Page 41 of The Hawk Laird
He preferred the safer ground of enemies, of distrust, of practical matters like hostages and strategies. He did not know what to do with visions, magic, or miracles. Or love and kisses, of all things.
Not love, he told himself, and surely not with the prophetess, of all women. He shoved a hand through his hair. Once again, Black Isobel brought something unexpected into his life. He did not know what to think of her. He did not know what to feel about her.
But he knew he wanted to touch her, kiss her, immerse his hardened heart in her gentle nature. He even wanted that adoration from her, but he knew he did not deserve any of it.
Scowling, he looked away. “Safe to leave now.” Oh aye, safer than staying here and yearning after a lass, he thought sourly. “I’ll fetch the goshawk and the horses. Stay here.” He stood.
She rolled to her side and sat up. “James Lindsay.”
He looked down. She rose out of the ferns like a faerie queen, with the green fronds clinging to her gown and her hair. He felt an odd sensation in the region of his heart, like a brightness somehow.
“Aye?”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For the kiss.”
“Your sight would have returned soon or late, as you said. But I am glad to have been of help.”
She tilted her head, watching him. He thought how innocent she was, yet how mysterious, with her strange wisdom, with her beautiful eyes and her sweet mouth. And he wished he were free to love her. Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to live a peaceful life. But he would never know. Danger lurked around him. He could not yearn after peace, or love, or black-haired prophetesses.
She brushed at her gown and began to move away. Reaching out, he stopped, steeling himself against touching her. He stepped back.
“James,” she said. “Ralph has Janet.”
“Aye. He means to trap me.”
“But he said you murdered men. He said you promised to betray Wallace for a reward. But—but that cannot be true.”
James looked at her. He understood what she wanted to hear, and knew his words would hurt her. “Aye,” he said. “’Tis true.”
He turned away. He did not want to see the disappointment in her eyes.
Chapter Twelve
Isobel looked aroundas she and James rode forward. The clearing was a sunlit jewel, green and bright, with a stone cottage at its center, cozy and welcoming, just as James had described it.
The blindness, when it cleared, often left her with a sort of visual hunger. She looked around avidly, then glanced at James. He rode ahead of her, holding the reins of her horse in the same hand he used to guide his horse.
His posture was agile, his back powerful as he swayed with the black stallion’s steps. The goshawk on his fist was calm, his feathers delicately barred, his head unhooded as yet, eye blazing red-gold as he turned his head.
James glanced at her over his shoulder, then looked away.
A rising blush heated her throat and cheeks as she remembered, suddenly, that stunning kiss that had robbed her of breath. When the kiss turned tender, profound, the darkness had vanished.
She had felt such relief and gratitude in the moment that she had wanted to kiss him again, had simply, suddenly, adored him. But he had turned away, remote once again. And then he had admitted to committing treachery.
Isobel felt struck through the heart. The arrow that had slammed into her arm was a thorn compared to the stabbing force of his words.
Now, she watched the proud lift of his head, the strong carriage of his wide shoulders, and thought of his gentlenesswith her, with the hawk. And she could not believe him capable of betrayal.
Confusion flooded her. She knew now that Sir Ralph Leslie was not the staunch knight her father believed him to be. He had lied about his attempt to rescue Isobel just to gain Alice’s sympathy, and he held this Janet Crawford hostage. And even if he believed Isobel dead, his grief did not seem genuine.
She scowled. She could not trust Sir Ralph any more than she could trust James Lindsay.
The tiercel fluttered his wings suddenly and squawked. James hushed the bird, and halted both horses. Ahead, Isobel saw a woman step out of the doorway of the house. Wearing a brown dress and a pale head-kerchief, she ducked her head slightly to clear the lintel. She was tall and large, with a broad frame and a cumbersome bosom. She fisted her hands on her broad hips and stared.
“Greetings, Aunt.” James swung down from his horse and set the hawk on the saddle for a perch.
His aunt came toward him and grabbed him in a fierce hug, then stepped back. “Come inside. Hurry. They are searching for you.” She looked at Isobel. “Lord save us! Is that the prophetess?”
