Laird of the Wind (29 page)

He looked down at her, his eyes as dark as sapphires. "None of you know the truth," he said softly.

"Then tell me." She cupped her hand over his arm.

He watched her silently. His hair blew softly over his cheek, fluttering like a dark golden banner. He shook it away, and she saw that he shook his head in refusal.

"You trusted me enough to tell me some of what haunts you," she said. "Trust me for the rest."

He smiled, slow and sad, and lifted a hand to trace the curve of her jaw with his fingertips. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. She closed her eyes briefly as the sensation streamed through her. He leaned close, his hand warm against her cheek, his face nearly touching hers. She felt his fingers shape her cheek, slide down along her neck, cup the back of her head.

"I trust you well, lass, and I do not do that easily," he murmured. "But if I told you, your faith would vanish. And I want your trust. I need it." His mouth was so close to hers that she tilted back her head. "God, I need it," he whispered.

His lips covered hers in a kiss more stirring, more hungered than any he had shared with her before. With one arm, he pulled her to him, delving his fingers into the windblown mass of her hair as his mouth slanted over hers.

Isobel leaned back in his embrace and circled her arm around his waist, tipping her head to open to the deepening kiss. The wind rocked against her, and his arm held her steady while his lips caressed hers, softening, hardening, coaxing. She felt as if the world tilted and the wind lifted her.

Then Gawain leaped off of James's outstretched hand like a frog leaving a sunny rock. But his jesses caught him, as always, and he battered wildly against the wind. His wingtips brushed rapidly against her arm. Isobel broke away from James and leaped back with a startled cry.

James looked sternly at the hawk. With a deft flick of his gloved wrist, he turned his arm to accomodate the tiercel, who grasped the jesses with his talons and clambered back on to the fist, squawking. James shook his head in disgust, but he spoke gently to the bird, and sang a few notes of the
kyrie
until the bird settled, blinking wide, feet firmly planted on the glove.

James smiled at her, a wry twist of his mouth. "This dim-witted hawk has more sense than I do, I think. I must ask your pardon once again."

Breathless and reeling from the shimmering strength of what had passed between them, Isobel touched his arm. "Do not beg pardon of me. I was part of that, too," she murmured.

"You have placed yourself in my care, and are about to be sent off to your betrothed. That kiss lacked honor. I will not give Ralph Leslie more reason to seek my head. Nor will I give you reason to regret... what passes between us."

She tilted her head to look up at him. "Ah, then," she breathed. "See, you are a man of honor."

He took her hand tightly, as if he would never let go. Then he turned to scan the forest and the sky with keen, brilliant blue eyes. "Do you see the hawk out there?" he asked.

"Aye—there 'tis, to the west."

"'Tis a red-tailed hawk," he said. "And a large one. A female, I would guess. 'Tis not wild, but a hunting bird. There must be a hunting party down there."

"Look at her. So beautiful!" The hawk soared over the trees, circled, banked, and sank into the forest. "Soon Sir Gawain will fly like that."

James tilted a doubtful brow as he looked at the goshawk on his fist. The bird fluttered his wings and roused his breast feathers. "This sorry gos may never fly for us, or for any owner. We may have to give in to his stubborn nature, and let him go when his wing is healed." He narrowed his eyes. "There, through the trees—do you see the riders?"

She shaded her eyes. "Where? Oh—I see a flash of light, and something red. What is it?"

"Armor," he said. "Soldiers, coming along the path from Wildshaw." James tugged on her hand. "Come on. We cannot risk being sighted up here. If we can see them, they might be able to see us. And there is something I want to show you."

She followed, her hand captured in his, her heart beating like a wild thing, and realized that she did not ever want to leave the crag, or let go of the outlaw who lived there.

And now she knew for certain that she did not want to be sent into the cold arms of another man.

Chapter 19

James led Isobel along the length of the promontory, away from the outermost projection with its towering stone broch. She followed him toward the mountain that rose up, solid and dark, on the eastern side. His long steps hurried her along as he led her behind an outcropping formed by a rockslide that must have spilled off the mountain long ago.

"This way," James said. "Go careful, now."

He preceded her down a narrow, sloped path edged with scrub and gorse. A plateau jutted out below the upper level of the crag, tucked in the juncture where the crag split from the mountainside.

A few runnels creased the slope, filled with water from the day's rain. The narrow streams trickled toward the plateau, and disappeared behind a thick cluster of gorse.

"Look down here," James said, dropping to his haunches beside the rough green hedge. Isobel leaned forward.

The rocks behind the gorse were jumbled and cracked, a pile of stone broken by the hand of nature. One wide gap opened directly into the crag, and the rills poured over the rounded edge of the gap, forming a thin, delicate fall of water.

Isobel heard the echo of water hitting stone. She peered into the opening, and saw flickering reflections of daylight. "What's down there?" she asked.

"A cave, and a spring," he answered. "Can you climb down that ladder with one hand?" He pointed toward the wooden ladder, which leaned against the opening and went down into the gap. Isobel nodded. James sat on the edge of the hole and caught the side of the ladder, descending it carefully, since he gripped the hawk's jesses in one hand. Gawain flapped his wings and squawked, but maintained enough composure to permit James to drop to the floor of the cave without trouble. James looked at Isobel and held up his hand.

The ladder was ten feet high or so. Isobel sat on the edge of the gap, set her feet on a rung, and grasped the side. She used her injured arm to balance herself as she went down. Then she felt James's hand at her waist, and within moments set foot on the stone floor.

"Step careful, now, 'tis wet," he said. His voice had a muted echo. Isobel turned, and caught her breath in wonder.

Soft daylight, damp air, and the rushing sound of water filled her senses. Water sparkled as it poured over the rim of the gap, collected in glistening puddles on the uneven floor, and finally spilled into a deep, wide pool.

Along one wall, water cascaded from the rock itself, issuing in foamy surges and clear trickles from crevices in the stone, running down to splash into the same large pool. Another wall had a doorway that looked out on the underground tunnel.

Isobel turned in astonishment. James smiled at her, tipping his head to watch as she spun around. "The shallow end of that pool," he said, "is warm as a bath on days when sunlight shines directly on it. This cave is on the south side of the crag, and so the sun can be strong at times here. The other side of the pool is deeper, and in shadow, and can be quite cold. But we sometimes use hot stones to take the chill from the water."

"This is a miraculous place," Isobel said. "Incredible. I do not know such things existed—underground pools and falls."

"Aye, though they are rare. 'Tis often said that springs and pools like this have healing powers. Although I have not heard legends about the Craig. Only my men and I know this place is here, though—the secrets of this crag were lost ages ago."

She nodded, and looked up at the falling water. "Does the water run down like that because of the rain?"

"The rain increases the flow from the outside, but there is always a small stream coming down from the mountain. And the spring in the cave wall comes from somewhere within the mountain. In summer especially, and on warm days, 'tis a bit of paradise to be here."

"Oh, aye," Isobel said, lifting her skirts to walk around the rim of the large pool, which looked like a luxurious tub for a giant, scooped out of sandstone. "Paradise indeed."

James knelt beside one of the puddles, and extended his arm, allowing Gawain to come close to the water.

"Will he drink?" Isobel asked.

"Nay," James said. "Hawks do not drink unless they are ill. But bathing is good for their feathers and their health. Aye, laddie, try it," he urged gently, as the hawk bent down and pecked suspiciously at the water.

The tiercel dipped a talon into the wetness, bit at the gleaming surface, again, and then stepped off the fist. He plopped into the water, stretching his wings and widening his tail feathers.

Isobel laughed, the quick trill echoing around the basin of the watery cave. "He likes it."

James smiled up at her. "He might be a useless hawk, but at least he'll be clean." Isobel laughed again. Gawain splashed, and uttered a few cheeps and pips as if he were a fledgling in the nest. Isobel and James laughed together, the sounds rising up in a sweet, harmonic echo.

She glanced from the hawk to the man, and felt her heart open like a rose budding in the sun. James did not look at her, and she was glad. He would not see the glow of her feelings, which she could scarcely hide.

If he felt the same joy that rushed through her—made up of this moment's laughter, and of deeper, less definable feelings—then she was sure he would do his best to resist them.

He watched the hawk splash child-like in the puddle. "You can bathe here, too," he said.

"In the puddle, with the hawk?" She blinked at him.

He smiled. "In the pool. You need to strengthen and ease your arm, and that would help."

No one had ever showed her such tender concern, even at home during her bouts of blindness. "I do like water," she admitted. "But that pool looks quite cold."

"Aye. We'll warm the water with stones heated in the fire, so you can have a long soak."

"'Twould be lovely," she said. "Though I did wonder if you would recommend a hot loaf of bread for my arm."

He grinned. "How does your arm feel now, lass?"

She flexed her arm slightly and winced at the searing ache. "The pain is better unless I try to move it. Alice suggested hot poultices to draw the stiffness out. She was going to start those for me."

"When Quentin and Patrick come back, I will ask one of them to fetch the poultice." He frowned, eyeing her arm. "Have you tended to your wound at all today?"

She shook her head. "I have not had the chance."

"I will help you clean and bandage it before you go to sleep. If you want," he added.

She stared up at him, realizing that she would be alone with James when night came, sleeping in a room adjacent to his. The thought of him touching her—indeed, the thought of him peeling away her clothing as he had done before to look at the wound—made her draw in her breath as she gazed at him.

She nodded slowly, wordlessly, stunned by how much he seemed to care about her well-being. The man who had taken her hostage was, at heart, a compassionate man, as she had first thought when he had tended her wounds at Aberlady Castle.

While the hawk dabbled in the puddle, James drew off his heavy glove with languid ease, and stepped toward Isobel. He took her forearm, rounding his long fingers over her wrist and lifting away the sling.

Isobel watched him, her eyes wide, her breath quickening, as he supported her arm in both of his hands and slowly, gently turned it.

"Push against my hand," he instructed her. She did, tentatively. "Now pull up," he said, placing the weight of his hand on her forearm. She did, and winced. "Good. The muscles still have their strength, I think," he said. "I was concerned that the broadhead might have caused permanent damage. As you use the arm, 'twill get stronger. But rest it for now." He replaced the cloth sling.

As he withdrew his hand, his fingers grazed against hers, and she drew in her breath. James tugged on her fingers to pull her forward a step. He brushed away a drift of her dark hair, which had fallen over her shoulder.

"Is this why you are called Black Isobel?" he murmured.