Page 78 of The Hawk Laird
“And might not. Listen to me—we both tried to warn him. You did not betray him on purpose.”
He sat silent, lips pressed together. He had believed for so long that he had betrayed his friend, through folly or carelessness. He did not want that burden, but he could not cast it away.
“You said that my prophecy mentioned a parchment with ink that had vanished. I wonder if that was the page you signed.”
“Symbolically, perhaps.”
“If the pledge you took was not real and intended, then the guilt need not exist. You had no role in the betrayal. They would have taken him sooner or later. That was his fate. I know it, I do.”
As he listened, he felt the hard casing around his heart crack a bit. His throat was tight when he spoke again. “One thing more. No one knows this. When they rode away with Wallace,” he said, “I used the last arrow I had—and tried to take his life then and there. But I missed.”
She gasped a little. “You tried to save him from what would be a cruel death.” Her hand found his. “That was an act of love, Jamie,” she whispered. “Nothing less.”
He had not felt the sting of tears since he was a child. He blinked them away.
“It is not in you to betray a friend. Those who love you know that. We have faith in you.”
He sucked in a breath.Those who love you.He dipped his head, touching his cheek to her hair. She tucked close under his arm. “And you saw this before it happened. If I had only known you then, perhaps we could have changed the outcome.”
“Nothing changes what God decides. But if we had met back then, I would have tried to help you, I think. And now I know I would do anything for you.”
His heart bounded. He drew her close, savoring the warmth and the truth of her there in his arms. “A prophetess would not want the trouble of an outlaw.”
She laughed softly. “She would. But an outlaw might not trouble with a prophetess.”
“If he troubles himself with a silly wee hawk, a wee prophetess is easy.” Sliding his fingers through the silken mass of her hair, he tilted her head back and took her lips with his, gentle and then with swift craving, as if he could take some of her sweetness into his soul.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Her heart thunderedand she sighed beneath the pliant caress of his lips, surrendering gladly to that strength. As he leaned, she tilted back, the flow between them a silent play of taking, giving. For an instant, tiny lights spun in the darkness inside her eyes. Then the light grew until it filled her sight. She opened her eyes. Firelight, at last.
Gazing over his shoulder at golden flames, she gasped and pulled back to look up at him, blinking. She touched his bristled cheek and looked deep into his dark-lashed indigo eyes. He tipped a brow in question.
“Aye,” she said with a soft laugh. “It is back again. I can see you now. Whatever magic you possess, ’tis wondrous.”
“The magic is not mine.” He dipped to kiss her and she shaped her mouth to his.
“Nor is it mine,” she whispered then.
“Ah well,” he murmured. “Perhaps we create it between us.”
“Perhaps we do,” she breathed, as he took her down to the floor in a nest of fallen blankets and cloaks. He stretched out beside her, and she shifted toward him, the hearth fire feeling warm on her bare feet and shoulders. As James gathered her closer, leaning to kiss her softly, he then drew back.
“All is well?” he asked.
“It is. And I am thinking—only you could kiss the blindness from me.”
“I am thinking I would take to task any man who tried.” His voice was fierce.
“Only you. Another man could never kiss me as you do. I swear. Only you have that magic.” She looked at him intently.
“Isobel,” he said on a breath, taking her lips again. She sighed as he delved, his tongue moist and gentle, and she felt her body whirl and spin. The fervent truth of what she said—only this man could bring her back from the physical darkness the prophecies stirred in her. He alone had done that, and that felt profound, like a promise and a bond between them. She wanted to give herself to him utterly, heart and body, now—and she fiercely wanted to stay with him always, though it might prove impossible.
She did not want to close her eyes to darkness again, and pulled back to look at him, taking in the beauty of him, the waves of his hair reflecting golden firelight, his broad, muscled shoulders, the strength in his neck, where a pulse thumped. But sight could not satisfy what she wanted of him. Blindness had taught her that touch could bring more, so she traced her fingertips over his face, the corner of his jaw, the firm curve at the chin, his beard textured like sand; his nose, straight and long, his lips full, firm, breath escaping in warm caresses.
He took her exploring fingertip between his lips and she caught her breath. Then she slid her palm along his neck to his hard-sculpted chest and rested her fingers over his heart. He pulled her even closer, his hands cupping her waist. Even with blanket and cloak bunched between them, she could feel the heated hardness of his body, and felt her body answer, a startling and exciting quiver deep within.
His hands were warm pools of touch, his voice low. “Do you want this, now, between us?”
