Laird of the Wind (30 page)

"Aye. Did you think 'twas for my bad temper?" she teased, remembering when she had asked him about his name. His quick smile lifted a corner of his lip.

Her hair slipped down over her shoulder again. "I like to keep my hair braided back, and under a veil," she went on. She searched for something to say; his steady gaze and the press of his fingers on hers made her heart beat at a frantic pace. "But I lack a veil and a comb. Alice braided my hair, but I cannot do it myself with but one arm." She turned her head to shake the mass over her shoulders. "The wind has made a wild tangle of it again."

He touched the crown of her head. "I can braid it, if you do not mind a clumsy hand at the task. Turn, now." He urged her around with a little push.

His fingers soothed through her hair, lifting, tugging gently, grazing against her neck and shoulders as he made a thick plait. Deep shivers traced through her from head to foot, pooling and swirling in her breasts and abdomen.

The heat of his body encompassed her inside the intimate, damp space of the cave. Her heart thundered within her, echoing the plunging sound of the water. She did not move, hesitant to disturb the sparkling web of sensation around her, formed by his touch and his presence.

His hands worked onward, smoothing, tucking, creating cascades of luxurious sensation in her. "'Tis a sorry sort of braid, but 'twill do," he finally said.

She half turned her head. "Your hand is not clumsy," she murmured. "You have a gentle hand."

"I've learned well from hawks," he murmured.

"You have," she agreed, closing her eyes briefly.

He smoothed her hair over her ear, and his thumb caressed a path down the slope of her neck, sending wondrous tremors through her. She wanted to turn in his arms and feel his lips press hers again. Her body pounded with an urgent, startling need. But she stood still, trembling, waiting.

"Ah, lass," he murmured softly, and lifted his hands away. "I will regret sending you to your betrothed, I think."

"Will you?" she asked, breathless.

He sighed out. "But you must go back—for your father, and for Margaret." He paused. "And for Ralph Leslie."

She bowed her head, feeling as if a sad weight descended upon her shoulders. "For the others, aye. But I do not go back for Sir Ralph." She heard his indrawn breath, and rushed on. "I think that he only means to use me—for the prophecies."

"The others used you too, lass. They kept you away from the world, and cared more about the prophetess than the lass."

"I know that now," she murmured. She glanced over her shoulder at him. "I think you may be the only one who cares about... about
me
. You have shown me kindness and patience."

He sighed. "I meant to use you, too, as a barter for Margaret. I still intend to do that. Do not be so quick to think me a champion, or a saint. I am a rogue, and that I will stay."

"But—" She frowned as she tried to put the words together. "But you never forced me to your will, as a true rogue would have done. And when I insisted on my freedom, you were willing to give it to me, even though 'twould deprive you of what you wanted. And you—you—"

"What?" His voice was so soft she thought she would melt into its warmth. She wanted to turn around, and yet kept her back to him, her head bowed, her hands tucked across her waist protectively. But she spilled her thoughts and feelings like the water that poured over the rim of the cave.

"You asked me to help you, as a friend," she said. "I valued that, Jamie. So much, you cannot know," she added in a whisper. "I have had few friends."

"Ah," he said. "And so you do not want to go to Ralph. You want to stay here with me."

She nodded, a little trembling shake. She waited through his silence, her heart pounding heavily. What she wanted in her life, what she needed, suddenly crystallized in her mind, as if she had indeed been blind inside, for a very long time, and now saw a promising ray of light.

But she did not have the courage to tell him what she felt. She did not want to leave him, and could not say that out loud. And she hesitated to name the true reason for that urge, even in her own thoughts. She closed her eyes.

He touched her hair at the bared nape of her neck, his fingers threading through the tendrils. "Isobel," he said.

She savored the sultry way he said her name, as if he breathed it, breathed her. "Aye?" she asked.

"I have been a fool," he said. He touched her shoulder and turned her slowly.

Her heart pounded hard as she looked up at him. "A fool?"

He nodded, folding his arms over his chest, tilting his head to look at her. "I should have kept you a hostage."

A keen sense of disappointment shot through her. "Oh."

With thumb and finger, he reached out and lifted her chin. "I should never have let you become a friend." Isobel watched him, silent, enthralled. "Now I cannot easily give you up."

"You do not have to give me up," she said softly.

His thumb brushed the edge of her jaw. "I must," he whispered.

She drew a breath, leaned toward him. "Jamie—"

"Och!" A voice hovered above them. "Look at that, would you, Quentin. Margaret will not like that."

Isobel jumped as if she had been stung. James shifted a hand to her shoulder as they both looked upward.

Quentin and Patrick peered down at them from the overhead gap, with sheepish, delighted grins on their faces. "Aye," Quentin said to Patrick. "She will not like it at all."

"
Ach
, then we will not tell her," Patrick said helpfully. "Can we come down there, or do you two want to be alone?"

Isobel felt a deep, hot flush spread over her cheeks and throat. She looked up and saw Quentin wink at her. Patrick still grinned. James scowled at both of them.

"We'll come up," James said. "I hope you two ruffians brought something for supper."

Patrick held up a brace of rabbits. "Two for us, and one for that surly gos of yours."

James glanced at Isobel, and frowned as he pulled on his hawking glove. Without a word, he bent down to the goshawk and patiently coaxed him out of the puddle.

Isobel waited for him, noticing the bright, telling blush that stained the outlaw's cheeks.

* * *

"'Twould be more than foolish to walk up to the yett of Wildshaw Castle and call out that we've a message from the Border Hawk," Patrick grumbled, his mouth full of roasted meat. He wiped his chin on his sleeve and shifted his legs, crossed on the stone floor of James's small bedchamber inside the broch wall. "We would be taken hostage ourselves—or slain on the spot."

"We will not approach Wildshaw Castle," James said, seated on the floor with them, his back leaned against his bed. "We can conduct the whole of this business in Stobo."

"Aye," Quentin said. "The priest there, Father Hugh, says he knows both Ralph Leslie and Black Isobel."

"Exactly," James said. "I want you to go back there. Ask him to convey the glad news to Sir Ralph Leslie that Lady Isobel is alive, for Leslie believes she died at Aberlady. And ask him to deliver our demands as well."

"And just what are your demands?" Isobel asked.

James glanced at her. She sat on the stone bench by the window, a few feet away. Faint moonlight cascaded through the narrow opening and over her face. The long, fluid lines of one side of her body were highlighted by the glow of the fire that burned in a small stone hearth.

"We will request that Leslie meet us at the village church in Stobo, after mass Sunday next," he said. "I believe 'tis the feast day of Saint Ursula."

"How fitting," she murmured.

"Fitting? Why?" Patrick asked.

"Saint Ursula, the patron of virgins," Isobel replied, "ran away from an impending marriage that she protested. She took her female companions with her. Eleven thousand of them."

"Och," Patrick grunted. "At least we only have to look after two lassies."

"Tell Father Hugh," James said, "that we will meet Leslie before mass on Sunday, in the presence of many others, since the villagers will be gathered outside the church after mass. Isobel will wait for him inside the church. He must bring three men only in escort, and he must send Margaret into the church alone. We will permit Isobel to go out to him when Margaret is safely in our hands."

"You will claim sanctuary, then," Isobel said. "The safety and protection of holy ground."

"Certes," James replied. "We cannot trust Leslie. He could escort Margaret to Stobo with a hundred men."

"If he would take part in what was done to Wallace, he will not let a pair of church doors stop him from getting you," Quentin said. "He will want the Border Hawk's head for this."

"But if he wants Isobel, he must agree to an uncomplicated and peaceful exchange. And he does want Isobel. Be sure of that," he added quietly, glancing at her. The words seemed to stick in his throat.

Isobel said nothing. She turned her head to look out the window. James felt a deep tug in the region of his heart as he watched her. He sighed, and pulled at his earlobe, feeling reluctant and torn.

He tried to convince himself that she was infatuated with him, that she wrongly idealized him as some champion. The best course, he thought, was to send her away from him quickly.

But what he felt for her was far deeper than infatuation. Those feelings burned within him, stifled and unspoken, flaring into passion whenever he was near her.

He could hardly bear to send her back to Leslie, but his original plans had been formed long before he knew her. Isobel had altered the scheme at every step—in an unwitting, frustrating, and wholly charming manner. He had to stoke his determination to see this through. He had no other way of rescuing Margaret.

And besides, he reminded himself sourly, Isobel had been promised in marriage long ago. She deserved a home, and should be with a man who could truly safeguard her—even an English sympathizer whom James loathed. Surely not some forest brigand.

"You will be safe at Wildshaw, Isobel," he said to her impassive profile, uncertain if he meant to convince her, or himself, that she should go.

She shrugged one shoulder and did not look at him.

"You will be reunited with your father," he added, "if Ralph has kept his word to you."

"Aye," she said, and went on staring at the moonlit sky.

"The lass is tired," Quentin murmured, from his seat beside James. "Isobel, Jamie asked me to find a blanket for your bed. I put one there before supper, and hung a curtain. And Alice sent along your satchel of clothing."

"And I brought up some fine French wine out of storage," Patrick said, "if you would care for a dram or two."

She rose from her seat. "Thank you," she said quietly. "I will not have wine, but I do need some rest. Good night."

She drifted through the shadowed room like a wraith, pushed aside the cloak that served as a curtain, and disappeared into the darkness beyond the narrow threshold of the adjoining room.

James watched her go, and felt his heart sink a little with each step she took. Now that the process of bartering with Leslie had begun, he felt more dishonorable, more traitorous than ever. She had given him her trust, and he was sending her back to the lions to be devoured.

Patrick poured wine from a jug into the clay cups that had already been emptied that evening. He handed one cup to James, another to Quentin, and noisily swallowed the contents of the last one himself.

James downed his wine more swiftly than he meant to do, and leaned over to refill the cup himself. "If you leave at dawn, you will be at Stobo by mid-morn."

"Aye," Quentin said, eyeing him soberly. "And what will you do? Take the lass to Alice's house?"

James shook his head. "I do not want to risk anyone taking her before this is done. Alice has Eustace and Henry there to guard her. I'll keep Isobel here at the Craig."

"Ah," Quentin said. The sage note in his voice made James frown at him. "While you have the chance, you may as well try to solve whatever 'tis between you and the lass."

"There is naught between us," James growled, and sipped from his cup, tasting the sharp sting of the red wine as it went down. "And you make a bold statement." He shot Quentin a grim look.

"Jamie, do you think we are fools?" Quentin asked. "I do not think you can give her up to Leslie."

"I can," he snapped.

"Will she go?" Patrick asked.

"Aye." He stood. "I'll see to the hawk."

"The hawk is asleep, on that front perch in the mews, with his head tucked to his wing," Patrick said. "I looked in on him as I came up with the wine."

"Leave him be," Quentin said. "He's jessed, and tired. He'll sleep, and be safe."

James nodded. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, shoved his fingers through his hair, feeling unsettled, as if there was something he should do, and could not think what it was. "I'll have to work with him some more. His wing will not heal unless he stops bating and fussing. He has to learn to sit quietly."

"He will, though he's spoiled," Quentin said. "I have never seen any man with as much patience for a hawk as you have. But you look as if you have not slept properly for a week."