Page 40 of The Hawk Laird
“Black Isobel? Do you speak of the prophetess?”
“Aye, the same. But someone escaped the fire, madam. An arrow protruded from the cliff side, white-feathered like those used by the fellow they call the Hawk Laird. If he killed my Isobel, I will kill him with my own hands.”
“A white-tipped arrow is no proof Jamie was there. Others use such arrows. Goose feathers, duck feathers. And your beloved might have escaped the fire.”
“That would gladden my heart. But if you see your nephew, give him a message from me.”
“He does not come here.”
“Best find him, then, and tell him that I have Janet Crawford in my keeping.”
“Janet!” Alice burst out. “My niece! Is she safe? If you harm her—”
“She is my guest. Do not fret. But be sure to tell Lindsay where she is. He will want to know. And tell him,” he continued, “if he wants to see her again, he must come to Wildshaw Castle, where I am constable, to escort her home.”
James fisted his hand, white-knuckled, against Isobel’s waist as he listened to Leslie’s mild words that couched strong threats. As Isobel stirred in his arms, he tightened his hold again.
“You hold Wildshaw now?”
“King Edward put it in my command,” Leslie said. “Deliver my message, Dame Alice. I am sure you have some way of contacting this outlaw. I will return in a few days and I hope you will have news for me by then.” He circled his horse. “Good day.”
He and his men rode out of the yard. Alice watched them, her hands clapped over her mouth, her cheeks flaming red. Then she turned and ran into her house.
James waited, the girl snug in his arms. Then he felt heavy pulsing in the earth beneath him.
“Riders,” he hissed. Flattening belly down in the bracken, he pushed Isobel onto her back to flatten her, too, shielding her body with his, his torso half over hers, his hand over her mouth. High thick ferns enclosed them in a verdant cave, giving off a rich green tang. James waited, his cheek against the softness of Isobel’s hair, her body a curving, warm cushion beneath his.
They lay still for endless moments, her breath in tandem with his. Closing his eyes, James listened with his entire being, feeling hoofbeats in the earth, hearing the jingle of armor and weapons. The riders came so close this time that the ferns quivered as the horses passed through.
Suddenly she twisted, nearly slipping away. A small cry escaped her mouth. Sudden and sure, James brought her back, scooping his hand along her jaw, turning her head, covering her lips with his own to silence her in a hard and swift kiss—all he could think to do in the moment.
She went still beneath him, mouths pressed tightly together, breathing together, while the thunder of hoofbeats surrounded them. Her lips moved beneath his, and a deep thrill spiraled through his body. He lay motionless, but his mouth softened over hers and his blood rushed.Stop,he told himself.
He lifted his mouth away, stunned by the force that had taken him, but the wild pounding of his heart, thumping with desire, with desperation, but an intense need that he could hardly explain. He pulled back. Her eyes, jewel-like in the green glow of the ferny cave, were filled with tears.
“Oh, God, Isobel, I am sorry.” Gently he slipped his fingers into the tousled silk of her hair. But when she sobbed out a littleand touched her lips to his, he stilled, and felt a true kiss. Her lips were sun-warmed honey beneath his, warm and allowing. The slow, exquisite kiss stole his breath and his reason.
Then he realized that the riders were gone. Drawing back, he lifted his head to listen.
Silence.
He glanced at Isobel. She stared at him, eyes glistening, keen on his, filled with awareness. Filled with sight. He touched her cheek with a finger.
“You can see,” he whispered.
“Aye. Just now.” She laughed. “Just when you kissed me.”
He let out a stunned breath. “Does it always need a—a kiss?” He sounded like a halfwit.
“I have never tried kissing as a remedy.” She laughed again, soft, clear. “But it helped. So I kissed you back, just to be sure.”
He blinked in disbelief. “I do not understand any of this,” he said. Then he rose to his knees in the ferns, nearly bolting upright as the meaning of what had just happened hit him like a blow.
Only in a collection of saint’s tales or aroman d’aventurecould a chaste kiss heal miraculously. But that had not felt chaste; his body throbbed, his blood surged.
By the Rood, he thought. This was not some epic tale. He was a brigand, not a hero. But he could not shake the effects of that stunning, impulsive kiss. He wanted to feel its sweeping power again.
Isobel watched him calmly, almost sweetly. He was glad of it. The lass could see, thank all the saints. But the look of adoration in her eyes made him distinctly uncomfortable.
