Page 88 of The Hawk Laird
“He never forced me, you see,” Janet explained. “He had me brought up to him each evening and let me sit by the hearth in his chamber. We spoke about many things.” She paused, shrugged. “He was—kind, in a way. After a time, I let him—it was not force. Nor my first time, if I am truthful. But I am a plain lass, and men do not find favor with me as they would gazing at you, my lady. I—was grateful.”
“Plain? You? You are a strong and beautiful girl, one to admire. And Patrick Boyd seems smitten with you,” she added.
Janet blushed again. “Patrick is a rough lad, but tender in his heart. But he thinks of me as a comrade. Like a sister to him. They all do, for I followed them everywhere when we were young, and my own brothers were with them. I love them all, but—none love me. Not in that way.”
“I think you are wrong. Jamie and the others care so much for you that they would risk their lives to rescue you. They would even risk my life to get you free. At least they thought about it,” she added.
Janet smiled a little. “I am their compatriot. I have always liked the ways of men, their freedom, their strength. I like shooting a bow and running free, even wearing breeches when I was with them in the forest.” She fiddled with the fine wool of her gown. “But I am a woman, and Sir Ralph has been goodenough to me. I might have been unwise to succumb to him, but it has been nice to be treated well and kept close.”
“You did what you had to do to protect your life.”
She made a face. “I suppose. And I do want to be let loose from here.”
“I was confined, in a way, at Aberlady by my father and the priest. And Sir Ralph as well. But I never felt—free until James Lindsay came for me. I did not have a life beyond the castle. And I—well, I have grown to love the life he leads. I would live like that with him. But he will not hear of it.”
“Ah, Jamie would always let a woman make her own choices—he was practically raised by Aunt Alice, who is as independent a soul as a woman could be.” Janet chuckled. “But if Jamie wants to keep you away from the life of a forest rebel, he has good reason.”
“The prophecies,” Isobel explained. “And because he thinks I prefer to be the lady of a castle.”
“Do you?”
Isobel began to speak, but tears constricted her throat. “I just want to be with him,” she blurted.
“Oh, Isobel,” Janet murmured. “I think Jamie must love you as much as you love him.”
Isobel smiled wanly. “I am not certain of that. There is—Sir Ralph, after all. But I will tell Ralph Leslie that I will never marry him.” She paused. “But do you—love him? Would you choose to stay?”
Janet shook her head. “He treats me well enough, but I am here against my will. He binds my ankle to his bed at night, and sometimes during the day.”
Isobel gasped. “As if you were a beast?”
“A prisoner. After all, I was captured by English when I was with a band of Scottish rogues. But if you had seen that dungeoncell, Lady Isobel—you might have considered the same choice I made.”
“Janet, we must get down to the dungeon. Can you help?”
“I will tell Sir Ralph I want to see my cousin, and then convince the guards to let both of us in.”
Isobel nodded. “Good. Janet—is my father here? I have heard so. Sir John Seton? He was a guest of Sir Ralph, but I do not know if he is still here.”
Janet drew her brows together over her tawny eyes. “He is your father? I should have realized from the name.” She heaved a sigh. “Your father was a prisoner at Carlisle Castle when Jamie and I and the rest were taken there. He is not a guest at Wildshaw. He is down in the dungeon.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Agray hazeintruded into a dream of floating on a dark river scattered with flower petals. James opened an eye and blinked, seeing dim surroundings. The dark peace of the dream was replaced by shadows, cold dampness, and pain.
He reclined against a cold stone wall, and now felt the weight of the iron cuffs on his wrists, attached to a heavy chain. Over his boots, iron cuffs circled his ankles. The straw beneath him had a musty, unpleasant odor. His head ached and he could scarcely see out of one eye. His jaw felt bruised, and his right side felt as if a rib might be cracked. Every muscle in his body seemed to ache.
Vaguely he recalled the spiked ball of a mace coming toward him, and the awful sound when it struck the side of his head through his chain mail hood. Blackness had followed.
With effort, he sat straighter, looking around at dark, slimed stone walls and a narrow door of latticed wood and iron. Through the gaps he saw torchlight and rough stone walls. He shifted, the pull of the chain limiting his movement. Licking his dry lips, he searched the shadows of the cell.
A man lay in the corner, chained as he was, wearing a torn tunic and what had once been a fine surcoat. He looked thin and hollow, with a wild tangle of gray hair, but his eyes burned blue with sharp awareness.
“Name?” the man rasped out.
James blinked at him. Name? He thought about it. Ah. “Lindsay.” That was it. “James Lindsay.”
“The forest outlaw?”
