Page 69 of The Hawk Laird
She sat on the rock, set her feet on the wooden rungs and came down, also using one arm, balancing herself lightly with her injured arm as she went down. James caught her round the waist and set her on the rock floor.
“Careful, ’tis wet.” His voice had a muted echo. Isobel turned, and caught her breath in wonder.
Soft daylight, damp air, and the rush of water filled her senses. A sparkling fall of water poured over the rim to collect in puddles on the uneven floor and spill into a small pool. Water seemed to cascade from the rock itself, issuing in clear trickles from crevices to splash into the pool. Another wall had a crudely cut entrance.
“Beautiful,” she murmured in astonishment.
“The shallow end of the pool,” he said, “goes warm as a bath when the sunlight shines here. The other side of the pool is deeper, and in shadow, and is quite cool.”
“This place is miraculous,” she breathed. “I did not know such things existed.”
“Aye, though they are rare. ’Tis said that springs and pools like this can have healing powers. There are some legends about the Craig, but only my men and I know this place is here.”
She nodded, looking at the falling water. “Does the water run down with the rains?”
“The rain increases the flow, but there is always a small stream coming down from the mountain. In summer especially, and on warm days, it is a bit of paradise here.”
“Oh, aye,” Isobel agreed. She lifted her skirts to walk around the pool’s rim, which looked like a large, luxurious tub for a giant, scooped out of living sandstone.
James knelt beside one of the puddles, and extended his arm to allow Gawain to come close to the water.
“Will he drink?” Isobel asked.
“Nay. They do not drink much unless they are ill. But they like a good bath. Aye, laddie, try it,” he urged. The hawk pecked suspiciously at the water, then dipped a talon into the wetness, and soon stepped off the fist to plop into the water. He stretched his wings and spread his tail feathers.
Isobel laughed. “He likes it.”
“He might be a useless hawk, but at least he will be clean.” Isobel laughed again as Gawain splashed, and James laughed with her. She glanced up at the man and felt her heart open like a rose in the sun. She was glad that he did not look at her just then, for she felt the glow of her feelings, and could not hide it.
He watched the hawk splash in the puddle. “You can bathe here, too,” he said then.
“In the puddle, with the hawk?” She blinked at him.
“In the pool. If there are healing properties here, it would help your arm.”
No one had ever showed such concern for her welfare, even during her bouts of blindness. “Is it warm enough?”
“Might be. How does your arm feel, lass?”
She flexed her arm and winced at the ache. “Better unless I move it too much. Alice suggested hot poultices to draw the stiffness out. Hot bread, I suppose,” she said, and he laughed.
“We can tend to that later tonight, if you want.”
She stared at him, realizing she would be alone with him that night, sleeping in a room next to his. The thought of him touching her to help her with her wounded arm—indeed, touching her, peeling away her clothing to help her—made her suck in a breath.
She nodded slowly, surprised that he seemed to care about her. The man who had taken her hostage was at heart compassionate. The day was filled with revelations, with proof that she had been wrong about him. So wrong.
“Let me see,” he said. While the hawk dabbled in the puddle, James drew off the falconer’s glove. Then he took Isobel’s arm and gently lifted away the sling. Her breath quickened.
“Push against my hand,” he instructed. “Now pull up.” He put a little pressure on her arm, but she winced. “Well, the muscles still have strength. The broadhead did not cause permanent damage, I think. Use it more and it will get stronger. But rest it for now.” He replaced the cloth sling.
As he withdrew his hand, he tugged on her fingers to pull her forward. He brushed away a drift of her dark hair where it shifted to drape over her shoulder.
“Is that why they call you Black Isobel? Your hair?”
“Did you think it was for my bad temper?” She smiled as he did. “I usually keep my hair braided back and under a veil,” she went on. “But I cannot do it myself with one arm.” She shook the mass of her hair over her shoulders. “The wind has made a tangle of it.”
“I can braid it, if you do not mind a clumsy hand. Turn.” He urged her around. His fingers soothed through her hair, lifting, tugging, grazing against her neck and shoulders as he made a thick plait. Shivers traced through her from head to foot, pooling and swirling in her breasts and abdomen.
