Page 54 of The Hawk Laird
“We did?” she whispered. She leaned her head against the rock as he did, his face just a hand span from hers.
“Regardless of what else I have done, I tried to help Wallace the night he was taken. My attempt came to naught but trouble.”
“How so?”
“I hid among the trees and shot one arrow after another at those who beat him and took him. I killed several guards. I do not know how many. I thought to reduce their numbers so that I could get to him myself, or provide him a chance to get away. I was half-mad with rage and guilt, I think.”
“Guilt?”
“What you did, what I did, both came to naught.”
She touched his arm. “You did help him.”
He slid her a glance. “Help? He is dead.”
“Did he see you there, fighting for him?”
“I think so.”
“Then he knew you tried to save him.”
His eyelids lowered pensively. He nodded. “Aye, but—”
“You helped him, James,” she said firmly. “He knew that he was not alone. It would have felt like a blessing to him in the moment.”
“I had not thought of that.” He watched her. She rested her head beside his and returned his gaze.
Then he moved, shifting toward her to touch his lips to hers.
Isobel tilted her head backward, drinking in the soft, warm kiss. The brush of his mouth on hers brought a delicious shock that burst in her center and blossomed outward. She drew in a breath, wanting more. But he moved back to gaze at her. The goshawk perched on his fist made tiny noises.
She stared at James. “What—was that for?”
He smiled. “A gesture of thanks. You took the blindness from me this time.”
“Blindness?” she asked.
“The scales from my eyes.” His mouth quirked in a fleeting smile. “Mayhap I did help Will in a small way. You cannot know what it means to me to think that.”
Her heart thumped. “I owe you a—gesture of thanks as well, for showing me what my blindness might mean.”
His eyes crinkled in a private smile. Leaning forward, drifting her eyes shut, she paused, hoping for the divine touch of his mouth to hers once again. He slid toward her, his breath soft on her cheek. She waited, eyes closed, heart pounding. Then his finger touched her lips and lifted away.
“Nay,” he whispered. “Nay, lass. I cannot be trusted.”
“I trust you,” she whispered, her gaze full of him now, taking in his deep eyes in the warm, dim light, the golden sheen on his hair, the curve of his mouth.
“If I touch you again,” he said, his voice like a caress, “I might be guilty of more than taking a woman hostage.”
Her heartbeat went to thunder. She cupped her palm against his cheek, his bearded jaw warm and prickly. “And if I touch you?”
“Best not,” he whispered.
But she could not stop herself. Earlier she had been drawn in by the rhythm of his moving hand as he entranced the hawk and the thrum of his voice. Now it was the steady thump of his heart in the pulse beating against her hand that pulled her toward him. She felt the strong shape of his jaw and its grainy texture and slid her fingers downward to feel the outline of his mouth, the warmth of his breath.
“Isobel,” he whispered. His lips moved on her fingers. She sucked in a breath.
James gave a low groan. He dipped toward her and pressed his mouth to hers, hungry and hard, kissing her as he had under the cover of the ferns. Rich and full, the kiss delved deep inside of her, overturning her like a wave takes a boat. She was lost, drifting, anchored only by his mouth, by his breath, by the touch of his hand upon her cheek.
