Page 11 of The Hawk Laird
She swallowed hard. Her lustrous, stricken gaze tugged at him oddly. “Have you ever done this before?”
“Nay. But I have seen it done, and I have had it done to me. A field surgeon once pushed a barbed arrow through my leg.” Even with the benefit of a few drams ofaqua vitae, the pain had been considerable, he recalled. “We should go down to the kitchen for the task. And we need water and wine—a good deal of the last if you have any left in your stores.”
She shook her head. “The wine is gone, but our well water is still clear, if low. We can cleanse the wound, at least.”
“Have you herb simples?” he asked. “Willow, or valerian? Is there salt left? A saltwater poultice would be helpful if there is naught else to use.”
“After ten weeks of siege, we are fortunate to have water and a few grains of barley left.” She touched the back of his hand, her gaze entreating. “Take it out now. Here.”
He frowned, puzzled. “’Twill be easier in the kitchen. I will need to cauterize the wound since there are no medicines.”
“Can you do it here?” She looked down. “I do not want the others to see. My men think me strong. You will be the only one to see the truth…I do not have the courage for this.”
He turned his hand to take her fingers. “You are stronger than you think, I suspect,” he murmured. “But so be it. We will do it here if that is what you want.” He peeled down her sleeve. She glanced at him while he examined the wound. “’Tis so dark. How can you see?”
“Well enough. I am called after a hawk,” he said lightly, “not a mole.”
“I do not like darkness much. Can we sit closer to the moonlight?” A tremor in her voice made him glance at her sharply. His fingers, upon her arm, sensed the quiver that ran through her body; he felt a cold, strong stream of fear in her.
“Aye,” he said softly, wondering if the daunting prospect of the arrow removal had made her so fretful. He helped her to shift more directly beneath the arrow slit. The moon cast a bright, cool light through the window.
He frowned as he returned his attention to the wound. He would have preferred her to be deep in her cups when he took out the arrow tip, for the thing was wickedly made. The broadhead, which he had felt through her thin flesh, was wider than his thumb and barbed like a double thorn. The removal would not be easy no matter how he did it.
He encircled her arm with his hand and felt tension thrum through her like a plucked harp string. He murmured a few words of reassurance and felt her begin to relax under his touch. She glanced at him, a quick look of innocence and pleading, and closed her eyes, leaning back against the wall.
Touching her, watching her, he felt her courage, fragile but definite. She did not know its existence, but he did. And he saw something more, too: she placed her trust in him. He was humbled by that. So few trusted him now.
Ironic, he thought. He had come to Aberlady to use the prophetess to regain the trust he had lost. Yet all he saw in her eyes was trust; he felt suddenly ashamed of his purpose here.
Isobel gave James a tremulous smile. A feeling flared inside of him, brighter than the moonlight, then faded before he could grasp its enticing warmth.
“Do it,” she whispered. “Now, James Lindsay.”
He watched her hard, thin collarbones rise and fall with her rapid breaths, and looked at the broken arrow shaft jutting cruelly out of her slender arm. He unlaced the wide leather arrow guard that he wore around his left forearm and handed it to her.
“You might want to bite on that,” he said.
She nodded stiffly and slipped the leather piece between her teeth. He angled her torso in preparation for his task. As he moved her, she whimpered and squeezed her eyes shut.
He knelt beside her and took her right arm above the elbow. With his other hand, he gripped the broken arrow shaft.
“Easy, now, Isobel,” he murmured.
Eyes closed, teeth pressed to the folded leather, she waited with gentle, shining courage. He admired her bravery and wondered why she did not see it in herself. She glowed with it, like a flame inside a horn lantern.
He drew a breath and sighted the angle carefully, wary of hitting bone. Then he shoved the arrow through, fast and hard. The bladed iron tip burst through her flesh. Isobel cried out once, a low, guttural sound that ripped through his heart.
Biting his lip, aware that he hurt her dreadfully, James pushed the rest of the broken, bloody shaft through her arm and pulled it free.
The leather piece dropped from her lips and her head sagged forward against his chest. Her head rolled in a drunken sort of agony, her breathing ragged and fierce. But she neither screamed nor swooned.
“Soft, you,” he whispered. “Soft, now. ’Tis done. You did well, lass.” He touched her head, smoothing his fingers over thesilkiness of her hair, and pressed the folded cloth to the fresh wound. She uttered a raw gasp and grew silent.
No matter what else he thought of her, he could not forget the way she had endured the ordeal. He encircled her back with one arm and held the wadded cloth against the wound.
Isobel leaned against him so heavily that he feared she had passed out. She turned her head, reassuring him. Her small, tremulous sob stirred a rush of compassion through him.
He murmured as he held her, soft phrases that he had used while training his hawks, or while loving a woman. He had not uttered such phrases in years, for he had not kept a hawk in a long time—and the last few women he had loved with his body had heard no such tender words from him.
