Hawk trained his eyes on the floor. He took a deep breath. “Nay, my king. I fear I did not express myself clearly.” Hawk paused and swallowed hard. “What I meant was ‘no, you’ve been too good to me already.’ “The lie burned his lips and left the taste of charred pride on his tongue. But it kept Dalkeith safe.
James chuckled, grandly amused by the Hawk’s quick capitulation as he enjoyed anything that showcased the extent of his kingly powers. The Hawk reflected bitterly that once again James held all the cards.
When James spoke again, his voice dripped venom. “Fail to wed the Comyn’s daughter, Hawk Douglas, and We will wipe all trace of Douglas from Scotia. Not one drop of your bloodline will survive unless you do this thing.”
It was the same threat James had always used to control Hawk Douglas, and the only one that could have been so ruthlessly effective, over and over again.
Hawk bowed his head to hide his anger.
He’d wanted to choose his own wife. Was that so much to ask? During his fifteen years of service the thought of choosing a woman of his own, of returning to Dalkeith and raising a family far from the corruption of James’s court, had kept his dreams alive despite the king’s efforts to sully and destroy them, one by one. Although the Hawk was no longer a man who believed in love, he did believe in family and clan, and the thought of spending the rest of his days with a fine woman, surrounded by children, appealed to him immensely.
He wanted to stroll the seaside and tell stories to his sons. He wanted lovely daughters and grandchildren. He wanted to fill the nursery at Dalkeith. Och, the nursery, the thought stung him; this new realization more bitter and painful than anything the king had ever done to him. I can never fill the nursery now—not if my wife bears seeds of madness!
There would be no wee ones—at least not legitimate ones—for the Hawk. How could he bear never holding a child of his own?
Hawk had never spoken of his desire for a family; he’d known that if James found out, he’d eradicate any hope of it. Well, somehow James had either found out or had decided that since he hadn’t been able to have the wife he wanted, neither could the Hawk.
“Raise your head and look at Us, Hawk,” James commanded.
Hawk raised his head slowly and fixed the king with lightless eyes.
James studied him then turned his brilliant gaze on Red Comyn and appended a final threat to ensure cooperation, “We will destroy the Comyn, too, should this decree be defied. Hear you what We say, Red Comyn? Don’t fail Us.”
Laird Comyn appeared oddly disturbed by James’s command.
Kneeling before James’s court, the Hawk subdued the last of his rebellious thoughts. He acknowledged the pitying stares of the soldiers with whom he’d served; the sympathy of Grimm’s gaze; the complacent hatred and smug mockery of lesser lords who’d long resented the Hawk’s success with women, and accepted the fact that he would marry Janet Comyn even if she was a toothless, ancient, deranged old crone. Hawk Douglas would always do whatever it took to keep Dalkeith and all her people safe.
The gossip mill had churned out endless stories of Janet Comyn, a crazed spinster, imprisoned because she was incurably mad.
As Hawk trod the cobbled walkway to the entrance of Dalkeith, he laughed aloud at the false image he’d created in his mind of Mad Janet. He realized that James had obviously known no more about her than anyone else, because James never would have bound the Hawk to such a woman had he known what she was truly like. She was too beautiful, too fiery. James had intended Hawk to suffer, and the only way a man would suffer around this woman was if he couldn’t get his hands on her, if he couldn’t taste her kisses and enjoy her sensual promise.
Hawk had expected nothing like the shimmering, silken creature of passionate temperament he’d found at the forge. He’d sent Grimm on the last day to wed the lass by proxy, fully intending to ignore her when she arrived. He’d made it clear that no one was to welcome her. Life would go on at Dalkeith as if nothing had changed. He’d decided that if she was half as mad as the gossips claimed, she probably wouldn’t even be able to understand that she was married. He’d concluded he could surely find some way to deal with her, even if it meant confining her somewhere, far from Dalkeith. James had ordered him to wed, he had said nothing about sharing living quarters.
Then, he’d laid eyes upon “Mad” Janet Comyn. Like an impassioned goddess she’d flayed him with her words, evidencing wit handfasted to unearthly beauty. No lass he could recall had stirred in him the tight, clenching hunger he’d suffered when he’d caressed her with his eyes. While she’d been caressing that damned smithy with hers.