Laird of the Wind (35 page)

His touch eased over her in exquisite caresses until she lifted toward him, feeling liquid fire pour through her limbs. The shimmering, beautiful cascade left her yearning, as if she hovered on the tantalizing verge of perfection. She moved deeper into his arms, fervent to seek out what her body promised, and what her heart now craved.

Her hands slid over his abdomen, following the warm path of hair that led downward. The rigid, hot length of him filled her hands. He groaned low, shifted, and pulled her on top of him shifting her until her legs hugged his hips and his body fit intimately to hers.

She leaned into his embrace, feeling his heart pound against hers as she fitted her mouth to his in a lingering kiss. The quickening cadence of his breath matched hers as he guided her hips with gentle, fervent fingers. She slipped over him like glove to hand, her small cry stifled against the column of his throat.

When she straightened, arching her back over him, he took her hands in his, palm to palm. That simple touch was as tender, somehow, as the sweet, hot merging of their bodies, as if he pledged with his body, and sealed it with his hands.

An irresistible force flowed through her, a compelling stream of joy that brought in its wake a realization. The home she craved, the refuge she needed, existed in the love that had been created between them. Wherever he was, she belonged. The finest castle, the deepest forest, offered only a shallow sanctuary compared to what she had found with him.

Leaning toward him, she sighed out. He drew in a breath and swept her into his waiting arms, while her hair fanned out to cover them like dark, outspread wings.

* * *

The cold that accompanied dawn cut through the window and stirred him awake. James shivered and pulled the blankets closer, snugging Isobel inside the circle of his arms, her nude body warm and soft against his. Her soft snores made him smile, and he tilted her limp head to quiet her breathing.

They lay together in his bed, in a nest of blankets and furs. He wished that he had thought to thicken his straw mattress, and construct a curtain around the open, ancient stone bed to keep drafts out. He was used to his hard bed, sleeping quick and deep whenever he lay here.

But last night, the stark comforts of his chamber had supported joyful, sensuous loving. From the floor, as the embers faded in the hearth and the cool breezes increased, they had sought the shelter of the bedcovers. Neither was tired, and both readily explored each other and shared of themselves, deeply and completely. His blood and body surged at the memory, and he pressed his lips to her brow as she slept.

He sighed out and tucked her head against his chest, combing his fingers through the soft strands of her hair, a slow, cherishing gesture. This day, or the next, his friends would return with word from the priest. Soon, too soon, Isobel would walk into the church in Stobo, and disappear from his life.

He wondered if he could endure the sacrifice that he had set for himself. He wondered if he could stand back and let her go.

She mewled in his arms in her sleep, and curled against him. He kissed her brow and the curve of her ear, and stroked the graceful swell of her hip with his hand. He trailed his fingers up her arm, over the delicate bones of her shoulder, along the full slope of her breast.

She stirred against him and lifted her face to his. As he bent to kiss her mouth, she circled her arm around his neck and pulled him to her, returning his kiss with fervor. She uttered a soft moan and ran her fingers through his hair, pulled him to her again. Words were not necessary. He understood what she felt.

He felt the same desperate sense that time slipped from them too quickly. He feared that he would lose her forever. But for now, he would fill her with joy, with his love, and take what she offered to him. Within days, the obligations that they each had would destroy what they had found together.

He swept his arms around her and dipped his head to kiss her, whispering her name. He wanted to tell her so much. But for now, he would stay silent, and let his hands and body speak with gentle eloquence.

* * *

"But the creance is such a long line," Isobel said, standing beside James as he wound a long length of twine over his arm. "He has only hopped to your fist from an arm's length away. The creance line is a hundred feet long, you said."

"The length is not the problem, lass," he answered, as he walked with her across a flat, grassy part of the crag summit. Gawain sat his fist and chirred as they went, while Isobel took long steps to keep up with James. "The problem is getting the bird to come willingly and quickly back to the fist. Once he does that, he will do it from a foot away, from a hundred feet away—or from a half a league away, without a line. The distance is naught to the hawks. Trust is all."

She nodded her understanding, and stood where he indicated. "Watch, now, and we will see what he does," he said. He checked the knots that attached the creance line to the leather jesses, and then shoved the other end of the line, tied to a wooden peg, into the grass.

He murmured to the bird for a few moments. Then he walked the length of the field, the creance unfurling behind him, and set the bird on a rocky ledge. He walked back to stand beside Isobel, and called to the bird.

Gawain sat, and busied himself preening his feathers. James called again, singing the notes of the
kyrie
, tugging on the line. The goshawk fluttered up, and then down, perching on the ground. James sighed out and walked over to pick up the bird, murmuring to him. He carried him back to stand with Isobel, looping the creance as he came.

Then he thrust out his arm and cast the bird off his fist.

Suddenly, Gawain took to the air with a broad sweep of his wings, flying out and upward, the creance spooling out behind him. His gray and cream wings rowed, then glided, then rowed the air again, carrying him the length of the grassy field.

Isobel gasped at the sight, and James laughed out loud beside her. The hawk was beautiful and graceful, yet he possessed a keen, dreadful power, a master of the air, an archangel in his own realm. The sun glinted silver on his back as he sped onward.

He gained height. The creance waved and soared with him, then began to tighten. The goshawk drew up and glided over to perch on a high rocky outcrop along the mountain slope.

Isobel stared after the hawk. "Will he come back?"

"We shall see," James murmured, and raised his head. The deep, clear notes of the
kyrie
rang out over the crag.

Isobel caught her breath and waited. Gawain cocked his head and turned. James sang the melody again, holding up his arm.

As if he had thought enough about it, Gawain took to the air with a dancer's grace, sailing back toward them, his wings cutting the air and spreading wide as he floated on a current.

Isobel saw how fast the bird approached and stepped back apprehensively. James stood rock still and waited, his arm out, while the hawk raked steadily toward him.

At the last instant, just as Isobel clapped her hand to her mouth to muffle a cry of warning, afraid the hawk would hit into James with his powerful talons, the bird tipped and slowed and settled to the fist with a nonchalant flutter.

James offered him a bit of meat. Then he grinned and looked over at Isobel. "Now that," he said, "is a goshawk."

She smiled and came toward him, lifting her skirts and half running the few steps. "That was beautiful," she said. "Sir Gawain, what a bonny lad you are!"

"Bonny indeed," James said, glancing at her. "Now we'll see if he'll do it again—and again, and again. It may prove a long afternoon, lass."

"Ah well," she said, sighing. "What else have we to do?"

"What else, indeed?" He lifted a brow and gave her a twinkling look. She glanced at him and suppressed a smile, feeling heat sear her cheeks. A small rush of joy streamed through her at the thought of being in his arms again.

"Will the hawk come to me, do you think?" she asked.

"He may. We will find out later, if you wish."

"I would like to try." She watched as James reeled in the line, murmured to Gawain, and cast him off the fist again.

The afternoon spun out, filled with disappointment as well as delight. Isobel stood beside James and watched the hawk, and together with him, soothed and cajoled the hawk. Gawain flew or did not fly, bated or perched, ate or did not eat, according to his whim. But as the shadows on the crag grew longer, he complied more and misbehaved less.

And regardless of the state of his mood, Isobel noticed that the bird always seemed to respond in some way, subtle or great, to the low, serene notes of the kyrie.

As sundown neared, and pink-edged clouds spread across the sky, Isobel looked out over the forest. She sighed, aware of a curious sense, a blend of safety and power, high up in their eyrie. James looped the creance and tucked it in his belt, then turned to walk toward her, Gawain calm on his gloved fist.

"'Tis wonderful here," she said as he stood beside her. "Protected, far above the world. I like such isolation, knowing no one can threaten us here—no one can come here unless they know the secret way."

"A sanctuary that provides real freedom," he said.

"I spent my life inside a castle, seeing little of the outside world," she said. "I thought I was protected, but now I know 'twas false. I was kept as if in a prison, my life lived by others' rules. Here, I feel truly safe, and truly free." She reached out her hand, and he took it. "I want to stay here forever, with you," she said softly.

He stood silently, her hand tucked in his. She waited, heart thumping with hope, for him to express the same feeling. "You have a great gift, Isobel," he finally said. "Your words should be heard by many. But you need protection because of that. There are some who would use you for your gift."

"The king of England among them," she said.

"Aye," he said. Then he sighed. "Isobel, I will not condemn your father entirely for keeping you as he did. He wanted to protect you from those who would not understand what you can do, and he wanted to ensure your ability to prophesy. The marriage he arranged for you is meant to continue that."

She watched him, tightening her fingers in his. "What are you saying?" she whispered, shocked.

He looked out over the forest. "That I cannot give you what you need, or what you want."

"How do you know what I want?" she asked, a little defiant.

"I know that safekeeping is important to you," he said. "I know that a home is important to you, too. You should live in a lovely place, a walled castle, with a garden, and... and roses for you to tend." He paused, his grip on her hand tightening. "A home where you can raise children, and know peace and plenty, and share your prophecies with those who will benefit by them."

"Love is important to me," she said. "Freedom is important to me. You are important to me," she added in a whisper.

"Your gift is important," he said. "Rare and significant. If you shut yourself away with a man who must hide from the world, your prophecies will not be heard." He sighed. "A homeless outlaw cannot safeguard a valuable prophetess. But a man who commands a stout castle and a garrison, and has the might of England on his side, can do that well."

"I thought you regretted sending me back to Ralph Leslie," she said, hardly able to keep the tremor from her voice. She curled her fist anxiously within his hand.

"I do regret it," he said quietly. "And I want you to go."

She scowled. "You want Margaret."

"Och," he murmured. "You know the truth of that." He did not look at her, though she stared intently at his profile. "Isobel, if you stayed with me, we would be hunted by Leslie, and by the troops King Edward would send out after us both. There would never be peace, or plenty, or a home for you."

"This is a home," she said. "If I go to Ralph, I will—I will be his wife, and... I cannot bear that." She gripped his fingers, turned to him. "And King Edward will make me say prophecies for the English."

"Then perhaps you should say them well," he said. "You will have all you want."

"All I want!" Fear and anger flared within her. "All I want is you!"

"All I want," he said sternly, "is for you to be safe. I have thought long about this. Your gift is remarkable and should be shared. You deserve accolades and luxury. I cannot bring that to you. This is the only way." He watched the sky darken to lavender. The hawk kakked, shifted, stirred his wings.

Her heart slammed, her breath quickened. "There is one difficulty with sending me in barter for your Margaret."

"And what is that?"

"I will not go."

He lifted a brow, glanced at her. "You will."

She scowled. "When we go to Stobo, you can keep Margaret in the church when Ralph sends her in, and I will go out and tell Ralph Leslie I will not go with him."

"That," he said, "would start a bloodbath."

"Do not make me go," she pleaded.

He breathed out a low, anguished sound and reached out, pulling her close, sliding his arm around her neck. She wrapped her arms around his waist and held him, breathing out a little sob of relief, glad to be in his arms.

"I have to let you go," he said. "You must see that. You are the prophetess of Aberlady, too high in worth for an outlaw to keep for himself. And what about your father?"