Page 13 of The Hawk Laird
James crossed the room behind Eustace, aware of the warm, easy pressure of Isobel’s weight in his arms. Her hand was soft at his neck, her torso close and curving, her slender legs draped easily over his forearm. When he shifted her for balance, she laid her head lightly upon his shoulder.
He sucked in a breath, wishing she was strong enough to walk. He was too aware of her soft, satiny textures, her flowery scent, her luxurious warmth. She rode like an angel in his arms.
He would have preferred a hell-hag. When he had set out to find the prophetess of Aberlady, he had expected a shrewish, manipulative woman, a perfect mate for Leslie. Instead, he found a gentle, brave girl and her garrison, all in need of help.
But he could not let this sway his original plan. He must hold Isobel Seton hostage long enough to free his cousin, and in the process bring revenge upon Leslie’s head.
James claimed to be her champion, but he intended to be her captor. He felt a keen twinge of guilt. However briefly, she had given him her full trust. The sensation had been sweet and refreshing, unlike the heavy, raw taste of revenge.
He set his jaw and hardened his gaze as he followed Eustace up the stairs, holding Isobel in his arms. Guilt be damned. A long while had passed since he had allowed his sins to bother him. He would not begin now.
Chapter Four
The faint rumblethat woke her was not the low growl of thunder, as she thought at first, but the sound of men’s voices. Isobel opened her eyes, blinked away a fog of sleep, and looked around.
She was alone in the huge, stone-vaulted kitchen, lying on a pallet in a corner near the warm hearth. Voices floated up the stairwell from the storage chamber, and although she could not distinguish the words, she recognized the tones of a few of Aberlady’s men.
An hour or two—perhaps more—had surely passed since Isobel had fallen asleep on the pallet of blankets and straw in the corner of the kitchen. The hearth fire blazed at a low fever, but the iron kettle, suspended inside the arched fireplace, was empty. The men had devoured the soup that they had prepared themselves from the barley broth and the rabbit meat.
James Lindsay and Eustace had insisted that Isobel have some as well. The soup strengthened her, although she had no appetite after James had treated her wounds.
She winced sharply at the vivid memory. He had touched the red-hot tip of his dirk to her wounds to burn out the bad humors and seal the flesh. The agony had caused her to black out for a few moments. She had come to awareness with his arms around her, and his soothing voice in her ear.
“Forgive me,” he had said softly. She had, silently, for she knew that serious wounds had to be cauterized if no medicines were available.
Now, as she sat awake and alone, his warm embrace seemed like a deeply comforting dream that could not be recaptured.
Moving slowly, she sat up and leaned against the wall, wincing at the ache in her arm and foot. Long strips of linen cloth bound her bent arm securely against her side and waist; her ankle, too, was more firmly bound. James had added the outer bandaging before she had fallen asleep. Now she found that the support lessened the discomfort when she moved.
Looking around, Isobel noticed a yellow flash sail past the window on the other side of the room. Fire arrows, she thought with a heavy sigh. She pushed herself to her knees and stood, her movements stiff and awkward. Biting her lip as her injured foot took the weight of a step, she limped to the window.
As she moved, she felt lightheaded. Likely that was caused by hunger and the strain of her situation, she thought. She breathed slowly, and when she felt steadier, she leaned forward to look out through the open window.
The bailey yard was a vast, dark field, surrounded by the vague moonlit shapes of the high curtain wall and outbuildings. Isobel narrowed her eyes and looked around. In the far corner of the curtain wall, near the postern door that opened on the edge of the cliff, she saw a few men from Aberlady’s garrison with one or two of the renegades. The men seemed intently occupied with several ropes, although she could not tell what they did there.
Two more blazing arrows sailed through the night, trailing flames and smoke, and landed in the bare earth of the bailey, quickly burning out. Isobel glanced toward the battlement, but the angle made it difficult to see if the garrison returned the shots. The bailey seemed empty but for smoking arrows.
“My lady? Excuse me, my lady.”
Startled, Isobel turned. A young man entered the kitchen from the stairwell and came toward her with long, loping steps.His russet tunic sagged on his thin, gangly frame, and the firelight made a dark halo of his curling, tangled brown hair.
He stopped, his cheeks flushing. “Jamie Lindsay sent me here to see to your welfare, my lady, and if you are ill, I am to fetch him straight away.”
“I am fine,” she said.
“Then I am to watch you close and wait for his signal.” He peered at her. “Are you truly Black Isobel the prophetess?”
“You need not stare so,” she said, amused. “I will not vanish in fire and brimstone.”
The boy’s cheeks, faintly whiskered, blushed deeply. “Pardon, my lady.” He cleared his throat as if embarrassed. “I did not mean to offend.”
“No pardon needed. What is your name?”
“Geordie Shaw. I’m cousin to the hero Wallace,” he added proudly.
“You are with the brigands? How old are you?”
“Fifteen summers,” he said. “I’ve been with Jamie for more than a year. My father was with him too. We ran with him and with Wallace. Da died,” he said gruffly, looking down. “Six months ago. ’Twas a braw fight that day. He died well fighting Southrons.”
