Laird of the Wind (6 page)

He murmured as he held her, soft phrases that he had used while training his hawks, or while loving a woman. He had not uttered such phrases in years, for he had not kept a hawk in a long time—and the last few women he had loved with his body had heard no such tender words from him.

Nearly forgotten, endlessly gentle, the words streamed from his lips. He spoke to Isobel as if he held his beloved, as if she were part of his soul, and not a woman who had conspired against him. The warm embrace felt like a fit of glove to hand, giving James as much comfort as he had intended to give her.

Startled by his own behavior, he paused. Then he released her and helped her to sit up.

"Thank you," she said, her voice faint and hoarse. She leaned against the wall, closing her eyes.

James pressed the cloth to her wound and watched her carefully. Her breathing gradually calmed, and color came back into her lips and cheeks.

Even ravaged by pain and distress, she was elegant and delicate, wrapped in cool light and shadow. Her brows and lashes were black against her pale, creamy skin. The thin moonlight revealed the square shape of her face, wide at cheekbones and jaw, curved at the chin, with a full, gentle mouth. Her face combined strength and fragility in exquisite balance, enhanced by her extraordinary eyes.

Her bare shoulder and throat were thin, revealing the bony grace beneath the skin. The long limbs beneath the drape of her gown, and the well-defined frame of her shoulders and hips, told him that she was a tall, strong woman.

She reminded him, suddenly, of a female goshawk he had captured and trained years ago. Strong-willed, powerful, and beautiful, the bird had remained partly wild, and yet had given him her exclusive loyalty. He had mourned her when she was gone. He frowned; he had not thought of her in a long while.

He tore a second strip of cloth from the first and wrapped it around Isobel's arm, tying it in place. "That should do for now," he said as he pulled the neck of her gown higher. "Let me see your ankle."

She sat forward. "'Tis not so bad," she said. She pulled the skirt of her gown higher to reveal her left foot, bandaged in white silk over her bloodied woolen stocking. Awkwardly, using her left hand, she undid the silk and peeled down the hose, biting her lip to smother a wince.

James took over the task from her and carefully pushed the stocking past her long, slender ankle, shoving down the collar of her low boot. Just above the outer ankle, an ugly slash marked where a passing arrow had sliced through the skin.

"This was done by a crossbow bolt," he said. "I saw the shot. You were fortunate it did not shatter the bone." As he spoke, he pressed the torn linen against the wound. She drew in a sharp, whistling breath.

James tied the cloth in place and pulled up her hose, tucking the top under the braided silk garter above her knee. Her leg and ankle, he noted, were lean and hard as a lad's, the bones elegantly shaped.

He stood and held out his hands in an offer to lift her. "I'll take you down to the keep now. I will cauterize the wounds, and I want you to eat and rest. You are weak from this ordeal, and you have fasted too long."

"I have not fasted by choice," she grumbled, and refused his hands, rising slowly to her feet, one hand on the wall, swaying when she stood upright. She stepped forward, and her cry of pain tore through James. He growled and swept her up into the cradle of his arms, though she protested hoarsely.

He carried her down the tower steps and out into the bailey, and strode across the shadowed yard. A few English-sprung arrows sailed over the wall and whacked into the earth not far from them. James stopped to make sure the way was clear, and glanced up at his men, who stood sentry on the moonlit battlement.

Isobel looked up as he did. "The English shoot at us almost every night," she said. "We ignore the attacks as much as we can, since we lack the men to return each shot."

"The siege commander has a relentless sense of duty."

Isobel tipped her head and watched him. "James Lindsay," she said. "Did the English send you here to capture us and bring us out of here into custody?"

He stopped, holding her in his arms, and stared down at her. "I do not take orders from Southrons," he snapped.

"Did Sir Ralph Leslie send you here, then?"

"No one sent me. I came here of my own accord."

"Now why would the Border Hawk do that?" she asked softly.

"To rescue the prophetess," he said irritably.

Isobel's gaze was wary. "I do not believe you. There is more on your mind than rescue."

He walked on through the bailey without replying. He knew that her trust in him faded as her suspicions grew. Some needy part of him regretted the loss, but he could not blame her.

Apart from the rescue, she should not trust him at all.

When he reached the tower in the center of the bailey yard, he looked up. Like many castles, the upper level, where the great hall and living quarters would be located, had no direct access; the upper door stood bolted, its stout ladder removed. He went toward the back wall of the keep, where he saw a narrow door hidden in shadows.

The door swung open. Eustace Gibson motioned them forward. "This way. My lady?" he inquired softly.

"I am fine," she answered.

James followed Eustace through a wide, dark storage chamber. The room was bare except for empty grain sacks, upturned wooden crates, and a pile of sturdy rope. Torchlight illuminated some steps in an alcove.

James crossed the room behind Eustace, aware of the warm, easy pressure of Isobel's weight in his arms. Her hand was soft at his neck, her torso close and curving, her slender legs draped easily over his forearm. When he shifted her for balance, she laid her head lightly upon his shoulder.

He sucked in a breath, wishing she was strong enough to walk. He was too aware of her soft, satiny textures, her flowery scent, her luxurious warmth. She rode like an angel in his arms.

He would have preferred a hell-hag. When he had set out to find the prophetess of Aberlady, he had expected a shrewish, manipulative woman, a perfect mate for Leslie. Instead, he found a gentle, brave girl, and her garrison, all in need of help.

But he could not let this sway his original plan. He must hold Isobel Seton hostage long enough to free his cousin, and in the process bring revenge upon Leslie's head.

James claimed to be her champion, but he intended to be her captor. He felt a keen twinge of guilt. However briefly, she had given him her full trust. The sensation had been exquisite, sweet and nourishing, unlike the heavy, raw taste of revenge.

He set his jaw and hardened his gaze, and followed Eustace up the stairs, holding Isobel in his arms. Guilt be damned. A long while had passed since he had allowed his sins to bother him. He would not begin now.

Chapter 4

The faint rumble that woke her was not the low growl of thunder, as she thought at first, but the sound of men's voices. Isobel opened her eyes, blinked away a fog of sleep, and looked around.

She was alone in the huge, stone-vaulted kitchen, lying on a pallet in a corner near the warm hearth. Voices floated up the stairwell from the storage chamber, and although she could not distinguish the words, she recognized the tones of a few of Aberlady's men.

An hour or two—perhaps more—had surely passed since Isobel had fallen asleep on the pallet of blankets and straw in the corner of the kitchen. The hearth fire blazed at a low fever, but the iron kettle, suspended inside the arched fireplace, was empty. The men had devoured the soup that they had prepared themselves from the barley broth and the rabbit meat.

James Lindsay and Eustace had insisted that Isobel have some as well. The soup strengthened her, although she had no appetite after James had treated her wounds.

She winced sharply at the vivid memory. He had touched the red-hot tip of his dirk to her wounds to burn out the bad humors and seal the flesh. The agony had caused her to black out for a few moments. She had come to awareness with his arms around her, and his soothing voice in her ear.

"Forgive me," he had said softly. She had, silently, for she knew that serious wounds had to be cauterized if no medicines were available.

Now, as she sat awake and alone, his warm embrace seemed like a deeply comforting dream that could not be recaptured.

Moving slowly, she sat up and leaned against the wall, wincing at the ache in her arm and foot. Long strips of linen cloth bound her bent arm securely against her side and waist; her ankle, too, was more firmly bound. James had added the outer bandaging before she had fallen asleep. Now she found that the support lessened the discomfort when she moved.

Looking around, Isobel noticed a yellow flash sail past the window on the other side of the room. Fire arrows, she thought with a heavy sigh. She pushed herself to her knees and stood, her movements stiff and awkward. Biting her lip as her injured foot took the weight of a step, she limped to the window.

As she moved, she felt lightheaded. Likely that was caused by hunger and the strain of her situation, she thought. She breathed slowly, and when she felt steadier, she leaned forward to look out through the open window.

The bailey yard was a vast, dark field, surrounded by the vague moonlit shapes of the high curtain wall and outbuildings. Isobel narrowed her eyes and looked around. In the far corner of the curtain wall, near the postern door that opened on the edge of the cliff, she saw a few men from Aberlady's garrison with one or two of the renegades. The men seemed intently occupied with several ropes, although she could not tell what they did there.

Two more blazing arrows sailed through the night, trailing flames and smoke, and landed in the bare earth of the bailey, quickly burning out. Isobel glanced toward the battlement, but the angle made it difficult to see if the garrison returned the shots. The bailey seemed empty but for smoking arrows.

"My lady? Excuse me, my lady."

Startled, Isobel turned. A young man entered the kitchen from the stairwell and came toward her with long, loping steps. His russet tunic sagged on his thin, gangly frame, and the firelight made a dark halo of his curling, tangled brown hair.

He stopped, his cheeks flushing. "Jamie Lindsay sent me here to see to your welfare, my lady, and if you are ill, I am to fetch him straight away," he said in a rush.

"I am fine," she said.

"Then I am to watch you close, and wait for his signal." He peered intently at her. "Are you truly Black Isobel the prophetess?"

"Aye. You need not stare so," she said, amused. "I will not vanish in brimstone fire."

The boy's cheeks, faintly whiskered, blushed more deeply. "I ask your pardon, my lady." He cleared his throat as if in an agony of embarrassment. "I did not mean to offend—"

"No pardon needed," she said kindly. "What is your name?"

"Geordie Shaw. I'm cousin to the hero Wallace," he added proudly.

"You are with the brigands? How old are you?"

"Fifteen summers," he said. "I've been with Jamie for more than a year. My father was with him too. We ran with him and with Wallace. Da died," he said gruffly, looking down. "Six months ago. 'Twas a braw fight that day. He died well fighting Southrons."

"He must have been a brave man, like his son," she said quietly. "My father was taken in a battle last spring. He's in an English prison still."

Geordie seemed intrigued. "Jamie was in an English dungeon for months. He finally escaped. Will you ransom your Da?"

She shook her head. "We lack the coin for that, and have naught to offer in trade. I do not even know where he is held. But a friend has promised to find him," she added. "But for the siege, I would have had word of my father by now."

"You will find your father," Geordie said. He drew back his wide, bony shoulders proudly. "We have come to rescue you. And then I will help you find him if you like, my lady," he added sincerely.

"Thank you, Geordie Shaw. I appreciate that." She frowned. "James Lindsay was in prison?"

"Aye, taken last spring as well. But he escaped several weeks ago, just before Wallace was taken." He swallowed heavily and looked away. Isobel thought she saw the glaze of tears in his eyes. "You will not have heard about Wallace, I suppose."