They rode in tense silence that night, Ramsay at the head of the small company, Anna and Evangeline following behind and Hugues at the rear. It seemed that Ramsay’s grim mood was infectious, for no one broke the silence. The night was overcast and chilly, the low clouds threatening at least a drizzle of rain.
It was a miserable ride, but what troubled Evangeline more was the discord between herself and Ramsay. She missed him as if their ways had parted forever, though they still rode together. She wanted him to tease her, or provoke her. She wanted to see that gleam in his eyes or the slow curve of his smile.
Had she been too quick to refuse him?
Should she not be certain of what he felt for this Alienor first?
Perhaps she should appeal to him whenever they halted. Perhaps she should try to convince him to reform his ways—or at the very least, she might ask for the fullness of the tale of Alienor.
For as they rode in silence, Evangeline realized that a future with Ramsay, even if his desire for her was less than hers for him—had to be better than a life without any promise of seeing him again.
* * *
Michael Lammergeier,the Hawk of Inverfyre, dreamed of Abernye.
At five and sixty summers, he found his dreams turned to the past. He would awaken with the taste of the salt of the sea on his lips, remembering Sicily where he had been raised. He would see the silhouette of Ravensmuir on its tall cliff before he opened his eyes, Ravensmuir as it had been when first he glimpsed it, before the fire that destroyed it and claimed Tynan’s life, before Malcolm had rebuilt it. Indeed, he had never seen Malcolm’s Ravensmuir from the vantage of an approaching ship.
And on this night, he dreamed of Abernye, a keep he had seldom visited after the first time. There had been no reason to return there, not with his beloved fast by his side. Abernye had been Aileen’s home, her father’s holding, and the Hawk had ridden there in search of its greatest prize: the unwed daughter of the house.
He dreamed of Abernye, of that first night, of that first glimpse of the maiden who would convince him that their match was destined, their love foretold, the woman who would conquer him, body and soul.
He saw Aileen again as he had first glimpsed her across her father’s hall and fairly tasted her awareness of his perusal. He saw her gaze lift to his and felt the shock as their gazes met and locked. Aye, there had been an allure between them from the first, one that shook him to wakefulness, one that made only the moments in her presence those when he felt truly alive.
Such a beauty. He remembered how startled he had been, for the rumor had been that she was plain, that she was cursed, that she was frosty, even that she was manly. But she was lovely. Lithe and slender, a cool wariness in those eyes, she had been unlike other maidens he had met. He had recognized a fellow hunter, in her watchfulness and grace. But he had found no shortcomings in her appearance. Her hair was the hue of honey, so lustrous that he yearned to plunge his fingers into its silk. Her features were delicate, the set of her lips resolute.
And she watched him as if uncertain of his objectives, her perceptiveness clear from the first. Her father had no suspicions of the Hawk’s presence or objectives, but Aileen had known.
He had known, without even speaking to her, that the tales of her inherited taint of madness were all lies.
He had approached her first when she had been warning her father, demanding an explanation for the Hawk’s unanticipated arrival. He smiled in recollection of the heat that had suffused him when he laid his hand on the back of her waist, the feel of her beneath his palm, the resonance of her shiver.
Yet she had not stepped away. She had pivoted to face him, eyes bright with challenge, lips taut with a disapproval he yearned to kiss away.
He had not been a man who charmed women, a rogue who seduced those maidens whose favors were not his due. In those days, he had been consumed with reclaiming and rebuilding Inverfyre. His thoughts had been of war and conquest, of legacy and security. He had come to Abernye in search of a bride, a healthy maiden who might give him sons, one over whose hand he would not have to compete to win. He thought the choice expedient.
But that first kiss, the one he had not been able to resist claiming, had changed all. One taste of Aileen had awakened a need to possess her, a kind of madness in his veins to seize her and claim her as his own. She had been so sweet, so reluctant, so irresistible, both new and familiar.
And when he lifted his head, she had called him Magnus.
The name had shaken him, though he knew she did not speak of another man. Their kiss stirred a vision, a memory of a shared past that held the key to their future together. He had not known that then. He had known only that he could not survive without her hand securely within his own.
The Hawk had recognized his destiny and the surety of that choice still filled his heart.
He awakened with that conviction in his heart, finding himself in the great bed at Inverfyre, the warmth of the lady in question curled against his side. Her hair was threaded with silver now and even in sleep, he could see the lines from laughter around her eyes. She was still lithe and strong, even after giving him five children, and her aim with a crossbow was not to be underestimated. She was a warrior, as fierce as he, and his heart clenched as he looked upon her, savoring every detail.
His beloved.
This day, they would ride out to Dunhaven, to witness the nuptials of their oldest daughter, but he would linger abed with his own bride
The Hawk raised a fingertip to her cheek, marveling anew that she had become his wife—though, in truth, he had granted her little choice in that matter—and smiling a little in recollection of those days. On this spring morning, he did not feel his advancing years as keenly as in winter’s chill, but still he had persistent aches that had not always been present. There was a gap of nineteen summers between himself and Aileen, a difference that had seemed of little relevance when they wed but one that weighed upon his thoughts more each passing year. That interval felt like a chasm between them, one that would yawn wide when he was compelled to step into the realm beyond, and she, she would be left behind. He hated that he could not choose the moment of his departure. He hated his sense that it drew near. He hated most of all that he would be without Aileen, and there was naught he could do about it.
She stirred then, just as the magnitude of his fear struck him, as if she heard the clamor in his heart. Her lashes fluttered and there was the vehement blue of her eyes, the seduction of her slow smile at the sight of him. Her gaze flicked over his features, seeing all, and he hid naught from her, letting her see his distress, weigh it and make whatever conclusion she did.
She eased closer, brushing her lips against his. “I dreamed of the night we met,” she confessed in a whisper and he drew her into his embrace.
“As did I,” he admitted. “At Abernye.” And he kissed her, claiming her once again with his touch as he had on the night in question.
When he lifted his head, Aileen was smiling at him and her eyes sparkled. “Naught changes,” she murmured, mischief dawning in her eyes. “Save that I now know what to expect.”
