Page 38 of The Hawk Laird
Then he tensed, straightening away from her, and swore under his breath. A familiar thumping rhythm sounded in the distance; she recognized the sound of horses.
“Who is it?” she asked in alarm. “Are they coming this way?”
“Listen.” His voice was hard. “I am going to lead the horses into a stand of birches, and I want you to stay here, hidden away. It will cover the sight of you.”
“But what—”
“Hush,” he hissed. He tightened his grip on the reins of her horse and pulled. Branches clawed at her, and a limb snapped her in the jaw. She waved her arm, panicked, unsure where she was.
Then she felt his hands like iron around her waist as he hauled her swiftly from her horse. Then he brought her through deep ferns and shoved her down into the bracken, a hand on her head.
“Stay down. Be quiet,” he whispered. Then he was gone, slipping away.
She lay in the bracken, face muffled in the crook of her arm. The smells of earth and green were strong and her injured arm throbbed, but she made no sound, listening with all her awareness.
Horses snorted through the cover of trees and the goshawk squealed nearby; James must have tied him to a perch in a tree, she realized. Then, as the cantering horses stilled, she heard male voices. She turned her head among the ferns, their soft fingers combing her skin, scent filling her nostrils.
Time stretched. Wildly, suddenly, she feared that James had left her in the forest. But soon she heard the soft, stealthy thud of footfalls and felt him drop down beside her in the ferns. With relief, she turned toward him and began to speak.
“Hush!” His finger touched her lips. Then he lay beside her, pulling her against his chest, her back to him, so that they lay spooned together. The length of his body pressed to hers, his arms firm around her. He placed the palm of his hand over her mouth.
“Shh,” he whispered, his grip steel-hard, his heart thumping against her back. Unable to see, prevented from moving or speaking, she panicked, struggling, kicking out. James locked a leg over hers to still her legs, and as she gathered breath to scream, he tightened his hand over her mouth. She bit the finger touching her lips.
He uttered a soft oath. “Be still and silent,” he growled. “Promise, or I will not let go.”
She nodded and he lifted his hand from her mouth, keeping his arms tightly about her. Isobel felt like a wild thing caught in a trap—she was so wrong about him. She never should have trusted him. She twisted again and he yanked tighter until she stilled, breath heaving.
“Soft, you,” he whispered. “I will not harm you.” His embrace relaxed. “Make no sound.”
She elbowed him heartily in the breastbone and he grunted, giving her but small satisfaction. Nothing short of a miracle could appease her anger toward him now. She could never trust him, and clearly he did not trust her either.
The thought sobered her, and she went slack in his arms. After a moment, she felt him lift his head to look around. “The riders are coming close to the clearing,” he whispered.
The cadence of hooves vibrated the earth beneath her and she heard the muffled thuds of a single horse moving forward. “How many are there?” she whispered.
“Four,” he said softly. “Just one crossing the sward.”
“Scots?”
“I do not think so. Their armor is too fine. Few Scots could afford such trappings. But the Scots do not think too kindly of me either, so we will hide.” His voice was nearly as silent as a breath.
“Tell me what the leader looks like,” she whispered.
“Dappled horse. I cannot see the man. Hush.”
A deep, smooth male voice gave a polite greeting, and Isobel heard a woman’s voice in reply. Held nearly trapped in James’s arms, she tried to listen to the knight and Alice, the woman.
But she was distracted by the hard wrap of James’s arms around her, by the firm length of his body against hers, the rhythm of his breath at her ear. Feeling shivers go through her, she scowled and concentrated on what she could hear.
“Tell me where he is, madame.” The knight’s voice was angry and familiar. Isobel frowned.
“I have not seen the lad in months,” Alice replied, her voice earthy, full, bold. “I live alone here, and no one bothers me, but for you. Begone.”
“Surely he came to you for help. Tell me where he is!” he said, loud and demanding.
Isobel lay enclosed in James’s arms, no longer tempted to struggle to get away from the forest brigand who held her, for if she was seen, she could not flee to safety now.
She waited for Sir Ralph Leslie to speak again.
