Page 60 of The Hawk Laird
“When I was blind,” she said, “you promised me safekeeping. I am grateful for that. And you made another promise—to let me go after my sight returned.”
“I did agree to that.” Foolish, he told himself, to speak from his heart that day. If he refused now, he would lose honor in her regard. She would never trust him.
“Go, then,” he said woodenly. Rain began to fall in tiny, misted drops. He waited. But Isobel did not walk away. “Are you leaving, then?”
“I might.” The wind buffeted between them. “Is Wildshaw west or east from here?”
He nearly laughed. “West.”
“I could ask Ralph to release Janet.”
“He will not.”
“Then I will release her myself.” She lifted her chin.
“Ah,” he said, flattening a smile. What was it about her, that she could so innocently charm a smile from him and hurt him all at once? “That I would like to see. But if ’twere easy, Janet would have walked out already, believe me.”
“You think well of her.”
“She’s a good lass. I want her safe.”
“You love her.” Isobel’s voice was soft.
“In a way.” His heart quickened as he looked down at her. “Not as you love Ralph Leslie. You promised marriage with him.”
The wind ruffled the sheened curtain of her dark hair. “My father wanted the match. I agreed. A betrothal is not always a promise of love.”
“Yet you are eager to get to Wildshaw and eager to get away from me.”
“My father may be there. And I do not like being held for ransom. But I am not eager to get away from you.”
“Ah.” He listened to the lift in the wind, the rush of the waterfall far ahead. “Janet,” he said then, “is not my betrothed, if you think it.”
“You are willing to risk much to get her back. Clearly you love her. It is—admirable.”
“Janet Crawford loves me in her way, as I care for her in mine. But that lass would not wed me if I begged her on my knees. Which I would never do.”
Her eyes went silvery blue, taking on the gray overcast sky. “I thought she was your lover.”
“She is like my sister.” He considered. “Like a brother, at times.”
“Aye?” Her eyes gleamed. “I should like to meet her.”
“You might.” Gawain shifted on his fist, cheeping and squawking, threatening to bate again.
“What bothers him?” Isobel asked.
“He is a wild thing. With all this moving about, we may have lost whatever ground we gained toward manning him.” He plucked the small hood from the pouch at his belt and dropped it deftly over the bird’s head. “He could bate all the way up the crag and hurt himself, or make the ascent difficult for us,” James told her. “This will quiet him. But we might have to start over with his training.”
“We?”
“We worked together to man this hawk.” An idea struck him. A risk. “Lass, a favor.”
“What is it?” She sounded wary.
“You do not want to be the hostage of a forest outlaw. You want to find your father, and you think you will be safer at Wildshaw. Even if you do not love the man, you feel safer with him than with an outlaw.”
“I might,” she said hesitantly. “What favor?”
