Page 22 of The Hawk Laird
Chapter Seven
Fierce shouts, thethwack of arrows finding targets, and the ringing clash of steel echoed behind her through the trees. Isobel found the reins with her left hand and yanked desperately. The horse ignored the command and galloped along the track, carrying her toward another part of the forest. Isobel curled forward to shield herself from whipping branches as the stallion swerved left and propelled through the trees.
Finally the horse slowed and came to a halt among leafy oak trees. His fetlocks were immersed in green ferns, his sides heaving and slick. Isobel leaned against his neck, shaking all over, her heart slamming in her chest. Her wounded arm hurt savagely as she tried to turn the horse, pulling hard. The stallion refused to move, though she tugged, cajoled, pressed with her knees, and even begged tearfully.
She bowed wearily over his neck in sheer frustration. In the stillness, she heard the wind shove through the trees and birds chitter. But she heard no sounds of a skirmish.
Lost and in pain, she sat uncertainly on a horse who possessed a stronger will than she did. Unable to command him, she felt too weak to dismount and tend to him properly.
She patted the horse’s broad neck, spoke calmly to him, and attempted to turn him again. The stallion moved in a stubborn circle and began to crop a patch of grass beneath a tree.
Isobel sighed and looked around. They were on a long slope thick with trees and bracken, the forest track was out of sight somewhere, and the light had begun to fail. Increasinglyalarmed, Isobel tugged on the reins again. The horse whickered, bowed his head, and simply would not move. She yanked at the reins, rocked on his back, and grew close to losing her temper as she strained to turn him.
“Och, now, lass.” She heard a deep, quiet voice, so familiar that she felt a surge of relief. “He’s as tired as you are. Give him time, and he’ll do what you wish.”
She whipped around and saw James Lindsay leaning against a tree, watching her, a bemused look on his face. In the thickening shadows, he seemed to blend into the forest that surrounded him, a long, lean figure in leather and muted green, strong and straight as an oak.
“James! Oh, James!” she burst out. She was so relieved to see him here, and unharmed, that tears welled in her eyes. She dashed her hand over her face as he strode forward. “Where are the others?” she asked. “What happened? Did English attack us?”
“Aye. Our men fought well and chased them off.” He reached up to pat the horse’s neck, murmuring to him. Then he walked back to examine the horse’s flank, where the small cut from the arrow tip bled slightly. “Are you hurt?” he asked her.
“Nay. The horse ran off. I could not stop him, and then I could not find the path. I thought I was well and truly lost.”
“You’re safe now.” He went back to the horse’s head and patted its wide nose gently, murmuring low.
“How is Geordie?” she asked.
He paused. “He’s badly hurt. The arrow went into his back. Eustace offered to take him to Stobo—he says the priest there will help the lad. Henry Rose went with them.”
“Good. Where are the others?”
“Patrick and Quentin followed the Southrons to learn which patrol they were. I do not think they were Clifford’s men, come from Aberlady, but ’tis possible. Most of your men went withthem.” He came closer, resting a hand on the horse’s neck. “Isobel,” he murmured. “Two of Aberlady’s garrison were killed. I am sorry. Eustace said they were his cousins.”
Isobel gasped. “Thomas and Richard Gibson?”
“Aye.” His hand was gentle on the horse, and his gaze was steady on hers. She saw keen regret in his eyes. “Eustace and Henry are taking their bodies to Stobo with Geordie.”
She nodded. Tears stung her eyes and she looked away, feeling a piercing sadness. “Thomas and Richard fought well at Aberlady, only to lose their lives after—after escaping.”
James’s long fingers traced through the horse’s mane. “Sometimes life is bitter, lass,” he murmured. “We must have faith that the sweetness will return someday.”
“Aye,” she whispered. His fingers grazed over hers, warm and dry and strong, pressing her hand briefly.
“Eustace said you know this priest in Stobo,” he said.
She nodded. “Father Hugh has been the priest serving Aberlady all my life. He will see that Thomas and Richard are honored, and he’ll see to Geordie too.”
“Good.” James stepped sideways and leaped up behind her in one quick, lithe movement. His torso was warm and solid against her back, his arms encircled her, and his long thighs pressed hers. When he reached past her to lift the reins, she allowed herself to lean back against his strength.
He tightened the reins and directed the horse to turn. The animal responded easily to his command and carried them down the slope and along the path.
“We’ll go back where I left my horse,” he said. “Are you well enough to ride on? ’Twill be dark soon, and the going will be hard after that.”
“I can continue.” In truth, she felt dizzy and weak and wondered if she could ride another ten feet. His nearness wasreassuring, as was his gentle manner toward her. She could not have borne more coolness from him just now. “Stobo is not far.”
“Stobo? We will not go there.” His voice vibrated low and mellow at her ear, sending an odd echo deep into her body. “You and I go elsewhere, lass.”
“But—you arranged to meet Eustace at Stobo,” Isobel stammered.
