Laird of the Wind (23 page)

Isobel sat beside him, and James touched her hand. The quick, soft brush of his fingertips seemed to caress her entire being. She trembled inside as she looked up at him.

"Do you think the blindness and the forgetfulness could leave me, then?" she asked.

"They might, if you ever found peace with your gift," he said. "In the seminary, we studied the intricate symbolism that exists throughout life, the reflection of the heavenly and earthly realms in objects, in thoughts, in everything. Your blindness is like a symbol of some sort. I wonder if it reflects your struggle."

"Father Hugh saw that, too. He said it reflects my unworthiness to know the full truth of God."

He made a little face. "It could be that the blindness does not come from the hand of God at all, but from your own fears. I have heard of cases of blindness where it goes away on its own, when 'twas thought hopeless. My uncle, who was blind in one eye, once had a bout of blindness in the other eye. A sensible wise-woman brought him herbal medicines, and told him that his sight would improve only when he stopped being afraid of the blindness in the eye that he had lost. He thought about what she said. A week later, his sight was restored—quite miraculously."

She frowned, considering that. "I do not fear the visions."

"You might fear the insistence from others that you do it again and again." He shrugged. "'Tis a struggle, then."

She rubbed her fingers over her eyes. "Dear God. I think you might be right."

He leaned his head against the rock wall. "Sometimes it needs another to show us truths about ourselves," he said softly.

"There are other forms of blindness," she agreed.

"True," he said. "Now tell me this—why did you try to recall your prediction about Wallace?"

She sighed. The hawk chittered and shifted on James's fist.

"I am able to understand my visions," she began. "I see their meaning clearly when they come to me, but then I forget it. My father and the priest think the symbolic meanings are beyond my intelligence. But I know what I see. That day, I knew I had to remember what I saw."

"Why?" he asked softly.

"I wanted to warn Wallace," she said. "I never doubt the truth of my visions. That much I have learned. What is harder to know is the exact meaning of what I see."

He watched her. "Did you warn Wallace?"

"I wrote a note with my own hand, and begged my father to deliver it." She twisted her hands together. "He said he would. But the three of them—my father, the priest, and Sir Ralph—acted strangely about that vision. The images I remembered alarmed me. I knew that Wallace would come to a dishonorable fate, and a horrible end." She sighed. "But my note to him was sent in vain. He died, and just as I foresaw." She felt the quick sting of gathering tears.

"If he received your note, he would have been grateful to you. He respected prophecy—he had dreams of his own that foretold events, and he mentioned your prophecies once or twice. But I doubt Will would have heeded a warning."

"I could not bear to know such a thing about a man and keep silent about it." She frowned at him through a glaze of tears. A drop spilled down.

James touched his thumb to her cheek, and his hand drifted down to cup her shoulder. She was glad of the warmth and weight of his touch, for she felt forlorn and remorseful.

"We both tried to help him," he said.

"We?" she whispered. She leaned her head against the rock wall, as he did. His eyes were but a hand span from hers.

"Regardless of what else I have done, I tried to help Wallace the night he was taken. My attempt came to naught but trouble."

"How?" she asked.

"I hid among the trees and shot one arrow after another at those who beat him and took him. I killed several guards," he said. "I do not know how many. I thought to reduce their numbers so that I could get to him myself, or provide him a chance to get away. I was half-mad with rage and guilt, I think."

"Guilt?"

He sighed. "What you did, what I did, both came to naught."

She rested her hand on his arm. "You did help him."

He slid her a glance. "Isobel, he is dead."

"James, did Wallace see you there, fighting for him?"

"I think so," he said slowly.

"Then he knew you tried to save him."

His eyelids lowered pensively. He nodded. "Aye, but—"

"You helped him, James," she said firmly. "He knew that he was not alone. That must have seemed like a blessing to him."

"Aye. I had not thought of that." He watched her for a moment. She rested her head against the wall, as he did, and returned his gaze.

Then he shifted forward, and touched his lips to hers.

Isobel tilted her head backward, drinking in the soft, warm kiss. The brush of his mouth on hers brought a delicious shock that burst in her center and blossomed outward.

He moved back and gazed at her. The goshawk perched on his fist made tiny noises in his throat.

She stared up at James. "What—what was that for?"

He smiled a little. "A gesture of thanks. 'Twas you who took the blindness from me this time," he said.

"Blindness?" she asked.

"The scales from my eyes, as it were." His mouth quirked in a sad, fleeting smile. "Mayhap I did help Will in some small way. You cannot know how much it means to me to think that."

Her heart thumped. "I owe you a—a gesture of thanks as well, for interpreting the symbolism of my blindness as you did."

He looked at her, his eyes crinkling in a private smile.

She leaned forward, drifting her eyes shut, waiting, hoping for the divine touch of his mouth to hers once again.

He slid toward her, his breath soft on her cheek. She waited, eyes closed, heart pounding. He let out a breath, and then his finger touched her lips and lifted.

"Nay," he whispered.

She opened her eyes wide, startled.

"Nay, lass," he murmured. "I cannot be trusted."

"I trust you, Jamie," she whispered, her gaze full of him, taking in his deep eyes in the warm, dim light, the red-gold sheen on his hair, the full curve of his lower lip.

"But if I so much as touch you," he said, his voice like a caress, "I will be guilty of more than taking a woman hostage."

Her heartbeat increased to thunder. She reached up and cupped her palm against his cheek. His face was warm and prickly against her skin. "And if I touch you?" she asked softly.

He closed his eyes. "Do not do that, lass," he whispered.

Before, she had been taken in by the rhythmic grace of his moving hand as he entranced the hawk, and the thrum of his voice as he sang. Now it was the soft, steady thump of his heart, sensed in the pulse that beat against the heel of her hand, that pulled her toward him. She could not stop herself.

She closed her eyes, and touched the strong shape of his jaw, with its grainy texture of beard. She slid her fingertips downward and felt the soft outline of his mouth, felt the warmth of his breath over her fingers.

"Isobel," he whispered. She felt his mouth moving on her fingers. She sucked in a breath.

James sighed out, a low groan. He dipped toward her and pressed his mouth to hers, hungry and hard, kissing her as he had under the cover of the ferns. Rich and full, the kiss delved deep inside of her, overturning her like a wave takes a boat. She was lost, drifting, anchored only by his mouth, by his breath, by the touch of his hand upon her cheek.

His fingers slipped inside the curtain of her hair. He tugged gently, angling her head, opening his mouth over hers, his lips moving in a delectable rhythm, rising and falling, opening and closing.

Isobel tipped back her head and gave in to the shivers that plunged and swirled within her. She followed the rhythm he set, her lips moving in harmony with his.

The hawk shifted and squawked. James lifted his mouth away and sat back. He murmured something low—Isobel thought it sounded like an oath—and turned toward the hawk, resting his gloved fist on his upraised knee. He ran his fingers through his thick hair in an exasperated gesture.

Isobel folded her good arm around her waist, heart still thumping. She felt ehat seep into her cheeks, and endured an agony of shame at her unsuitable boldness. She lowered her head.

"I was foolish," she whispered, not looking at him.

"You?" He shook his head. "'Twas my foolishness, lass. None of this is happening as I planned. None of it—the besieged castle, the hawk, you—"

"Me?" she asked woodenly.

"Especially you," he said wryly. "I thought the prophetess would be easy enough to manage. A woman who did not care for me, nor I for her. I would steal her away in a sack, hide her in a cave, send a message to Ralph, and have Margaret back again."

She ducked her head, her hair sliding down. She covered her eyes with her hand. "That is all you want of me," she whispered. "You will use me as a means to get back Margaret."

He laughed, a bitter sound, lacking humor. "All I want of you?" He sighed, shook his head. "I want far more than that of you, and God help me for thinking it."

She raised her head. He did not look at her. A storm rose within her, stirred by his hurtful rejection. He had pulled her toward him with that powerful kiss, and now he sought to push her away. "If Ralph came here this moment and offered Margaret in exchange for me, you would be glad of it. 'Tis what you want."

"I would be tempted to keep you and let Margaret fend for herself," he muttered. "She could do it well enough, I think."

"Keep me?" She huffed impatiently. "Keep me? Do you think I am some prize hawk to be mewed?"

"That," he said, "is not what I meant."

"That," she snapped, "is what I took as your meaning. And how can you be so disloyal to your Margaret?" Her voice rose.

The goshawk roused his feathers and lifted his wings at Isobel's sharp tone. James sighed, rubbed his hand over his jaw, and began to murmur to the hawk, scratching his breast feathers.

Isobel sat and watched, scowling, as a tumult of thoughts and emotions assaulted her. The initial flash of fury was followed by a confusing blend of resentment and embarrassment, underscored by a strong attraction to him.

"Ho, Gawain," James said softly. "Look at you, we forgot about your hood." He reached up and plucked the hood free from the hawk's head. Gawain blinked, his eyes reddish in the glowing, dim light.

"There, now he can see again," James commented. Isobel glanced toward the bird, and nodded silently. James glanced at her. "And we did not even have to kiss him," he added wryly.

Despite her dark mood, Isobel laughed reluctantly. James chuckled, and leaned back against the wall, watching her.

"I owe you an apology," he said.

"Aye, several," she said, her tone spicy.

"I do ask your pardon on one matter, at least," he murmured. "I doubted your visions, Isobel. I doubted the sincerity of your purpose—I was sure you were part of some Southron conspiracy. But now I know that you had naught to do with Will's betrayal yourself." He looked away. "And I know you did not set the blame on me and ruin my name with malicious intent."

She blinked at him. "You thought me so evil-minded?"

He shrugged. "Aye. But I did not know you then."

"Just as I did not know you, when I thought you a traitor."

"Ah, but I am," he said tightly. "That I am." The words were bitter and hard.

Isobel touched the back of his hand, where it rested on his thigh. "I do not believe that."

He uttered a curt laugh. "You have been talking to Alice."

"Some," she said. "But 'tis my own feeling. Tell me why you call yourself a traitor."

He shook his head and leaned against the wall. "Nay," he whispered. "I will not tell you, or anyone, that foul tale."

"Jamie, please," she whispered.

He shook his head. "You would not like to hear it."

"I would."

"I am tired and I do not want to tell it," he said bluntly.

She watched him, silent and unmoving as the rock behind him. "Then tell me what I predicted about you."

He opened his eyes, frowned at her. "You know."

She shook her head. "Father Hugh told me what I said about Wallace. And that 'twas a bit different than I recalled." She frowned. "Mayhap he wrote it down wrong. But he did not tell me what I said about you. I only heard, later, that I had predicted that the Border Hawk would take down Wallace. James, what was the prophecy that went about?"

He closed his eyes. "`The hawk of the tower and the hawk of the forest fly together to take the eagle," he began in a low, quiet tone. His voice seemed to reverberate around the small cave. "`The hawk of the forest is laird of the wind. He will betray his brother the eagle in his nest at night. He will loose the white feather and flee through heather and greenwood. And the eagle will lose his heart.'"

Isobel lowered her eyelids, her hand at rest on his forearm. "Aye, I recall those words, or something like them," she said. "Wallace was the eagle."