Laird of the Wind (17 page)

"Smoke curls up from a hole in the thatched roof," he went on. "Two tiny windows are open to the air and light, and the door is open, welcoming, with a white cat asleep on the low slate step. A goat wanders through the yard, and under his feet are a few chickens. He ignores them as he nibbles at the flowered turf bench tucked against the side of the house. There is a small garden at the corner, with some vegetables and herbs. The lavender is bright purple, the raspberry canes are green and tangled, and golden honeysuckle grows thick over the fence."

"Ah," she breathed. "How beautiful. So peaceful."

"'Tis why I come here. For the peace. And to see Alice. You will like her." His shoulder continued to press against hers companionably, underscoring the pleasant sense of ease and security. She let herself lean into him.

"Thank you," she said.

"My uncle used to ask me to describe things for him," James said. "I thought you might like it too."

"Is Alice waiting for us?" She did not care, just then, that she was a captive. She enjoyed the serenity of the moment. And she craved the comfort offered in the house just ahead. She waited for James to urge her horse forward.

But he tensed, straightening away from her. She thought she heard him swear under his breath. A familiar thumping rhythm sounded in the distance; she recognized the sound of horses.

"Who are they?" she asked in sudden alarm, remembering the skirmish of the day before. "Are they coming this way?"

"Isobel." His voice was hard. "I am going to lead the horses into a stand of birches, and I want you to hide in the bracken. 'Tis deep enough to cover you."

"What—"

"Hush!" he hissed fiercely. He tightened his grip on the reins of her horse and pulled. Branches clawed at her, and a limb snapped her full in the jaw. She cried out and waved her left arm instinctively, panicked, unsure where she was.

Then she felt James's hands like iron around her waist. He hauled her swiftly from her horse, and waded with her through deep fern growth to shove her down into the bracken. He pressed a hand to her head.

"Stay down. Be quiet," he whispered urgently. Then he was gone, slipping away.

Breathing hard, Isobel lay in the bracken and waited, her face muffled in the crook of her arm. The smells of earth and green were strong around her. Her injured arm throbbed, but she made no sound. She listened with all of her awareness.

She heard the horses snort softly behind her in the cover of trees. The goshawk squealed nearby; James must have tied him to a perch in a tree.

The cantering horses had quieted. Male voices came through the trees, deep but faint. She turned her head under the cover of the ferns. Their soft fingers combed over her skin and their scent filled her nostrils.

Time stretched, stilled. Wildly, suddenly, she feared that James had left her, blind and alone, in the forest.

Then she heard the soft, stealthy thud of footfalls, and she felt him drop down beside her in the ferns. With great relief, she turned toward him and opened her mouth to speak.

"Hush!" he whispered, touching a finger to her lips. She felt him stretch out close beside her. Then he pulled her back against his chest, so close that they lay spooned together, with Isobel lying on her left side. The length of his body pressed hard against her, head to foot, his arms firm around her. He placed the palm of his hand over her mouth, and she gasped in surprise.

"Be silent," he whispered. She felt his steel-hard grip and the heavy thump of his heart through her back. Unable to see, scarcely able to move, she panicked. She struggled, kicked out, and squealed.

James locked a leg over hers to still the kicks. Isobel gathered breath to scream. He tightened his hand over her mouth. She bit the finger that rested across her lips.

James uttered a soft oath. "Be still and be silent," he growled. "Promise me that, or I will not let go, though you bite off my finger."

She nodded desperately. He lifted his hand from her mouth, but kept his arms tightly about her. Isobel felt like a wild thing caught in a trap. How could she have been so wrong about him, she thought. How could she have trusted him? She twisted again. He yanked tighter, and she stilled, breath heaving.

"Soft, you," he whispered. "I will not harm you." His embrace relaxed a bit. "But do not make a sound."

Isobel elbowed him heartily in the breastbone, though it pained her injured arm to do it. He grunted, giving her small satisfaction. Little short of a miracle could appease the anger she felt toward him now. She could not trust him now. And by his actions, he clearly did not trust her either.

That thought sobered her suddenly. She let herself go slack in his arms. After a moment, she felt James lift his head to look around.

Isobel raised her head too, wanting to hear more clearly. James pushed her head down. "Riders are coming into the clearing," he whispered.

The cadence of horses' hooves vibrated the earth beneath her. Then she heard the muffled thuds of a single horse moving forward. "How many are there?" she whispered.

"Four," he hissed back. "One of them is crossing the yard."

"Are they Scots?"

"Their armor is too fine. Few Scotsmen could afford such trappings. The Scots do not think too kind of me just now either, so we'll stay hidden." His voice was a soft breath of air. None but she could have heard it.

"What does the leader look like?" she whispered.

He paused. "A dappled horse and fine chain mail. Hush." She heard a deep, smooth male voice give a polite greeting, and she heard a woman's reply, gruff and quick. As she lay in James's arms, she tried to listen to what the knight said to Alice, but much of what they said was not audible.

Isobel found herself distracted by the hard wrap of James's arms around her, the firm length of his body behind hers, the soft rhythm of his breath at her ear. Each exhalation he made sent deep shivers through her.

She scowled and tried to concentrate.

"I want to know where he is, madame." The knight's voice was raised in anger. Isobel frowned; the voice was familiar.

"I have not seen the lad in months," Isobel heard Alice reply. Her voice was earthy, full, and dauntless somehow. "I live alone here, and no one bothers me—but for you. Begone from here."

"Surely he has come to you for help recently," the man said. "Tell me where he is!" His voice was louder now, demanding.

Isobel gasped. James clapped his fingers over her mouth. She lay enclosed in his arms, tempted to struggle away from the forest brigand who held her and flee to sure safety.

She waited for Sir Ralph Leslie to speak again.

* * *

James pulled Isobel closer and pressed the palm of his hand over her soft lips. A moment ago, she had gasped out as if in surprise. He glanced down. Her blue eyes had a startled look, wide open, yet she stared at nothing.

Nothing
. Her blindness still alarmed him. He had to keep her safe and hidden from Ralph Leslie. Her expression told him that she had already recognized the voice of her betrothed.

James kept his firm hold on her, and watched Alice step forward. His aunt fisted her hands on wide hips beneath her brown kirtle, and stared boldly at Leslie. Taller than most men, Alice Crawford was not easily intimidated.

"What do you want with James Lindsay?" she demanded.

"He's wanted for crimes against King Edward."

"I know that," Alice snapped impatiently.

"Surely you know that William Wallace was taken last month, and executed in London on charges of treason."

"I heard. The Southrons are heartless bastards," she said bluntly. "God rest his soul. Will Wallace never did treason in his life. What of Jamie, then?"

"James Lindsay betrayed Wallace."

"Never!" Alice cried.

"I have proof," Leslie said.

"I do not believe it," Alice said stoutly. "Why do you spread such a foul tale? You, a Scotsman?"

"If the Scots find him, they will cut him down like a beast. If the English find him, they will hang him—and worse." Leslie leaned closer. "But I can help your nephew, Dame Crawford. The charges against him can be remanded by King Edward. Lindsay knows that the king may see fit to grant him a reward."

James felt Isobel grow still as a stone in his arms. He was certain that she had heard. He turned his attention to the clearing.

"Are you one of those who turn their loyalty with the wind?" Alice asked in a suspicious tone.

"I am merely a practical man, Dame."

"Then show your good sense and get out of my yard!"

"Peace, woman. I came here for another reason."

"Then speak," she snapped.

He lifted his left arm to display the black armband wrapped around his chain mail sleeve. "I am in mourning."

"Forgive me. I did not know."

"I have lost my betrothed. Two days past, there was a fire at a castle in Midlothian. My beloved Lady Isobel Seton was inside with her garrison."

Isobel gasped and twisted against James, as if she was desperate to escape and go to her lover. James dragged her close, more roughly than he meant to do. Her hip pressed against his groin, her breast was soft his arm, and her lips were moist and warm against his palm.

A sudden, unexpected lust flared in him. James drew a ragged breath, his heart hammering in his chest.

He had spent a few years in a monastery, and even more as a renegade; he thought he could master his body and his emotions. But desire still surged through him like fire.

He felt her tremble, and knew had frightened her. That acted like a dousing of cold water, and he lessened his hold.

"I will not hurt you," he murmured. "But do not think to call out to your lover." The word tasted bitter on his tongue. He held her down and raised his head to listen once again to the conversation in the clearing.

"I tried to save Lady Isobel from the fire, but I was too late," Leslie told Alice. "I ran into the flames without fear for my own life, so great was my urge to find her. Love makes a courageous heart, madame."

James felt a chill run through him. Ralph Leslie spoke bold lies, but his words stirred old nightmares. James closed his eyes against remorse and an empty, hollow pain.

When he looked again, his aunt had clasped her hands over her wide bosom, absorbed in Leslie's story. James scowled. Alice, tough as she looked, had a sentimental core that melted like butter over the scarcest flame.

"Isobel died in the inferno." Leslie lowered his head.

"Poor lady!" Alice cried.

In his arms, Isobel squirmed. He felt her throat shift as she swallowed, heard her muffled wince of pain—or was it a smothered cry for help?

"She was a beautiful woman, and a gifted prophetess."

"Black Isobel?" Alice asked hesitantly. "The prophetess?"

"Aye, the same. Madame, someone escaped the fire. An arrow protruded from the cliff side, white feathered like those the Border Hawk uses. If he killed my Isobel, I will kill him with my own hands."

"A white-tipped arrow is not proof that Jamie was there. And your beloved might have escaped the fire."

"That would gladden my heart," Leslie said. "If you see your nephew, madame, give him a message from me."

"He does not come here."

"Then you will have to find him and tell him that I have Margaret Crawford in my keeping."

"Margaret!" Alice burst out. "She is my niece! Is she safe? If you harm her—"

"She is my guest, never fret. Now you will be sure to find Lindsay to tell him where she is. I am sure he is concerned."

"Jamie will bring a host of men upon your walls—"

"Margaret is safe in my care. But tell Lindsay that if he wants to see her again, he must come to Wildshaw Castle, where I am constable, to escort her home."

James fisted his hand, white-knuckled, against Isobel's waist as he listened to Leslie's mild words, couching a strong threat to both Margaret and the Border Hawk. Isobel stirred in his arms. He tightened his hold around her waist, and over her mouth, to still her.

"You hold Wildshaw?" Alice asked, her voice tense.

"Aye. King Edward put it in my command recently," Leslie said. "Deliver my message, Dame Alice. I am sure you have some contact who knows where the outlaw is. I will return in a few days. I hope you will have some news for me." He circled his horse. "Good day, madame."

He and his men rode out of the yard. Alice watched them, her hands clapped over her mouth, her cheeks flaming red. Then she turned and ran into her house.

James felt Isobel struggle in his arms. "He's gone," he growled. Then he felt a rapid pulsing in the earth beneath him. "Riders!" he hissed, and flattened, belly down, in the bracken. He pushed Isobel onto her back to flatten her, too, and shielded her body with his, half resting his torso over hers, and pressing his hand over her mouth.

High and thick, the ferns enclosed them in a verdant cave. James smelled the rich, green tang of the fronds, and inhaled the warm sweetness of Isobel, his face close to hers, half buried in her hair. Her lean body was a firm cushion body beneath his.