Laird of the Wind (34 page)

He nodded. "I have kept it, for fear that if I sent it on to Bruce, or back to Bishop Lamberton, it might be intercepted," he said. "I had already decided to guard the lion's secret, just as the prophetess said."

She tilted her head, a crease forming between her delicate black brows. "I think you keep many secrets."

"I trust few," he said. "And few trust a traitor."

"I have faith in you, yet you do not trust me."

He watched her face in the amber light and heavy shadows. What poured through him then was a blend of awe and respect—and, he realized, love. But a heavy current of sadness flowed too. He would have to give her up.

"I do trust you," he whispered.

She laid her hand flat upon his chest, her palm bare against his skin. He wondered if she could feel the wild beat of his heart beneath her fingers. "Then tell me why you call yourself a traitor, when all I see in you is honor." She tilted her head as if she waited to hear his answer.

James sighed and rubbed his brow, thinking. For too long he had kept the dark memories to himself. His gut swirled with dread. No one knew the full tale, yet he wanted to tell her. The urge stemmed from far more than simple trust.

He sighed again. "The English took me prisoner last spring, and held me in Carlisle."

"Aye, you were released in the summer," she said.

"I was held with other Scots nobles, but when some of us were taken north in late July, I escaped from the escort. Margaret did not get away with me. That was when Ralph Leslie took her to Wildshaw."

"And so you must get her back," she said. "I understand. But that does not make you a traitor."

"While I was held in Carlisle, King Edward sent orders that some of us were to sign a parchment," he said. "We were to be executed if we did not obey. One day, four of us signed it, with false intentions. Not one meant to keep the pledge. Some of us were released later, and I was given into Leslie's custody. He was ordered to let me go—they hoped that I would fulfill the promise I had signed—but he thought to keep me a bit longer." He shrugged. "I did not agree, so I left his patrol once we were in the forest."

"What was the parchment you signed?" she asked quietly.

He hesitated, dreading the next words he must speak. "An agreement to hunt down Wallace and deliver him to the English."

She paused. "I will not believe you promised that."

"Believe it," he said brusquely.

"Others signed it too, but you said none kept the pledge." He drew a long breath and looked into the fire. "I kept it," he said, his voice hushed. "I led them to Will."

"Jamie, nay!" she breathed out.

"When I escaped, I came here and learned where Wallace was, far north of here. I set out, disguised as a pilgrim. I was followed. Leslie must have sent a man after me. If I had known that," he said emphatically, "I would have taken a different route, or worn a different disguise. But I led them to Will unaware, stupidly. The next day, I discovered that soldiers were gathering at the house where I had met with him. I went there as fast as I could." He shook his head. "But I was too late."

Isobel leaned toward him. Her fingers found his face, traced along his jaw, her thumb brushing his lips, her fingertips cool and slim on his cheek. "You did not betray him."

"I did." He closed his eyes in anguish. Isobel's fingers were butterfly soft on his face. "I brought the bastards to him. If I had not come there, he would be alive now."

"Jamie," she murmured, her voice earnest. "We both tried to warn him, help him. You did not betray him. 'Twas meant to be."

He sat silently, frowning, his lips pressed together. He had believed for so long that he had betrayed his friend, through folly, through carelessness, through selfishness—he did not know how he had done it, but it had happened. He wanted to cast away his pain and his anger, but he could not.

"Jamie—you said that I mentioned another parchment, on which the ink had vanished. That must be the one you signed."

"I do not understand. We signed it in black ink."

"The vanishing words are a symbol," she said. "The pledge was not real. The guilt does not exist. You had no role in Wallace's betrayal."

He listened to her dulcet voice, felt the whisper of her touch, and felt the hard casing around his heart crack. He tried to answer, but his throat was tight.

"They would have taken him somehow. 'Twas meant to be. No one could have changed it."

"There is one thing more," he said, in a voice so hushed that it rasped in the still air.

She looked toward him, waiting. He realized that her patience was a blessing. He trusted her. So much. He sighed out, heavily. "When they rode away with Wallace... I tried, with my last arrow, to take his life."

He heard the soft intake of her breath. "You knew what he was going to face," she said. "You knew his death would be inevitable, and cruel."

He nodded, unable to speak, his throat thickening.

Her hand found his. "That was a very great act of love," she whispered.

He had not felt the sting of tears since he was a child. He blinked, glad she could not see that.

Isobel leaned her brow against his cheek. "Jamie, you never could have betrayed Wallace. Those of us who love you know that. We have faith in you. When will you see that?"

He sucked in a breath.
Those of us who love you... we have faith in you.
He dipped his head, his cheek sliding along hers, and pulled her close, holding her. A few breaths later, he could speak.

"You saw all this months ago," he murmured. "If only I had known you then—if only you had told me this prophecy, we might have changed the outcome."

"We cannot change what is fated by God. And I would prophesy for you," she insisted. "I would do anything for you."

His heart bounded. He held her close, sliding his fingers deep into her damp, soft hair, feeling the warmth and the weight and the truth of her in his arms. Hardly able to think through what he did, or said, he slid his mouth along her cheek.

"Would you?" he murmured against her skin.

"Aye." Her arm tightened around his neck. "But an outlaw would not want the trouble of a prophetess."

"If he would trouble himself with a silly hawk," he murmured, dragging his mouth toward hers, "a wee prophetess might seem like a blessing."

He raked his fingers through the mass of her hair, tilted her head back, and took her mouth with a swiftness and thirst that scarcely expressed his craving. His mouth moved over hers, and he drank some of her sweetness into his soul.

Chapter 22

Her heart thundered within her. She sighed beneath the pliant caress of his lips and surrendered gladly to the strength of the kiss. As he leaned, she tilted back, the flow of motion between them a silent play of giving and surrendering.

For an instant, tiny spinning lights glowed in the darkness inside her eyes, an exquisite medley of color. The light grew, whirling in her inner vision until it filled her sight with golden brilliance.

Firelight.

She gazed past his shoulder at hot golden flames. She gasped, and pulled away to look up at him, resting her hand on his bristled cheek, blinking to clear her sight, to be certain that it was indeed there. She looked into his thick lashed indigo eyes.

His silent question was eloquent on his face. His fingers swept the curve of her cheek. She smiled, laughing softly. "Aye," she whispered. "I can see you now. Whatever magic your kiss possesses, 'tis wondrous stuff."

"The magic is not mine." He dipped toward her. She welcomed him, shaped her mouth to his.

"Nor is it mine," she whispered against his lips.

"Ah, then," he murmured, as he took her down to the floor in a nest of warm blankets. "We must have created it between us."

"Aye," she breathed. "We have."

He stretched out beside her. The blanket slipped away when she shifted toward him; the hearth fire warmed her bared leg and her naked shoulder.

He gathered her into his arms and leaned down to kiss her softly, drawing his lips away so slowly that she moved toward him for more. He smoothed her hair as he gazed at her.

"No one else could kiss the blindness from me," she said, watching him. "I am certain of that."

"I think I might kill any man who tries it," he murmured. The fierceness in his quiet voice sent a thrill through her. "What of Sir—"

"Hush, you." She touched her fingertips to his lips. "No man shall ever kiss me as you do, or touch me as I let you touch me," she whispered. "I swear it."

He closed his eyes. "Isobel, if you swear such to me, I will hold you to it."

"Hold me to it, then." She looked intently at him. "And swear such to me yourself."

"I swear it, none but you," he said, on a breath, and took her lips again. She sighed as he delved between her lips, gasping as the sweet, moist tip of his tongue touched hers. She lay serene in his arms, and yet felt her body whirl and spin.

The quick, fervent promise between them swept through her, bringing a profound sense that here, with him, she had found love and perfect refuge. She wanted to give herself to him utterly, heart and body, without regret. She wanted, fiercely, to stay with him, though she knew that might never be possible.

Unwilling to close her eyes and see only darkness again, she pulled back to look at him. Her gaze took in the thick waving pattern of his hair, reflecting the gold of the fire, and scanned his broad, smoothly muscled shoulders and the width of his neck, where a pulse thumped.

But sight could never give her enough of him. Blindness had taught her the value and the power of touch. She traced her fingertips over his jaw: squared below his ear, firmly curved at the chin, his beard textured like sand. He closed his eyes as she touched his eyelids, the lashes soft and thick.

The slope of his nose was straight and long, his breath a warm caress, his mouth beneath it full, firm, and moist. He took her fingertip into his mouth and sucked at it, and she caught her breath at the sweet shock of the sensation.

She slid her palm along his neck and down his sculpted, smooth chest, resting her fingers over his heart. He pulled her closer, his hand pressed to her lower back. Though the blanket and his cloak were bunched between them, she felt the hard heat of his body, and felt an answering quiver deep within herself, startling and exciting.

His hands stilled on her back, warm pools of touch. "Do you want this to happen?" he murmured, his voice low at her ear.

"Aye," she whispered fervently. "Aye. I have no doubts."

He pulled her into his warm embrace, the blanket cushioned between them. She hid her face against his shoulder. The danger she had foreseen, and the betrothal that awaited her, were certainties. A desperate foreboding urged her to seek comfort in his arms now. This might be the only time she would ever have with him.

She lifted her head and kissed the corner of his mouth, kissed his lower lip, cherished him with her mouth, her hands, the offer of her body. She opened her mouth beneath his and sighed, and pushed away all thought, all logic, immersing herself in what she felt, with touch and heart her only guides.

His fingers glided along her throat, sliding lower. Her heart pounded, a begging drum, as he skimmed his hand over the rounded contours of her bared breasts. The warmth of his palm was so alluring that she arched into the cup of his touch.

As he swept the tip of his tongue into her mouth, his hand molded her breast. Her heart surged, her breath quickened. Soon she felt his other hand push through the mass of her hair, twining it, tugging her head back so that his lips could trace freely down her throat. All the while, his fingers swirled over her breast, and a radiating tingle spread throughout her body.

She smoothed her hand along the solid width of his chest, his skin warm over hard muscle, and found his flat, soft nipple, touching it lightly, curiously, feeling it tighten as hers had done for him. She heard the quick intake of his breath, and his hand skimmed over her abdomen. His fingers slid lower, cupping her gently, until she shifted toward him with a little moan.

He pushed the blanket away and drew her closer at last, his body warm and solid along the length of hers, his hands hot as they soothed over her back, the fall of her hair, her hips. He dipped his head and found her breast, bathing her nipple with his moist lips. The deep, keen pleasure coaxed a moan from her. His resting fingers, enticing her with their stillness, dipped gently into the hidden recess of her body.