Page 10 of The Hawk Laird
“If you like.”
Eustace frowned. “We have to trust you for now. So far you have proved helpful. But if you think to lead us into Southron hands by treachery—” He touched his hilt again.
“I mean to help you,” James said flatly.
“Judge him by what you know of him yourself, rather than by rumors,” Henry said. An English arrow whistled overhead then, and Henry pulled another shaft from his quiver, preparing to shoot.
James looked down. Far below, under the light of torches, a group of men shoved a massive wooden framework into position close to the castle walls.
“That mangonel will be ready for use come dawn,” he said. “’Tis stout enough to damage these walls. They mean to finish you off within a few days.”
“You came at our neediest moment,” Eustace said. “Lady Isobel welcomes your help, too. But she fears you will destroy her castle.”
“I will,” James said bluntly. “But we will all be free of here first.”
“Climbing down that cliff is a dangerous venture,” Eustace said.
“But it offers less risk than giving up to the enemy,” Henry Rose pointed out.
“Aye then.” Eustace nodded. “You should know that Lady Isobel loves this place dearly.”
James looked away. Years ago, the English had burned his castle. He knew the devastation of such a loss and more. In that terrible blaze, he had lost someone precious to him. He had no desire to fire Aberlady. But he had no choice.
“War brings sacrifice,” he said harshly. He glanced at Eustace. “When everyone has eaten, and the hour is late, we can make our escape. Go down to the kitchens with the garrison. My men will guard the walls, and I will fetch the lady and bring her to the keep.”
Eustace nodded. “We have ropes to help us scale the cliff. What else can we do?”
“Pray to God, sir,” James said.
Moonlight sliced throughthe narrow window opening as James opened the tower door. He stepped into the dark, bare little room, leaned his bow and his broadsword against the wall, and crossed the tiny space in two long strides.
Isobel Seton sat on the floor, her head bowed low, her black hair streaming over her shoulders. Blood darkened the sleeve of her gown. She curled forward, clearly suffering.
He dropped to one knee beside her. “How do you fare?”
“Well enough.” The words were soft and husky. She looked at him, her face pale in the moonlight, and he saw the keen burden of pain in her taut features. Sympathy whispered through him, and he touched her left, uninjured arm gently.
“The wounds are painful, I know, but you will recover quickly,” he said.
She watched him uncertainly. He noticed that her eyes were wide, large, and extraordinarily beautiful in the moonlight. In sunshine, James thought, they might be pale blue. Now they seemed opalescent, like captured moonlight. When she swept her dark, thick lashes down, a light seemed to extinguish.
“The noise of the arrow volleys has stopped,” she said.
“Aye, ’tis nearly full dark.”
“They often send random shots at our walls through the night.” She drew in a shaky breath. “Were any men hurt?”
“No men,” he said. “Just one woman. Let me look at your arm.” When he touched her right shoulder, she started and winced. “I am sorry,” he murmured.
She frowned, watching him with those great, pale, jewel-like eyes. He slit open the sleeves of her gown and chemise and bared her arm.
When he brushed the silken mass of her hair away, its cool luxury spilled over his hand. The skin of her neck and shoulder was smooth silk beneath his roughened fingertips. A soft, warm scent, womanly and sweet, tinted with roses, drifted up from her. James felt his gut spin and his loins contract impulsively with a swift, intense desire. He focused his thoughts and his gaze on the wound, forcing all else from his concentration.
The broken arrow shaft thrust viciously out of her upper arm. He took the base of the arrow shaft between two fingers and tugged gently. Isobel sucked in a sharp breath and bit her lip to stifle a cry. James murmured a quiet assurance and narrowed his eyes to judge the angle of the arrow.
A few probing touches, another tug on the base of the shaft, told him what he most dreaded: the removal would be difficult, and excruciating for her. He sighed and sat back on his haunches.
“The broadhead is wide and barbed,” he told her. “I cannot pull it out without doing grave damage to the muscle.” He paused. “I will have to push it through.”
