Page 94 of The Hawk Laird
“Why should it matter to you? You do not own me or my gift. I will do with it what I please.”
“That will be mine more than yours once you are my wife. I promised your services to King Edward.” He frowned to himself, nodded. “I will send for the priest. He will sit with you, and you will say again what you told Lindsay.”
She stared at him, horrified. “What did you promise the king?”
“That what you say belongs to him. He is keen for prophecy—hungry for any news and reassurance that Scotland will be his. He has promised to reward me. As my wife, you will benefit.”
A chill went down her spine. “You would turn me over to him as if I were a bag of gold or a bit of property?” Her voice rose indignantly. The hawk, exhausted from his recent fit, stirred restlessly.
“I will take you to King Edward when we are wed and introduce you. When you prophesy for him, he will be generous. You are to predict a golden future.”
“You are mad. I will not do that.”
“He has already summoned me. We must go soon. I have been desperate to get you back.” His fingers felt like claws on her arm, hot and sharp. Once again, she could not free herself, though she could feel the bruises rising.
“Edward sent his lieutenants to besiege Aberlady to get to me,” she said. “Did you advise him to do that?”
“I sent word to the king that I had access to you—that you were my wife. A betrothal is as good as a marriage.”
“Presumptuous.”
He waved his hand in dismissal. “Father Hugh will wed us soon, and I will take you to Carlisle where the king is currentlyplanning another push in his Scottish campaign. He expects to see you. You should be honored.”
“I will not prophesy for him.”
“I have no choice, therefore you have no choice.”
She stood, yanking on her arm. His grip set her teeth on edge. “I refuse,” she said. Even standing taller than he did, she felt little confidence over him, though she lifted her chin to pretend it.
“You will see the future for Edward of England.”
“If I told him what I know, you would not like your reward.”
“Then I will report to him what you see. You can do that today.” He let go of her arm. Physical relief flooded through her. Then he pushed her toward the perch. “Put the hawk away and we will begin.”
“Nay!” She stood her ground, though her limbs trembled in sudden fear.
“You always did what was asked of you. I expect the same. Your little taste of liberty will not help with me.” He set a hand on his dagger. “If you treasure freedom so much, then I will cut those jesses and let that cursed bird go free. If you do not want that, then put the bird away and do what you are told.”
She had no choice. Turning, she set the bird on the perch, but kept her glove. Leslie grabbed her upper arm this time. She knew the bruising would be fierce. Tears of rage and frustration stung her eyes.
He pulled her toward him with inexorable strength, then slid his hand to her lower back to press her against him, her breasts flattened against his broad chest, thick wool and chain mail the only barrier. His dark eyes went darker, became frightening pools.
“The priest warned me that taking my pleasure of you could affect your gift.” His breath blew hot and sour in her face. “But if you gave yourself to the outlaw and still foretold for him,then your gift is safe. For that, I suppose I am grateful,” he murmured, nuzzling his lips along her cheek now. “But I still mean to kill him.”
She leaned her head away and pushed against him. “Stop! I never said I gave myself to him.”
“Did you not? I saw when you looked at each other down in the dungeon. I might forgive you someday, but first I want guardianship over you and your power as your husband.” He gave a taut smile.
“You will have naught of me,” she gasped, as he dragged his lips hot and slow along her cheek, her neck. She shivered and pushed against his strength. On the perch behind her, Gawain kakked.
Ralph Leslie snugged her hips hard against him, his grasp iron-hard. “Tell me what you told him.” She did not answer, struggling against him. He raised one hand as if to strike her.
His hand was too high—for the tiercel spread his wings and leaped off the perch, jesses pulling, to land on Leslie’s hand, inches from the perch. The bird beat his wings furiously and shrieked, his muscular yellow feet clenched convulsively, talons digging deep.
Ralph roared and let Isobel go, stumbling back, batting wildly at the bird, the perch knocking over, the knots in the jesses loosening. Isobel watched in horror.
“Cast him off!” she called. “He will let go if you cast him off!”
