Page 12 of The Hawk Laird
Nearly forgotten, endlessly gentle, the words streamed from his lips. He spoke to Isobel as if he held his beloved, not a woman who had conspired against him. The warm embrace felt like a fit of glove to hand, bringing him comfort even as he gave that to her.
Startled by his reaction, he released her and helped her to sit up.
“Thank you.” Her voice was faint and hoarse as she leaned against the wall, eyes closed.
James pressed the cloth to her wound and watched her carefully. Her breathing gradually calmed, and color came back into her lips and cheeks.
Even ravaged by pain and distress, she was elegant and delicate, wrapped in cool light and shadow. Her brows and lashes were black against her pale, creamy skin. The thin moonlight revealed the square shape of her face, wide at cheekbones and jaw, curved at the chin, with a full, gentle mouth. Her face combined strength and fragility in exquisite balance, enhanced by her extraordinary eyes.
Her bare shoulder and throat were thin, revealing the bony grace beneath the skin. The long limbs beneath the drape of her gown, and the well-defined frame of her shoulders and hips, told him that she was a tall, strong woman.
She reminded him, suddenly, of a female goshawk he had captured and trained years ago. Strong-willed, powerful, and beautiful, the bird had remained partly wild, and yet had given him her exclusive loyalty. He had mourned her when she was gone. He frowned; he had not thought of her in a long while.
He tore a second strip of cloth from the first and wrapped it around Isobel’s arm, tying it in place. “That should do for now,” he said as he pulled the neck of her gown higher. “Let me see your ankle.”
She sat forward. “’Tis not so bad,” she said. She pulled the skirt of her gown higher to reveal her left foot, bandaged in white silk over her bloodied woolen stocking. Awkwardly, using her left hand, she undid the silk and peeled down the hose, biting her lip to smother a wince.
James took over the task from her and carefully pushed the stocking past her long, slender ankle, shoving down the collar of her low boot. Just above the outer ankle, an ugly slash marked where a passing arrow had sliced through the skin.
“This was done by a crossbow bolt,” he said. “I saw the shot. You were fortunate it did not shatter the bone.” As he spoke, he pressed the torn linen against the wound. She drew in a sharp, whistling breath.
James tied the cloth in place and pulled up her hose, tucking the top under the braided silk garter above her knee. Her leg and ankle, he noted, were lean and hard as a lad’s, the bones elegantly shaped.
He stood and held out his hands in an offer to lift her. “I’ll take you down to the keep now. I will cauterize the wounds, andI want you to eat and rest. You are weak from this ordeal, and you have fasted too long.”
“I have not fasted by choice,” she grumbled, and refused his hands, rising slowly to her feet, one hand on the wall, swaying when she stood upright. She stepped forward, and her cry of pain tore through James. He growled and swept her up into the cradle of his arms, though she protested hoarsely.
He carried her down the tower steps and out into the bailey and strode across the shadowed yard. A few English-sprung arrows sailed over the wall and whacked into the earth not far from them. James stopped to make sure the way was clear, and glanced up at his men, who stood sentry on the moonlit battlement.
Isobel looked up as he did. “The English shoot at us almost every night,” she said. “We ignore the attacks as much as we can since we lack the men to return each shot.”
“The siege commander has a relentless sense of duty.”
Isobel tipped her head and watched him. “James Lindsay,” she said. “Did the English send you here to capture us and bring us out of here into custody?”
He stopped, holding her in his arms, and stared down at her. “I do not take orders from Southrons,” he snapped.
“Did Sir Ralph Leslie send you here, then?”
“No one sent me. I came here of my own accord.”
“Now why would the so-called Hawk Laird do that?” she asked softly.
“To rescue the prophetess,” he said irritably.
Isobel’s gaze was wary. “I do not believe you. There is more on your mind than rescue.”
He walked on through the bailey without replying. He knew that her trust in him faded as her suspicions grew. Some needy part of him regretted the loss, but he could not blame her.
Apart from the rescue, she should not trust him at all.
When he reached the tower in the center of the bailey, he looked up. Like many castles, the upper level, where the great hall and living quarters would be located, had no direct access; the upper door stood bolted, its stout ladder removed. He went toward the back wall of the keep, where he saw a narrow door hidden in the shadows.
The door swung open. Sir Eustace Gibson motioned them forward. “This way. My lady?” he inquired softly.
“I am fine,” she answered.
James followed Eustace through a wide, dark storage chamber. The room was bare except for empty grain sacks, upturned wooden crates, and a pile of sturdy rope. Torchlight illuminated some steps in an alcove.
