Starcatcher, page 3
Marsali moved in his arms, moaning quietly, and her thick lashes fluttered. Then her eyes flew open, and he saw the deep blue depths that had haunted him. Confusion clouded her gaze as she tried to focus.
“Marsali,” he said gently.
They widened then, those eyes, shock replacing confusion.
What did he look like to her? He was used to the scar that left his lips turned permanently upward on the left side, to the lines that stretched outward from his eyes. But he knew he looked ten years older than his age and that his face was no maiden’s dream.
“Patrick?” The sound of his name was soft and full of wonder.
“Aye,” he said, his hand going to her cheek.
For a moment, something glorious replaced the bewilderment in her face, and she smiled, a marvelous smile that made his heart lurch crazily in his chest. In the years since he’d last seen her, she’d become, if possible, even lovelier.
“I was so afraid for you,” she said. “No one has heard from you for so long.”
The words were a balm to all the pain of past years, to the sickness of heart at the killing.
“And I for you,” he said softly, “when I heard about Sinclair.”
When he spoke that name, her eyes lost the soft luster of wonder they’d had as she looked at him. She struggled to sit upright. A frown marred her brow now, and her eyes seemed to shimmer with moisture. “I canna stay with you,” she said brokenly.
“We have your sister,” Patrick said. “I will pledge her safety.”
Her frown deepened, and her gaze found Cecilia’s still form. She looked back at him briefly, then turned toward Hiram and Rufus. “How? Why …?”
“These men are Hiram Burnett and Rufus Chisholm,” he said. “They are my friends. And they were not supposed to hurt you, but …” His voice trailed off as she rose and went to kneel by her sister.
“Cecilia,” she whispered, holding her sister’s hand.
Patrick watched her, unable to do anything but drink in the sight of her. She was uncommonly graceful. The lad’s clothing did nothing to detract from her loveliness, but rather emphasized the willowy slenderness of her body.
Her hands touched Cecilia with a tenderness he wanted for his own, and he heard her call softly to the still-unconscious girl. He looked up to see Rufus watching both lasses intently, his lean, saturnine features, usually inscrutable, twisted into something Patrick could only identify as regret.
Rufus? Regret? Doubtful. Still …
Patrick frowned and moved to Marsali’s side. He remembered Cecilia as a child, quiet and obedient with little of her sister’s curiosity or precociousness. She was now the age that Marsali had been when last they met, but she looked younger, impossibly innocent.
Finally, at Marsali’s coaxing, Cecilia began to wake.
“We didna harm her,” Rufus said awkwardly in a voice that Patrick didn’t recognize. His tone was apologetic, without a trace of his usual sardonic humor.
Marsali looked up at Rufus accusingly.
When Rufus gave him a helpless glance, Patrick thought he might have laughed under other circumstances.
“They said your sister might be forced to marry,” Patrick said. “Jeanie told Hiram and Rufus that you would not come without her.”
“Jeanie?” Marsali repeated, staring at him. “She told me to take Cecilia to the chapel. She knew?”
Kneeling on one knee beside her, Patrick nodded. “Aye, I would not have interfered with your wedding had I thought you … wanted it. Rufus and Hiram were instructed—” He broke off at the sight of tears forming in Marsali’s eyes.
But just then, Cecilia let out a weak groan, bringing both of their gazes down to her.
“Cecilia.” Marsali gave her sister’s shoulder a gentle shake.
The girl’s eyes flew open. They were blue, but not the same deep blue as Marsali’s. Marsali’s eyes reminded him of the evening sky; Cecilia’s were more like the sky at noon. Her hair was lighter, too, a rich, dark auburn.
“Marsali?”
Patrick cursed himself silently. He’d never purposely harmed a woman in his life.
“Do not be afraid, Cecilia,” Marsali said softly. “Patrick is here. He wants to help us.” She looked up at him sharply. “Or did you come to make us your hostages?”
The question made him wince. That she would even consider such a possibility was a dagger in his heart.
“No,” he said. “You may leave if you wish. I wanted only to save you from a marriage you may not have wanted.”
“My father will come after me,” she said quietly, “and I canna believe your father will accept me. Where do you propose my sister and I go?”
Cecilia was sitting now. Quiet. Watchful.
“I still consider our betrothal valid,” Patrick said.
Marsali stared up at him. “And what about me? Do I have a choice? Or are you like my father? Using me for your ends?”
He heard the pain in her voice, sensed the betrayal she had felt at being thrust between their families.
Patrick looked toward his two companions, then, bringing his gaze back to Marsali, he asked, “Will you walk with me?”
She hesitated, and he said, “Your sister will be safe. Hiram and Rufus have been with me these past ten years, and there are no men more trustworthy.”
“Aside from kidnapping maidens?” she asked, and though her tone was dry, he thought he heard a trace of humor in her voice.
“Aye,” he said with the briefest of smiles, “except for that.”
She looked at Cecilia, and, casting Rufus a quick glance, Cecilia nodded her assent.
Hiram cleared his throat, and Patrick followed the man’s look. The big man’s sporran was jumping frantically below his belt, as if his manhood had gone berserk.
Patrick nearly burst out laughing but managed to stifle the sound in a cough. His large companion, a warrior through and through, looked chagrined as he opened his sporran. Two creatures jumped out, hissing and chittering. Even Hiram jumped back.
“Tristan! Isolde!” At the sound of Marsali’s voice, the two ferrets abandoned their attack on Hiram and ran to her, tumbling over each other in their eagerness. She petted them, her touch bringing them calm.
“Mistress Jeanie said ye would be wantin’ them,” Hiram said.
She gave him a slow, delighted smile, and Patrick’s heart melted. He’d waited years to see that smile again.
He rose and held out his hand to her, and after a moment’s hesitation, she took it and allowed him to help her to her feet. He felt her fingers tighten around his as their gazes met. Wanting desperately to be alone with her, and wondering how in God’s name he would restrain himself once he was, he led her away from the others.
With her hand held securely in Patrick’s, Marsali allowed him to lead the way toward the other side of the secret grotto, where a high pile of rocks and a thicket of hawthorn provided some privacy.
She couldn’t believe this was happening. Hours ago, she had been dreading a ceremony that would bind her to a man she distrusted. Sick with dismay, she’d hopelessly prayed that Patrick would come to her. And here he was. The man she’d loved all her life.
He had changed. Her handsome prince was a man now, one whose face bore physical scars, and his soul, she sensed, scars of another kind. Yet his glittering green eyes, as vivid as emeralds, softened each time they looked at her—only to turn cautious and wary again when he looked away.
He held her hand as if he were afraid she might escape and, for a moment, Marsali was seized by uncertainty. More than twelve years separated the boy and the man. There was a hardness to him now, an aura of danger that she did not remember.
She wanted to put her arms around him, and feel his arms around her. She wanted the touch of his mouth, the comfort of his closeness. But their clans were at war. And while she told herself he was still Patrick, her Patrick, her recent, bitter experience told her to be cautious. Her father had been willing to trade her to achieve his own ends. Her brother Gavin had supported him. So would not Patrick want to use her, too? Did not all men think of women as weapons to be used to wage their bloody wars?
She would be a fine trophy to flash before Gregor Sutherland. It would please the marquis greatly if his heir were to bring home a Gunn hostage. And she knew her father would never give her up to a Sutherland without a fight.
Still, her hand tightened in his, clutching at the fading dreams. Her love. Her starcatcher. She had looked for that star every night and prayed for his safety. As long as it hung bright in the night sky, she had known he was safe.
But that was no longer enough.
Patrick pulled her to a halt beneath an old, gnarled oak. His arms crushed her to him as if he needed her as much as she had needed him. No man had ever held her like this, so close that she could feel every inch of his lean, hard body pressed to hers. He was so tall and strong. For an instant, she was afraid.
But the green gaze that regarded her so intently was familiar—and filled with hunger. She had never hoped that he loved her. It had always been sufficient that she loved him, and that he’d consented to their betrothal. Yet as she melted into his tight embrace, she realized that she wanted everything. Everything, including love, that Patrick could give her.
When his head slowly lowered, her heart started to race. She felt his hand at the small of her back tremble, and it astonished her to see a trace of uncertainty flash in his eyes. Surely this confident man who held her so boldly couldn’t be waiting for her permission.
Still, she gave it, whispering, “Patrick …”
An instant later, his lips seized hers.
It wasn’t the first time he’d kissed her. Six years ago, in saying goodbye, he’d held her hands and touched his lips to hers in a sweet parting. A gentle kiss. A passionless kiss. A kiss that was nothing at all like this.
And before she knew what was happening, fire was raging between them. The joining of their lips seemed to contain an energy so intense she thought she would be consumed by it. So much longing. And desperation—aye, that, too.
All doubts sank to the recesses of her mind as the heat between them intensified, and a need she’d never known before exploded into raw hunger. This was Patrick. And he was here, at last. Until that moment, she’d never realized how much she’d feared for him, how much she’d needed him, how deeply her spirit had yearned for him.
She knew it was madness to stay here with Patrick, when the result could be his death. Yet she couldn’t forgo the shelter of his arms. Nor could she force herself to end the heated flow of desire between them.
A deep growl rumbled in his chest. “Sweetness,” he whispered into her hair. “I dreamed of this.”
He had dreamed of her. It was so much more than she’d ever expected. Her legs trembled as his tongue touched her lips, then slipped inside her mouth. A wave of new sensations rushed through her. Yet she did nothing to discourage the intimate way he explored her. Instead, she found herself responding to his every touch.
Somehow, with what was left of her wits, she realized she was clinging to him, as if her life were forfeit. She heard the small, throaty sounds she was making. She felt his entire body shaking, and she felt the hard, vital evidence of his manhood pressed against her. She had heard servants talk; she knew where this was leading. And she wanted it, wanted to move even closer to him, to join her body intimately with his.
But she could not build her own happiness on the blood of others, especially not the blood of her kin and the kin of the man she loved.
She had to return to Abernie. She had to go through with the wedding.…
Tearing herself from Patrick’s embrace, Marsali uttered a pained, hopeless cry. Surprised, Patrick let her go, his arms dropping to his sides. His breathing was ragged as his eyes questioned her.
“I canna,” she said brokenly.
“We were pledged,” he replied, his voice hoarse. “You are mine, Marsali.”
The note of possessiveness in his voice, even given the feelings he aroused in her, stunned her. The flat, almost emotionless tone was so authoritative, so … certain. He’d become a stranger again, one who made decisions without consulting her.
“Our betrothal was broken,” she said quietly, “cried off by both families.”
“Not by me,” he said.
She studied him obliquely. “My father and Edward … they will go after your family,” she said.
“They will try.” Coldness underlined his voice. She had never feared him before, but now she wondered whether she knew him at all.
“Your father killed my aunt,” she said desperately.
“Nay, my father is as puzzled by her disappearance as any man, and, despite his faults, I do not think he would lie.”
“Not even with death as a consequence?”
“Not even then.”
Lifting her chin a notch, Marsali continued. “He accused my aunt of adultery.”
“He says there was proof,” Patrick replied.
“Nay,” she denied.
His eyes glittered with the hardness of stone, and she glimpsed what his enemies must have seen of Patrick Sutherland. The thought of him at war with her father and brother made her shiver.
Dear Mother in heaven. The wedding should have started by now. Everyone would be looking for the bride. When would they begin to suspect the Sutherlands?
“I have to return to Abernie,” she whispered.
“Jeanie said she would not help us if she wasn’t sure you didna want the wedding,” Patrick said flatly. “Was she wrong, lass? Do you want to wed Sinclair?”
“Aye,” Marsali said defiantly, even though she was certain the lie must be plain on her face.
“Because of your sister?” Patrick guessed.
“Because you and I can never be.”
He studied her for a moment, then, slowly, the tension left his face. He lifted his hand to trail a finger along her cheek. “You have become a beautiful woman,” he said quietly. “But then, I always knew you would.”
Her resolve melted under the words, under the intensity of his gaze, under the force of his demand for the truth. She leaned into his touch, craving it.
His hands were strong, she thought, from years of wielding a sword. But she could well destroy him, as well as both of their families, if she did not return.
“I agreed to the marriage with Edward,” she said as firmly as she could. “I gave him my troth.”
His hand trailed downward over her shoulder, her arm, until he took her hand in his. He squeezed her fingers, saying, “You had already given it to me with your words and, a minute ago, you gave it to me with your body. Your heart is mine, Marsali.”
“And your heart?” she asked.
A muscle flexed in his throat, but he said nothing, and she wondered for a moment whether he had come for her out of affection—or simply because she was a belonging he wasn’t ready to forfeit.
She pulled away and turned to gaze at the rocks, the hills, anything but the face made even more attractive to her by the character the years had given it. “Where would we go?”
“To Brinaire,” he said flatly.
“And Cecilia?”
“She will come with us. You will both be safe there.”
“Your father? He agrees?”
He hesitated long enough that she knew the answer.
“He will have to,” he said. “Or we will go to France. I have friends there.”
She turned and looked at him again. “And then our clans will fight one another. You know that. Many will die or starve because of us. Can you live with that?”
His mouth twisted. “They seem determined to fight now in any event.”
“But there has been naught but a few minor raids,” she said. “If I were to go with you, my father would not be satisfied with anything but blood. His pride—”
“Damn his pride!” Patrick burst out. “I canna stand aside and see you marry Sinclair. The man is a coward. And his wife’s death was more than a little odd.”
When she only stared at him, saying nothing, he sighed heavily and shoved his fingers through his thick, black hair. Her gaze followed the gesture, falling on the scar on his wrist that he’d gotten saving her ferret’s life so many years ago. Reaching out, she took Patrick’s hand in hers, her fingers touching the rough, white mark from the hawk’s talons. Its jagged length ran from the first knuckle of his fourth finger up his forearm to four inches past his wrist.
“Will you make an oath to me, Patrick Sutherland?” she asked, lifting her gaze to meet his.
“Aye,” he said, nodding slowly. “Anything but return you to Sinclair.”
“Send my sister away. Send her someplace safe. I know only my father’s friends.”
His gaze bore into hers. “I do know someone. Rufus’s family. I was wounded, and they cared for me. There are five sisters, as well as Rufus and an older brother and his wife. It is as fine a family as I’ve ever known—and as generous a one. They live in an old keep in the Lowlands and socialize very little, though they bear a fine name. Their clan is very loyal to them.”
“Will you see her safely there? Do you swear? No matter what happens between you and me?” She heard the desperation in her voice and saw, by the fierce glitter in his eyes, that he’d heard it, too.
“I swear it, lass,” he said.
“Thank you.” Marsali closed her eyes briefly.
She didn’t resist when he took her in his arms again, pulling her gently toward him. She leaned against him, listening to the beating of his heart, the fine strong rhythm of it, and savoring the warmth of his body.
For a long minute, she huddled within his embrace, trying not to think of Abernie Castle, trying not to imagine the worry everyone—everyone but Jeanie—must be feeling by now. Shortly, when a search of the castle didn’t turn up either her or Cecilia, panic would seize them. The two daughters of the keep gone without a trace.
She had to return. Still, she would not be returning the same person as she was when she left. Fear had turned into hope, if not happiness. Patrick had given her the means to refuse the marriage to Edward Sinclair. As long as she knew Cecilia was safe, no one would be able to force the words from her mouth. And by refusing marriage with Sinclair, she would break the alliance that would have crushed Patrick’s family. Her father could not attack the Sutherlands on his own. Perhaps a war could be prevented, after all.
