Page 83 of The Hawk Laird
Alice came forward to envelop her in a warm hug that brought unexpected tears to her eyes. She hugged James too, and then Gawain, on Isobel’s fist, began to bate. James turned to take the bird.
Seeing Eustace, Isobel grasped his hands, smiling. “You look well,” she said, smiling.
“My lady,” he said, smiling. “The life of a forest brigand has been good for you, I think. I have not seen such roses in your cheeks or such a sparkle in your eye since you were a wee girl.”
She felt a blush rise. “I am rested and healed. I am stronger.” She meant it more than Eustace could know. Then she listened as he told her of his time at Stobo and then at Alice’s house recently, and turned to greet Henry and Geordie, glad to see the lad recovered too.
“Lad, I want you to stay here for Alice,” James said. He looked at the others. “We should go. The sun is nearly up and we are to meet Hugh in the morning.”
“I will go alone,” Isobel said. “I have known this priest all my life.”
His eyes were dark in the half light, his face lean in the steel mesh frame. “But you do not know where the old oak is, do you.”
“Jamie, let me keep that hawk while you both go,” Alice said.
“Let Isobel keep the hawk with her,” he said. “If there is trouble, he will bate, and then no one would come near her while he frets. She could get some distance. And we will be close by.”
“I will be fine,” Isobel insisted. “Keep your distance. Keep safe. I do not have a good feeling.”
He leaned down. “You can be thick as a stone.”
“You are the thickheaded one, you great brigand,” she whispered. Amusement flickered in his eyes, but he shook his head and handed the hawk to her.
“Here is your guardian, my lady.” Turning, he beckoned the others. “Come ahead.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The ancient, massiveoak dominated the center of a grove, its wide, leafy canopy casting shade around younger trees that formed a circle around it. Beyond lay forestland, and in another direction, open moorland. James headed toward the oak and the others followed.
He waded through tall green ferns and ducked his head beneath low-hanging branches. Partly hidden by leafy boughs, a large knotty crevice in the great trunk of the tree formed a long, hollow niche where he and his men had hidden at times.
Taking Isobel’s hand, he pulled her inside the narrow cavity, pressing close in the confined space. Quentin and Patrick swung up into the boughs to find perches along the wide, thick branches. Eustace and Henry went into other trees.
As Isobel looked up and around, James rested a hand on her shoulder and watched the grove. On Isobel’s glove, Gawain stirred. She shushed the bird—she had a way with him now, James noted. Her body was warm against his in the tight space. Time seemed to suspend, his awareness of his need for all to be well in her world grew. He felt that responsibility on his shoulders. He wanted it there.
“Father Hugh should be here soon,” she whispered.
“I will go with you,” he said, but she shook her head. “Then know we are here. Should the priest bring someone else—”
“He would not do that. I do not want you to be seen. Stay away.”
He gazed at her, touched her cheek, and felt a wave of love, purely that, pour through him. It stunned him in its power. He leaned to kiss her, regardless of the fellows above who might see. He did not care. She seemed to share the notion, kissing him with such fervor that his heart pounded.
He was a fool to let her go with anyone, anywhere. He would survive without her in his life, he was sure of that. But he would not flourish.
Years ago, he had not protected Elizabeth as he should have. That would always haunt him. For Isobel to be safe, she would have to leave him. But for now, he held her.
“Jamie,” she whispered. “I do love you.”
Her words sank through him, warm and welcome. He loved her, he knew that now. But if he declared it, had that distraction, he would find it harder to do what he must. He only kissed her hair.
“The priest is in the meadow,” Quentin murmured, above them. “He is alone.”
Isobel pulled away, the bird quiet on her glove, and edged away from the niche in the tree. James watched her go. Beyond the trees, the sun brightened over the moor. Isobel moved into the sunlit grove, her grip on the hawk’s jesses as secure as her hold on James’s heartstrings. He felt the tug of it.
A man rode to the middle of the moor and dismounted to walk toward the grove, dark-robed and short, his wide face pale beneath the shelter of his hood. Isobel greeted him and they stood talking. The priest took her arm, urging her to walk with him. She hesitated, but then went with him.
James grabbed his bow. A shiver went through the small hairs along his arms and neck. Isobel might trust this man, but he did not. Hefting the bow, he edged out of the hollow in the tree.
