Highland Hawk: Highland Brides #7 by Lois Greiman Page A

strung as a wild barb. But why? All was well. True, the king was planning to celebrate his twelfth birthday, and true, the castle and grounds beyond were becoming mired in guests. Still, there was no reason for any great worry—for although James was the sovereign monarch of Scotland, his was a title in name only. He had no true power. The French Duke of Albany governed Scotland, and although both his interest and his involvement in Scottish politics seemed to be waning, he still held the country's reins. Therefore, 'twas his life that was most in danger.
    It was true that there would always be those who wished the throne harm, but Hawk's men were ready for any eventuality. They were loyal, well trained, and well armed.
    But that thought propelled an unwanted memory—the memory of a slim Gypsy lass fighting off the advances of a man Haydan had trusted to protect the fairer sex, not to compromise it. A man who had been Haydan's own soldier.
    Damn! He paced again. Although Brims had been new to Blackburn's defenses, he had come highly recommended. Haydan had thought him above such deplorable actions. An image of Catriona wavered in his imagination. Any man might be made temporally insane by her nearness. It was not that she was beautiful; mayhap she was not even particularly bonny. She was simply... entrancing. And yet, what it was that made her so mesmerizing, he was unsure. Perhaps it was her eyes. Wide set and slightly slanted, they seemed to change hue with each mercurial mood. But nay, it was not simply her eyes. It was she. She was uncanny, unearthly. That had been evidenced that very evening in the great hall. For when she entered, all sense seemed to be driven from the mind of every man present. They were willing to make fools of themselves just to spend a moment by her side, to feel the light of her smile on their faces, to hear the sweet whisper of her voice.
    And he? Haydan ground his teeth. He was just one among the crush. True, he had been able to keep himself from her, to keep his distance when others crowded close, but he could not help but be thrilled by every moment of her attention, or enraged by every inane compliment from the ever-present posturing swains.
    He paced again. Why had she come here? To perform, she said. But there were things she wasn't telling him. A man didn't become the king's captain of the guard without developing some kind of sixth sense.
    But why was she holding back the truth? She was not a dishonest sort and he had never given her reason to distrust him. Indeed, since the first time he'd met her years before, they had gotten on well together. She had been a lass of only eight and ten years when she had first come to Blackburn Castle. Even then Haydan had felt an indefinable attraction to her, but years and his own aversion to taking himself too seriously had warned him that he, like every other breathing man, had merely been enamored by her unearthly sensuality. Thus, he had been careful not to act the fool. Careful to pretend that he thought of her no differently than he thought of his own high-spirited niece—rather troublesome, but a decent sort.
    Still, he could remember every moment he had spent with her. He had been a fool to take her to the infirmary, for now he had even more memories—the feel of her flesh beneath his fingers, the glimmer of her eyes—so vibrant, so alive. She was not like other lasses—neither coy nor silly, but—
    But what? He paced again. She was a babe, little more than half his age. Just the thought of her miniscule years made his knee creak with the years he'd put behind him. He grimaced as he walked, reveling in the pain. For with pain came reality. And the reality was, he was an old man—and the king's man, vowed to protect and serve, to put none above his sovereign lord.
    And that was just what he would do. Turning toward the door, Haydan wrenched it open and stepped into the hall. In a dozen strides he had reached James's room. A sconce burned