Laird of the Wind (18 page)

They lay for endless moments, breathing rapidly. James closed his eyes, and listened with his entire being, feeling the hoofbeats in the earth, hearing the jingle of armor and weapons. The riders came so close to them that the ferns quivered as the horses passed through. A clod of earth, torn loose, fell on James's back. Isobel trembled beneath him.

Suddenly she twisted her head, slipping away from the cover of his hand. A small cry escaped her mouth.

In sudden desperation, James scooped his hand along her jaw and turned her head. He covered her lips with his, silencing her, hard, swift, and complete.

Isobel went still beneath him. With his mouth pressed to hers, James breathed with her, moist and slow, while the thunder of hoofbeats surrounded them.

Her lips moved beneath his hesitantly, almost poignantly. A deep thrill spiraled through his body. James lay still, his lips motionless, but softening upon hers until his blood rushed.

He lifted his mouth away, stunned by the force that had poured through him. His heart pounded wildly—with fear, with desire, with an intense craving to taste her again. He glanced at her, and saw that her eyes, gorgeous in the green glow of the ferny cave, were filled with tears.

"Isobel—" Gently, he slipped his fingers into the tousled silk of her hair, and touched his lips to hers once again. This time, he meant it for a true kiss, and no act of desperation.

Warm and sweet, her lips were sun-warmed honey beneath his. The slow, exquisite kiss took him over, stole his breath and his reason, and changed the beat of his heart.

A moment later, he realized that the riders had gone, though he was not sure when that had happened. He separated his lips from hers reluctantly, and lifted his head to listen.

Silence.

He glanced at Isobel. She stared at him, her eyes glistening, keen on his, filled with awareness.

Filled with sight.

He touched her cheek with his finger, and his heart thundered in his chest.

"God in heaven. You can see," he whispered.

"Aye," she said softly. "Just now." She laughed. "It came back when you kissed me."

James stared. "How—" He let out a stunned breath. "Does it always need a—a kiss?" He thought he sounded like a halfwit.

"I have never tried kissing as a cure." She laughed again, delighted. "But it worked!"

James blinked in disbelief, then shook his head. "I do not understand any of this. I truly do not," he muttered, and rose to his knees in the ferns—nearly bolted upright, for the import of what had happened hit him like a blow.

He frowned as he scanned the surrounding, deserted forest. Only in a collection of saint's tales, or in a
roman d'aventure
, could a chaste kiss heal miraculously. But that had been no chaste kiss; his body still throbbed, his blood still surged.

By the Rood, he thought. This was not some epic tale. He was a brigand, not a hero. But he could not shake the effects of that stunning, impulsive kiss, in his body or in his heart. He wanted to take her into his arms and feel that sweeping power once again.

Isobel's gaze fastened calmly and sweetly on him. He was glad to have the contact of their eyes again. He had missed it.

But the look of adoration in her eyes made him distinctly uncomfortable.

He preferred the safer ground of enemies, of distrust, of practical matters like hostages and strategies. He did not know what to do with visions, with magic and miracles. With love.

Not that, he warned himself. Surely not that. Not with the prophetess, of all women. He shoved a hand roughly through his hair. Once again, Black Isobel had brought something unexpected into his life. He did not know what to think of her. He did not know what to feel about her.

But he knew he wanted to touch her again, kiss her, immerse his hardened heart in her gentle nature. He even wanted that adoration from her. But he knew he did not deserve it.

He scowled and looked away. "The riders are gone now. 'Tis safe to leave." Aye, safer than staying here and yearning after a lass, he thought sourly. "I'll fetch the goshawk and the horses. Stay here." He stood.

She rolled to her side and sat up. "James Lindsay."

He looked down. She rose out of the ferns like a faerie queen, with the green fronds clinging to her gown and her hair. He felt an odd sensation in the region of his heart.

"Aye?" he asked softly.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For the kiss."

He sighed. "Your sight would have returned soon or late, as you said. But I am glad... to have been of some help."

She watched him. He thought how innocent she was, yet how mysterious, with her strange wisdom, with her beautiful eyes and her sweet mouth.

He wished he were free to love her. He sometimes wondered what it would be like to live a peaceful life. But he would never know. Danger lurked around him. He could not yearn after peace, or love, or black-haired prophetesses.

She began to gain her feet. James hesitated, then reached out to help her, steeling himself against the pleasure of touching her. He let go and stepped away.

"James," she said. "Ralph does have Margaret."

"Aye," he said gruffly. "And he holds her to trap me."

"But he said that you murdered several men. He said that you promised to betray Wallace for reward. But—" she paused. "That cannot be true."

James looked at her for the length of a heartbeat. He saw faith in her gaze, knew what she wanted to hear, and knew that his words would hurt her. "Aye," he said. "'Tis true."

He turned away. He did not want to see the trust vanish from her eyes.

Chapter 12

Isobel looked eagerly around as she and James rode forward. The clearing was a sunlit jewel, with the small stone house set at its center, as cozy and welcoming as she had imagined from James's description.

The blindness, when it cleared, often left her with a kind of visual hunger. She gazed around avidly, and looked at James, who rode ahead of her, the reins of her horse held in his hand.

His posture was powerful and agile as he rode the black stallion. The goshawk on his fist was calm, his feathers delicately barred, his eye blazing as he turned his head.

James glanced over his shoulder at her, and looked away.

Isobel felt a rising blush heat her throat and cheeks. The echo of that stunning, breath robbing kiss rushed through her again. She would never forget how the darkness had vanished as the kiss had turned tender and profound.

She felt so full of relief and gratitude in that moment that she had wanted to kiss him again, resoundingly. She had, quite simply, adored him. But he had turned away, remote once again, and then he had admitted to treachery.

Isobel felt as if she had been struck through the heart. The arrow that had slammed into her arm was a thorn compared to the stabbing force of his words.

She watched him now, the proud lift of his head, the strong carriage of his wide shoulders. And she could not believe him capable of such an atrocious crime.

Confusion flooded through her. She had learned that Sir Ralph Leslie was not the staunch knight her father thought him to be. He did indeed hold a woman hostage, and he had lied about his attempt to rescue Isobel to gain Alice's sympathy.

If he believed her dead, his grief did not seem genuine. Isobel scowled. Now she could not trust Ralph any more than she could trust James—but she preferred the outlaw to the knight.

The tiercel fluttered his wings suddenly and squawked. James hushed the bird, and halted both horses.

Isobel looked ahead and saw a woman step out of the doorway of the house. Gowned in earthy brown with a snowy headdress, she ducked her head slightly to clear the lintel. She was tall and large, with a warrior-like frame and a cumbersome bosom. She fisted her hands on her broad hips and stared.

"Greetings, aunt." James swung down from his horse.

His aunt stepped toward him and grabbed him in a fierce hug. She stepped back, tears glazing her eyes. "Come inside! They are searching for you!" She looked at Isobel. "Lord save us! Is this the prophetess?"

"Aye," James said. "She is quite alive."

"You heard what the knight said?" Alice stared at him.

"Most of it. We were hiding in the fern brake." James balanced the goshawk on the makeshift leather covering on his fist, and turned to help Isobel dismount. He lifted her down and let go of her quickly. She turned to face his formidable aunt.

"What a sorry pair of travelers," Alice said, shaking her head. "And where did you find that gos?"

"'Tis a long tale, Alice," James said wearily.

"And I shall hear it, too," Alice said briskly. She reached out a hand toward Isobel. "Tch, look at you, poor lass. Pale as a dove, you are, and just as bonny." Isobel was gathered under the warm circle of Alice's arm and ushered toward the door. "Och, is your arm wounded, then? And you're limping, too." Alice turned to look at James. "How did it happen?"

"Arrowshot," James said as he walked behind them. "Arm and foot, both." Isobel caught his sober glance, and realized he would not mention her blindness.

Alice gaped at him. "Lord save us! An arrowshot lady, a raggedy hawk, and Scots and Southrons out searching for you both." She shook her head. "This lass is so weary she can hardly stand."

"'Tis why I brought her here. I knew you would take us in—without
too
many questions," he added wryly.

"And you ought to be questioned, you great brigand!" Alice burst out. "How could you allow a lady to be so mistreated?" She turned a scowl on the goshawk. "Is that gos trained? He has a wild look to him."

"He's part wild," James said.

"Then be wary of Ragnell if you bring him inside. You'd best put him in the mews when you look to those stolen horses. I know English horseflesh when I see it," she added crisply.

James hid a smile. "Aye, Alice."

"And do not smile so at me. I lied for you this day, laddie, about never seeing you, and I pretended that I do not know Margaret had been taken into custody. 'Tis the only sin I commit, those wee lies for you. Pray heavenly forgiveness for me, will you."

"I will," he said. Isobel saw his affectionate smile.

Alice grunted in gruff answer and escorted Isobel inside the little house. The enveloping dimness was relieved only by the glow of a fire in the floor hearth. Alice led Isobel to a flat-topped wooden chest, where she sat.

As James crossed the threshold, Isobel heard a shriek and the rapid flutter of wings. In a dark corner of the room, a hawk on a tall perch fell backward in a resounding bate.

On James's fist, the tiercel did the same, as if the other hawk had frightened the wits out of him. James extended his arm to give the goshawk space for his tantrum.

"
Benedicite,
" Alice said. "That gos has startled her, and I just got her calmed down from the last visitors." She bustled toward the perch and spoke soothingly to the agitated bird.

Isobel sat and watched, blinking from one hawk to the other, from one owner to the other. Alice's hawk was a large female red-tailed hawk, brown with a bright russet tail. The tiercel was smaller, but his fit was equally tempestuous. Both Alice and James waited with supreme patience until their bating hawks slowed.

When the tiercel calmed, James lifted him back to his fist. Isobel glanced at the female, who still hung upside down from her jesses, gradually slowing her wings to an occasional twitch.

"Ragnell's making this into a ceremony," James remarked.

"She should have been a mummer, for she loves to perform." Alice heaved the hawk onto the perch. "Och, you spoiled bird," she murmured affectionately, stroking the puffed breast feathers. "Useless, bonny bird."

Ragnell chirred to her mistress and clenched the wooden perch with her feet—or what she had of them. Isobel saw with surprise that the lower part of the bird's left leg was made of silver. The metal foot, strapped on her leg, was shaped into a perfect set of talons that fit over the perch.

"She's missing a foot?" she asked in surprise.

"Since she was a brancher," Alice said. "'Tis why she is so spoiled, see. We coddled her, and now she rules us."