Page 39 of The Hawk Laird
Drawing Isobel closer,James pressed the palm of his hand over her soft lips. A moment ago, she had gasped in alarm, her blue eyes wide, startled, yet staring at nothing.
Her blindness alarmed him, but the only help he could offer her was to keep her safely hidden from Sir Ralph Leslie. Her expression told him she recognized the voice of her betrothed. James held her firmly and looked through the leafy cover to see Alice Crawford step forward.
His aunt fisted her hands on wide hips beneath her brown kirtle, and stared boldly at Leslie. Taller than most men, Alice Crawford was not easily intimidated. “What do you want with James Lindsay?”
“He’s wanted for crimes against King Edward.”
“I know that,” Alice snapped.
“Then you know that William Wallace was taken last month and executed for treason.”
“I heard. God rest his soul. The Southrons are heartless bastards,” she added bluntly. “William Wallace never committed treason in his life. What do you want with Jamie Lindsay?”
“He betrayed Wallace.”
“Never,” Alice said.
“I have proof.”
“I do not believe it. Why spread such a foul tale, you, a Scotsman?”
“If the Scots find him they will cut him down for betrayal. If the English find him, they will hang him, and worse.” Leslie leaned closer. “I can help your nephew, Dame Crawford. The charges against him can be remanded by King Edward, who may see fit to offer him a reward.”
James felt Isobel grow still as a stone in his arms as she listened. He glanced back to his aunt, facing the knight in the clearing.
“Are you one of those who turns his loyalty with the wind?” Alice asked.
“I am a practical man, Dame.”
“Then show your good sense and get out of my yard!”
“Peace, woman. I came here for another reason as well.”
“Speak of it,” she snapped.
He lifted his left arm to display the black armband wrapped around his chainmail sleeve. “I am in mourning. I lost my betrothed two days past, in a fire at a castle in Midlothian. My beloved Lady Isobel Seton was inside with her garrison.”
With a gasp, Isobel twisted in his arms as if desperate to go to her lover. James dragged her close, more roughly than he meant to do. Her hip pressed against his groin, her breast was soft under his arm, and her lips were moist and warm against his palm.
Sudden, unexpected lust flared. He drew a ragged breath, heart hammering. Stop, he thought. He had spent a few years in a monastery, and even more as a renegade; he had learned to master his body and emotions. Yet desire surged through him like fire at this most inconvenient moment.
But he felt her sob under his hand, felt her hands tremble as she touched his hands. Her distress was like a dousing of cold water. He lessened his hold.
“I will not hurt you,” he murmured. “But do not think to call out to your lover.” The word tasted bitter on his tongue. He held her and tilted his head to listen once again.
“I tried to save Lady Isobel from the fire, but I was too late,” Leslie was saying. “I ran into the flames without fear for my life, so great was my urge to find her. Love makes a courageous heart.”
James felt a chill of disgust run through him at Leslie’s audacious lie. Even more, the words stirred old nightmares, so that James closed his eyes against the hollow pain of remorse.
Glancing through the leaves again, he saw his aunt clasp her hands over her wide bosom, caught by Leslie’s story. Tough as she looked, Alice’s sentimental heart could melt like butter over flame.
“But my precious Isobel died in the inferno.” Leslie lowered his head.
“Oh, the poor lady!” Alice cried.
Isobel squirmed in his arms and James heard a muffled wince—a smothered cry for help?
“She was a beauty, and a gifted prophetess.”
