Starcatcher, page 16
Marsali understood at least a bit of how he felt. She, too, had lost faith in those she trusted. Still, in her heart, she chose to think the best of most people. To go through life believing in only two men? She could not imagine it.
“And Gavin?” she asked.
Patrick’s eyes shuttered, a muscle jerking in his scarred cheek.
Marsali sighed. She was weary of men’s pride, heartsick over their stubborn and unreasonable sense of honor, which sent other men—and women—to their deaths. She did not want to believe that Patrick was as prideful and unreasonable as all the others, but at the moment she could not be sure.
She looked up at him through narrowed eyes, measuring him. “So, you will keep Quick Harry prisoner?”
“I will keep him safe,” Patrick replied.
“Because you need him.”
“Because he is hurt and he was once a friend. Because I would do it for any man.” Briefly, a wry smile pulled the scarred side of his mouth upward. “Well, almost any man,” he corrected.
“There are those you wouldna help?” she asked.
“A few. Or, at least, I would do so with … difficulty.” When she only stared at him, he shrugged. “A soldier makes enemies, lass. Alliances shift.” He uttered a humorless laugh. “Our families have proven that to you, surely. I never would ha’ believed the Gunns would join with the Sinclairs.”
She bristled, but she could not deny it. Neither of them would ever have imagined the truce between two clans who were traditionally enemies, nor war with the clan that was traditionally a friend.
Glancing at Quick Harry, she asked, “How long do you plan to keep him here?”
“A few days,” he said. “I hoped you would stay with him.”
“Alone?” she exclaimed.
“Nay, either Hiram or I will be here with you.”
“I am still your prisoner, then?”
“Nay, a much treasured guest,” he replied. “And one I want protected.”
Which meant guarded.
“What of my ferrets?” she asked.
“My sister will look after them, or I can bring them here,” Patrick said.
“They donna like you.”
For a moment, he looked nonplussed, and she relished the expression. It made him seem more … well, as Hiram had said, ‘like a normal mon.’
Finally, he spoke a trifle stiffly. “We will have to adjust.”
She resisted the urge to giggle at the thought of her ferrets “adjusting” to his command. More likely, they would try to take a rather large chunk of him.
His eyes narrowed at her suspiciously, as if he thought she might will them to disobey across the miles, and the impulse to laugh became harder to control. Finally, she could not contain her amusement, and had to allow her lips to curve into a smile.
He scowled at her a moment longer, then, slowly, the scowl disappeared and he smiled in return.
And suddenly, for that instant, everything between them seemed right again. For a long while, they stood without moving, without speaking, just drinking in the sight of each other. As the seconds ticked by, Marsali felt the coldness drain away and, in its place, a hot, sweet warmth began to grow.
And they were alone. Almost. Quick Harry’s eyes were closed, and Hiram had not returned. She saw, in Patrick’s eyes, that he realized it, too. His gaze, locked with hers, radiated green fire, a fire that reached out and scorched her. She watched, her heart pounding, as he slowly closed the distance between them. She held her breath as his hand lifted and his fingers touched her face, tracing her cheekbone in a slow movement both erotic and tender.
Tremors of sensation ran down her spine, and the air seemed to sizzle between them. When his head began to lower toward hers, she knew she should move away. But she could not make her body obey. Instead, she moved closer to him, raising herself on tiptoe, her head tilting back, her lips parting slightly in invitation.
“Marsali,” he groaned as his lips came down on hers.
Shudders ran through her at the contact, glorious shudders of desire and anticipation. Suddenly, she felt as if she were filled with shooting stars, her body teeming with small, exquisite explosions of pleasure. He kissed her tenderly, yet with a possessiveness that thrilled her. She was brimming with the smell and taste and feel of him, of that wonderful, warm intimacy that made her feel both safe and imperiled. The contradiction was intoxicating.
He was dangerous. The way he made her feel was especially dangerous. She was bewitched by it—her body thrummed with it, sang with it.
You canna trust him. Her brain said the words, but her heart and body refused to listen, not when his fingers were feathering the back of her neck, not when his lips caressed hers, not when his breath became as uneven as her own.
She sensed he was holding himself back, forcing a patience he did not feel. But she did not want his patience, or even his tenderness. She wanted the fierce exulting wildness she had felt in his arms only a few nights before. She wanted to forget her fear and mistrust. She wanted to be wrapped in the enchantment that made them the only two people in the world.…
Patrick felt Marsali’s breath quicken, felt her trembling in his arms, felt her body speak to his of her desires. Exultation filled him as her lips responded hungrily to the movement of his upon them. Dear God, he had feared he’d lost her forever, yet she was responding as if the past few days of distrust and anger had never had happened.
Her body curled against his, and he shuddered, the stroking of her fingers in the hair at the back of his neck making him groan. He reveled in the sweet awakening of her passion, the innocent way her body clung to his seeking something he knew she did not truly understand. Sweet God in heaven, he wanted her, needed her, the pulsing demand in his body becoming more insistent with every touch of her hands on his face, his back, his hair.
His body was burning, his mind fogging with need for her, his breathing growing more and more ragged. Hunger racked him, hunger for the woman whom he had dreamed of for so long. Hunger for the taste of her body, the feel of it, naked against his.
Then, in an awful flash, cold reason struck. This was madness. He would lose her, surely, if it continued. He had drugged her once with wine. If he drugged her with passion, seducing her into doing things she assuredly would regret, he would never have her completely of her own free will. And what was he thinking, kissing her like this with Hiram outside and Quick Harry lying on the floor only a few yards away?
Groaning, Patrick dragged his mouth away from Marsali’s, forced himself to hold her away from him. Her eyes opened to look at him, passion-glazed, bewildered. Dear God, she was lovely, with her hair tousled from the wind and his hands, her lips rosy from being kissed. In all his life, he had never felt like this, never wanted a woman as badly as he wanted this woman.
But she deserved more than his lust. She deserved to be honored. Honored and respected.
Knowing he would not keep his hands off her if he continued looking at her, Patrick made himself turn away. He had to leave. He could not stay here, for if he did, he knew he would bring disgrace upon them both.
Moreover, he reminded himself, he had to see to other matters. He had to be available to Rufus, and he had to be at Brinaire to blunt his father’s anger when he learned of the latest raid on their cattle. He felt like a court jester, juggling balls in the air. If one fell, they would all fall.
“Patrick?”
At Marsali’s soft query, he drew a steadying breath. Then, cautiously, testing his capacity for restraint, he turned to face her once more.
“I have to leave,” he said, trying to ignore the beseeching look in her eyes. “You will be safe here with Hiram. He’ll see to the fire, and he is a good huntsman.”
“But where—” She broke off, hesitating.
“I want you to promise not to try to leave,” he said, holding her gaze.
“You would believe my promise?”
“Aye. If I did not, all this would be for naught.”
A small frown marred her brow. “All what?”
He hesitated. “I have a plan, lass. If all goes well, perhaps we can solve the mystery of your aunt and learn who is responsible for the raid on your land.”
“Tell me,” she pleaded.
He wanted to. He knew she needed reassurance. Most of all, he knew she needed to know that her trust had not been misplaced. But years of trusting no one made him cautious to the point of obsession.
“The fewer who know, the better,” he said gently, his hand tucking an errant curl behind her ear.
He noted the flash of disgust that passed over her features. He couldn’t have missed it.
“Is Quick Harry a part of your plan?” she persisted.
He frowned. “I am not sure. Mayhap.”
“Patrick, please,” she said. “His wife and children are frantic with worry about him. Please, donna make them suffer any longer.”
He looked at her. If she were missing and believed dead, he knew he would go insane. Despite his instinct to the contrary, he relented. “I will try to get word to his wife that he is alive.”
Her eyes closed briefly on a murmured “Thank you.” But she was quiet only a moment. “Please, tell me about your plan,” she said. “Is Gavin involved? Have you learned something about Margaret? Please, Patrick, I have a right to know.”
She did indeed, he thought. Still he could not bring himself to shed twelve long years of habit borne of the struggle for survival.
“I asked you to trust me before,” he said finally. “I know you believe that I betrayed your trust. Mayhap I did, no matter how well intended my actions were, no matter that I still believe I did the only thing I could do to protect you. But I have not lied to you, lass. Not once. And though I know you have no reason to trust me again, I am asking if you will try.”
Holding his breath, he watched her face.
Finally, she said, “I donna know.”
It was an honest answer. At least she had not rejected the notion outright.
“Will you stay here, without trying to leave?” he asked.
Her gaze fell from his, and she hesitated a long time before offering a reply. “I will stay at least until Quick Harry is better.”
It was not enough. He could not risk her return to Abernie, not now. If she were safely home, her father might launch an all-out attack on the Sutherlands. And he might persuade Edward Sinclair to join him.
“I canna risk it,” he told her. “Too many lives are at stake. Yours, Gavin’s, our fathers’, our clansmen’s. All of our lives are at stake, Marsali. I must have your word that you will stay until I return.” He paused, tasting bile at the words he felt compelled to speak. “If you donna give it, I will have to tell Hiram to keep you confined to the hut.”
Her back straightened, her chin lifting in instant, righteous anger. “I forgot that you are my jailer,” she said bitterly. “But I swear, I willna make that mistake again.”
Her barb hit home, but he did not flinch. “Promise me, Marsali,” he said. “Please, do not force me to do something that will only cause both of us anguish.”
He saw the doubt in her eyes. Did she not understand? Did she believe he wanted to keep her a prisoner? Did she think he could treat her so and not be affected? The notion astonished him.
She looked for a long time at Quick Harry, lying on his bed of straw, wan in the firelight. At last, with a sigh, she met his gaze once more. “You have my word,” she said, her voice flat, defeated.
The warmth had left her eyes, and not a trace of a smile remained on her lips. Looking at her, Patrick was deeply afraid that, though he had won the battle, he might well have lost the war. The only war he had ever truly wanted to win.
Chapter 14
Gavin looked over the woolly figures of the Highland cattle. They were exactly where Patrick had said they would be. Still, this seemed too easy.
Was it a trap? He had asked himself the question so many times it had become a litany. The consequences would be grave—disaster, really—if Patrick betrayed him. But in his heart, he did not believe that Patrick Sutherland would ever betray anyone he called a friend.
Gavin looked at the three men with him. Boyhood friends all, which meant they had also been friends of Patrick’s. He had selected them carefully; they had no wives or children, but all had some tie, either through family or friendship, to the Sutherlands.
Ian Gunn, a cousin of Patrick’s, moved his horse next to Gavin’s.
Ian grinned, his teeth gleaming in the darkness. “’Tis a long time since I have gone reiving,” he said. “Ye are sure there are no Sutherlands about?”
“Aye,” Gavin said. “They apparently think the cattle well hidden here. I happened on them earlier while looking for Quick Harry.” God, he hated lying. Damn Patrick, he thought, this madness had best work.
“Yer fa will be pleased.”
“Aye,” Gavin said, feeling even worse about deceiving his father. In this case, though, the end justified the means. If it brought an end to the Gunn and Sutherland feud, a little deception would be well worth it.
Gavin looked at the sky, noting the sliver of moon that had risen. In a few hours, the mist would rise to obscure what light the moon provided. His gaze scanned the mountains, then the trees to the east, looking for movement. He saw none. The night was quiet. It was time.
With a nod, he gave the order to start driving the cattle. Poor beasts. If they had known Patrick’s scheme for them, they surely would not have liked it. And if this feud continued for long, the cattle were going to be bloody thin.
Edward Sinclair glared at the messenger. “The bastard has Marsali?” he demanded.
“Aye. He has ’er at Brinaire. Even sent a message to ’er father, he did, telling ’im so. Claimed it were his right to take ’er, that his betrothal to ’er is legal.”
Edward swore. He took no notice, when he began pacing, of Gordie moving quietly out of his way. “And the earl,” he said. “What is he doing about this?”
“Naught,” the messenger said.
“Naught! He is simply going to accept that his daughter is being held hostage?”
The man shrugged. “There is little he ca’ do. Abernie is furious. He wanted tae go after ’er, but ’is son warned ’im off.”
“Why?”
“He said the new king favors Sutherland. And he said Charles wouldna act to stop a marriage tha’ could end a feud between the Gunns an’ Sutherlands. Charles wants peace, ’tis true enough.”
“Abernie listened to this argument?” Edward raged.
“It took convincing, but, aye, he did. He ’as not the strength to attack Brinaire alone. So, instead, he ’as lodged a protest with the Scottish Parliament and the king. Tha’ was the young lord’s idea.”
Edward could barely contain himself. He was already snickered at for having been left at the altar. To have his humiliation trotted before all of Parliament! By God, it was … unthinkable.
“Charles will side with Sutherland,” he muttered.
Edward’s gaze snapped to the man standing at the back of the room, in the shadows. Foster. The half-Scot, half-English mercenary who had appeared at his gate two years ago. An ugly man, with a voice like gravel and a bright, nearly maniacal light in his odd amber eyes. Yet there was a magnetism about him that oddly seemed to appeal to women.
Foster hated Patrick Sutherland, and Edward neither knew nor cared why. He only knew that the man’s hatred matched his own. Together, they had hatched a scheme to divide the Gunns and the Sutherlands, and for two years, the plan had worked perfectly. Then Patrick Sutherland had arrived from Europe, and, since then, nothing had gone as it should.
Foster sauntered slowly toward the front of the room, ignoring Gordie as he passed him. “Gavin Gunn is right. The king will favor Sutherland. The Sutherlands fought for Charles’s father, and Charles remembers such things. You will have to take matters into your own hands.”
“How?” Sinclair snapped. He disliked admitting his own helplessness, and Foster was the kind of man who would use any weakness against him.
“Another raid or two,” Foster said, “and Abernie will be forced to do something or lose the respect of his clan. And we must discover the whereabouts of the younger sister. From what you say, Marsali will do anything to protect her.”
Edward whirled to look at the messenger. “You must have heard something,” he said. “Have they found Cecilia?”
The man shook his head. “Nay, no’ a trace. ’Er brother ’as looked hisself, but there is no sign.”
Edward cursed. If the girl was held at Brinaire, he had no chance of taking her. The keep was well fortified, impregnable without artillery.
“Gavin,” Foster said. “Was he not Sutherland’s friend once? Could it not be that he stays his father’s hand now because he is still Sutherland’s friend?”
Edward stopped pacing.
“And could it not be,” Foster continued, “that he does not find his younger sister because he does not want to find her?”
Edward’s mind whirled. Given his experience with Gavin Gunn, it seemed ludicrous to think that the younger man would betray his father. And yet …
“It would have been far easier,” he said, “for Sutherland to get inside Abernie and kidnap Marsali if he had had a willing accomplice.”
“Aye,” Foster said.
Edward swung around to face the messenger again. “Get back to Abernie and watch Gavin Gunn. If he leaves the keep, you are to follow him.”
“Aye,” the man agreed.
“You may go.”
The man dipped his head in deference, then left the room.
Sinclair turned to Gordie, who had remained silent throughout the interrogation. “This new man, you have just employed,” Edward began, turning his attention to another matter. “Do you know anything about him?”
“Only that he is good with a sword. He says he fought against Montrose, and I have questioned him. He knows the officers and units. I believe him, and I know his ilk. All he cares about is money.”
