Page 18 of The Hawk Laird
He leaned forward. “Are you blind, lass? There is fire all around you! We do not have time for a wee chat.”
She gaped at him. He could not think why.
“For now, I am your champion,” he muttered sourly. “Later you may call me something else, if you like.”
He bent down and scooped her into his arms. Then he strode through the smoldering, fire-spitting gate and headed across the bailey amid a shower of bright sparks.
She might havedone him the courtesy of passing out, James thought, as he climbed hand over hand down a sturdy knotted rope ladder. Then he could have carted her down the cliff as he had wanted to do, slung over his shoulder, head down. Both he and Henry Rose had argued with her that she should let James carry her draped over his shoulder; a little time like that would not harm her, they had said. But Isobel had protested the idea stubbornly, and James had relented.
He had also given in to her insistence that she needed spare clothing and other items. Their escape had been further delayed while Isobel and Eustace had gone off to collect her things in a cloth bundle, which Eustace now carried down the cliffside.
Although she had not complained, James saw the traces of fatigue and starvation on her face. He was keenly aware of her physical weakness as she rode in his arms. She was a well-made girl, but hunger and injury had left her scant strength. And he heard every groan of pain that she tried to suppress.
He glanced to either side and saw the other men, lowering along lengths of rope nearby, moving silent and steady over the jagged rockface. All of those who had come out of Aberlady were weakened by the strain of the siege. James had reminded his men, who were fit and rested, to usher Aberlady’s survivors down the cliffside with care.
He glanced back at Isobel. “How do you fare?” he asked.
“I do not envy birds,” she said wryly, her pale face inches from his own. She was face to face with him, her legs circling his hips and her uninjured left arm around his neck. James had fastened her to him with a rope harness, like a bear cub toits mother, leaving his arms and legs free to manage the rope ladder.
“Ah, then, I promise we will not fly,” he said with a half laugh. Isobel grimaced and glanced down, and the grip of her arm became choking strong. “Do not look down,” he said quickly. “Be at ease. You are safe.” She loosened her hold around his neck and tucked her face against his shoulder.
The cliffside was high, raw rock, plunging straight down in some places. The northern face, where they descended, was steep and jagged. Mossy ledges and crevices provided hand and foot holds, some large enough to stand upon. Each man proceeded carefully; in the moonlight, a loose bit of turf or rock could be mistaken for a secure hold. Mist drifted over the cliff face in torn, gauzy veils, making the descent even more dangerous.
James and his men had climbed upward in fading daylight, using ropes fastened to scaling forks, which they tossed up as they went. The downward climb was a greater challenge than James had anticipated. During the hours in the castle, he and the men had created two long rope ladders, and had added sturdy knots along the lengths of the other ropes to aid climbing. But the going was slow and dangerous, for the ropes were not long enough to reach the ground. The lines, secured to the iron forks, had to be loosened and reattached in different places, while the climbers waited on narrow ledges.
James glanced toward the ground and saw its dark expanse beneath the mist. He looked upward at the castle, perched high overhead, its blazing walls casting a reddish glow into the night sky. Moonlight both helped and hindered them. If they could see their way, then the enemy could see them as well. Only the treacherous mists and darkness protected them.
James knew that the English could discover their escape at any moment, and attack them on the cliffside, where they wouldbe most vulnerable. He hoped that the blaze would so distract the enemy that they would neglect to send a patrol around the area until the cliff face was again deserted.
Cold wind whipped his hair into his eyes, and he turned his head to clear his vision. He went down another rung, easing his weight onto the bouncing brace of the rope. The girl’s weight was not a burden, though her long legs and her injured arm, strapped tightly, proved awkward to balance. His quiver and bow thumped against his back in the wind, and he paused on the ladder, gripping it firmly with one hand. He rested his other arm and hand around her hips while he caught his breath.
Another strong breeze blew past, and he heard Isobel gasp softly. Her hair unfurled like a banner, weaving a dark curtain with his own. The next gust of wind knocked them roughly against the cliff side. Isobel cried out as her arm slammed against the rock. She buried her face in his shoulder with a ragged whimper. He turned to shield her from the driving force of the wind, and held still to allow her a moment to recover. She sucked in a breath and raised her head, nodding to him to go on.
“Bonny lass,” he said with approval. He glanced down to find the next rung. “’Twill not be long now. We’re nearly there.”
He was amazed to hear Isobel laugh, a frightened, doubtful little squeak, but a laugh nonetheless. He half smiled as he resumed his descent.
Isobel knew thatshe should feel terrified, but she felt strangely secure, wrapped in a cocoon of rope and cloaks, held firm against the outlaw’s hard, solid body. She laid her head in the hollow of his shoulder and studied his clean profile, silhouetted against the moon.
She had already discovered that she could not look down at the dark expanse of ground below the cliff. Nor could she look up at the castle, where a hot red light spread into the dark sky; thesight of her burning home hurt far too much. And any glance to right or left, at the others who made their way down ropes, sent chills of fear through her.
Nor could she close her eyes completely—never that, for then the world became an uncertain, frightening place, full of darkness and sharp, unending pain.
So she looked at the outlaw and discovered an odd sort of safety in danger. His strength held their combined weights with ease, and his long reach and powerful muscles made the awful descent seem effortless.
Isobel was utterly dependent upon his strength, his ability, and his goodwill. She had no choice but to trust him—for now. She rested her cheek against his shoulder and felt his muscled body shift, solid and reliable and warm, against hers.
James paused on the rope, breathing hard as he summoned the strength to continue. Isobel looked at him.
“How do you fare?” she asked, as he had so often asked her.
He nodded brusquely. “Well enough. We’re nearly there.” He sank to the next rung.
She felt a stirring, profound excitement. They hovered between heaven and earth, between night and dawn. Tied to him in a strange intimacy—cheeks touching, breaths mingling, abdomens pressed together, hearts thumping in tandem—Isobel felt protected, and more. Lindsay held her life in his hands and risked his own life and safety to help her.
His legs worked beneath her, thighs pushing gently, rhythmically, into her hips. His arms stretched around her to grip the rope as he moved steadily downward.
Finally his feet struck flat on the ground. James released the ladder and stepped away from the massive curtain of rock that towered over them. He supported her in his arms, and stood for a moment, his cheek against hers, his breath ragged as he gathered his strength.
