Page 17 of The Hawk Laird
James felt a compelling urge to touch her—a hand to her shoulder, a finger to that shining tear, some gesture of comfort. But he held back, fisting his hand against the craving.
And he waited, silent and still, while a slender, ebony-haired girl cradled a pale rose amid destruction.
In some detached, philosophical part of his mind, long ago trained by scholarly monks to see the symbolism in all things, he realized that heaven and hell existed in perfect duality here in this ravaged garden, in the gentle, lovely girl, in the pure rose, and in the darkness and the inferno that surrounded them.
A blaze that he had caused.
“Isobel,” he said. He felt emotion constrict his throat but went on. “Years ago, I lost my own castle when the English set it afire. Those—those who were inside were killed—my kin, my men, my—” He stopped.
She glanced at him. “You know how I feel,” she said softly. “You suffered even worse. And yet you set Aberlady afire.”
“Aye,” he said gruffly.
“I know you had no choice,” she whispered.
He nodded silently. He had felt hollow, black inside when he shot that fire arrow toward the thatch. Devastating memories, six years past, had sparked again with that burst of flame. But he had locked them away. He had no time, no strength inside to let them out.
Watching Isobel, he would have preferred her to shout at him, to call him vile names, to echo his anger and tap the darkness that he carried inside himself.
But her poignant sadness tugged at him, challenged him, unsettled him. She stood there holding that sooty, bedraggled white rose, and he suddenly wanted—something, and could not name it. He had not felt this raw, this open, in years.
Then she glanced up at him, and he saw in her translucent eyes that she bore no grudge toward him for setting the torch to Aberlady. He saw, God help him, forgiveness.
He turned away.
For one long, dreadful instant, he felt as if the hard casing around his heart began to crack. With the next breath, he willed the gap sealed again.
He reminded himself why he had come in search of the prophetess of Aberlady, and why he had found it expedient to fire her castle. Isobel Seton might be distressed, in need, and impossibly lovely. But he reminded himself that she was the only pawn he had, and he must use her as he had already schemed.
“The policy of scorched earth is sanctioned by the Guardians of the Realm of Scotland,” he said coldly. “’Tis a necessary action to prevent the English from taking Scottish properties.”
He turned back toward her.
She blinked at him; those sad, magnificent eyes nearly undid him.
“I know,” she said. “But I—I hoped my castle would be spared.”
“The Southrons ready their engines to knock down your gates in the morn. You were willing to defend these walls for weeks to keep them out. I have ensured that they will stay out, for now at least, for the good of Scotland, and your welfare.” His tone was sharp.
She frowned. He saw her temper blossom then, a hard blue spark in her limpid eyes. “I thought the Hawk Laird had only his own good in mind,” she snapped.
He felt the jab keenly, startled that her words could wound him so easily. But he felt on more certain ground with anger and conflict than with her sadness, her softness.
Many shared the opinion of him that she had just voiced. After all, his new reputation as a traitor had begun with this girl’s own words, months ago. His temper surged.
“Come ahead,” he said abruptly, taking her uninjured arm to pull her toward the gate.
She stood her ground. “Why would my welfare matter to you? ’Tis said the Hawk Laird is loyal only to himself. They say—”
“I know what they say,” he barked. He glanced through the burning frame of the gate. The fire in the bailey, which lit up the dark sky, had consumed the outbuildings and now encroached on the tower. In the shadows by the back wall, he saw his men, and Aberlady’s garrison, waiting.
“Come,” he said firmly, taking her right wrist. “We have to get out of here. Now.”
She resisted his tug. Fiery light gleamed on her fine-boned cheeks and in her glossy dark hair as she looked up at him. “Why did you come here, James Lindsay?” she asked.
“I came to rescue you, whether or not you believe that,” he snapped impatiently.
“I do not believe it,” she said. “There is more. Tell me what ’tis.”
