Laird of the Wind (31 page)

"I have not," James said. "You know what message to deliver to Father Hugh."

"We know," Quentin said. "And 'twill be done. Jamie, 'tis a dangerous scheme. Father Hugh knows Leslie quite well, I gather. We can trust him only with caution, I think."

"I agree," James said. "We'll let him deliver the message, but we cannot tell him any more about our business. And I want you to get Geordie out of his hands before this exchange takes place. Father Hugh will not let harm come to Isobel, but we should not trust Geordie to a friend of Leslie's for long."

"The lad will be able to travel by the time we go back to Stobo," Patrick said.

"Good. I need one more favor of you both," James said. "I want you to travel to Dunfermline Abbey to see Brother John Blair. Find out what more he has learned about Wallace's betrayers, and what other news he might have. If Geordie needs further rest, you can leave him with John. I do not want to risk harm to the lad by bringing him back here, unless he's strong enough to wield a bow and a sword again."

Quentin nodded. "Do you have a message for Blair?"

James looked through the window at the white moon. Its melancholy seemed to echo his own in that moment. "Tell him that I have the prophetess," he said. "Tell him that she will serve as payment for my cousin."

"I think," Quentin said, "that you will pay more dearly for that cousin than you ever imagined."

James drew in a sharp breath. "What is that—a prediction?"

"Aye," Quentin said gruffly, and took a swallow of wine.

Chapter 20

James sat on the uppermost edge of the broch wall, watching Isobel, who stood far out on the grassy plateau of the crag. The wind, always steady and strong there, lifted her braid and blew her clothing against her long, slim body. The simple lines of her dark green gown, which she had taken from the satchel Quentin and Patrick had brought to her, lent her an elfin, beautiful appearance. When she lifted her head proudly, the sun, already past its high point, shone on the crown of her head and set a smooth gloss to her hair.

He recalled the incredible softness of that silky skein in his hands when he had braided her hair that morning. Scarcely a word had passed between them then, or later, when they had shared a breakfast of porridge and water.

He had not known quite what to say in the face of her silent mood. Even when he led her in a long tour of the crag, carrying the hawk as they explored the broch, the tunnels, and the caves, they had discussed only the features of the promontory—its rock, its tower, its water, its weather—and little about the men who had lived there for years.

She had not asked him more about his life as an outlaw on the Craig. He missed her curious, eager questions, her astute observations. He found that he wanted, very much, to talk with her. But he also saw the wisdom in silence.

Even more, he saw the merit in caution. He had touched her only when offering his hand to step up or down, although the rush of desire that went through him at such simple contact made him draw in his breath. He had not allowed himself to stand too close to her, or to look too deeply into her luminous eyes.

She would be leaving soon. He did not see much wisdom in strengthening the link that had already forged between them.

She had kept her distance, as well, he had noticed, lowering her heavy-lashed eyelids, speaking softly, sharing wan, cool smiles. She had retreated into a reserve, where, he suspected, she was angry, resentful, and perhaps disappointed in him.

He knew that she dreaded the exchange that was to take place in a few days. He did, too. But he knew full well that it must go forward for many reasons. He wanted Margaret safe—and he wanted Isobel safe as well.

The tiercel chirred on his gloved fist, feet planted firmly, eyes sharp, his movements calm. James glanced at him. The goshawk's mood was improved, for he had bated only once or twice so far that day, when startled or hungry. Perhaps a night's rest had helped the bird; perhaps he had finally begun to accept his new master's fist. Whatever it was, James was grateful, and more confident that the tiercel could be manned.

He sang the
kyrie
once again, as he had done often that day, humming it as he stroked the bird's breast feathers. Gawain looked out over the crag, over the sky and the forest. A flock of larks flew past, and the bird scarcely moved.

James was pleased by that sign of progress. He thought the time might be near when he could train the bird to jump to the fist from a leash, and then fly on a creance, a line long enough to allow the bird to fly a distance from the fist and back again.

But first, he wanted to treat the bird's sprained wing again, warming the fresh loaf of bread that Alice had sent through Quentin and Patrick. And Gawain's bent tail feathers needed straightening if he was to be allowed to fly. For both of those procedures, he would need Isobel's help.

He returned his gaze to her as she stood on the promontory. He would call her if she did not come back to the broch soon, for he wanted to tend to Gawain while the bird was quiet.

But as he looked down at Isobel, he only wanted to walk along the crag with her, to talk and laugh with her—to hold and touch her. That last urge filled his blood with fire. He sat, and watched her lonely, windblown figure, and did not move.

He knew that he had begun to treasure her; God help him, he might even have begun to love her. He could not define the tumultuous feelings that rocked inside of him—he was afraid to name them. He had never anticipated this turn of events when he had set out to find the prophetess of Aberlady.

Only one certain fact existed. No matter his own feelings, soon he would have to let her go.

* * *

Isobel felt the gentle push of the wind and the warmth of the sun, and stretched her arms out for a moment, despite the ache in her injured arm. The sun's heat felt good on the stiff muscles.

She looked up at the mountain that soared beside the crag, and then gazed out over the dense green forest. So high up that she could watch veils of mist float over the trees, she felt free and unfettered for the first time in her life.

Until lately, she had not realized how closely her father had protected her at Aberlady. Since her mother's death, she had stayed inside its walls, going out only to attend holy day masses at Stobo, to ride occasionally with her father over the hills, and to go to market once or twice a year with her nurse. She had never questioned her life.

She had been confined and closely supervised, without true friends, and with few servants and kin. At Aberlady, she read poets and patriarchs, embroidered fine work, and practiced the skills needed to run a castle household. And she prophesied whenever her father had deemed it time for her to do so.

When her father had been taken in battle, the weeks of the siege that followed had begun a new education for her, one that James Lindsay had continued. She had discovered not only untapped strengths, but a deep taste for freedom. Ironically, she understood the extent of her sheltering only because she had been led into captivity.

Now James expected her to return to a protected life, with an unwanted husband as a guardian instead of a father. But she no longer could accept being an obedient prophetess, letting her abilities be used by men who regarded her as a weak female to be directed—and even more, as a political advantage.

Her visions were precious to her. She endured blindness each time for the privilege, and did not want the integrity of the visions compromised. Her gift of prophecy should flow from the will of God, and never again through the will of another.

If the siege had not occurred, and if James Lindsay had not taken her away from Aberlady, she might never have realized her own independence. She would be at Aberlady still, the pawn of Father Hugh and Ralph Leslie, in her father's absence.

She sighed. She needed to know that her father was safe. The last vision she had seen—and which she was astonished to recall easily—had been an image of her father in a dungeon. She did not doubt its truth, but did not know if it represented past, present, future, or some symbolic meaning.

The only way she could find out what had happened to her father in reality was to go to Sir Ralph. She hugged herself as she thought, and looked down. The landscape spread out for miles, wide and crystal clear in the sunlight, as if she saw it from the vantage point of a bird. The beauty and the scope of the view was stunning, as beautiful as any vision.

She did not want to leave this, ever. Nor did she want to leave the man who had brought her here. But she knew that she must go, for her father, and for James, who wanted his beloved cousin back again—more than he wanted to keep Isobel with him.

She glanced over her shoulder at the broch. James sat on a high edge of the wall, the goshawk on his gloved fist. The outlaw was a solitary figure in brown, the sun glinting gold over his head, the wind lifting his hair. He looked like a legend come to life, a figure of wild, untamed power and beauty. And yet inside, he was securely manacled to the past.

Isobel adored him, but he did not see it. He had shown her kindness and caring, had given her respect, had even erased the blindness from her with an exquisite kiss. The wonder of that had stayed with her. She knew that she could love him utterly, if he would only let her. If he had wounds, she wanted to balm them; if he had secrets, she wanted to keep them as her own.

High up on the broch wall, as she watched, James stood, and lifted his hand to her. He waved slowly, and beckoned.

Her heart leaped. She lifted her skirt in one hand and walked toward the broch, hungry to be near him. She would even welcome his cool silences, if that was all he offered her.

She wanted far more. With this man, she knew now that she would never lose her freedom. With him, she could find safekeeping as well as happiness. But the forest outlaw did not intend to include a prophetess in his life.

She would have to accept confinement once again. For now, though, she meant to cherish the little taste of freedom that remained.

* * *

"Hold the jesses securely, now," James told Isobel. "Wrap them around your fingers."

She twined the leather jesses around her smallest two fingers, lost in the thick glove that swathed her hand, and looked up to see James's nod of approval.

Gawain settled his feet squarely on her fist and blinked at them both, turning his head and cocking his wild bronze eyes. Isobel shifted her hand as she tucked the end of the thong away. The tiercel lifted his gray and cream wings and squawked, fluttering rapidly in a partial, upright bate.

Isobel ducked, startled, as a wingtip batted her cheek, a blow harder than she would have thought. James reached out a hand to assist her, then withdrew it when the bird calmed.

"I have him," Isobel assured him, straightening her posture.

He looked at her doubtfully, and nodded. "Very well. I'll warm the bread and we can treat the wing." He turned away to rummage in the sack of food that Quentin and Patrick had left with them the previous night.

He had led Isobel to a small cell on the lowest level of the broch's mural chambers. The square space, whose broken walls were partly open to the sky, creating a wide window, had a stacked stone hearth that served, James explained, as a kitchen area for the outlaws. She knew that Patrick and Quentin had cooked supper here for all of them last night.

The chamber was cozy with heat, and a refreshing breeze came through the gap in the wall. The fire that James had started that morning still burned low, with a tangy odor.

James stepped to the hearth and set an empty iron kettle on a hook over the glowing peat bricks. He placed the bread, wrapped in cloth, inside for warming. After a few moments he took it out, sliced it partly in half, and handed the hot, fragrant loaf to Isobel.

"Can you hold it on his wing?" he asked. "I want to fetch water to use for straightening his tail feathers."

"If you fill another kettle, I can make us something to eat," she said. "Alice sent some food—I know we still have oats, onions, and some cooked chicken from her stores."

He nodded and left the chamber carrying two kettles. Isobel sat on a large stone slab that served as both a bench and a low table, and craned her neck to watch him stride across the grassy courtyard toward the well, where he filled the kettles with water drawn from a bucket on a rope.