Laird of the Wind (36 page)

"I do not want to be owned by some man who will control my prophecies like sacks of wool to be taken to market," she said. "And there must be some other way to find my father. Father Hugh can help us, or your friend at Dunfermline Abbey." She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. "We can find him, I know it."

"Nay," he murmured against her hair. "He is at Wildshaw."

"We hope. Jamie," she said, as a new thought came into her mind. "I will go with Ralph as you arranged, so that you can have Margaret back. If Ralph has my father safe, I will leave Wildshaw with my father. Then I will come back here to you."

He paused, hugging her close. "You cannot do that."

"I can come back," she said. "Let me come back."

"Nay," he whispered. She looked up at him. The wind ruffled his hair, and his eyes were deep blue in the saturated sunset light. "Remember our bargain, when we first came up to the Craig. You said you would stay a few days, if I promised to let you go."

"I do not want to be let go. I will come back here to you."

"Isobel," he said somberly. "Nay."

"I will," she insisted.

He sighed heavily and looked out over the forest in the deepening light. She stared up at him, her eyes pooling with sudden tears. "I understand," she whispered. "You want your freedom, and think you will not have it with me."

He closed his eyes briefly. "I want you," he said. "But I cannot keep you. You will go with Ralph, and forget me in time."

A pain began in the center of her being. "Do not say that. We need to be together."

"We have different paths, you and I," he said.

"We have the same path! We have the same needs—peace. Sanctuary. Love," she added in a whisper.

"If our lives had been different, Isobel," he said, "aye. If I had been simply the laird of Wildshaw, and you had been simply the Maiden of Aberlady....But 'tis not that way."

"Jamie," she said, burying her face in his tunic. "Jamie, do not do this." She squeezed her eyes against tears.

"Soft, you," he said gently. He stood still, and held her. "Isobel, my lass," he said after a while. "Look down there."

She glanced down, narrowing her eyes. "I see only trees. Your eyes are sharp as that hawk's. What do you see?"

"Quentin and Patrick. They are back faster than I thought."

She clung to him and watched. A long while passed before she saw the tiny figures of the two men running toward the crag.

She dreaded their arrival, dreaded their message, and what the next few days would bring.

"Jamie," she said. "I am afraid."

He stroked her hair, a slow caress, and lifted his arm from her shoulders. "You will be fine."

She watched the two men for a few moments more, the wind whipping freely at her gown and her hair. Then she turned.

James walked away into the gathering shadows, the hawk on his fist.

Chapter 23

"Father Hugh wants to see Isobel, in return for taking our message to Ralph Leslie," Quentin said. "He is not reassured of her safety, not knowing us. And we do need his help."

James nodded thoughtfully and glanced at Isobel. Along with Quentin and Patrick, they gathered in the kitchen of the broch, having finished a meal of barley and onions, cheese and bread.

"Father Hugh has always been protective of me." Isobel poured French wine into cups for each. "Where is he?"

"He rode to Wildshaw to deliver our message," Quentin answered. "We traveled back from Stobo with the priest and Geordie. Father Hugh says he will ride over from Wildshaw to meet with Isobel in early morn. We suggested the old oak not far from Alice's house."

"Good," James said. "We can defend her more easily there if he arrives with a patrol of soldiers."

"He swore to come alone," Patrick said. "He should be trustworthy."

"Still, I do not like it," James said.

"Nor I," Quentin added.

"I must go if we are to free Margaret," Isobel said. She wiped crumbs off the stone table with her hand as she spoke, as if she was reluctant to look at them. "And I want to see Alice and Sir Eustace and the rest. I'll leave at dawn."

James wanted to reach out, hold her, ask her to stay—but kept still. Had he controlled his feelings from the beginning, he told himself, he would not have hurt the lass—and himself—in the bargain. "I fear a trap," he said. "Leslie could snatch you."

Isobel did not look at him. "I will go."

"We will escort you," he said.

She shook her head. "You must stay away from the forest."

"We will go," he said firmly. He knew that she referred to her prophecy of some danger to him, but he feared for her rather than himself.

Isobel shook her head and rushed from the room.

James rubbed a hand over his eyes and sighed. Isobel did not want to leave the Craig, or proceed with the hostage exchange—and she was clearly still upset with him. He sighed again.

"We will go with her, do not worry," Patrick said.

James nodded. "You two returned more quickly than I expected," he said.

"When we got to Stobo, two monks came from the abbey with a letter for Father Hugh," Quentin said. "One of them said John Blair is making progress on his chronicle of Wallace's life. They had news—"

"Of the men who betrayed Wallace?" James asked.

Quentin shrugged. "The lord of Menteith is the only man whose hand in this is known for sure, and likely he sent his servants to do the task for him. There is little interest in searching out the others."

"But I am interested," James said darkly.

"You still believe that Leslie is involved?" Patrick asked.

"I do." James was sure that Leslie knew about the parchment that James and the other captive rebel lords had signed—and sure that Leslie had sent someone to pursue him the day he had escaped from Leslie's patrol and had gone to see Wallace.

"And now Bruce, the Guardian of the Realm of Scotland, has other matters on his mind—particularly his need to convince King Edward to appoint a Scottish bishop as co-guardian."

"What news of the earl of Carrick?" James asked, remembering Isobel's prediction that Bruce would gain the throne within months.

"Robert Bruce renewed his pledge to King Edward, but rumor says he secretly aids the Scots. Rebels are never caught when Bruce rides out to find them. Edward does not trust him as well as he once did—he named an English commander to Kildrummy Castle, and Bruce must answer to him."

"The cause of Scotland has an ally in Bruce, I think," James mused, thinking of the letter safely in his keeping.

Quentin began to speak, then glanced at Patrick. "There is something else that you should know, Jamie," he said. "The English have put Wallace's remains on display."

"Did they," James said flatly. "Where?"

"His head is piked above the London Bridge, bedecked with flowers. His limbs were sent north to Newcastle-upon-Tyne, Berwick, Stirling, and Perth," Quentin answered. "At Newcastle—"

"As a final insult, they piked his right arm above the sewers in Newcastle," Patrick said. "But 'tis said his finger points north toward Scotland of its own accord."

James clenched a fist, fighting grief and anger. "He deserves peace," he growled. "And honor."

"And King Edward should be damned for this," Patrick said. "Will deserves a proper burial."

"Then we should see to it," James snapped, standing. Hurt and rage surged raw within him. He stalked out of the kitchen.

* * *

Long after dark, he sat in the mews with Gawain on his gloved fist. James had come inside after walking around the summit of the crag. What tormented him remained, and though he had calmed, his mood was grim and solitary.

He heard Quentin and Patrick approaching, chuckling over something, shuffling past the mews to seek their pallets inside the ruined broch. No sound at all came from Isobel's small cell. She must have gone to her bed soon after leaving the kitchen.

Gawain sat quietly on the glove and stared at James with bronze-tinted eyes. He puffed his feathers and balanced on one leg, looking silly but contented. James, on the other hand, was far from content. He blew out a breath, startling the tiercel, who squawked.

The news of the further humiliation of Wallace had deeply disquieted him. His thoughts spun in a turmoil of remorse and anger; at the English for brutality and lack of respect; at Will for his stubbornness in going after the English, knowing he was hunted.

And angry with himself—James felt partially responsible for the tragedy. He owed a debt to Wallace that he could never repay. And now he had delivered a blow to Isobel, too, rejecting her earlier that day. He only wanted to protect her. He only wanted her to have a chance for peace in her life. And though he despised Leslie, that knight could provide a home and a future for Isobel that a forest outlaw could never give her.

And he would have to forget her—but he could not. He had to face the truth: he wanted her desperately. Needed her. Setting the goshawk on a perch, he drew off his glove.

He should have kept to his original plan, should have abducted the prophetess, traded her to Leslie, and gone on his way. But he had not, and now he had lost his heart to her.

Leaving the mews, he went to his own chamber, but the memory of loving Isobel in his bed made him turn away.

She was asleep in the adjoining room, he realized; he could hear her soft snores. So her head was tilted the wrong way again, he thought. She would not sleep well—nor would he, with her so close. He sighed, turned.

The curtain that separated their rooms was but a cloak, hung crookedly. James shoved it aside and went toward her bed. Kneeling, he cupped her face with a gentle hand, shifting her head to ease her snores. Her cheek was warm and soft, and her face was beautiful enough to break his heart.

The yearning that rose in him then came from his heart. Such intense longing unsettled him; he was not accustomed to needing anyone.

The prophetess had said that the laird of the wind would be taken. True—the prophetess herself had done that. And now he realized how utterly he had fallen to that gentle, gifted lass.

He touched his lips to her mouth, the touch aching sweet. Afraid to wake her, afraid to stay with her, he stood and stepped back, shouldering aside the curtain.

* * *

Dawn light streamed through the cold as Isobel and the others walked along an earthen path that led through the trees. Their journey from the crag into the forest had been silent and steady, with James in the lead. None of them spoke as they headed out over the hills toward the forest.

The goshawk rode quietly on her gloved fist. She knew that Gawain could slip back to a half wild state if he spent time alone in the mews, and so the bird must come with them. James had agreed to let Isobel carry the tierce, whose keen gaze darted all around. Fed a full crop of food before they left, the meal would encourage complacency in the bird, though his piercing eyes seemed to see all.

James glanced at her, then turned back, his stride long as he followed the path. The hilt of his broadsword glimmered, strapped to his back, and he gripped his bow. His head was swathed in a chain mail hood. He was prepared for battle, as were Quentin and Patrick, walking beside him.

Grateful to have such a strong, loyal guard, Isobel was frightened as well. She did not know what the future would bring for her—just for others. But James gave little credence to her prediction of danger for him. She sighed, feeling uneasy.

"They wait for us," James said, pausing.

Isobel looked past him, and Quentin and Patrick stopped beside her. In the low light, she saw several people standing like shadows outside Alice's house.

As Isobel walked toward the clearing and saw Alice standing in the yard, too, along with Eustace, Henry Rose and Geordie Shaw. Alice came forward.

Soon Isobel was enveloped in a warm hug that brought unexpected tears to her eyes. Alice then turned to wrap her arms around James. But Gawain, on Isobel's fist, began an anxious bate, and James turned to take and calm the bird.