallen in love with her husband. Hawke is still wary of his bride. The mistrust,
though dormant now, could erupt at any provocation. He searches for answers.
Seeks clues to his father's execution. The doubts in his mind remain."

"They do?"

"They can be reborn."

"Reborn?"

Once again, Huntington shook his head, fury simmering, his heart racing. He
turned from Archibald, trying desperately to slow his heart and speak with
conviction. Slowly Huntington turned. "It will be your job to sow more seeds of
doubt and disbelief." He paused, once again drumming his fingers, thinking. "In
both parties."

"Hawke will not come to me nor will he listen."

"He doesn't have to listen to ye. Evidence can be planted. Traps can be set.
Perhaps--"

"Perhaps?"

"Aye, ye have given me the means, Archibald. Ye have provided the means to
entrap Hawke MacPherson."

Chapter Seventeen

Just as Lachlan and the other men Hawke had sent searching for Ian had found
no trace of him, neither had Hawke. The trail stopped cold near a small village. If
anyone had seen his brother, they were not telling the tale. Nor would they speak
of a priest who might have passed through.

Now Hawke regretted the time he lost. He knew he must hurry. With the rain falling
in torrents around him, water sluicing from his face, he saw the Whitcomb estate.
He rode through the gates. He was greeted by one of the men he sent ahead with
Lachlan.

Lachlan must have heard of his arrival. Before he could dismount his horse, his
trusted friend stood by his side.

"I received the message that ye were coming only a few hours ago. We did not
expect ye so soon. The missive said ye'd be here in the morning."

"I rode hard. There is much to discuss. Huntington and Covington are gathering
men. If one melts into dark tavern corners and listens, there is talk of treason."

"Aye, 'tis true. And I have heard rumors there is a bounty on your head. Huntington
searches for ye."

"I am well protected here with my men around me. He would not dare storm the
castle."

"Did ye hear anything of Ian?" Lachlan asked.

"Ian has vanished, that much is clear. He is alive, though, I am sure of it. When all
this is taken care of, I will find my brother. But right now this takes precedence
over all other things."

"Come, I'm famished. Surely ye have trained the cooks here to prepare foods
other than the bland fare the English eat."

Lachlan laughed. "I took care of that the first week I was here."

"Good," Hawke said, striding toward the castle and the warmth inside its walls.

Lachlan followed and soon they were inside Callie's home. Hawke had never been
within the walls of the keep. He was surprised at the warmth and the friendliness
of the people. Even in her absence, it was well cared for and clean. Many stopped

and spoke of Callie, inquiring as to her health and well-being.

Memories of another day and another time assailed Hawke. He remembered the
outside walls and the look on his father's face as he was led away. He hadn't been
able to reach his father. Indeed, he had been a silent spectator. Although all he
could think of was throwing his arms around The MacPherson and telling him how
much he loved him. When he'd tried to wrench away from Jarrod, the man had
held tightly to him, never allowing him the smallest chance to get away.

He remembered the softly spoken words that came from Jarrod. "One day ye will
right all that has gone wrong here. Ye will protect The MacPherson name," Jarrod
had told him.

And he'd cried out. "Nay, I will do it now, before my father is executed. Tell me
what has happened."

Yet Jarrod remained steadfast, sadness in each word. "Ye will grow up first. And
then ye will return. Your father is innocent and so are ye, but if anyone knows ye
are here, ye will meet the same fate as your father."

Much of what Jarrod had told him that day, he'd forgotten in the passage of time.
Yet as if a spring had opened from the earth, the words gushed into his mind. If he
had listened and taken the time to put together all that was said, he would have
never wasted the years seeking revenge against Callie's father. He would have
kenned the source.

He would have known Simon Huntington was behind the death of his father--as
well as the treason against King Henry. The MacPherson had accidentally found
the ring, had confronted Simon with it and he'd been immediately jailed, accused
of murderous activities and then judged and condemned.

If he was right, Callie's father was as much a victim as James MacPherson.

The two men sat down and plates of food and mugs of ale were brought to them.

"What of Lainie? Have ye heard news?" Lachlan asked between mouthfuls of
haggis and meat pies.

Lachlan was still love-struck. Lainie would never be his and yet Hawke did not
know how to put such a thing into words. He'd guessed what had happened
between Lainie and Bertram and he understood Lainie's silence. When the
knowledge hit him, he also understood her forced gaiety.

"I have heard. She is well and will return home in the fall after the harvest festival.
We will all go to meet her and partake of the fun."

"She will be ready to take a husband?" Lachlan asked seriously. "I would be that
man, but I don't believe she has changed her feelings for me. Indeed, I have heard
news also. She flirts with danger--as well as the lads. There is another young man
who is smitten with her and I fear he has won her heart."

Hawke set the mug of ale he was drinking on the table. "I don't think so. In fact, I
rather doubt it. Lainie will most likely never marry."

"Why?" Lachlan nearly roared, standing then sitting down quickly. "Why would ye
say such a thing? She is a bonny lass with a heart of gold."

Hawke shook his head. "I cannot speak of it. 'Tis just a feeling I have. Come let us
talk of more pleasant things." Yet the terrible foreboding within Hawke built with
each passing second. His mind was ever on Callie and her whereabouts.

Callie is safe, in the castle and watched over by Jarrod. She has never been more
protected, he reminded himself. Yet he could not keep the doubt from his mind.
And well he knew that if Callie wanted to escape Jarrod's ever-watchful eye and
Elizabeth's, she would.

* * *

The sun was just beginning to set. Jarrod rode ahead and told Callie he would
return. He'd been careful and ever watchful, making sure each bend in the road
would not offer a trap. Callie shivered, rubbing her arms, trying to rid them of the
creeping chill. She dismounted and bent over a small stream, sipping the water
and washing the road dirt from her hands and face. For several days, she'd had
second thoughts about riding into England, about leaving the safety of the castle.
Perhaps Hawke had been right.

Startled by the snapping of a twig, Callie rose and turned. "Jarrod?"

"Lookee what we have here." A man stepped from his hiding place amidst berry
bushes. "Wooee she's right pretty. He didn't say she was a looker."

"Royalty, if I do say so myself," another man chortled with glee, standing.

Callie held her breath. "Nay." She searched the clearing for Jarrod. Where was
he?

"He says she's not to be touched." The man was lanky, his hair scraggly and he
had to be in his twenties.

"Harmed," the other said with a leer? "How we going to give her to him if we don't
touch her?"

The first man scratched his head. "The lord will be along soon. Maybe we'll just
watch her for a spell."

Callie whirled, her skirts flying, knowing she had to flee. Three men surrounded
her. She darted to the right, faking the move then turned left. She slipped past the
first man.

"She's getting away. After her. He's not going to be happy if we come back empty-
handed."

Her heart pounding, her breath coming in deep and raw gasps, she darted again,
swerving to miss a bush then a tree. Suddenly a horse and rider stood in front of
her. She turned again, her skirts in her hand, searching wildly for some way out.
She darted back to the clearing.

"There she is. Why, she's come back to us."

"How 'bout that."

Rough hands grabbed her shoulder and she was quickly pulled back against the
man, his hand clamped over her mouth.

"Well, now ye're touching her. He's going to be mad as hell."

Callie bit down on the man's hand, guessing the man they spoke of was either
Simon or Archibald.

"Ow!" he cried out, dropping his hand from her mouth but not letting go of her.
"She's a feisty one. No wonder he wants her."

Kicking wildly, arms and legs swinging, she wondered, oh, God, where was Jarrod
and what had Simon done to him? She had to get away.

Good intentions had been her only thoughts.

Simon Huntington stepped into the clearing, his smile feral, and his strides long.
"Trouble with your Scotsman husband?" he asked, raking her with a sensual gaze
that turned Callie's stomach. He spoke to his men. "Take her to the hut. We will
keep her there until her husband comes to rescue her."

She was crudely thrust from the man she had bitten. "Ye take her," he gestured to
another of Huntington's retainers, but Archibald stepped forward, a malevolent
look upon his face, sword drawn.

"I'll take her." Archibald touched a lock of her hair with the sword point, drawing the
locks away from her neck. Slowly, he ran the blade down the column of her throat

producing the thinnest line of blood, clearly enjoying himself. "Dear sister,
stepsister," he amended. "Ye know ye've caused me a great deal of trouble. It's so
nice ye've chosen to accommodate our plans."

Her chin rose. She tried desperately to erase the fear he inflicted, not daring to
move lest the point of the blade impale her.

Archibald threw his head back and laughed, the noise chilling the very air. "Rise,
Callie, and walk slowly down that path. While Simon doesn't want to see ye die, at
least not until he's tasted your sweet charms, I have no such qualms. Ye have
been a thorn in my side since I first met ye. I had hoped ye'd die that day I left ye
in the forest. But your father found ye. Curse his soul. Then I had other plans for
ye. I decided I would use ye to gain more wealth. Your disappearance did not
please me."

Callie did as he bade. The walk was short and all too soon she came upon a run-
down shack overgrown with weeds, the roof and walls moss-ridden. When she
stepped inside, it smelled musty and rank. There was no warmth, no fire, only a
moth-eaten fur spread upon the floor.

"Your new quarters," Archibald told her. He didn't tie her, but he set a guard
outside the door with orders to kill her if she tried anything. She began to pace the
small confines, nervously waiting for Huntington. He would come and he would
gloat.

The place was cold, bitterly so. No fire had warmed the crude hearth for some time
and there was no wood in the box.

"Please, Jarrod, find me. And I pray nothing has happened to ye," she whispered,
seeing the frost from her breath float on the air as she spoke. But she didn't
believe Jarrod would miraculously appear and rescue her.

Hawke believed she was safely at home.

Then she heard swift hoof beats followed by steps. She started for the door,
stopping, as it suddenly swung open. For a moment, the sun was in her eyes. She
saw Simon again, stiff and stern and ready to do battle with her if necessary. She
realized he wanted something from her. That need might be all that kept her alive.

"Simon," she whispered, stepping back quickly. Though her hand in marriage had
been offered to this man, she'd never felt any affection for him. Fear was all she'd
ever known when his name was mentioned--when she saw him--when his cold
forbidding eyes met hers. He was a tall man, strong enough, attractive enough.
And yet, despite all that, the evil had taken over his features, pinching them into a
constant scowl, his eyes simmering hazel. There had always been something
about him that unnerved her, a brutal edge leaning toward cruelty. She felt that

full-force of his evil now as he walked into the cottage, closing the door firmly
behind him.

"Callie," he said softly. That was all and yet...

She felt trapped. She was trapped, for his body blocked the door and the window
was narrow. She had simply never taken him seriously enough to think that he
would dare harm her.

He had planned to wed her, to use her. But she had never thought he would do
her physical harm--until now.

"What is it ye want? I have only returned to see my estate and to pick up a few of
my belongings I forgot to pack. Ye cannot keep me here." Now, bringing up the
ring and her knowledge of the treasonous plot against the English king did not
seem prudent.

"Is that so?"

"Aye."

Simon had scarcely moved. He leaned his muscled bulk against the door,
watching her. "Ye will not be seeing your estate. Ye will stay here until matters are
in hand and then I will come for ye. At that time, ye can become my wife or my
paramour. Your choice. Although marrying soiled goods goes against my plans.
Perhaps I will not give ye a choice. Ah, but then I would not possess the castle and
the wealth that come with the lady if I did not wed her."

"No matter what happens, I will never wed ye," she cried out, her hand pressing
against her stomach as if to protect her unborn child from the evil surrounding her.

He waved a hand impatiently in the air. "It matters not what ye say. Colin
MacPherson will be in the tower in a day or two. I will see him killed within the
week and ye will have no one--no protector--no husband."

She shook her head. "Ye are wrong."

"Your showing up here today was extremely opportune, my lady, for word has it
Hawke rode into the Whitcomb estate just a few hours ago. I will send a message
to him that I have ye and will be willing to make an exchange."

She shook her head again, growing more frightened. "Ye don't understand. He will
exchange nothing for me. Especially not the ring," she blurted without thinking.

"Ah, so ye know about the ring? Ye have just become a liability. I thought Hawke
would have kept it a secret. Nevertheless--" he paused momentarily, mulling

something over in his head. "I have only the good of England in mind. And ye have
become the strumpet of a Scotsman."

She slapped him, a tumult of emotions sweeping through her. Huntington had
planned all this to the finest detail. And she had far too easily fallen into his trap.
She had to get to Hawke and warn him.

Yet if she were to escape Huntington, what then? She couldn't warn Hawke--he
would ride to certain death. She was sure that was what Simon wanted. He
wanted her to escape this ramshackle cottage and lure Hawke away from his men.

She stared blankly at Simon, trying desperately to think. In the cold, his cheek had
turned a mottled red, her fingerprints clearly outlined. He didn't respond for a
moment, then said, "I will take that but once, my lady, and give ye fair warning--I'll
see that vengeance comes your way for any more ill ye do to me, or our people."

She inhaled and exhaled, furious that all her plans had gone awry. "Ye remain an
inflated pig's ass, Lord Huntington, and ye'll never frighten me. Now if ye'll get out
of my way."

She strode toward the door, hating herself for being so confident that this would
work. But Hawke would come and he would fall into Huntington's hands and she
could have none of that. She had to get away before Huntington could send word
to Hawke of her capture.

She reached the door. His hands fell firmly upon her shoulders. "I think not,
malady. I think ye will be staying here. Ye will not go to your husband and betray
us."

* * *

Hawke crumpled the missive he'd just read into a tight ball. For several long
seconds he held the paper in his trembling hand, staring at the careless scrawling
words. My, God, he thought, this couldn't be happening. A chilling calm swept
through him, then began to simmer and he felt as if he snapped within.

Suddenly, "Nay!" he cried out and threw the paper into the fire, watching as the
edges curled then turned brown before bursting into simmering flames. He stared
as inch by inch the hated words disappeared.

"Nay," he whispered softly. "Nay." His hatred grew with each second. "How can he
ask that? I have nothing to trade for her."

Tremors rocked his body. Nay. Unshed tears burned the back of his throat. His
heart pounded fiercely while he pursued every possibility.

Lachlan sat in a corner, watching yet offering no word of comfort, advise or
encouragement. He too watched the paper sizzle and burn. Lachlan had heard the
story from beginning to end and he would sympathize, yet there was nothing
Hawke's trusted friend could do to help.

There was nothing to offer in return for Callie's safe return. Hawke knew this was
not so simple. He wondered if they even had Callie within their castle walls as
Huntington had implied. Nay, Callie was nestled safe within MacPherson walls.

Jarrod would keep his word or die trying. Doubt pervaded. He'd feared this almost
as if her capture had been a premonition.

Nay.

Callie's life would be forfeited if he could not find some other way. He doubted not
that Huntington would take great delight in torturing her.

Hawke shuddered to think what Archibald would do to his stepsister.

Hawke paced the room, back and forth until the fire in the hearth turned to
simmering embers and the lights in the great room burned low. Flies began to
buzz around their untouched meal.

"Ye will wear a hole in the rug, if ye keep that up." Lachlan rose from the chair he'd
been sitting in, the first words he'd spoken since Hawke threw the paper into the
fire.

Hawke whirled, his fury as well as his frustration shooting sky high. "I have nothing
to trade." The desperation he felt clearly clouded his judgment.

"Ye'd best find something." Lachlan was calm and controlled. His voice was
soothing, further irritating Hawke. "Unless of course--"

"Unless what?" Yet the thought had already crossed Hawke's mind. Unless Jarrod
had been led astray by Callie. She was so adept with words.

As much as he yearned to deny those thoughts, he could not put them to rest. Too
much, too many lives hung on his decisions here.

Hawke shook his head, watching thoughtfully as a servant brought more food and
drink into the room. Nay. "I can do nothing save lie and perhaps try to fool them
long enough to rescue Callie."

"And if she doesn't need rescuing?"

"We may all die."

Hawke pulled a lump of gold from his pocket. He turned the metal over in his hand.
What once had been a ring was now smooth and cold.

So very cold.

"'Twas too dangerous to carry into England in its original form. I did not want to
end up as my father did. I knew they would lie in wait for me. Huntington must
have been waiting for years, wondering when I would discover the truth. When I
would pursue some course of action and confront them." Hawke paused. "If I ever
would--"

Lachlan leaned forward, clearly looking puzzled. His broad forearms rested on his
legs and he cocked his head slightly to the left.

"'Tis an English problem. Henry is far too intelligent not to know who seeks his
throne as well as his demise."

Hawke smiled but the laughter was born of fear for Callie's life and the irony of the
lump of gold he held in his hand.

"Send men out and find her. Huntington has been vague, but there cannot be too
many places near his home where he can hide her."

"Aye." Lachlan rose, ready to do Hawke's bidding. Already he strode to the rooms
where the men slept.

He turned to Hawke. "We will find her."

* * *

Callie shivered on the musty bed, staring at the empty fireplace and wishing for
warmth. She rose and paced the tiny space where she was confined. The man
Huntington had set to guard her had never wavered in his duty. Still, she waited for
a chance to escape.

Two hours had passed since Huntington left. Night had fallen and the moon cast
an eerie glow across the forest. She pulled the shawl more tightly around her while
she listened to her stomach rumble.

He had left no food. Starvation was his way of telling her, 'comply with my wishes
or life will become increasingly more intolerable.' And Jarrod--what of the trusted
soldier and friend to Hawke. What had become of him? She prayed he wasn't
dead. Yet she could not do anything but believe he had died trying to protect her.

Obey, she thought. Perhaps obedience was underrated.

Now Hawke would find himself driven to rescue her.

Would he believe she had conspired with Huntington? From head to toe, she
began to tremble. She shook until she could no longer hold onto the ragged shawl
she'd found in the shack.

Huntington left her nothing, and the only place to sleep was a musty smelling bed
infiltrated with bugs.

Nay, she would not dwell on the horrific day and the terrible circumstances she'd
brought upon herself.

The guards changed. A light mist began to fall and with the cloud cover came a
deep unforgiving blackness. 'Twas what she needed to make good her escape.

A night so black she could not see her hand in front of her face. Aye, the guard
would be complacent now. He would think her asleep, too exhausted to try
anything.

But she wasn't tired. Nay, for some reason energy coursed within. She didn't dare
move, though. She lay on the bed, quivering with the need to run. Keeping her
impatience reined, she waited, biding her time until the perfect moment, until she
heard the guard snoring at his post.

Cautiously, she crept forward, cringing with each creak of a board, stopping,
waiting, listening for the ever-constant snore.

Moving to the window in the back of the shack she painstakingly pried the board
loose.

The squeak startled her. The guard snorted twice, stopped snoring, then his
pattern of sleep resumed. Slipping through the tiny opening was difficult. She
could only assume Huntington left it unguarded because it was so small.

The drop to the ground surprised her. She tumbled then rolled down an
embankment, groping for handholds. Finally, she lay at the bottom of the slope. A
stream coursed nearby. She drew long deep breaths and listened for sounds of
pursuit.

She heard nothing.

Slowly, she picked herself up and creeping through the water, her skirts soaked to
her waist, she walked upstream. Rain fell in earnest now. The gentle drizzle which
had fallen when she left the shack became a torrent. Water sluiced from her hair
which was plastered to her face. And she wondered desperately if her weary body

could place one foot in front of the other. Yet she willed herself to move, forced
herself to walk until she found a safe haven.

When the sun finally peeked over the eastern horizon, she knew she was lost.
Alone. Hungry. And very desperate. She found a hiding place within the hollow of
a dead oak tree and crawled inside.

Cradling her head in her arms, she slept.

* * *

At the pounding on his door, Hawke swore softly then rose from the chair.

"Hawke!"

"Lachlan." Hawke opened the door and ran his hand through his disheveled hair.

"Ready?"

"Aye." Energy rushed through him, yet his eyes were tired and he hadn't slept. He
couldn't sleep until he found Callie and pulled her into his arms. As the night had
passed, his confidence had failed. And as he put each fact into its proper place, he
became more convinced than ever Callie had used Jarrod and coerced him.

The innocence she'd gifted him with, though, he'd never forget and even though
she was still his enemy, he'd cherish those times they'd had together.

Sweet Jesu, Callie Whitcomb was in dire peril.

She carried his unborn child.

And he did not know where she was.

Once again, he swore. But he didn't have time for recriminations. Lachlan handed
him a scroll tied with a leather thong. Chills swept through him. He didn't want to
open the letter, feeling only more bad news was written there.

Callie has agreed to become my wife. I will seek an annulment. Bring me the ring
and I will agree to let ye go home a free man. If ye refuse, I will have Ian arrested
and charged with treason.

Lord Simon Huntington

"'Tis not true," Lachlan spoke softly, his voice taking on a strange gruffness.

Hawke's insides knotted. "I pray none of it is true."

"Don't believe Huntington."

"I must acknowledge the letter."

"Why?"

"Because my wife has put her life in jeopardy."

"That doesnae make her disloyal."

"Only impulsive and foolish."

"Then ye believe that what Huntington writes is truth?"

"Nay, it is a trap he sets."

"Huntington is an evil man. He would stop at nothing to gain what is yours. He
covets Callie."

"Think about what has happened."

"When?"

"Her journey to MacPherson castle was long and perilous."

"Aye it was. And ye thought Lady Callie a fine courageous woman."

Hawke growled, knowing he could not take Huntington's words lightly. "A woman
does not stand a chance in the Highlands. The way is fraught with danger."

"'Tis very perilous. The lady was worn and very tired."

"By, God, do ye truly believe she could have made the journey unassisted?"

Lachlan paused in thought, then looking clearly unhappy, shook his head.

"Nay, I cannot."

"But I believe she did." He poured himself a chalice of wine, drinking long and
deep.

"Send Huntington a letter."

Lachlan nodded and proceeded to the library for parchment and something to
write with.

Hawke sat down. Feeling empty inside, he stroked the dog who had seemed to
adopt him the moment he stepped inside Callie's home. The fire in the hearth
crackled merrily, yet he felt cold. Wind whistled around the castle and rain pelted
the ground. Hawke wanted to step outside and drown his fear.

But first he wanted to wring Callie's neck, then he wanted to take her home and
never let her outside the south tower. His first instinct had been right. Though a
part of him cried out that the woman who had made love to him, stroked him
tenderly and called out his name as she reached her climax could not take her
safety and that of his son's so casually.

Chapter Eighteen

Huntington,

I will make whatever trade ye want. As to Callie, good luck, her venom stings. She
is nothing to me save the daughter of my enemy.

Hawke

Huntington growled low in his throat. A fine sweat broke out on his brow. He wiped
the moisture away with his sleeve. The letter Hawke wrote burned in his hand and
his heart thundered maddeningly.

"Nay."

He did not believe the missive Hawke sent, and he vowed he'd find out the truth.

"Damn Hawke to hell. Damn all the MacPhersons!" Simon Huntington turned and
fired an accusing glare at Archibald.

"What happened?" Archibald shrugged, appearing too smug, almost as if he knew
what the letter said.

"Nothing." Huntington didn't intend to give Archibald a reason to gloat. Archi hated
his stepsister, loathed and despised her. No words would do justice to his feelings.

"Really?" One thin eyebrow slanted upward. His lips formed a sneer. "Now why
don't I believe ye?"

"Hawke doesn't care what happens to Callie." Huntington's words were uttered
with short staccato punctuation.

"Ye believe that?" Archi cocked his head sideways and walked to the table where
a bottle of vintage wine sat. He poured two drinks.

"Why wouldn't I?" Huntington questioned Archi even as he questioned the missive
himself. Hawke had certainly appeared, if not in love, then smitten when last he'd
seen the pair together. And Callie, he didn't know. At the time, he thought perhaps
her act had been forced.

"Ye tell me." Archibald swallowed the contents of his chalice in one gulp, droplets
of wine sliding from his mouth then down his neck.

Archibald Covington disgusted Huntington. He was uncouth and lacked manners.
Yet he loved torture and his whims had come in handy more than once. "None of
my plans will work unless he pursues her."

"His enemy?" Archi poured another drink, but held the chalice high, seeming to
examine the artwork on the cup. "Now why would he do that? He vowed
vengeance against David Whitcomb."

Huntington turned, his blood pounding. "Hawke has to be so blindly in love that he
makes mistakes. All will be for naught if he is still seeking revenge."

"Blindly in love? Colin 'Hawke' MacPherson?" Archibald rubbed his chin then
snickered. "She is his avowed enemy. Or have ye forgotten?"

"Lord Huntington!" Pounding on the door and the loud voice interrupted
Huntington's thoughts.

He had set guards outside to avoid interruptions. "Now what?" Simon's body
quivered with rage, loathing interruptions and incompetence. He stalked to the
door and threw the heavy oak panel aside as if it were a feather.

One of his retainers entered the room, water sluicing from his coat. The men he'd
ordered to stay by his door were nowhere to be seen.

"What do ye want?" Simon's question thundered through the room.

The man blanched, his knees shaking, and Huntington understood the news would
be bad.

"Lady Whitcomb has escaped."

The world fell from his feet. Once again, his carefully laid plans were being
stomped to the ground. His anger rose to volcanic levels. "What?!"

The man coughed and sputtered, his hand clutching his throat. "In the middle--"

Too impatient to let his retainer continue, Huntington stepped forward, his fists
clenched tightly at his sides. "How in the hell--?"

The retainer licked his lips, his eyes seeming to glaze over. "The night, sir."

"I had guards posted!" Huntington's roar bounced off the walls and echoed through
the long hallway. His guards appeared suddenly, their hands on the hilts of their
swords.

"Asleep, sir," the messenger said. "I found them snoring when I came on duty."

"Have I hired imbeciles for retainers? The guards here are no better."

Huntington turned from the young man delivering the news and strode from the
room, double-stepping the long stairway, racing to the stables. Archibald followed.

"My horse!" he cried out. His strides were long and quick. He was impatient to
reach the shack and to find Lady Whitcomb. She could not escape.

He hadn't finished with her yet.

Nay, he hadn't enjoyed her company at all.

Within minutes, Huntington raced from the castle and towards the shack where
Callie had been held prisoner.

Horse and rider thundered into the clearing where the run-down cottage sat. The
door sagged on its hinges. The men gathered around, voices raised. Accusations
flew.

"'Twas not my fault." The man's fist was held high in the air, his face mottled with
anger.

"Ye were in charge." The voice was calm, the man held both hands out, as if to
stop the blow that might follow. "So tell us, why did she get away?"

"She scuttled out the back window. I could never have known she'd do something
so foolish. I didn't set a guard behind the shack."

Another snorted. "How was I to hear her creeping around in the dark?"

"She is an evil demon, probably turned herself into a wee sparrow and flew from
here."

"Aye, she's a witch," a second man agreed with the first.

"Nay, Callie Whitcomb is no witch." Huntington remained seated on his horse. He
watched the men with open disgust.

"Then how did she disappear?"

"Has anyone searched?" Huntington asked. His voice was raised over the dim of
his men, silencing them.

"Aye, there is no trace, not one footprint"

"The rain--"

The rain washed away all traces of the girl. "Has any one thought to use common
sense? Ye say she went out the window?"

"Aye." They all nodded agreement.

Well, Simon thought, leaning back slightly and looking heavenward, that was
something they agreed upon.

"There will be no food or drink for any of ye until she is found."

Simon turned his horse toward the back of the shack. He studied the area. The
steep slope gave him a moment's pause. She must have leapt from the window
then slid into the gully below. Carefully, guiding his horse to the edge, he looked
for a path of escape. All he saw were uprooted bushes and a slick pathway.

He eased his horse toward the ravine below. What he saw stole his breath. The
path downward was jotted with sharp rocks and loose gravel.

His men followed.

"Aye, she be dead." One man's voice floated to Huntington's, echoing his
thoughts.

Archibald caught up with Huntington.

"A wee slip of a girls got the better of your men, eh?"

Huntington skewered Archibald with a glare. "Have ye looked below?"

Archibald drew in a deep hissing breath then laughed. "Well, the demise of my
stepsister has finally come. Shall we celebrate?"

Huntington ignored Archibald, praying what the man said was not true. "Two of ye
go down river and two up stream. Don't stop until ye find her."

Dead or alive.

"If she managed to live through that fall, she will go to the Whitcomb estate."
Archibald appeared more pleased by the minute. "I'll head her off."

"Perhaps." And yet, Huntington wasn't sure about anything. If indeed Hawke's
missive were true, Callie might have returned to England seeking the shelter and
protection of her home.

Archibald paused a moment in thought and as if he were talking to himself. He
repeated his earlier declaration. "I'm going to check out the old place."

"Fine. I'll follow the river upstream and look for footprints leaving the water."

"Every one now. Let us move quickly. She might be hurt. Yell out if ye find her."

The men moved quickly, slipping and sliding down the embankment to the river
below.

Archibald turned his horse, and galloped toward the Whitcomb castle.

* * *

The sun had reached its zenith and Simon still had found no trace of the girl. He
began to feel a deep foreboding. Callie was important to his plans. Without her,
they would turn to dust. If she died, he would have to come up with some new way
to paralyze Colin MacPherson. As it was, Hawke's declaration about Callie had
made him think twice. But he didn't believe Hawke would ever give up his wife.
Nay, Hawke would fight for what was his.

Callie was his. By right, Callie belonged to him. She had been promised to him
years ago. What he did with her was of his own choosing. But Callie Whitcomb
belonged to him, and he wasn't about to let her go a second time.

He would find her and then Callie would never step foot outside his castle walls
again.

He hoped he found Callie before his men. He wanted to make sure she
understood her position with him. Evidently, he hadn't made himself clear the day
before. He wouldn't let such a disparity happen again.

Nay, Callie would understand.

"Lord Huntington." The cry came from his left.

"We found the girl."

He whirled his horse, his heart stopping for a second and then a slow smile
starting in his belly rose to his lips.

"Let me go!" Callie's cry echoed through the forest. "Unhand me."

"She's a little hell-cat ain't she?"

"Owww--she bit me."

He saw them. Two of his men struggled with Callie. Her spirit and fire made him
smile and think of long, heated nights in bed with her. She might have gotten the
best of them but a third man joined them.

A few minutes later Huntington watched as his men bound and gagged her. "Don't
hurt her."

"She's a hell-cat."

That, Huntington decided, was what he liked best about her. "Put her on your
horse and give me the reins."

"She can't have my horse." The protest was weak. In a matter of minutes, Callie
sat on the horse and was led away by Simon Huntington.

The cloth binding her mouth choked Callie. She wanted to spit out all kinds of
venom.

Instead, she watched Huntington's back. Shivers wracked her frame. Her clothes
were damp from the rain the night before, and even though the sun shone, she
was chilled bone deep.

"Ye're mine, Callie," Huntington told her, looking over his shoulder, his lips curved
into a sneer. "I know what ye're thinking."

She shook her head, wishing she could impale him with her glare. He couldn't
possibly know, would never understand the hatred she felt when she looked upon
him.

"Ye'll like the Huntington estate. It's everything your Highland castle isn't."

He urged his horse to a trot. Callie's horse was forced to pick up the pace. She
clung to the saddle, desperate not to fall. He taunted her.

"It's really quite pleasant." He paused, watching her, raking his gaze the length of
her then back up until their eyes met.

He eased up and let her ride abreast of him. Then he stopped, pulling her horse to
an abrupt stop with a jerk on the reins. She gripped the saddle and gritted her
teeth.

"Ye need a bath." Huntington leaned forward and reached out.

She cringed when he touched her cheek with the back of his hand. His brows drew
together thoughtfully.

"Ye're going to have to do better than that, Callie. Ye should at least try to pretend
my touch isn't loathsome. Life will be much easier if ye can...pretend."

She shook her head, wishing she could speak, desperate to tell him how she
would never pretend to like anything about him.

"I can tell what ye're thinking." His smile grew, his eyes glimmering.

She flinched back again when he let one finger trail down the column of her throat
and across her collarbone. Her skin crawled, her nerves stretched taut. His hand
lingered just above the low cut of her gown, trailing across the top of each breast
then back to rest on her lips. She bit down hard.

The smile he'd approached her with thinned and his eyebrows drew together.

"Ye will learn to like my touch." The snarl began low in his throat. "Ye will moan
softly while I make ye mine."

She shook her head, vehemently denying his words.

"Crave my touch," he said.

Unable to watch Huntington and his evil, mocking eyes any longer, she turned
from him. A low, gruff laugh followed. He touched her again, more intimately than
before. She could not move away from him, could not fight him. Forced to endure
the touch, she closed her eyes and tried desperately to think of the Scottish
Highlands, of the soft breeze and the scent of heather.

She could not. Her body quivered from the inside out, and her stomach churned.
Every instinct she possessed cried out to her to fight.

He leaned closer, his lips close to hers. "I don't want to waste any time getting to
know my betrothed."

She wanted to spit on him. Yet her mouth was parched, dry as desert sand.

He did nothing more. She watched his back as he rode away from her.

His castle was not far from where they had stopped, and suddenly she found they
were riding through the portcullis. Her stomach knotted then churned. He helped
her dismount, his filthy hands upon her once more were sliding over her, exploring
intimately. Then, suddenly, he untied her gag and the ropes binding her wrists.
She stepped back from him and bumped against the stable door. One of his men
led the horse inside.

"I will never--"

She was pinned there against the rough wood, Huntington standing so close, his
hands braced on either side of her.

"But ye will." He didn't give her time to finish. His mouth was upon hers, his hands
around her waist pulling her to him. She felt his arousal and the urgency with
which he parted her lips, thrusting his tongue deep within her mouth.

She bit down hard, satisfaction momentary at best.

He pushed her away, anger mottling his face. Slammed against the door, her
breath knocked from her, she tensed against the pain.

"Witch!"

She felt a slow rise of fear as she watched his hand rise in fury. Then he slapped
her, her head jerking backward to hit the door.

He lowered his voice, his words sharp and pointed. "Ye will behave yourself."

"Never," she told him and straightened her shoulders, believing another blow
would strike her, yet also believing death might be preferable.

But he stepped back laughing, his eyes still shimmering, and casting daggers at
her. She felt his evil and knew she would rather kill herself than suffer his touch
again.

"Ye will come to know who owns ye."

His confidence infuriated her. She felt the cold from his sneer slide down her spine
as if it were alive. Yet she knew he would make life unbearable if she did not obey
his every whim. Even if she did bow down to him, life would be intolerable.

He turned then and to one of his men, he spoke. "Take her to my solar."

"Aye."

"Lock her inside."

"Be careful. She is not docile or tamed."

The man nodded and grabbed her by the elbow, roughly pulling her along. She
stumbled over her skirt, falling to her hands and knees. Looking over her shoulder,
hair falling into her face, she watched Huntington watching her.

"I am not some docile serving wench ye can take advantage of. I am a lady born."

"Nay, ye are my betrothed and I mean to have ye when and where I want ye."

"Never!"

He brushed road dirt from his tunic then looked at her once more.

"Willing or not," he added with a sneer.

* * *

Hawke stood in the large open bailey of the Whitcomb castle. The morning sun
had not found its way through the heavy cloud cover or the pelting rain. Lachlan
stood beside him. Water sluiced from both of them.

"When do ye want to ride out?" Lachlan asked.

"When the rain stops. Nay, as soon as we can gather a few men." Hawke paced
nervously, slapping his gloves on his thighs with a tense rhythm.

"Ye are sure ye are not riding into a trap? Ye are not familiar with these woods and
ye would be an easy mark."

Hawke laughed softly and shook his head. "I am sure of nothing save the need to
find Callie and take her home, then somehow find a way to protect her from
herself."

"Huntington is a treacherous man," Lachlan said and nodded to a merchant just
entering the gates, the cart lumbering slowly through the bailey.

"Lord Huntington is not one to keep a promise," Hawke said, his voice modulated.

"Then ye will be ready."

"Aye, as well as anyone can be ready under the circumstance. This meeting is not
of my liking but we have no choice."

"The ring?" Lachlan asked.

"The ring, such as it is, lies within my saddlebag. I will gladly trade the lump of gold
for my foolish and too courageous wife."

"Then ye don't plan on having it refashioned." Lachlan paused a moment. "Ye
cannae think to trust Huntington's word about your wife."

Hawke strode to the stables then turned back to Lachlan. "Even if there were time,
I would not have it remade. No, I don't trust Huntington but, I also trust that my wife
will do all in her power to make Huntington's life a living hell. I fear that more than
anything else."

"Not even for Callie's sake?" Lachlan asked. "Refashioning the ring could mean
her life."

"For Callie's sake I would move heaven and earth. But the ring means naught but
trouble."

"I ken it," Lachlan said.

"I wish I did." Hawke breathed in deeply, suddenly feeling tired and more than
ready to put the past that had haunted him for so many years behind him.

He strode through the stable doors and found his horse. The two men, along with
five others, rode from the castle into the rain, to the secluded spot where Hawke
was to meet Huntington.

The clouds thinned and the day warmed. Birds chirped and as they approached
the clearing, Hawke knew deep inside, this was not as it should be. Sweat beaded
his forehead. He was wary and alert, the silence uncanny.

Lachlan pulled back. Horse and rider stopped.

"I don't know about ye but the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up
straight."

A chill swept through Hawke. "Aye. I have the same feeling." He whirled his horse
in a tight circle, searching yet seeing nothing.

A battle cry echoed in the clearing.

From the treetop above, a man fell upon Hawke, a blow hitting him across the
head. Blinding white light filled his senses. Hawke slumped, unable to wield his
sword. And then he fell.

"I want him alive," Huntington called out.

The world darkened. He heard a rushing in his ears, saw Callie floating, dancing,
and calling to him to come back to her. He tried to call out her name. Yet no
sounds came from his lips.

He awoke and the world was still black. His body ached and his head pounded. He
tried to open his eyes but they were swollen shut. A ringing in his ears seemed to

overpower all other sounds.

Then a booted foot connected with his ribs. He heard himself groan. He tried to
stand but to no avail. His feet could not find purchase with the floor.

More blows rained down upon him. Men laughed and called out his name. He
heard a woman's laugh.

Callie?

Nay, 'twas not her voice. Yet it sounded achingly familiar. He was pulled off the
floor, his hands tied above him, his shirt ripped from his back.

"Ye will rue the day ye stole Callie from the bosom of her loving family." He
recognized Archibald's voice. "Ye should not have seduced her."

Lashes fell upon him.

One--two, he counted, trying to keep his mind from the pain.

A woman clapped gleefully in the background, crying out his name and begging for
more lashes to fall upon him.

Once again, he thought of Callie. He remembered her fragile beauty and her
courage. The pain grew. He could not think.

Six--seven lashes seared his back.

He closed his eyes, still counting each stroke of the lash. Darkness closed in
around him as well as the musty, rancid smell of the dungeon. Despite the cold,
searing waves of heat assailed his back from the waist up to his neck. His throat
was parched, and upon his back he felt blistering pain such that he'd never felt
before.

Colin MacPherson, his arms stretched overhead and bound to a whipping post, no
longer counted the lashes tearing into his back, no longer felt the horrific agony.
Yet he could open his eyes now, and he could see.

More than a half dozen men were gathered in the cold dungeon of the Huntington
castle. So far, not one man made a sound as they watched Archibald Covington
wield the whip, stripping the flesh off his back. All he heard was the woman--and
the laughter.

Then he heard Archibald's laugher, felt chills tear through him.

If anger and revenge didn't drive Archibald, he would probably have just had

Hawke skewered through and his head exhibited on the castle walls as his father's
had been.

Revenge was a powerful motive. When Hawke married Callie, Archibald lost all
he'd ever wanted: power, wealth, land. And both men, Huntington and Covington,
wanted Hawke to suffer, to scream in agony before he died.

"Callie's mine," Huntington said from some distant place behind Hawke.

"Callie--"

Right now, he couldn't let himself think about Callie. And yet, Callie was the driving
force behind all this. He might never have returned to England if Callie hadn't
come to him.

More lashes fell. He gritted his teeth and let his mind cloud over.

Archibald toyed with him, taunting and teasing with the whip, cutting an inch here,
ripping an inch there, not doing much damage but making mincemeat out of his
back.

"She's going to marry me." Huntington stood closer now. Hawke could smell him,
could feel his breath across his back.

"I'll never--" he began but another lash fell and it was all he could do to stop
himself from crying out.

"Never? Never what? How ye intrigue me, dear boy. Now why don't ye yell a little.
Let Archi here have some tiny bit of satisfaction."

He could hear the smirk in Huntington's voice and the hatred.

"Grant--" he swallowed hard, sweat dripping in his eyes, pain searing his back and
burning his insides. "An annulment."

"Nay, ye'll be dead. There won't be need for an annulment." Archibald wielded the
whip again and again. Female laughter followed each burning stroke.

Callie?

He thought he heard her voice, a whisper of sound penetrating the stale air
somewhere behind him. And then he thought he heard Huntington calling her
name. The faint scent of jasmine floated in the stagnant air.

Nay, she would not willingly watch this.

Other than those few words, Hawke hadn't made a sound yet, not even a sharp,
indrawn breath. He wasn't about to, even though he knew Archibald would get
impatient and start slashing. But he knew there was no hurry. Archibald probably
had as long as he wanted. No one, except Lachlan, knew where he was, not one
person would come looking for him, at least not until the sun went down.

Lachlan might well be dead.

By nightfall Archibald and Huntington would be done with him.

If he survived this, he meant to take her back to the Highlands. He'd vowed to
protect her for the rest of her lifetime.

And as for the child she carried?

He prayed the babe still lived, prayed they would both live for him to teach about
courage and honor. His love for Callie at the forefront of his mind, and vows of a
lifetime together kept him going. Now he focused on the laughter and the scent of
jasmine that seemed to permeate his very soul.

Jasmine.

Callie was close. He could smell the very essence of her soul. She had been
forced to come to watch his humiliation and execution.

He had been taken by surprise, knocked out, and he assumed dumped over a
horse. When he'd come to he'd had no chance at all. He could not defend himself.
Someone had beaten him thoroughly while he was unconscious. And then he had
been lashed to the post shortly after he'd gained consciousness.

Hours must have passed since he was captured, but he had no inkling of the time.
He wondered where Lachlan was and if somewhere in Huntington's castle, he was
meeting a similar fate.

Archibald had begun slowly, wielding the whip with deadly expertise. Now blood
from the multitude of small cuts Archibald had inflicted ran in rivulets from his
back, pooling on the parched, thirsty ground, soaking into the dirt, staining the
floor.

Despite the torture, he was still standing, his head proudly erect, and that seemed
to draw the anger from Archibald. The grip of his fingers curled around the top of
the post, the only sign of his pain--and fury.

The first real stroke of the whip felt like a red-hot branding iron searing across his
back. Hawke didn't flinch, nor would he as long as he could smell jasmine floating
languidly on the stale breeze. He wished he could see her, stare into her beguiling,

blue eyes until she knew how much he loved her.

If he managed to live somehow.

Fury at his own weakness rose, and the anger he felt deep inside simmered,
because he'd fallen in love with her. Ever since she showed up at the Boar's Head
Inn, seduced him with her seeming innocence, she'd fascinated him.

Concentrate on her, on the questions ye are going to ask when ye find her again.

Damn, how many strokes? Twenty-five?

Callie, courageous, intrepid, intriguing and she was in dire peril because of him.
He was convinced they might indeed find peace and happiness in the future.

Thirty-five? Forty?

He should have kept closer tabs on Huntington. And Bertram, was he somehow a
part of all this? Bertram was their connection to the English King. Bertram had an
army of well-trained men behind him.

He could barely stand now, his vision fuzzy. The inferno had worked its way up to
detonate in his head. Sheer grit kept him standing, kept his facial muscles from
quivering. He had never felt pain such as this, never believed such a thing existed.
And Callie was still standing somewhere nearby, watching each time the whip
slashed across his back.

Damn, but he wished he could see her.

Concentrating on Callie and the fear he felt for her no longer helped block the
pain, did not keep him standing or his eyes open. He began to sag, began to
understand that he might not survive this. Archibald meant to kill him. An empty
whiskey bottle landed at his feet. He knew the men had been drinking, and he
prayed Archibald had been too.

He felt Huntington next to him, smelled him, felt his breath. "Ye still alive,
Scotsman?"

Hawke didn't respond. He didn't dare.

"Ye got the ring?"

The screams inside his brain were waiting for an opportunity to explode. He wasn't
going to give them a chance.

"Nay, I didn't think so. Found the lump of gold in your pocket."

Huntington's men no longer cared what he did. Most of them were passed out and
sleeping off the liquor. His own pride and self-respect was what mattered now.

"Good," Huntington said and then he turned to one of his men. "Throw him over
his horse. Take him away and make sure ye leave him somewhere he will be sure
to die."

"Before ye die, think of me in bed with your wife."

"Callie, come here," Huntington said.

He heard footsteps but he couldn't see his wife. The only proof of her presence
beside him was the scent of jasmine hanging heavy in the air.

"Tell him." Huntington's order was soft. It held no hint of a threat.

"I loathe and despise ye." Her voice was soft and he didn't hear hatred. He heard
fear. "Your touch upon--"

She didn't finish. He thought he heard Huntington swear and then once again the
world blackened, the pain ebbed and he floated in the land of death.

Chapter Nineteen

Jarrod, half starved and frozen to death from the damp English weather shivered
in his hiding place. But his diligence and determination had paid off. There they
were, Huntington's men, drunk from too much revelry, dumping Hawke's body in a
deep ravine. He prayed Hawke still lived. Jarrod was rewarded when he heard a
muffled groan.

He waited and watched.

The wind whistled and moaned.

The sky darkened with the threat of more rain. Night was nearly upon them. Still
Jarrod waited.

Silence.

Darkness.

His nerves were stripped raw. Yet he didn't dare leave the hiding place and seek
out Hawke until he was sure he was alone.

Finally, he slipped from the cover he'd meticulously created and moved cautiously
down the ravine. Rocks pummeled the earth below. Another muffled groan floated
to him. Relief overcame every other thought. He had been so very afraid the long,
agonizing wait might prove Hawke's downfall.

Jarrod landed at the bottom. The river rushed nearby. A few feet more to the left
and Hawke would have landed in turbulent rapids.

Hawke's skin was cold to Jarrod's touch.

"Jarrod?" Hawke's thin voice rose from nowhere.

Jarrod had never heard any sound so welcoming. "'Tis me. Jarrod."

"Jarrod--"

The sound rushed from Hawke's lips and died in the freezing damp air.

Jarrod felt the recrimination bone deep. He was supposed to have kept Callie safe
and at the castle. Yet he'd given in to her softly spoken pleas. Now they were on
English soil. Ian had vanished into the Scottish countryside, Hawke and Lachlan

nearly dead and Callie in need of rescuing.

"I messed up real good, didn't I Hawke? But I mean to make things right."

It seemed he'd instigated a whole lot of trouble by disobeying Hawke's orders.

"What are ye doing here?" Hawke felt as if he were swimming upstream. A heavy
fog settled in his head, and he couldn't push it away. Blackness encompassed
him.

Bitter cold surrounded him. But his heart was warming. Jarrod was not dead and
he'd come for him.

He felt Jarrod's presence, felt the soothing touch as Jarrod wrapped a warm
blanket around him. He'd landed face down but managed to turn to his side,
unwilling to put pressure on his back.

"I brought Callie to this God forsaken place. I'm sorry, Hawke."

Rage filled Hawke. "Jesu!" speaking was difficult and he didn't believe his trusted
friend would disobey his orders. But Callie had probably cajoled and pleaded until
Jarrod was defenseless.

"They captured her in the forest."

"Bastards! He is my enemy and hers. I will find a way to save her then. Justice
must be served."

Hawke felt Jarrod's hands pause. The soothing touch vanished.

"Ye love her, then?"

Hawke swallowed hard, trying desperately to speak the truth to Jarrod. More pain
assailed him. "Aye." He gritted out the one word then closed his eyes, seeking the
energy he would need to walk out of here.

"Can ye stand?"

He nodded. Yet even with Jarrod's help, rising was nearly impossible.

Hours passed before they reached the sheltering protection of a small inn near the
border.

* * *

Callie had never felt such gut-wrenching pain before. The agony was not for

herself but for Hawke. She'd never lied before either. And now, it seemed, to save
the man she loved more than life itself, she was forced to lie.

Yet she didn't know if Huntington would keep his words. Hours had passed since
she'd been forced to watch the painful torture of her beloved husband. Hours since
she'd been forced to tell him how she'd come to him, seeking the ring, seeking his
demise. Huntington had even brought in another woman to laugh each time
Archibald's whip landed upon Hawke's back.

Callie, filled with restless energy, paced the confines of Huntington's solar. She
knew he'd come for her. And she knew he'd take what he wanted.

The door creaked open. An eerie silence filled the confines of the room. Then
footsteps.

"Callie." Huntington spoke with arrogance and a mocking tone.

She cringed, yet she didn't turn to meet his gaze. Her hands were folded in front of
her. Slowly she straightened, preparing herself for whatever fate awaited her.

"Congratulations." His tone sarcastic, the word etched a cold trail down her spine.

"For what?" she asked. But she knew the answer. For betraying the man she
loved and all the values she'd ever held close to her heart.

"I think ye know." He mocked her, taunted her with her pain and the truth of what
Hawke would believe.

If he still lived--

She heard Huntington more clearly. She heard the heavy slurring of his words.
He'd moved closer. Now she smelled him, the scent of liquor on his breath, his
heavily perfumed and unwashed body.

She shook her head in denial. She didn't want to face the truth.

His fingertips brushed the back of her neck, pulling the length of her unbound hair
away. Coldness prevailed. He draped the locks so they fell across her breasts. His
breath whispered across her neck. Shivers of fear and dread spiraled within. Her
heart thundered against her ribs.

"Nay!" She whirled and raced to the window. The drop to the ground below would
surely kill her. Yet squeezing through the tiny slit would not be easy. Still, she
rushed to the opening.

He was there, upon her in an instant.

His hand wound around her elbow, jerking her backward into the solid wall of his
chest. "Not so fast," he said.

Her breaths came quick and fast, her fear tangible. His fingers pressed into her
flesh.

"Ye will learn to obey me."

She struggled in his arms, jerking and kicking backward. "Never! I will kill ye first."

"Ye can try, my dear." She heard his laughter.

Suddenly she found herself shoved to the ground. His feet were apart and he
straddled her. Slowly, he lowered himself. "'Tis a pity, but I don't have time right
now to take what is mine. To teach ye what ye need to know."

She tried to scramble backwards, but his knees pinned her clothes to the floor.

"I'm not yours. I will never be yours."

His face mottled with anger and he quickly rose to stand over her once more. One
foot came down upon her chest, pressing, threatening certain death if she kept
fighting him.

"Ye can threaten me all ye want," she told him, her gaze pinned to his.

"Heed me well, this threat is very real. Ye will rue the day ye defy me. I can give ye
to my men if I choose, and ye will have naught to say about your circumstances."

He pressed with his foot. She couldn't breathe. Her head spun.

"Say my name." His tone was cool and arrogant. "Obey me."

She shook her head yet she complied with his wish lest he crush her heart.
"Simon."

He stepped away, a mocking smile on his face. Then he opened the door, but he
didn't leave without a parting shot and a disdainful glance. "A bath will be
delivered. And clothes. Be ready to visit a minister when I return."

"Ye cannot make me wed ye."

"There is much I can make ye do."

"Nay." She rose and dusted off her ragged clothing. Then she lifted her chin,

staring at him with open loathing. "Ye no longer have anything to hold over my
head. All I hold dear ye have taken from me."

Then he smiled. It was a feral smile.

"In that ye are wrong my dear."

He left the room then, the shutting of the door leaving a hole as black as hell.

The emptiness and wretched fear shattered her heart and her mind screamed out
that he couldn't possibly know.

He couldn't know she carried Hawke's child.

He couldn't.

* * *

"Milady?" The soft knocking at the door surprised Callie.

She rose then walked to the door, surprised to find it unbarred. Two guards still
stood outside the door. The serving girl slipped through.

"Your breakfast." She set a tray on a table near the fire. "A bath will arrive soon."

Callie's stomach rumbled hungrily. She dipped her finger into the jar of honey,
relishing the strong sweet taste. Then she tore off a piece of bread and, dipping it
into the honey, ate greedily.

The girl poured water into a cup. It was cold and slipped down her parched throat
as if it was ambrosia. Huntington had not sent her food the night before and now
the time had slipped well past noon. Callie wondered if this was part of the threat
to make her marry him. Starve or wed. That was hardly a choice.

She picked up a piece of cheese. "What is your name?" Callie asked the young
girl who had brought her the plate of food and now stood near the door wringing
her hands and appearing terribly unhappy.

Callie watched the girl swallow, then lick her lips. She looked up, her eyes wide.

"Are ye afraid of me?" Callie asked.

The girl nodded and turned to go. Yet she hesitated as if there was something she
wanted to say. "I--" she began, then put her hand on the door handle.

Callie stiffened. "Wait!"

The girl stopped, her shoulders trembling, and when she turned back to wait for an
order, her bottom lip was caught by her top teeth.

Cautiously, Callie approached, putting the girl at ease paramount. "I won't hurt ye.
Do ye understand?"

The girl nodded.

"What is your name?"

"Victoria," she said so quietly Callie had to bend close to hear. The girl pressed
herself back against the wall.

"Victoria," Callie repeated. "'Tis a pretty name, a fine name."

Victoria blinked but she didn't move from the wall nor did her shoulders stop
trembling.

"Don't be afraid," Callie said. "I won't hurt ye."

Callie wasn't at all sure how to proceed. "Come along and help me with my bath."

A hesitant smile formed on Victoria's lips. She stepped forward. Still she didn't say
anything. Callie wondered what horrible fate she'd been through in this castle with
Huntington as Lord.

"Victoria?" Callie decided to proceed with caution. "Do ye have family?"

She nodded, a hint of a smile beginning to form. "I have five sisters."

"I have no one." Callie thought of the MacPherson clan and the wonderful feelings
of belonging she'd had living there.

Servants arrived with steaming water. Warm and inviting, she longed to emerge
herself and stay until the bath grew cold. But part of her rebelled. Huntington might
not touch her if she didn't bathe. She was filthy. Yet she knew her fate would be
far worse if she defied him. He had threatened. He had told her to make sure she
was ready for the marriage.

He'd told her Hawke was dead.

She didn't believe Huntington. When Huntington's men had carried Hawke from
the dungeon, he'd still lived. Jarrod, Lachlan, they were all still unaccounted for.
Huntington had not gloated about their deaths.

Hawke's men would watch and wait for their laird. They would save him.

Who would save her?

And, she thought, she would know if Hawke had died. She would sense his death,
just as she had known deep inside the moment her father died.

"Milady?"

Victoria stood beside her. She looked to the bath and then to Victoria who watched
her with a strange curiosity.

Callie slipped from her torn, ragged clothing and stepped into the water. It was
every bit as wonderful as she'd imagined.

She closed her eyes and let the warmth wash through her. She scrubbed herself
and washed her hair. Then she rose from the bath and dressed in clean clothes
Victoria had brought.

"Don't worry," Victoria said. Reaching into her pocket she pulled out a torn, dirty
piece of parchment.

"What is this?"

"For ye."

"I don't understand." Callie swallowed hard, tears forming.

"An old man, a trader, gave it to me."

"An old man?"

Victoria nodded. "He said, make sure the lady reads it."

Callie looked at it again then back to Victoria. Slowly she unfolded the parchment
and read out loud.

"Be ready."

"I don't understand."

"'Tis from Hawke."

"Huntington said Hawke was dead."

Sunshine filled the room. Callie's heart lightened. "Nay, he is not." Callie

understood well. Hawke came for her only because she was his wife. He might
very well make her life in Scotland miserable. And yet, if she stayed here and
married Simon, her life would be a living hell. Hawke would not stay furious with
her forever. She would have her chance to explain.

"May I come with ye?" Victoria's voice trembled and Callie knew she had to say
yes.

"Aye, but the way might be difficult. There are no guarantees that either of us will
live."

"I cannot stay here." Victoria sat down and bowed her head, her hands tightly
folded in her lap.

Callie walked to her. Touching her chin, she lifted Victoria's head to make eye
contact. Victoria's dark brown eyes were large and filled with tears.

"Be ready."

"I am."

"Good, then stay close to me. Don't leave my side no matter what. I have no idea
when Hawke will appear."

Victoria nodded again, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands. "I will be
forever grateful. Milady."

"Hawke has been given good reasons to doubt me—my love, my loyalty." Callie
understood the truth. She would be rescued because she was his wife. To Hawke
it must seem she had betrayed him and she did not deserve his loyalty.

But she was his wife.

Callie turned her attention back to Victoria. "What about your family?"

Victoria stiffened. "My father sold me to Lord Huntington. I owe him nothing."

"Very well, we best eat now. We will need our strength." She walked to the platter
of food and served a generous portion for Victoria and herself.

For several minutes they ate in companionable silence, nothing more needed to
be said.

* * *

Hawke sat on the dirt, his back against the wheel of the cart. Every part of his

body ached. Yet, he held still, watching the guards come and go, studying the
patterns and the changing shifts. Lachlan feigned sleep also. Jarrod waited
outside the castle in a forested area with four horses.

Lachlan nodded.

Hawke rose and slowly trudged toward the castle. No men guarded the front door.

"Fool," Hawke said. His voice was muted, soft. For the first time since returning to
England, Hawke felt a lightening of his heart. He smelled success in this endeavor.

Lachlan began to move, staying ten feet ahead of Hawke. He would scout the
stairs and the guards at Callie's door. The maid, Victoria, had been very helpful
and Hawke had trusted her from the first moment he saw her.

Everyone had retired for the night. There was no one in the hall save those who
had too much to drink and now slumbered off hangovers. A dog snarled then
quieted. Hawke's heart raced and Lachlan paused mid-stride.

Then once again they moved toward the solar and Callie. Two guards slept in front
of the door. He held his breath and he prayed the sleeping drought he'd provided
for Victoria to give the guards was doing its job.

Lachlan bent over and touched one man's pulse, then he nodded, gracing him with
a giant's smile. The door creaked open.

Callie sat by the window, bathed in moonlight. Quickly, she rose and walked to
Victoria. But the young serving girl was already standing, waiting for directions.

Hawke strode into the room. His heart sped. He stepped forward and before Callie
could sound an alarm, he quickly silenced her then wrapped his cloak around her.

"I know another way out."

"Lead the way," Hawke said, hesitating before following Victoria.

* * *

A few days later, unable to hide his fear for Callie, Hawke watched his men help
Callie down the rope ladder and into the small boat. Lachlan stood by his side on
the deck of the Aphrodite. He wished Ian stood on the other side. Two months had
passed and there was still no word of Ian. Now this. She had kept herself apart
from him.

His heart had broken. She had not spoken to him on the long journey home. He
missed her desperately. He wanted to feel her silken warmth surrounding him,

and wanted to hear her laughter. With more control than he'd ever possessed, he
gave her the space she seemed to need and the time to sort through her thoughts.
He wondered what had happened to her.

As she walked away from him, her back was stiff, her shoulders squared. Her
clothes were dirty and ragged, yet she held herself royally. He'd offered her every
amenity. She'd stayed in his cabin, slept in his bed. She'd received food that she
didn't eat. His fingers tightened around the railing of the boat.

More than once, he'd stopped himself at the threshold of her door, his heart
pounding, his gut churning, needing to console. But she'd rejected every advance.

"Ye should talk to her. Perhaps there is something ye should know that she hasn't
told ye." Jarrod's softly spoken words did nothing to fill the emptiness in Hawke's
heart.

"And ye know I've tried, old man." He breathed in deep and tried not to remember
his wedding night, the languorous, bewitching hours spent with Callie aboard this
ship.

"Now ye have given up?"

He turned to Jarrod. "Stay out of this. I cannot reach her. I know not how."

"Nay--" Jarrod's voice was hushed, his gaze upon Callie.

"I cannot talk to her. She will not let me close." Hawke could scarce bare to hear
her name. Remembering what they had shared made his knees tremble with a
weakness he'd never experienced.

Hawke turned from the railing and strode to the bow of his ship. Entering his cabin,
he was immediately assailed by the soft scent of jasmine.

"Sweet Jesu!" He whirled on one heel and left the captain's cabin.

"Lachlan!" His bellow of outrage might have reached to Edinburgh.

Lachlan stood beside Hawke. He didn't say anything and Hawke was certainly
glad for his silence. Hawke didn't need anyone else telling him what to do and how
to feel. He didn't want to hear one more of his men try to tell him he should talk to
her.

"Bring Callie to my cabin." Hawke meant to see Callie tonight. He meant to
confront her with the nightmare she had lived through.

"Aye." Lachlan turned then and crying out the orders to the men set them to their

task.

Chapter Twenty

Callie thought her heart would break.

Traitor! the cry rang out in her mind.

The people she'd come to love were no longer her friends nor could she call them
her family. Once again, she was alone. Yet she carried herself proudly, and she
vowed she would prove herself to the clan MacPherson. Now she was resigned to
her fate.

As she walked past the people she'd once toasted to good health, she held her
head high. Silence followed her, and when she began her walk up the steps to the
south tower, she was met with darkness. The people watched her in silence as if
stunned.

No one gave encouragement.

The door closed behind her with a great clang that echoed through her head. The
room in the south tower was small. There was no fireplace, no chairs and only a
dirty pallet on the floor. She wrapped her arms around herself. Chills swept down
her back and as she searched the room for a blanket to wrap around her, her gaze
settling on a moth-eaten plaid atop the straw in the corner of the room.

This was to be her existence then. There was no water, no food and no
companionship. She wrapped the plaid around her shoulders and curled into a tiny
ball on the pallet. Her eyes burned with unshed tears. Callie tried desperately to
push the self-pity as well as thoughts of Hawke to the back of her mind.

She could not.

When her eyes closed, she saw him tied to the post in the dungeon, heard the
swish of the lash as it hit his back. Smelled his blood and watched shamefully as
each drop soaked into the dirt floor.

The first tears slid slowly down her cheeks before they turned into gut-wrenching
sobs. She could not stop the tears. She didn't know how many hours passed, but
the room turned blacker and ever colder.

Shivers ripped through her and the self-pity she'd felt earlier turned to a need for
survival. Hungrily, her stomach rumbled.

She cursed her foolish stupidity and recklessness. She vowed she would find a

way to make restitution for all the wrongs she had brought down on the clan
MacPherson.

Pacing the tiny room did little to keep her warm, yet walking was better than sitting.
She moved around the room, then back and forth. Callie hummed to herself, trying
to take her mind off the physical and mental exhaustion which was quickly
overwhelming her.

She stumbled, caught herself and tried to keep moving. Unable to move her legs,
she crumpled into a tiny ball on the cold floor of the south tower, staring longingly
at the dirty pallet on the other side of the room.

Exhausted, she closed her eyes.

He came to her and swept her into his arms. He carried her to a soft bed and
settled her atop. He was naked and he slowly undressed her. Her clothes fell from
her body but she wasn't cold. The heat emanating from him seemed to fill her and
encompass her. He came down over her, tracing her collarbone with a fingertip.
Then he followed the path with his lips. Her heart thundered and she tried to touch
him in return but he held her hands above her head. She arched against him and
he smiled. "Hawke," she heard herself whisper. His mouth closed over the crest of
one breast, sucking and caressing until she moaned in delight.

"Milady?"

Someone was gently shaking her. Callie struggled to wake up, to clear the hazy
mist encompassing her mind. Every inch of her body ached.

"Milady--"

The voice was more urgent. She recognized the sound, but she couldn't put a face
to it.

The dream? Hawke had come to her.

"Please, wake up. 'Tis cold in here and ye must be near starving."

Nay, she didn't want to awaken. If her eyes were open, she would have to deal
with the problems she had created with her terrible lies.

There had been no other way, she told herself.

Callie heard herself groan. She tried to push from the floor but nothing happened.
She had no feeling in her arms. Nothing seemed to work.

And then the pain assailed her. She couldn't move. She could only whimper, the

anguish was so great.

"Milady are ye all right?" The voice sounded urgent, concerned.

It was Victoria. She had come to her. Callie felt the girl's hands beneath her arms,
lifting, trying to make her rise.

"Ye must help." Her voice was urgent, terrified.

Callie opened her eyes. She tried to speak but her mouth was parched and she
choked.

"Water." Her voice rasped and she closed her eyes again on the angry world.

Victoria's hands fell away and she heard the soft tread of the girl's feet. The door
to her room banged shut once more.

She's left.

Nay!

It cannot be. Callie's heart sped and once again she fought the rolling waves of
nausea and the spinning sensation in the room. This time she pushed herself to a
sitting position. Victoria had vanished and Callie wondered if she'd ever been
there. She rubbed her face with her hands, wishing the pain away, wishing for--

For what?

Callie didn't care at the moment.

Water.

She truly didn't think Hawke meant to kill her or their unborn child.

"Milady."

"Water?" Callie asked.

"Here." Victoria knelt beside Callie, a cup of water in hand. "Slowly. I'm so sorry.
This should not have happened. 'Tis all my fault."

Callie nodded, the cool water rushing down her throat. She'd never tasted
anything so good. She licked her lips, her hands out-stretched for more.

"Nay, ye must eat first." Victoria handed her a scone. She ate heartily then washed
the food down with more water. Slowly, her strength returned. Victoria apologized

for not seeing to her sooner, but she'd been detained downstairs. Until Hawke
came to her rescue.

"Thank ye, Victoria. I--" Callie moistened her lips. The food, the water were a
godsend. "I've ordered a bath for ye and I found clothes. Hawke said I could bring
them to ye."

"He did?" she queried softly. Perhaps he cared a little. Perhaps they could find a
way to resolve what she had done to him. "He didn't want this,"

Victoria said. "I--"

"Leave us."

Hawke.

Hawke had never looked so angry. His lips were set in a grim, determined line.
Her breath caught in her throat.

She tried to stand but could not. So she closed her eyes and waited for Hawke to
come to her.

For the accusations to fly.

To the best of her ability, she would defend herself. She would tell him the truth.
Yet it seemed he didn't want to talk. Servants came through the door. One carried
a bath, another brought food and another blankets for the pallet.

They were gone just as quickly.

He would speak to her, she was certain. Speak to her from his distance, with his
ice-cold voice. And she would understand what drove him, what demons he tried
to chase from his soul. But she would also defend herself. She waited. And as the
time passed she felt more herself. Her confidence grew.

But Hawke did not speak. Hands folded behind his back, he walked to the window
which looked out at the startlingly blue sky.

He didn't move or turn to her when he said, "There is no help for it." The words
quiet, his voice soft spoken. "Maybe I expected too much of ye." He braced his
hands on either side of the window. "Forget the past? I thought we both could do
it. Forget. No one can erase that which has gone on before him. Not ye nor I." He
turned and ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't know how to keep ye safe—
from yourself. God knows I have tried everything I can think of."

Trembling, she wondered if she should simply keep her silence, then she knew

that she could not. "Ye don't understand." She swallowed hard, wishing he would
be a little bit more receptive to her pleas. "In the dungeon when--"

"When?" he questioned, turning back to stare at the beauty of the day.

"I was forced to say--"

"Forced?" He looked at her, arching an ebony brow, "Forced? Ach, how foolish of
me! I thought ye coerced Jarrod to take ye back to your ancestral home."

"I had no idea how wrong I was to disobey your wishes."

"And I am supposed to believe ye have learned that your passion to right all
wrongs far exceeds what ye are capable of."

"Huntington attacked me in the forest. Jarrod wasn't there. He went on ahead. So
he didn't see how I fought Simon. How--"

Ye did come to England looking for Huntington and your stepbrother. And ye found
them. Ye came to see justice done. Yet ye had no idea at what length traitors will
go to protect themselves. Ye were caught up in something bigger than the two of
us.

"Tis the truth of it. All I can ask is for ye to forgive me."

"I forgave ye everything the night we wed."

"What?" He confused her, turned things around so she couldn't think straight.

"I forgave ye, your father, everyone ye love."

"Since the night we wed? I don't understand."

"Indeed, ye have not understood anything. And perhaps I have been remiss. Ye
were supposed to stay at the MacPherson castle. I did not want to fear for your life
and our unborn child's life."

She lowered her head. "I simply needed to follow ye. There were ways I might
have been able to protect ye. I had to speak with Huntington before--"

Once again, he cut her off. "Sweet Jesu, but ye do know how to ease my fears."

"I had to find out why my father passed sentence on an innocent man."

"Ye were given fair warning to leave the matter be. Ye were told of the danger. Do
ye care so little for our child?" His voice thundered through the room. "I do not

want any more of your lies or protestations."

Tears stung her eyes. He stood far away from her, shoulders squared, eyes like
gray ice, features harder than the sheer stone walls of the castle. She felt that he
was a stranger, a cold, unforgiving stranger, and one that she had somehow
created herself. "Don't ye understand? I can't forgive myself."

"By God, Callie, ye must stop this nonsense. I have listened and forgiven. It is time
for ye to do the same. Had I but put ye in this tower when I first had the inclination,
none of this would have happened."

He turned but he still kept his distance from her. She stood, her back to the wall,
her eyes on his. She tried to straighten her spine and her shoulders--lift her chin.

"I will not fight ye."

He stared at her a long moment. "I will have the pallet replaced with a bed. Victoria
will stay with ye and ye will remain here until our child, my heir is born. There is
far too much at stake. Ye risked two lives."

"Nay." Her hands went to her belly. She wanted to shrink into a tiny ball. She
wanted to go backwards in time and relive her decisions. But she couldn't. So she
would face them.

"Tis better than death or forty lashes."

He spoke quietly, and, oddly, without venom, and she realized he meant his every
word.

"Forty lashes?" she asked, yet she knew. It was what he suffered at the hands of
Huntington, each blow delivered by her stepbrother.

She wanted to be strong. She didn't want to care. He was wrong in this, and she
wanted to have complete courage and dignity, to suffer his punishments with a
composure he would find haunted him daily.

But her knees were shaking. She didn't think she could stand, she was so afraid of
the loneliness. She'd feared it all her life, suffered the emptiness of the soul. And
now, when she'd thought she'd found the family she'd always longed for...

She had been a fool.

"Tell me," she spoke slowly, "will ye visit?" She waited for an answer, praying he
would say yes, and praying too that if his answer were nay, he would be unable to
stay away from her.

"Nay," he returned. "I must find Ian."

The chill determination of his words made liquid of her limbs. She sank to the
pallet before she could fall. She was startled when he suddenly decided to
dissolve the distance between them, striding swiftly to stand before her. He
crouched so that they were now eye level.

His fingers suddenly threaded into her hair, gently, seductively. His lips descended
upon hers, rough, bruising. And despite his anger, the touch was arousing still. Yet
she could not breathe. Her fists came up against his chest, and his lips rose from
hers. She knew she should protest, yet her body burned with passion. Heat and
fire simmered within and she wanted him, needed him in ways she could never
explain.

"No words, no whispers?" he asked. "Ye'll not make promises ye cannot keep?"

She felt a burning sizzle at the back of her eyes and refused to cry. "Only a fool
would make promises they might not be able to keep." Fighting back seemed her
only defense against his words.

Defying him her only recourse.

He smiled but she felt no warmth. "Ah, honesty. So ye make no promises."

"Nay," she gritted out the words, knowing them for the lie they were.

She did not understand how she could deny him, how she could make everything
infinitely worse, when all she wanted was to tell him how much she loved him. He
would never believe her. It mattered not.

His mouth crushed hers once more. She felt the force of his lips and tongue. His
lips left hers once again. The cobalt simmer of his eyes remained to impale her.

His touch did not leave her. His fingers set upon her shoulder and pulled her
against him, his hands slowly and expertly stripping her bodice away.

The chill air of the tower room washed over her. "Nay, not like this." Tears stung
the back of her throat. He did not heed her words because her body responded
wildly to his touch upon her. She could not deny him.

"Like what then?" he queried.

"Please."

She fell back, and he was swiftly atop her, and she cried out in alarm at his
tremendous strength, yet she wanted him desperately, yearned for the closeness

they once shared. His anger seemed as much directed at himself as at her, for the
words that broke from his lips then were harsh and bitter.

"Ah, but I am cursed, wanting ye, seeking to have ye, when no matter how tightly I
hold, ye try to leave me. Yet I would hold ye again and again, have ye until I
should be swamped with ye!"

"Hawke?" she whispered softly. "Love me."

"It should not be this way."

She heard a startling anguish in those words, but his emotions seemed to override
all else. With no sweet words or tender play, he was suddenly within her, driving
hard, fast, his eyes never leaving hers, no softening look coming to the rugged
contours of his face, even as he arched, grated out a cry and filled her with the
richness of his heat. Even then, his eyes remained upon her. He did not fall by her,
did not hold her. He offered no word of tenderness.

She felt empty inside. Nothing mattered, save the life of their child. She'd had her
chance with Hawke and now, she knew there was nothing left for her.

"Go then. Find Ian. I pray that ye do."

"I will find him and bring him home."

He rose, adjusting his clothing within that fluid movement. Sick at heart, Callie
found herself curling away from him upon the pallet, trying to draw the remnants of
her own clothing about her. He walked away and stood by the window, his back to
her.

She wanted to plead with him. Her pride held her back. She wanted to tell him how
much she loved him. But it was far too late.

She closed her eyes tightly, then refused to be so used and beaten. She leaped
up, ripping the torn gown from her body and hurling it across the room. She
wrenched the newly delivered covers from the pallet, sweeping them around her,
staring at his back.

"Leave," she told him, her voice quiet, level, and determined. "I will not be here
when ye return." She was heartsick. This last meeting was bittersweet.

He turned around at last, a smile curving his lip, somehow giving him the
appearance of a handsome demon.

"Ah, my lady! Ye will stay here. Ye have nowhere to go and even if ye did, I would
never allow it."

"Hawke, please. We cannot go on this way." She longed for his love. To run
across the room and beg him to open his heart to her.

Instead, she stood her ground, her chin tilted high. "Send me home then. If ye
would make me stay in the tower, confining me, send me back to--" She broke off.
She had meant to state the words with such dispassion. But she failed in the effort,
going silent.

"To England?" he asked, astonished.

She no longer stood her ground, her emotions flaring out of control. She found
herself tearing across the floor, slamming herself and her fists against him. "Aye,
to England."

She lost her covers with the effort, and was naked when he caught her wrists,
stilling her wild impetus of motion. Her breasts rose and fell, her heart thundered
against her chest. "There is nothing in England for ye, Callie."

"Hawke, I—" She was left without words. How could he believe she wanted to
leave him.

"Do ye always flee at the first sign of duress?"

"Never." Oh, but it did begin to appear as if she did just that.

"Ye know that I would never let ye take my child, my sole heir, with ye."

She inhaled swiftly, pain sweeping within. She threw her head back. "I had not
thought of that."

He continued to hold her wrists, stock-still, his eyes glacial ice on hers.

Then he slowly released her. He turned swiftly and left the room, slamming the
door behind him. She ran after him, casting the door open again.

But Hawke was halfway down the stairs. A wide-eyed Lachlan was left standing
there, staring at her.

She reddened from head to toe, slamming the door, and ran back into the room,
pitching herself upon the tiny pallet. And she cried, slow tears trickling down her
cheeks as she despaired at the life they had been cast to lead.

* * *

Hawke had seen to it that he and his men began their ride before the sun cast its

long, deep shadows on the western horizon and he'd been glad because the ride
was a long one. The quest might not lead anywhere or it might lead in a direction
Hawke didn't want to think about. The search for Ian had been going on for
months now and there were no clues. Ian had vanished without leaving a trace of
his existence.

The day was crisp and cold but the sky was clear, brilliantly blue, beautiful. For
once, the harsh winds that so often tore at the northern counties were still.

He loved this wild, untamed country, loved the gale winds that normally blew. He
loved to stand on the parapets, smell the sea, feel the mist touch his face, and
welcome the wild wind that ruffled his hair and, sometimes, soothed his soul.

And he loved his wife, he admitted to himself, if never to her. It had seemed to rip
something inside of him apart to leave her with the sun just setting. Still in the
tower room, he felt her gaze upon his back as he rode from the castle. He would
have to hold on to the memories of her--on the Aphrodite--in his bed. He would
have to try and put them to the back of his mind until he could return and perhaps
begin to understand why she blamed herself. She was just a pawn in a deadly war
against the crown. There was nothing to forgive.

The slim, fiery creature he had once deemed his enemy had slowly chinked away
the barriers of both his anger and resolve. He had realized the night of his wedding
that her beauty was unsurpassed, and he never really wanted to look back. But
she had been something to possess then, to fight and fight for. He had been in
wretched anguish when she had spoken to him in Huntington's dungeon, and yet
he had believed her later denial. Her eyes had shimmered blue. Nay, Callie might
rush headlong and impulsively into a situation she could not control, and she had
said the words but Huntington had been the driving force. He could well believe
the man had somehow convinced her he would let him live if she would betray
him.

He had always wanted to forgive her. First for the deeds of her father and now. Yet
this time there was something holding him back. He had to know the truth, and
time away from her, finding Ian, all might ease the distance that had grown up
between them.

He wished he had been able to give the evidence to the English king which would
condemn Huntington. But he had melted the gold and even if he had not done so,
he could not prove Huntington had anything to do with the treasonous plot. And he
could never be sure Huntington would not return to Scotland seeking their demise
because both Callie and he were a threat to him. They knew the truth.

Love her, yes, but could he ever trust her to put her own safety first? He should
have kept her in the south tower from that first night she had come here. He
should have admired her elegance, grace, and beauty from a safe distance.

He should have never let her possess his heart.

Maybe even visited her upon occasion, he mocked himself. But it didn't matter. He
could have never left her there, for the very fact she had wound her way into his
soul, into ever part of him. She was an obsession with him; he needed her, craved
her. He thought of touching her again, even as he rode now.

He gritted his teeth, nearly groaning aloud. She had left the castle with Jarrod, had
lied about her reasons for returning to England.

She was expecting his child. Or so she had told him. She wouldn't have lied, he
thought. But, oh, by all hell, there lay the torment, for he looked at her, he touched
her, and he forgot anger and resolve and the desire for truth, and knew only that
he desired her and that his body seared with agony to know her touch. It was good
that he had to find Ian. He needed the distance. Aye, she should remain
imprisoned within her tower, for her own protection and that of their unborn child.

He had left, telling Jarrod and Victoria to see to her welfare. They would do so, he
knew. And as long as they stayed within the wall of the castle, they would all do
well enough, he was certain. She would live a life of ease. Huntington would know
now that an assault on the fortress was foolhardy. He hadn't the strength and
starting another war with Scotland would not be wise. The turbulence between the
two countries was too great without the added nuisance.

His thoughts returned to Callie. She was safely at home as was his heir. And when
he returned, he would be better prepared to deal with her. Maybe the barriers of
mistrust could be broken.

He shook his head, even though it was with himself he argued. The land was his
and he wanted to share all the joys and sorrows with Callie and their children. He
had never imagined he would marry an English lady but he had. And by right, she
was the laird's wife, and should rule his people with him. Their children would be
born there, and it seemed as if roots were spreading out beneath him even while
he wandered the hills and valleys, searching for his brother. In this all the reasons
were apparent, The MacPherson castle, the land, the people were his; it was his
home.

Just as Callie was his. And just as he loved her, no matter how much anguish that
love brought him.

He was startled to hear a rider coming up close beside him. It had been his
obvious preference to ride alone that morning. Lachlan and his other men had
stayed well behind him.

He reined in, slowing his horse and turning slightly, to see that it was Father Paul.
Paul had given up his simple parish life to stay at the castle; at least until Ian was

found. Hawke lifted a brow. Paul had insisted on joining the search party.
Although Paul at times exasperated him, Hawke was always grateful for his
wisdom, expertise, and advice. But something bothered Paul and Hawke wasn't at
all sure what it could be.

"What is it?" Hawke asked, frowning, because Paul's brows were furrowed, his
striking features, as yet unlined, were drawn. Hawke has always trusted Paul and
his premonitions.

"We need to stop," Paul said.

It was going to be one of those occasions when Paul exasperated him, Hawke
could see. He did not want to stop for anyone or anything.

"My good friend, we are trying to reach Edinburgh tonight. If we stop now--"

"My good Laird MacPherson, if we don't stop, I fear something far greater than a
delayed arrival. There is danger afoot."

Hawke's frown deepened. "What? What is it that bothers ye? Are we being
followed? Or are ye being intentionally obtuse?"

Paul shook his head. "I don't know. I've been uneasy since we left. The hair on the
back of my neck is standing and there is a cold chill that won't leave my heart.
Hawke, it is near enough to dark now. At least call it quits for the night and make
camp. Post a guard. I am seldom wrong in these matters. Be patient."

And Hawke recalled many times when his friend's gut instincts had been right, his
premonitions far too often coming true. He did not want to wait for the morning. He
had meant to ride through the night.

Hawke reined in hard on his horse, turning to lift a hand high to the men who
followed.

"We'll find shelter in that grove of trees, make camp here. Lachlan, call a halt and
post guard."

Hawke dismounted, entering into the midst of the forest itself, for there the high-
bowed branches of some of the evergreens had left a clean hard sweep of dry
ground.

Leaving his horse to Lachlan, Hawke walked out from the canopy of trees and
stared homeward, then looked to the sky. It was cloudless. There was a light
breeze and nothing more stirring. Yet he was deeply disturbed. Paul's uneasiness
had now crept into Hawke's own soul.

He feared for Callie.

Chapter Twenty-one

Callie sat in the great hall with Victoria, thinking of Lainie, remembering her free
spirit and love of life. Callie longed to run outside and embrace the wonderfully
beautiful day. The weather had been so wild as of late, but a strange and peaceful
lull seemed to have settled over the land. She felt the breeze as she passed the
windows, and it was cool, but the sun was shining. She envied Hawke his ride
through the countryside. In the time she'd spent in MacPherson country, she'd
grown to respect Hawke's freedom-loving brother. She paused in thought, staring
at the flames that burned in the hearth, feeling her heart pound. How strange,
she'd had such an awful dream about an executioner's block. And the axe that fell.
She'd thought it was because of Hawke's father, but it had seemed so real and
she'd felt almost as if she were the one being executed.

Chills swept through her and she suddenly needed to warm herself by the fire.
Jarrod had let her out of the tower room shortly after Hawke left. Now he watched
over her like a mother hen. Although she didn't blame him. She had gotten him
into a pack of trouble last time he'd been left with her.

She looked at the flames again, and it seemed that her heart constricted. She
missed Hawke. He was barely gone, and parts of this day had surely been akin to
a shadow ride into the nether regions of hell, and yet...

She felt incredibly alone with him gone. The hall had lost its life. She almost
marveled at how in the warmth of the sun, it could still be so cold. She had abused
his trust, and might never find a way to change that.

And yet...

She did love him. With all her heart, she loved him. And she suddenly ached to tell
him so, to curl into his arms and let him mock her if he would. But she needed him
in her life, craved and desired him...

Loved him.

Once again, she sat starring at the flames, wishing she dared leap to her feet and
run out of the hall. But she was moving very warily today. She was supposed to be
banished to the south tower.

No one had said a word to her yet about any of the events in England. She was
not about to bring them up. When she had come down after Hawke left, Jarrod
had been unfailingly courteous, and had offered her his encouraging smile. No one
had denied her the right to leave the tower and sit in the hall.

But she had yet to test her ability to come and go as she pleased. The hall was
one thing, the courtyard another.

Victoria suddenly rose, a strange look on her face. She walked to the table where
Callie sat, leaning her elbows upon it, she commented idly. "It's a beautiful day.
Stunning really. Cool, crisp, and the sky is so blue."

"Indeed, malady, it's a glorious day," Jarrod said politely.

Victoria smiled again and pushed away from the table. "Callie, ye must come out.
Just to take a quick ride out into the meadow."

"Victoria--" Jarrod warned.

"Jarrod, come now. It's my understanding Huntington wouldn't have dared to follow
ye into Scotland."

"Aye, lady, that's true." Jarrod agreed unhappily, his dark brown eyes meeting
Callie's.

"We needn't ride out then," Victoria said with a shrug. "Come with me, Callie. We'll
simply ride within the fortress walls themselves; feel the sweet touch of the sun
and the gentle hand of the breeze."

Callie waited, her heart beating hard. Jarrod did not deny her the right to leave the
hall, and so she forced herself to slowly rise to her feet and to smile at Victoria.
"Aye, let us see this glorious day."

Victoria started for the door with another shrug. "Even a walk would be lovely."
She set a hand upon Callie's back, urging her forward more swiftly.

A moment later, they stepped out into the courtyard.

"Hurry," Victoria urged, catching her hand and running to the stables.

"Why?" Callie gasped, pulling Victoria back. It seemed the few days at
MacPherson castle had changed Victoria. She looked quickly around. The
customary guards lined the walls. The gates, however, were ajar--ready to be
closed swiftly at either the first sight of danger or dusk, one or the other, but they
stood open now as they did in times of peace.

Huntington would not put his life in jeopardy by following her to Scotland. He was
far too smart and far too cunning to do so. He would lie in wait until he had the
advantage and then he would descend. Huntington was a patient man.

"Callie," Victoria pleaded.

"Victoria, tell me what is going on."

Victoria stepped closer to her, whispering swiftly, "One of the miller's daughters
asked Sarah if she could get a message to ye. Sarah found me and I tell ye we
must leave the castle. I would take care of this myself, but I'm not familiar with the
land and Jarrod hovers. I need ye to help me."

"Victoria, I don't understand."

"Archibald has sent his apologies for what happened with Simon. He says that he
had no idea Simon had copied the English king's seal and that Huntington planned
to take over the throne. He has sworn to come today to find out what he can do for
ye." Victoria paused in thought. "I do not trust him, but I think ye've got to see him.
He may shed some light on the information ye seek. There are family ties. He is
your stepbrother."

Callie tilted her head slightly, studying the girl.

"We must see him. Hawke has gone and so there is no one left to see to this
matter!" Victoria begged. "Ye won't be alone, I'm coming with ye. And Hawke is
well over half the way to Edinburgh by now."

"Archibald has delivered the message. What more do we need to know? I have no
reason to go to Archibald."

"But we must. I love him, it is--"

"Archibald?"

"Nay, Paul," Victoria cried out. "I love him, and I carry his child."

"How? When? He is a priest."

She was wringing her hands. "On board ship. I know he is a priest and I know that
I've sinned. But Callie, there was something between us. I cannot explain. He
doesn't know and--"

Callie crossed her arms over her chest. "What does this have to do with
Archibald?" Truly, this had become a puzzle.

Victoria fell silent, her face ashen. "Archibald has Paul. He has said he will kill
him."

Dear, God, Callie thought. What more could happen? Truly, she did not wish to

leave the castle walls but it seemed she had no choice. "All right, then how do ye
propose to accomplish this feat? Leaving the fortress. And are ye sure it is not one
of Archibald's lies?"

Victoria wiped away a tear then smiled. "With the letter, he sent his cross." She
brought it from the folds of her skirts to show Callie. "We will simply mount our
horses and ride right out of the gate. Callie, I know Hawke was in a fury
yesterday."

"Ye truly cannot imagine," Callie said dryly.

"But he is gone. And when we ride back in, Jarrod will not wish to present himself
as the fool who, once again let ye slip away from him."

Victoria had a point.

"And," Victoria said with a trembling voice, "if Covington holds to his word, tension
will ease between all of ye. He has said he only wishes peace. And Paul will go
free."

"And the church?"

"I cannot say," Victoria whispered.

"I love him but I cannot make decisions for him." She paused. "The child cannot be
born a bastard."

"All right, then," she said softly. "Let's go."

"Hurry."

Victoria caught her hand again. They ran for the stables but then Callie pulled
back and walked, forcing Victoria to a casual dignity when they told one of the
stable boys they wanted their horses. They spoke of the ever-changing weather,
the brilliant blue of the sky, the rarity of the sunshine as they waited. When the boy
brought Callie's horse forward, Callie thanked him as she always did and mounted
with no apparent need to rush. A mount for Victoria was brought forward next, and
Callie commented they would ride around the entire circumference of the walls.

They did ride along the walls, and then Callie felt her heart begin to thud as they
came to the gate. She looked up at the guard there. She waved to him, praying he
would not know of the events in England.

He waved back, and called down a warning.

"Darkness comes quick, now, malady. Take care. The weather may not hold

another hour."

"Aye, that will do." She called back.

Victoria followed, keeping close, the roan crowding her own horse.

Callie kneed her horse. They flew across the narrow land barrier, and she felt the
refreshing freedom of the wind against her face, tearing through her hair. It was a
wonderful ride. Far ahead, she could see the forest rising. She veered quickly
away as they closed on the trees and headed for the meadow, Victoria still right
beside her.

They came to the center of the meadow and dismounted; laughing giddily, they
hugged one another. "How very, very easy," Victoria said, her silver eyes
twinkling.

Callie had to smile, leaning back against a huge boulder, set in the meadow. They
had covered quite a distance very quickly--and they had not been stopped or even
delayed. Callie felt alive and warmed with the pleasure of that fact. Hawke had left
his men no dire warnings regarding her--if he had, Victoria wouldn't have even
been able to get her out into the courtyard.

"Easy indeed," Callie agreed, then added mournfully, "But it seems the beginnings
of these excursions are always very easy. It is the endings that seem so hard as of
late. And When Hawke finds out, he will fear for my sanity."

"Nothing bad can happen. Hawke is not here. No one will think to tell him because
nothing will happen," Victoria insisted, leaning against the same boulder, breathing
hard from their wild race through the crisp air. She hesitated a moment, then
added. "Thank ye. With all my heart, thank ye for all that ye have endured on my
behalf. Truly, we must find Paul."

Callie nodded after a moment. "It has not all been on your behalf. I seem to find
discord on my own as well." She looked across the blanket of newly blossoming
spring wildflowers. She could only see the parapets of the castle. And she
remembered another day not so long ago that she had ridden here with Hawke.
And she remembered Lainie. The trees were behind them now, anyway, making
the ride back somewhat of a maze.

"If it means anything," Victoria said very quietly, "I believe in ye with all my heart.
And I believe that ye love Hawke. I believe the stubborn man even knows it
himself sometimes, but Callie, ye did take a great risk."

Callie started to nod, then paused, stepping forward. She could see a rider coming
toward them. It seemed that he came alone, but she couldn't tell. The sun shifted
slightly in the sky, and she was glad the rider had now come; the sun began to fall

in earnest, it would do so quickly.

"'Tis Paul!" Victoria cried out. "He is safe. He did not need rescuing after all." She
had been standing behind Victoria and she started to walk around her, ready to
wave her arm in greeting.

"Wait," Callie warned.

"But I can see him."

"Go back, Victoria, that isn't Paul."

"It has to be--"

"It is not. I'm telling ye, it's Archibald. I don't think he's seen us yet. We have to go
back."

Callie swore softly. "'Tis my fault. I am sure now I saw Paul ride from the courtyard
with Hawke and his men. Covington has deceived us."

"Aye. We'll both go back--"

"Nay! First ye. He will do me no harm. He is my stepbrother--my kin."

"Callie, ye cannot think to stay. Come with me--"

"Someone may be riding with him, and if we both run, we might both be caught.
Then there would be no hope for escape. I will speak with him."

"I forced ye here; ye go back!" Victoria insisted.

"Ye don't know Archibald," Callie said. "And I do know these woods better than ye
and my stepbrother. For the love of God, Victoria, do not argue with me now. I'll
buy some time--we can't flee together. With any luck I will vanish into the woods
and leave Archibald behind."

"But Callie."

"We could both be taken then, with no prayer for help to come. Victoria go back!
Get Jarrod to ride for Hawke. My husband could not have gone too far. I might
need rescuing and I only pray that my husband will come for me."

"Callie, please."

"Victoria I will run too, I promise ye. But ye've got to get a head start, one of us
must make it back. The faster ye go, the greater my own chances. I beg of ye,

stop arguing and go now!"

"I'm going!" Victoria cried, but she hadn't moved. Callie gave her a push that sent
her stumbling into the meadow, toward the boulder where the horses waited. She
gave Victoria a chance to escape, staying in front of the trees on the flower-strewn
meadow and waving as if it were some long lost friend riding toward her. When the
horseman cut so close to her she could pretend no longer, she turned swiftly and
dashed for her horse. She leaped atop her mare's back, raced out into the flowers,
and saw clearly that she had been right--it was Archibald, riding hard now to
accost her. She swung her horse about and slammed her knees against her
mare's ribs, whispering heatedly to her, "Run! Run as ye have never run before, I
beg ye!" Victoria did not know of the hatred her stepbrother felt for Callie. She did
not know that Archibald wanted to see her dead. She was truly in grave danger.

Her prayers were in vain. Even as Callie started into a swift gallop, she heard the
war stallion riding up hard on her. She leaned against her horse's back, very low,
and veered into the trees, thinking to take a reckless loop and perhaps return to
the castle walls.

"The trees! Head her off," Archibald shouted, and she realized she had guessed
right; he hadn't come alone. His men were there and she wasn't going to out
maneuver him.

It didn't matter. She plunged more deeply into the trees, racing hard. They came
around a curved path, and suddenly her horse reared high, then fell to all four
hooves again. One of Archibald's most trusted friends, red-whiskered, Harry
Montaina, blocked the path. She whirled the horse around to flee again, but
Archibald had ridden up behind her.

She reined in, staring from one of them to the other.

"My dear stepsister, I've waited for this day for a very long time. This time ye will
come with me. And your Lord Hawke will see ye die. He will not be in time to save
ye."

"Where is Huntington?" she asked bitterly.

"Tending his castle and his peasants," Archibald said contemptuously. "He doesn't
need ye and he doesn't take other men's leavings and so he had no interest in ye.
I, on the other hand, want what ye have given away. And then I want to see ye die
a slow, lingering death."

"How dare ye--"

"The King still sits on his throne and Huntington is willing to allow it. I, on the other
hand, will at least see The MacPhersons pay for ruining all our plans."

"It was the father, James, who was there, not Colin. He had nothing to do with any
of this. Neither did I."

"I mean to see ye die, and I will rule your lands. Ian MacPherson has not shown
his face at the estate," Archibald told her with a self-satisfied sneer. "I have heard
he died."

"If I don't return immediately, there will be a horde of men out to look for me."

"That there will not, for your husband's men are divided, are they not, lady? There
is no one looking out for ye, no way for rescue. Your wretched Scotsman is gone.
And ye at least will be made to answer for The MacPherson's crimes against the
crown."

He rode close to her. She tried to strike him or his horse with her reins. He
reached for her, and though she struggled wildly, it was a losing effort.

Archibald managed to wrench her from her horse onto his, and as she fought
against him, he gritted his teeth.

"David's wildcat," he exclaimed heatedly to the man riding beside him, and
somehow managed to tie her hands with the cord from his own tunic. "I have
always despised ye. Now I will finally get my revenge."

"Ye will burn in hell."

"Get her horse, Harry. Don't let that mare go running back over the meadow. We
need what time we can buy."

"Aye, I'll manage the horse."

Callie cried out as she was suddenly slammed against Archibald's chest. She
gasped in fear, aware that Archibald was a reckless rider and was now crashing
wildly among the trees. With her hands tied, there was no way for her to save
herself or the child she carried should she fall. As the minutes passed, she lost her
fear of Archibald. For the moment, overwhelmed by her fear of falling as she
teetered precariously, swaying as they raced. She leaned back into the safety of
Archibald's arms, as hateful as that was, and closed her eyes, ruing this new
stupidity of hers, and wishing fervently that, her affection for Victoria
notwithstanding, she had told her to go jump in the ocean.

She should have run. She should have never let Victoria talk her into this
madness. Had she but thought, she would have recalled Paul riding out with
Hawke.

But she had been so sure she could get away. She'd always been able to outride
Archibald. There had never been a contest. Archibald hated her and he wouldn't
stoop to hurting her. He had frightened Callie, but she had also assumed
Huntington would have the final word over Archibald's actions.

They rode deep into the hills, away from The MacPherson castle. Archibald kept
up his speed until his horse was exhausted, snorting, spitting flecks of foam. He
slowed his gait, and they continued.

She didn't know where they were going. Yet by Archibald's actions, she knew they
must be nearing some sort of destination. Finally, Archibald slowed his pace. She
saw large boulders set in a circular pattern. They rode into the middle. Archibald
dismounted quickly and lifted her from his mount. She saw the flicker in his eyes,
and knew his hatred. She looked at him, then raised her chin and looked beyond
him.

The breeze whistled around the rocks and Harry walked alongside both of them
until they reached the center stone. The sun was setting and the stones cast long
shadows across the clearing.

Callie stared at the two men. She didn't know what they intended save to lure
Hawke to the woods, and yet Hawke was gone and would not return until he found
Ian.

"He's discovered the truth, ye know," Archibald said.

"No, he's told me nothing." Suddenly Callie didn't want to learn what happened. If
she knew, Archibald would have to kill her. All that Hawke had told her rushed
back to her. Aye, this was a dangerous game and he'd been right in refusing to let
her help. Hawke had nearly died and now--

"'Twas Huntington's idea." Archibald paused then sat down on one of the boulders.
"He had the seal copied--a ring forged."

Callie winced. She should have left well enough alone. And she had the strangest
notion that she knew where this was leading.

"Your father refused to be party to the plans."

She tilted her head high and glared at her cousin.

"My mother paid Huntington. She loved Simon, not your father. And once, she
thought she would become Huntington's wife."

"Using the Whitcomb name she contributed to the treasonous plot against the
king?"

"Aye."

"Blackmail then."

"Nay, David knew nothing of the plans but when Hawke's father discovered the
truth, we had to do something."

"The raid on the helpless villagers then, it was your men wearing The MacPherson
plaid."

"Why, dear stepsister, ye are smarter than I thought."

"So James MacPherson was not guilty of the crimes he was tried for."

"Ah, ye are so very perceptive."

Callie stared at her stepbrother who looked so very pleased. She would not be
allowed to live. He'd revealed too much. And even if she was able to escape
Archibald there was Huntington. But Simon Huntington wasn't here. Perhaps
Huntington was willing to let the past die.

"Ye will never get away with this," she said very quietly, and with dignity.

"Stepsister," Archibald said quickly, and she realized that he had no intention of
letting her speak, to sway him in anyway, "ye've no rights here. I will judge ye, just
as I judged James MacPherson. Ye are my enemy, just as The MacPherson was.
And ye will die. Once again there will be nothing Hawke can do to save the one he
loves."

She looked around the clearing once again. She was sure there had been a great
deal of pressure put on Archibald. He had always been one to gamble and she
knew he was heavily in debt. Her marriage to Hawke must have strained his
meager resources.

"Callie, ye will be executed upon the slope beyond the meadow. I have chosen the
place with great care."

She gasped, unable to believe his words. "How dare ye," she began softly, then
her voice rose. "How dare ye! Hawke will never allow it." Yet she knew Hawke was
gone. Archibald had indeed chosen well. And yet, she couldn't help but believe her
husband would return. She had to believe in something.

"Ye stole what was to be mine. It fell into the barbarian's hands. A Scotsman's
hands. The land was mine!" Archibald screamed, his face florid with anger as he
came before her. "I want his life. Save yourself, Callie, hand over the great

MacPherson laird. Hand him over to me and your own life will be spared."

Chapter Twenty-two

Victoria reached the keep with unparalleled speed.

"Jarrod!" she cried out even as she reached the fortress gates. "Jarrod." She rode
hard. Her heart pounded, her breath came in ragged gasps. She galloped into the
courtyard, then dismounted, throwing the reins aside. She rushed to the doorway
of the keep.

"Jarrod," she called again. "Jarrod, where are ye?"

She could scarcely stand, her knees wobbling. Surely he'd heard her cry, as had
most of the castle. Everyone rushed to her, curious.

"What--" Jarrod began.

"Thank, God. We were tricked. Archibald whisked Callie away. I should have
stayed and helped. I--she made me ride for help. We have to do something. He
despises her, blames her for everything. He is crazy. He will kill her."

"Slow down. I cannae understand a word." Jarrod ran his fingers through his
graying hair, puzzled. "Archibald took her from where? The two of ye were just
riding around the castle walls." Then he stiffened, his face taut with fear, fury, and
denial. "Ye went beyond."

"Aye, I was fooled. I misled Callie. 'Twas not her fault. I thought—"

"Dusk is falling," Jarrod said. "It grows dark. There is not much time."

Victoria looked to the sky. It was true. The night was coming on them already.

Jarrod swore profoundly and turned only to discover Victoria was all but on top of
him.

"We've got to find her."

"We will."

"Now! Archibald has her. He despises her."

"'Tis too dark. Even though we know these hills, we would not find her. And if
Archibald caught us sneaking around, he might just decide to kill her then and not
wait for Hawke."

"Hawke?"

"Aye, 'tis Hawke he wants. Archibald wants his head on a pole just like Hawke's
father."

"What are ye saying? That there is nothing to be done? That we are going to let
Callie's wretched stepbrother kill her for something that happened when she was
but a wee child?" Victoria was incredulous.

"No, we are not saying that!" Jarrod snapped. "It's just that we must think. We
must not rush headlong into something we cannot win. He would kill us all."

Victoria pushed past him, going to the steps leading to the courtyard. "I know what
I am doing. I am riding for Hawke and Lachlan and Paul. They will know what to
do. They will not let Archibald kill her."

"Ye cannot. He is surely to Edinburgh by now. He could not be here in time to save
her," Jarrod warned.

"I don't care if he has ridden all the way to hell! I am going for him. 'Tis all my fault
and I must do something!" she shouted. Tears were burning the back of her throat
and filling her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. She had
caused this. She had been tricked. She had thought that perhaps Archibald cared.
Yet the message had come from one of the villagers and she was sure the girl had
been fooled as well.

"Victoria, wait," Jarrod begged. "I've men we can send after Hawke."

"And I am going too. Ye'll have to put an arrow through my heart to stop me,
Jarrod, do ye understand? Because of me Lady Callie is in trouble."

He stared at her, then accepted defeat. "Aye, fine. Then listen. Ye and I will ride
after Hawke., with just a few men.

"Aye," Victoria cried.

* * *

Hawke made camp beneath the trees. His men settled themselves and their
mounts, seeking open copses where they could build fires and warm their hands.

And they waited.

Restlessly, Hawke paced through the trees, gazing in the direction of his home,
wondering what to do. Lachlan stood beside him.

"The foreboding has grown stronger. I feel it too." He spoke softly to his long time
friend. He was determined to ride back to the fortress, to hold Callie in his arms
and reassure himself she was fine. She had to be fine. He had given orders that
she might roam the castle but she was not to be allowed outside. Jarrod would
surely see his wishes carried out.

"Their is nothing amiss," Lachlan said.

"Aye, there is, but I do not know what it is. Paul is seldom wrong about such
matters as these. I trust him."

Hawke strode to one of the campfires that had been lit, stretching out his hands to
warm them. He watched the flames dance and flare. Once again, the uneasiness
settled over him. He cursed aloud, wishing he had never ridden from the fortress.

But Ian was his brother, and would do the same for him if he'd vanished suddenly
and without a trace. Yet he might have waited a day or two. If Ian were alive or
dead, one more day after all this time might not make a difference.

The urgency remained. The feelings of betrayal multiplied.

And yet he still had Archibald and Huntington to contend with. Huntington, he was
sure, would not further risk himself or his lands. Archibald had lost everything.
Callie's stepbrother would have to admit defeat, Hawke thought wearily. And yet
he wondered if the man would ever do so.

And if he did not...

One day they would come to combat between them, and by God, he would rue the
day, but he would slay Archibald Covington, and pray that David, surely in heaven,
would forgive him the deed, for surely God Himself would.

But then there was Callie...

He cursed again, slamming his fist against the trunk of a tree. She was true to him.
He knew her loyalty was true.

When would this all end? He gazed into the blaze again, wishing once more he'd
never ridden out.

He needed Callie with him. He should have brought her. He should have her with
him to hold close to him, to guard against the cold of the night, to protect. To make
sure that in her reckless way she found no dangers.

"Horses coming!" Lachlan gave the warning.

Hawke had sat down next to a tree, his saddle blanket beneath him to keep the
cold from his limbs. He had closed his eyes and thought to sleep, but he found no
success. He had known he was waiting for something. And he had known too that
he must be ready.

At Lachlan's call, he was up, hurrying from the hardened ground to Lachlan's side.

The men on guard this hour stood within the shadows of the trees.

Hawke lifted a hand warning his men to be cautious, to wait to see if these riders
were friend or foe. He looked across the meadow at them, the night illuminated by
the glow of a full moon and dozens of star. He narrowed his eyes. There were not
many... three of them, and coming quickly, with no effort to hide their approach. He
recognized the first rider and swore softly.

"Victoria" And will my wife be at her side?"

"She rides with Jarrod and another of our men," Lachlan said, standing beside
him.

Hawke strode out into the meadow, ready with a quick tongue-lashing for Victoria--
and for Jarrod, who had apparently been willing to follow her here on this
madness.

Yet if Victoria and Jarrod were here...

She leaped from her horse and rushed to him, grabbing his arm. "Thank God,
ye're here. I never thought we'd reach ye in time." Paul appeared and brought
Victoria close in the protective shelter of his arms.

She was exhausted, shivering, collapsing in Paul's arms. . Paul looked up.
"Victoria and I will marry as soon as this trouble ends. I will give up my parish and
the priesthood. I should have spoken sooner but the time has never been right."
He gazed over her to Jarrod, who had dismounted as well. The anger he'd been
feeling had quickly been replaced by the fear that now filled his heart. He should
have started back. The second Paul had spoken of unease, he should have been
riding straight back.

"What has happened?"

"Archibald took Lady Callie."

"How in God's name?" he demanded harshly. His words were so angry; his stance
so taut. And inside it seemed he trembled until he shook. If Archibald dared harm
her... if he dared touch her. Hawke would slay him. Slowly, slicing him to ribbons,

ripping the skin from his frame. Even if he managed such an act, he would still feel
the agony, the emptiness inside. She would be gone. Vivid life, wild blue eyes,
blond beauty. Her smile, her laugh, her whisper, the way she'd come to him,
unknowing of the hatred that lived and breathed between them. She had come to
him seeking help, believing that he was loyal to her father.

"How did Archibald get her?" he repeated.

"It was my fault. I entrapped her because I needed to see Paul and I was too afraid
to go alone. I did not know he traveled with ye."

Hawke paused, and gazed at Victoria. Tension knifed between them. "We dare not
waste time. We must mount and ride hard, prepared for any treachery."

He turned, assuming that one of his men had saddled his horse and brought it
forward.

His mount was indeed ready to ride. He took the reins and leapt upon the stallion
then raced forward, never looking back.

* * *

Dawn was fast approaching, the midnight blackness of the sky giving way to the
softer purple and gray colors when they rode through the forest and approached
the craggy hills.

The sun would peak above the eastern horizon soon.

The last miles had been torment and frustration to Hawke. He'd raced through the
hours giving little heed to man or beast. He watched the silver moon ride across
the sky and fall within it. He knew the sun would rise, but would Callie be alive to
see it.

Hawke reined in as he heard the cry of the lark that was not really the cry of a bird.
He dismounted, his men still and silent behind him.

Then he saw a single person running toward them, and Hawke saw it was
Morrison, Jarrod's son. He was breathless when he reached Hawke.

"Dear God, hurry! He held a mock trial and condemned her to death last night. He
means to execute her as he did your father. She is helpless, at his mercy,;; and his
men surround the area. They are cutthroats and mercenaries. The clan has rallied.
They are in the forest and wait your orders. They are desperate, and they fear
their appearance will only cause Lord Covington to carry out the execution sooner.
And they are afraid they will not be able to reach Lady Callie before the axe falls.
And my laird, I must tell ye--"

"Morrison, for the love of God, we have no time, tell me what ye know."

"She told her stepbrother she was carrying your child. He either refused to believe
her--or did not care."

"Go back to the castle, Morrison. Take Victoria with ye and keep her safe." He
turned in his saddle, so desperate he was ready to leap from his horse and run the
distance to his wife--yet he dared not chance her life.

He couldn't even take the time to rage before God and damn Archibald Covington
for the murder of his wife and his unborn babe.

He called out sharply. "Keep within the forest until we are all abreast to hold a
battle line." His command rang out in the chill morning air. "Let no one be seen
until I am ready. We will join with the men from the fortress, and I pray ye all, let
God and justice be our right."

He raised his sword high.

In unison, weapons rose into the air in a silent salute.

Hawke turned again then, and rode hard across the valley and up the hill. He
raced into the woods. A soft cry welcomed his coming and he saw his men within
a copse of hemlocks, waiting for him. "Thank God in His infinite wisdom and
mercy."

"Has he seen ye?" Hawke demanded.

"Not yet." Even as he spoke, he looked around him. "The dawn is breaking," he
said quickly.

Indeed, a new day was about to be born. Radiant hues reached across the
horizon. Softest peach, apricots, and muted reds and golds colored the trees and
the meadows. Spring flowers just beginning to open to the warmth of a new year
richly lavished the land. Hawke raised his sword, his motions a command for his
men to fan out within the trees, to form their line.

He signaled his men with a swish of his sword across the sky.

Moving forward, they stepped from the trees.

And then he saw her, Callie. Bound, her hair flying around her in disarray, standing
in front of a flat boulder. She was young and strong and so beautiful.

Her chin was tilted high, and he damned her even as he knew he would die if he

could not reach her. She had always known her stepbrother's absolute
ruthlessness, his vileness. Yet she had never run from him or shown her fear.
Undoubtedly, she would not show it now and that untamed courage might be the
very thing that would condemn her.

Rage and fear built and spilled within him. She was so young, so innocent, so
beautiful there, dressed in white, that golden hair tossed by the breeze, swept
around her beautiful face. And Archibald Covington meant to execute her in the
most bloodthirsty way, slay her in a horrid, gruesome fashion, destroying all that
beauty, snuffing out life.

And taking, as well, the innocent life of the child she carried.

She saw him. They were so far apart, and he couldn't see her eyes, but she
watched him, and he knew she waited for him, and he thought he saw her smile.
Perhaps she didn't believe he could rescue her, that no one could beat the deadly
axe. One fell swoop and it would all be finished.

"He's here!" someone shouted, and he saw that the men aligned around the
boulder were pointing at the well-armed Scotsmen, that they had realized he had
come for his wife.

They had been waiting for him.

They appeared ready for battle.

"Executioner get your axe!" came a harsh command.

Hawke knew the hated voice. It was Archibald Covington. Archibald Covington,
glad he had arrived in time to see the execution.

Perhaps he had waited for him.

Even as they faced one another across the flower-strewn meadow, Covington
rode forward, toward the boulder, his sword held high.

* * *

She had not dreamed this, Hawke's coming. He was there, upon the hill. The
brilliant sun shining down upon him.

Hawke had come.

He had gone to Edinburgh.

Yet now, even as she watched him, his horse prancing, eager to run, Hawke wore

The MacPherson battle plaid draped over his shoulder. A strong force rallied
behind him.

Even as she watched him, she saw the sun rays glint and shimmer on Archibald's
sword.

"Ye will meet your death, Hawke," he cried out. "I will have my own vengeance this
day. Both ye and Callie will die this day."

She twisted her body, raising her arms high, trying desperately to ward off the
killing blow. He struck her not with his sword but with his forearm. His was a
powerful blow, the force of it pushing her to her knees, her body draped across the
boulder, her cheek pressed against the cold stone. Her head throbbed from the
impact. She stared across the clearing, and she saw Hawke, racing toward her
upon his great war horse. It seemed as if time stopped and the faster he sped
toward her the farther he was from her. She was bleeding, her life's blood slowly
staining the rock a vivid red. She was growing dizzy, her vision slowly blurring.

"He's coming!" someone shouted.

Aye, it was through a blur, but she watched him. He had broken from the line, and
rode hell-bent, sword high, his plaid flying behind him defiantly. Closer and closer
he rode. He would not make it in time. It wasn't possible. Not before the
executioner's axe fell. Yet it seemed her stepbrother waited for the last possible
moment to cry out the command.

"Stop him!"

The words echoed in her mind. Yet they were spoken by Archibald still beside her,
but mounted now. One of her stepbrother's men rode forward and was met by a
deadly blow barely halting Hawke's swift ride across the meadow.

"Stop him!" Archibald bellowed again.

Yet all of his men remained frozen, immobile in the face of Hawke's wrath. Hawke
let go a shattering battle cry. It seemed that the mercenaries her stepbrother had
hired had all become unwilling to move forward or perhaps they simply did not
believe one man would cry out with such a rage and attempt to ride through scores
of armed warriors.

It was madness. And yet she was so very glad to see him one more time.

She closed her eyes, remembering him. The color of his eyes, the plaid, the way
he held her and protected her--the safe haven he'd granted her when she was his
sworn enemy. Even now, he tried to shield her from harm. He had come for her.
Perhaps he loved her. But she would never hear the words.

Tears flowed from her eyes and she tried to blink them away. Yet the action made
her open her eyes and once again, she watched, and tried to struggle to her feet.
And she did find her balance and stood, her back straight.

The giant warhorse crashed straight toward her, heedless of swinging blades and
armed mercenaries. Hawke was a super power, a giant among men. It seemed as
if he could not be touched by man or blade. She saw his intense blue eyes
beneath the helm, and saw his sword rise and fall, slicing with razor-sharp ease
through the men guarding her. She had so little strength. She could barely move
her limbs. Suddenly he was upon her.

"Up!" he roared to her.

She sought deep inside herself and the heavy weight that had seemed to press
down upon her will and her heart had vanished. She reached for the hand he
offered her. He pulled her atop his horse, and the great stallion crashed back
down the hill once again and began a wild race back across the flower-strewn
meadow.

"Archers!" she heard her stepbrother roar as huge clods of dirt were plowed up by
his horse's hooves and sent flying behind them. As they rode, Hawke's men fell in
behind them to protect her. Lachlan, Jarrod and others all raced behind. She
looked back, gasping as she saw the rain of arrows that was now cascading down
upon them.

Miraculously the first volley missed them and the horse. And when Archibald
shouted again, they had reached the sheltering forest. The arrows fell short.

Hawke's horse whirled around.

Callie saw the boulder where her head had lain just seconds ago.

It was stained the color of her blood. Her heart skipped a beat; she wrapped her
arms around herself fighting off the chill sweeping through her. She would be dead
already, if he hadn't come for her.

But he was here. Somehow, his heart had warmed toward her and he had arrived
in time. Now as they rode toward his men a great cheering wrent the air. She
wanted him to cradle her in his arms, bury herself against him. She was crying;
she wanted to thank him, to tell him she loved him.

But he didn't give her the time. Even as the men shouted, Hawke's voice rang
above the others. "Take care, for we may well be attacked!"

"Aye, my laird!"

She was swept up again by strong arms, and found herself seated now on
Lachlan's steed, being taken briskly among the trees.

She looked back as best she could.

The Scotsmen let out a fierce yell with their own battle cries. Hawke, at the fore,
tore up the flower-strewn meadow to meet her stepbrother's wild, unkempt forces,
rushing to meet them.

The battle ended quickly. The mercenaries and Callie's stepbrother were no match
for the trained Scottish forces. When it was done, Archibald was dead, his men
spread throughout the countryside. Hawke rode back to the spot where he'd left
Callie with Lachlan.

"Ye are hurt," he said, reaching toward her, both arms stretched out to put her on
his horse.

"'Tis only a head wound," she told him. "I believe I will recover."

"Nevertheless ye must take care." Hawke swept her up as they rode to
MacPherson castle.

Callie gazed at the high walls as they entered. She had thought she might never
see her home again. Yet she lived; Hawke had managed the most incredible
rescue.

When they entered the courtyard, her tension eased somewhat. He would have to
believe now. She did not betray him. And yet she had disobeyed him, risking so
much in the process.

She had trusted Victoria. She had believed the people in the village outside the
castle would not betray her. Yet Hawke, he'd risked so much for her. Still, she
hadn't even thanked him for riding hell-bent to save her at the risk of his own life.

He set her upon the ground, giving orders to the women who surrounded them to
take her to his solar. Quickly, she was rushed from the courtyard, into the castle
and up the stairs.

He had not sent her to the tower room.

She bathed and donned clean clothes and then she waited. It was not long before
Hawke opened the door and stood within his room.

Callie couldn't read the emotion in Hawke's eyes. He stood before her as straight
and as fearless as ever, The MacPherson plaid draped over one shoulder and

held with a pin. She didn't know what his feelings were for her at that moment, and
suddenly how he felt meant everything to her. He had rescued her for honor, and
perhaps he had even rescued her because of the child she carried.

His child. She didn't know the reason. At this very moment, she didn't care. She let
our a strangled cry, tears flowing down her cheeks, and raced across the room,
throwing herself into his arms.

He swept her up, pulling her against him, his hands strong and firm around her.
She felt the pounding of his heart, heard the ragged deep breaths he swallowed.
She whispered, "Dear God, Hawke. Thank ye, thank ye for my life. And I--" She
broke off painfully, gazing up, pushing away from him to stand upon her own feet,
yet still encompassed by his arms. "I am so sorry for all the trouble I have caused
by coming here, to your land. For seeking protection from a man who despised
me. I didn't know what pain I would bring to ye and that I would open old wounds
by coming here. I had no idea."

"I understand," he said.

"I didn't mean to risk so much of what was yours." With a fingertip she touched his
lips, wishing for the forgiveness she didn't deserve.

"I understand," he said, again a slow grin forming.

"Hawke--"

"I have a few things to say, too," he said, tucking a wild gold lock of hair behind
one ear, his eyes showing only warmth and concern. "I want ye to know I didn't try
to kill Archibald; I was not the one who pierced his heart."

She gazed up at him. "But--but I know ye did not. Ye could not. Even though ye
knew what he'd done to me, knew he'd always coveted what I had, I know ye. Ye
would never have killed him. And Hawke, Archibald wanted ye dead. Me too, for
that matter. Our deaths were the only way he could have my land. And even then,
I don't believe if Ian is alive he would have given it up easily."

"Ye are right, of course. Ian is alive. I know it in my heart," he said very softly, the
blue of his eyes burning into hers. "I did not know if ye believed enough in me to
know it yourself."

She blinked away the tears rising in her eyes, her hands on either side of his face,
reveling in his life. "Aye, ye rode through the mercenaries and faced death to
sweep me from the promise of the executioner's axe. I never thought to see ye
again. Then I wondered if ye would find Ian after all and then return to find me
gone. I thought ye might be happier. I swear I did not mean to go against ye again,
and still I did. I prayed for ye to come if only because I am your wife and because

of the child I am carrying now. I prayed, but could not believe, and then
suddenly..." she broke off, shaking so she could not speak, "suddenly...I saw ye,"
she whispered and she felt tears trickling down her cheeks.

"Aye, Callie, aye," he cried, and swept her into his arms, carrying her to sit upon
the bed, and there to hold her close and tenderly within his arms, rocking slightly,
his head resting on top her head. "Aye, Callie, I came because I am proud and
stubborn, because ye are my wife. I came because of our child, and because I am
possessive--protective, and because I keep what is mine."

"Hawke..." She paused. "I have never meant to deceive ye. The words I spoke in
Huntington's dungeon were not true. He threatened your life. I could see no other
choice but to tell ye I didn't love ye, to tell ye I had acted with them against ye. He
promised me ye would live if I betrayed ye. But I did not want to betray ye. I kept
ye in my heart always."

"Hush, all that is in the past. Ye must know that I came because I could not
imagine life without ye, sleeping without the anticipation of having your golden hair
tangled around me."

"I could not bear life without ye either."

"I hear your laughter when I am away, and I vow I could not live without seeing the
fire in your eyes when ye entreat me. I could not imagine life without holding your
through the night, making love, lying together, living together. Indeed, I came
because I love ye, and I could not bear life without ye."

Callie inhaled swiftly, surprised and touched by his passionate words. She had
never thought he would come to love her so completely. She wound her arms
around his neck, and pressed her lips to his, finding all the promise and fever and
sweet wildfire of his words within his kiss. She held fast to him and when his lips
parted in return, she whispered to him.

"Hawke, I love ye. When I was bound and waiting my execution, it seemed my life
passed before me."

"I had a terrible feeling, even before Victoria reached us. Paul made us stop. He
felt it too. And because of Paul's premonition, we were not very far from the
castle."

"I thought of us...and everything. And I thought of how much we will love our child-
-how he will grow up to be a braw Scottish lad."

"Or lass," he told her.

"I thought of life and how very much I would miss everything, the sun, the spring

flowers, the soft breezes that blow and the harsh cold that ascends these hills. Still
I knew that what I loved most, what I would miss above all, what I suffered to
leave--was ye."

"Callie--" he breathed very softly. "I swore I would not love ye."

"Nay!"

"Ye are reckless and passionate. It is the refusal to back down when ye feel ye are
right, that constantly frustrates and intrigues me. I feared your passion, even as I
admired it. Ye are too damned stubborn--and disobedient--and courageous. And I
burn for ye."

"I do not mean to be," she declared swiftly. "I would obey ye in all things."

He grinned, "Then obey me now." He eased her back onto the bed. He kissed her
lips, then rose, shedding first his plaid, then the tunic and shirt. He sat upon the
bed again, slipping from his boots, then leaned over to press a quick kiss to her
lips, her cheeks, her nose.

"I am half frozen, nearly famished, and quite disheveled, my laird," she warned
him as his mouth left hers. "I am so very hungry."

"Ah, but I have been frozen and famished myself, and I too, am quite disheveled.
And I do not care. All that I do care about is this insatiable desire to hold ye, touch
ye and to look at ye just to make sure ye have not indeed left me."

She needed to hear no more. She wanted him more than life, more than all she'd
ever held close to her heart. She had never realized how deeply she could love.
He crawled upon the bed, his palm capturing her cheek, one leg cast lightly over
her hips. "I died a thousand deaths seeing ye lying across that boulder, your
executioner's arm raised high. I was so afraid I would not reach ye in time. I was
prepared to brave hell."

She was touched by his sincerity. "'Aye I felt such joy as well as horror seeing ye
race toward me. I was so afraid ye'd die trying to save me."

He kissed her lips, just touching hers, something almost like reverence in their
tenderness. But the passion of the kiss deepened, his tongue stroking deeply
within her, and the sweet pervading flames of desire began to burn inside her. He
continued to kiss her, and her fingers twined within his hair, stroking his shoulders
and his arms. She hesitated, lifting her lips from his, rising to look over his
shoulder. A black-and-blue bruise had formed in the center of his spine, and she
cried out.

"Ye are hurt--"

"I'm not."

"It must hurt."

"Soothe it then my love with a kiss," he commanded, smiling. She frowned, then
pushed him from her to let him fall flat upon his stomach. Kneeling over him, she
ran her hands tenderly over the hard-muscled structure of his back, and then
pressed a kiss that was nothing more than a breath against the bruise. But she let
her lips wander upward, softly caressing spine and shoulders with her kiss, then
following the length of it downward once again, her fingers easing the waistband of
his chausses to tease the flesh there.

"Do ye feel better?" she whispered.

A groan was her reply. He turned with sudden fierceness and she found herself
embraced within the heady capture of his arms, her lips and tongue passionately
entwined with all the heat and fever of his. His fingers were upon her gown, tearing
at the laces, ripping fabric in their haste.

She gazed into his eyes as he gave up and with a groan and continued to rip the
soft blue tunic from her body.

"I would have obediently removed it for ye," she teased.

He shrugged, his lips forming into a slow smile. "But it was ripped already," he
whispered, and with a quick flick of his wrists, he split the fabric to her ankles, and
when he did, the length of him crushed against her.

Yet even as his hands explored the length of her, kneading, touching, arousing
with a fervor, his whisper found her ear, and his words were sweet. "Dear God, but
I would brave anything to have ye so..."

His kiss touched her neck and her rapidly beating pulse. Her arms wound around
him. In seconds, he had dislodged his breeches. He sank deeply into her until she
thought she could take no more, until she could know no sweeter contact of
fulfillment, and then he began to move.

"Hawke, I was so afraid," she said. "For ye, for our unborn child."

"Yes," he breathed against her.

"Hawke, we must never stop searching for Ian."

"Ian—?" He looked at her squarely. "We will find him if I have to search in Hell,
itself. He left on a mission for us—to find out the truth about my father and yours.

He is alive. I would sense it in my soul if he had died." He gasped, the horror of
what his life would be like, now, if what they had just lived through had somehow
gone wrong. He squeezed her. "I was terrified I would not reach ye in time, my
love."

She looked into his cobalt eyes. "What about Huntington?"

"I pray he will put the past behind him. He cannot win over the King if any of this
becomes public knowledge. He has much to gain from his silence."

She ran her finger down his chest, then kissed it. "And Lainie is happy. She is
staying at the tavern where we met. She sends her love and says she will come
home soon."

"Ye heard from her?'

"Aye," she said and nestled against him.

He had made love so tenderly at first. Now the winds rose, so it seemed, and his
lovemaking was pure fire and passion, both possessive and giving.

"Love me, please. Don't ever stop." Her ankles wrapped around his buttocks, arms
around his shoulders, and she felt the power of those winds, lifting her, bringing
her ever closer to the sweet explosion of ecstasy. And even as she went flying
ever higher, she suddenly discovered the richest pleasure of all. For just as the
honey-sweet moment of climax burst within her, she heard the gentle whisper of
his words against her ear once more.

"Dear God, Callie, but I love ye, I love ye, I love ye, I love ye..."

And all the world exploded into a shimmering rain of silver-and-gold splendor. She
gazed into his eyes and threaded her fingers through his.

"Love me forever," she whispered. "Because I will love ye forever."

"Aye, Callie, that I will."

They had everything, she realized. Everything between them. Hunger, longing,
love...and at long last, peace.

~The End~

If you enjoyed Highland Honor, watch for its two sequels. The first is titled
Highland Magic which is Ian's story. The second is the story of what happens to
Lainie MacPherson and is yet untitled. The unresolved issues in Highland Honor
will be resolved in these two sequels.

To learn about other books Awe-Struck publishes, go to the Awe-Struck E-Books
website at http://www.awe-struck.net/