Hawk's heart twisted in his chest. He'd found her, but why hadn't that erased his fear? Something nagged—a thing intangible, yet as real and potentially treacherous as the jagged cliffs of Dalkeith. There was an almost palpable odor of wrongness hovering in the air around the broch.
"Lass, what's wrong?" he asked. Every inch of him tensed as she stepped out of the shadows that darkened the east side of the squat tower. Half her face was deeply shadowed by the sun's descent, the other half was visibly pale in the fading light. Hawk suffered a fleeting moment of impossible duality; as though half her face was smiling while the other was drawn tightly in a grimace of pain. The macabre illusion chased a spear of foreboding through his heart.
He extended his hands, and when she didn't move from that strange half domino of light and darkness, he strode brusquely forward and pulled her into his arms.
"What ails you, sweet wife?" he demanded, gazing down at her. But he hadn't pulled her forward far enough. That hated shadow still claimed a full third of her face, concealing her eyes from him. With a rough curse he back-stepped until she was free of darkness. That shadow, that damned shadow from the broch had made him feel as if half of her was becoming insubstantial and she might melt right through his hands and he would be helpless to prevent it. "Adrienne!"
"I'm fine, Hawk," she said softly, sliding her arms around his waist.
As the fading light bathed her face, he felt suddenly foolish, wondered how he could have thought, even for a moment, that there was a shadow eclipsing her lovely face. There was no shadow there. Naught but her wide silver eyes brimming with love as she gazed up at him.
A trembling moment passed, then her lip curved in a sweet smile. She brushed a stray fall of dark hair back from his face and kissed his jaw tenderly. "My beautiful, beautiful Hawk," she murmured.
"Talk to me, lass. Tell me what fashes you so," he said roughly.
She flashed him a smile so dazzling that it muddled his thoughts. He felt his worries scattering like petals to the wind beneath the soft promises unspoken in that smile.
He brushed his lips to hers and felt that jolt of immediate response tingle through his body from head to toe. What shadow? Foolish fears, foolish fancy, he realized wryly. He was letting his imagination run wild at the slightest provocation. A silly shadow fell across her face and the great Hawk suffered visions of doom and desolation. Bah! No lass could smile like that if she was worried about something.
He took her lips in a brutal, punishing kiss. Punishing for the fear he'd felt. Punishing, because he needed her.
And she melted to him like liquid flames, molding and pressing herself against him with fierce urgency. "Hawk…" she whispered against his lips. "My husband, my love, take me… again, please."
Desire surged through his veins, conquering all traces of his panic. He needed no further encouragement. They had a few hours left to them before the man of God would bind them beneath the Samhain mantle. He pulled her toward the broch.
Adrienne stiffened instantly. "Nay, not in the broch."
So he took her to the stables. To a thick pile of sweet purple clover where they spent the remaining hours of the afternoon of their wedding like a beggar's precious last coins on a splendid feast.
* * *
CHAPTER 29
adrienne's wedding dress surpassed all of her childhood dreams. It was made of sapphire silk and elegant lace, with shimmery threads of silver embroidered at the neck, sleeves, and hem in patterns of twining roses. Lydia had produced it proudly from a sealed chest of cedar-lined oak; yet another of the Hawk's clever inventions. She'd aired it out, steamed it in a closed kitchen over vats of boiling water, then lightly scented it with lavender. The gown clung at the bosom and hips, and fell to the floor in swirls of rich fabric.
It had been stitched by the Rom, Lydia told her as she and a dozen maids fussed over Adrienne, for Lydia's wedding to the Hawk's father. Lydia's wedding had also been celebrated at Dalkeith-Upon-the-Sea at the Beltane festival, before the same kind of double fires laid at the Samhain.
But Lydia had gone ahead now, up to the ridge. The maids were gone too, shooed on by Adrienne a quarter-hour past. It had taken every ounce of Adrienne's courage to get through the past few hours.
Lydia had been so elated, practically dancing around the room, and Adrienne had felt so wooden inside—forcing herself to pretend. She was about to do something that was guaranteed to make Lydia and Hawk despise her, and she had no other choice.
How could she bear the looks on their faces when she did it? How would she endure the hate and betrayal she would see in their eyes?
Adrienne stood alone in Lydia's lovely bedroom, amidst slowly cooling round irons and discarded choices for underthings and half-empty cups of tea, left undrunk in nervous anticipation.