Laird of the Wind (40 page)

If he had the strength for that. Every muscle in his body hurt, but none of it compared to the slamming ache in his head. He leaned back, licked his dry lips, and looked around the cell.

Then he noticed the man in the shadowed corner, only feet from where he lay. Chained in a similar manner, at wrists and ankles, and clothed in a torn tunic and breeches, the man looked ancient and skeletal. He had long, bony limbs, and his hollow face was surrounded by a wild tangle of gray hair. But his blue eyes burned with awareness, like jewels in his haggard face as he watched James.

"Name?" the man rasped out.

James blinked at him.
Name
. He was certain he had one. He slowly scanned the dungeon while he thought, looking at the scummed walls, his iron-linked feet shoved into dirty straw, his hands, grimy with dried blood, resting on his updrawn knees.
Name
, he prodded himself.
Ah.

"James," he said. That was it. "James Lindsay."

"The Border Hawk?"

James thought about that. "Aye," he said slowly, sure now.

"Jesus God," the man murmured, shaking his head.

"Pleased to meet you." James felt almost drunken—woozy, relaxed, strangely ready to laugh at his poor jest.

"Nah," the man barked. "John Seton."

James frowned, seeking the mental niche where the familiar name belonged. He almost found it, but his head ached too much to follow the thought. "John Seton?"

"Laird of Aberlady," the man rasped.

He stared at the prisoner. Aberlady was as familiar as his own name, somehow, and yet sounded hollow and strange. He blinked to clear his thoughts, but only caused himself more pain.

"We were at Carlisle together, lad," John Seton said. "I recall seeing you there. You were held in another cell with the lass Margaret. We were all taken northward by Leslie's patrol, but you escaped. You did not know me then, but I heard who you were. Your name is well known."

James scowled so deeply that the wounds on his temple and his swollen eye throbbed. He made an effort to piece together what the man told him with what he was trying to recall.

Carlisle—Margaret—Seton of Aberlady...
Isobel.

He narrowed his eyes to focus on the prisoner. Those blue-gray eyes, set in a gaunt, handsome face, were nearly luminous. He had seen them before, in a gentle lass. Suddenly the whole meaning came together with stunning force.

"Jesu," he breathed.

"Nah, John," the older man grunted.

"Ish—Ishbel," James murmured, his swollen lip stumbling clumsily over her beautiful name. "You are her father."

John Seton lifted a brow. "What do you know of Isobel? Have you heard of the prophetess of Aberlady? Have you recent news of her?"

"Aye, news," James said. He sighed. "Aberlady was besieged, and burned to the ground, sir. I was there."

John Seton lowered his head. "I had heard that rumor from the guards," he said. "So 'tis true."

"Aye, sir," he said quietly. "I torched it myself, to keep the English out."

Seton drew a long breath, and was silent for several moments. "And Isobel?" he growled.

"I took her out of there safely. But now she is here—at Wildshaw." He looked around the crude arch of the doorway, at gray stone walls, all familiar to him from years ago
. His home.
He was in the base of the northwest tower, where two dungeon cells were located. "Aye, here at Wildshaw," he muttered.

"Here?" John barked. "How do you know she is here?"

"Ralph Leslie has her," James answered. He leaned his head back against the wall and swallowed hard. "I tried to reach her," he mumbled. "But they took her faster than I could—"

"What are you talking about?" John Seton growled.

But the powerful ache in his head swamped his reason, and the peaceful darkness returned. He welcomed it.

* * *

Cool, gentle hands stroked his face. Then a damp cloth sponged his brow, slicked over his eyelids and temple, stinging as it cleansed. He winced, his eyes still closed.

"Jamie." Her voice, a sound he loved, seemed part of the calm blackness in which he drifted—but for that annoying wet cloth. "Jamie, I'm here," she whispered.

"Ishbel," he said. His lower lip hurt fiercely when he spoke. The pain jarred him to greater awareness.

"Aye, 'tis Ishbel," she said, laughing a little, catching back a tiny sob. She kissed his mouth, and the light angelic touch banished pain for a moment. When the lip throbbed again, he opened his right eye—the other eye felt as big as a side of beef—and looked at her.

She knelt but a handspan from him. The light from the tiny window crevice, behind her, haloed her head with silver. Even in deep shadow, her eyes were utterly beautiful. "You're awake. Thank God," she whispered. He heard the tears in her voice.

"Ishbel." His mouth was dry. "I'm fine," he lied, and sat up stiffly, leaning his back against the wall. The iron chain between his feet scraped quietly over the stone floor.

She tipped a cup of water to his lips. The water spilled cool and fresh into his sour, swollen mouth, and he swallowed.

"Oh, Jamie," she whispered. "I love you...." Her words dissolved into a small sob.

"I know," he murmured. "Love you, Ishbel. I do." He mispronounced her name deliberately that time, like a caress, hoping to hear her laugh again. He was glad to utter the words to her at last. They brought a sense of peace like a prayer.

She gave him an exquisite, watery smile, and leaned forward to place her cheek against his. She smelled like flowers and sunshine, a font of blessings in this dark hell. He raised a hand to circle her waist, the chain heavy on his wrist.

"Isobel, we must hurry," a woman said.

Isobel half turned and nodded. She touched her fingertips to his face, tracing like a butterfly over his lips, his jaw, his brow, smoothing over the tangle of his hair.

"Jamie, the goshawk—" she began.

"He's free," he said. He recalled that the bird had flown away. He did not want her to fret, although he was greatly concerned about the tiercel's welfare. "I know."

She shook her head. "I have him. Gawain is here with me." He felt a strong surge of relief. "Good," he said softly. "Keep him safe." He reached up to touch her cheek, the chains jangling. She felt like heaven beneath his fingers. Her skin was damp with tears. "You stay safe, too," he whispered.

"Isobel," John Seton murmured from the other side of the room. James turned his head slowly.

"I want to speak with my father again," she murmured. "He is here too—just as I saw in the vision. Do you remember?"

He frowned as he tried to recall, and nodded stiffly. "Aye," he whispered. Her gentle presence, and those memories of time spent with her, were as rejuvenating to him as fresh air, sharpening his awareness further.

She smiled again, wan and loving, and got to her feet. The soft hem of her skirt brushed his hand as she turned. He caught at it with his fingers, and then let go.

Someone else stood before him; he looked up at the long folds of a russet skirt. She knelt beside him, and he narrowed his one good eye. "Margaret," he said. "Dear God, Meg—"

His cousin smiled, her brown eyes teary, and leaned forward to kiss his brow. "Jamie. I am so glad you are awake. When they brought you into the yard, I feared you were dead." She took his hand. "I brought Isobel here to see you and her father both," she said. "We had to beg the guards to let us in secretly. We cannot stay long, or Sir Ralph will find out. We brought food for you." She indicated a sack beside him.

"You brought Isobel, and yourself. 'Tis enough."

Her mouth worked as if she held back tears. She drew a breath. "Isobel told me about your plan to ransom me free from here. I—thank you, Jamie. And she told me about you—and her." She glanced at Isobel, who murmured quietly with John Seton. "I like her well," she said. "If you would not have me, that is." Her eyes twinkled, but he saw her sadness, too.

James twitched his upper lip. "
You
would not have
me
, lass," he drawled. "Though I would have begged." He tried to smile, tried to recapture the teasing tone they often used together.

"Och, you would never beg for anything, you brigand. And you and I argue too much. That lass has a gentle spirit. You need that far more than what I could offer you."

"You have fire," he said. "Brave Meg."

She sighed and squeezed his hand. "Oh, Jamie, I am so sorry. 'Tis because of me that this has happened."

He shook his head. "I should have attacked the gates weeks ago," he mumbled. "Should have demanded your release. Instead, I thought he would release you in exchange for... his betrothed."

"Jamie, you could not attack this place. The garrison is over a hundred strong. You did not have the troops. Your plan was well formed, and would have worked, but Sir Ralph acted dishonorably." She leaned forward. "And Isobel said she would not have gone to him, in the end. She wants to be with you."

He sighed, closed his eyes briefly. "All my plans come to naught where that lass is concerned," he said. "Meg, I just want you and Isobel to be safe." His mouth was dry again, and his lip hurt keenly, but he went on. "You should be with your kin, and she should be... with someone who can protect her and her gift."

"She should be with you," Margaret said crisply.

"Nay. She is a true prophetess—a visionary. I thought Leslie would provide well for her, and protect her regardless of my prejudices, and his own faults. But I was wrong."

"Aye, you were wrong." She dipped the cloth in a wooden bucket and wiped his face. "Will you nae listen to your heart, you great loon? Who best to protect her—
and
her gift—but the man who loves her?"

James stared at her. "She wants a peaceful life. A refuge, a home. I cannot ensure those for her."

"She might have wanted a safe sort of life once," Margaret said. "But she wants—and needs—you."

"I am an outlaw," he said hoarsely.

"You're a great bonny fool, too," Margaret said. She wet the cloth again, and slapped it against his temple. James winced and caught at it with one hand, chains chinking.

"Ow," he said. "And how am I a fool? I want the best for her," he muttered, his temper sparked, as it often was, by his outspoken cousin.

"What gives you the right to choose what would be best for her? I know you were thinking of her, and of her gift. But let her declare for herself. And as for you—" She sat back on her heels, anger lending her eyes a tawny color. She drew a breath, swelling her bosom.

James slid a glance at Isobel. Both she and her father had turned to stare at Margaret.

"And as for you," Margaret went on, "you are gloomy with your own pain. Aye, 'tis a heavy burden, and I will not belittle it. But you are caught by that net of cares you carry over your shoulder. You cannot reach out for happiness, even when it smacks you in the face!"

"Meg—" he said.

She gestured toward Isobel. "You send her to safety, and away from you, because you love her. But I think Isobel would have risked all to stay with you. You could both be content, even now, on your high crag!" She folded her arms over her chest in a huff. "And now look at you! Cannot even see! And nae wonder!"

James cleared his throat uncomfortably. He glanced again with one eye at Isobel. She watched them, eyes round, cheeks bright pink, a terrible stillness in her.

"We would not be content, Meg," he said gruffly. "There would still be the matter of you and Sir John, trapped here."

"Och," Margaret said. "I have been working on that."

"What do you mean?" James asked. She shrugged, and to his surprise, blushed furiously.

"Jamie did what he thought was best," Isobel said.

"Isobel, is this true?" John Seton asked. "I thought you seemed overfond of the outlaw moments ago, but this—"

"Aye, 'tis true," she said, looking at James.

"Particularly the part about me being a fool," James said, returning the gaze as well as he could, with one opened eye.

"And you, Border Hawk," John Seton said. "If you love my daughter, would you ask her to live the life of a brigand? She has a gentle spirit, and a precious gift. Her life should center around what God wants of her. I always tried to see to it."

"I do love her," James said quietly. "And I would never expect her to live an uncertain life with me. I want her kept safe, just as you do."

Isobel stood slowly, still looking at James. She seemed distant, though she stood only a few feet from him.

"Isobel, I made a grave mistake," John Seton said. "You cannot marry Sir Ralph. He has shown himself to be treacherous. But I do not think you should wed a brigand, either. Your gift is far too significant to waste like that."

James scowled at that remark, but said nothing, watching Isobel. She looked from him to her father, and clasped her hands in front of her, twining and untwining her fingers. James saw a wary look in her eye, almost caged. He sensed that her temper rose within her like a wave, but she kept ominously silent.