whispered.
He nodded silently. He had felt hollow, black inside, when he shot that fire arrow toward the thatch. Devastating memories, six years past, had sparked again with that burst of flame. But he had locked them away once again. He had no time, no strength inside to let them out.
Watching Isobel, he would have preferred her to shout at him, to call him vile names, to echo his anger and tap the darkness that he carried inside himself.
But her poignant sadness tugged at him, challenged him, unsettled him. She stood there holding that sooty, bedraggled white rose, and he suddenly wanted—something, and could not name it. He had not felt this raw, this open, in years.
Then she glanced up at him, and he saw in her translucent eyes that she bore no grudge toward him for setting the torch to Aberlady. He saw, God help him, forgiveness.
He turned away.
For one long, dreadful instant, he felt as if the hard casing around his heart began to crack. With the next breath, and the next, he willed the gap sealed again.
He reminded himself why he had come in search of the prophetess of Aberlady, and why he had found it expedient to fire her castle. Isobel Seton might be distressed, in need, and impossibly lovely. But he reminded himself that she was the only pawn he had, and he must use her as he had already schemed.
"The policy of scorched earth is sanctioned by the Guardians of the Realm of Scotland," he said coldly. "'Tis a necessary action to prevent the English from taking Scottish properties."
He turned back toward her.
She blinked up at him. Those sad, magnificent eyes nearly undid him again. But he could not easily look away.
"I know," she said. "But I—I hoped my castle would be spared."
"Do not be foolish. The Southrons ready their engines to knock down your gates in the morn. You were willing to defend these walls for weeks to keep them out. I have ensured that they will stay out, for now at least, for the good of Scotland, and for your own welfare." His tone was sharp.
She frowned. He saw her temper blossom then, a hard blue spark in her limpid eyes. "I did not think the Border Hawk cared for the good of Scotland," she snapped.
He felt the jab keenly, startled that her words could wound him so easily. But he felt on more certain ground with anger and conflict than with her sadness, her softness.
Many shared the opinion of him that she had just voiced. After all, his new reputation as a traitor had begun with this girl's own words, months ago. His temper surged.
"Come ahead," he said abruptly, taking her uninjured arm, meaning to pull her toward the gate.
She stood her ground. "Why does my welfare matter to you? 'Tis said the Border Hawk is loyal only to himself. 'Tis said—"
"I know what 'tis said," he barked. He glanced through the burning frame of the gate. The fire in the bailey, which lit up the dark sky, had consumed the outbuildings and now encroached on the tower. In the shadows by the back wall, he saw his men, and Aberlady's garrison, waiting.
"Come," he said firmly, taking her right wrist. "We have to get out of here. Now."
She resisted his tug. Fiery light gleamed on her fine-boned cheeks and in her glossy dark hair as she looked up at him. "Why did you come here, James Lindsay?" she asked.
"I came to rescue you, whether or not you believe that," he snapped impatiently.
"I do not believe it," she said. "There is more. Tell me what 'tis."
He leaned forward. "Are you blind, lass? There is fire all around you! We do not have time for a wee chat."
She gaped at him. He could not think why.
"For now, I am your champion," he muttered sourly. "Later you may call me something else, if you like."
He bent down and scooped her into his arms. Then he strode through the smoldering, fire-spitting gate and headed across the bailey amid a shower of bright sparks.
* * *
She might have done him the courtesy of passing out, James thought, as he climbed hand over hand down a sturdy knotted rope ladder.
He nodded silently. He had felt hollow, black inside, when he shot that fire arrow toward the thatch. Devastating memories, six years past, had sparked again with that burst of flame. But he had locked them away once again. He had no time, no strength inside to let them out.
Watching Isobel, he would have preferred her to shout at him, to call him vile names, to echo his anger and tap the darkness that he carried inside himself.
But her poignant sadness tugged at him, challenged him, unsettled him. She stood there holding that sooty, bedraggled white rose, and he suddenly wanted—something, and could not name it. He had not felt this raw, this open, in years.
Then she glanced up at him, and he saw in her translucent eyes that she bore no grudge toward him for setting the torch to Aberlady. He saw, God help him, forgiveness.
He turned away.
For one long, dreadful instant, he felt as if the hard casing around his heart began to crack. With the next breath, and the next, he willed the gap sealed again.
He reminded himself why he had come in search of the prophetess of Aberlady, and why he had found it expedient to fire her castle. Isobel Seton might be distressed, in need, and impossibly lovely. But he reminded himself that she was the only pawn he had, and he must use her as he had already schemed.
"The policy of scorched earth is sanctioned by the Guardians of the Realm of Scotland," he said coldly. "'Tis a necessary action to prevent the English from taking Scottish properties."
He turned back toward her.
She blinked up at him. Those sad, magnificent eyes nearly undid him again. But he could not easily look away.
"I know," she said. "But I—I hoped my castle would be spared."
"Do not be foolish. The Southrons ready their engines to knock down your gates in the morn. You were willing to defend these walls for weeks to keep them out. I have ensured that they will stay out, for now at least, for the good of Scotland, and for your own welfare." His tone was sharp.
She frowned. He saw her temper blossom then, a hard blue spark in her limpid eyes. "I did not think the Border Hawk cared for the good of Scotland," she snapped.
He felt the jab keenly, startled that her words could wound him so easily. But he felt on more certain ground with anger and conflict than with her sadness, her softness.
Many shared the opinion of him that she had just voiced. After all, his new reputation as a traitor had begun with this girl's own words, months ago. His temper surged.
"Come ahead," he said abruptly, taking her uninjured arm, meaning to pull her toward the gate.
She stood her ground. "Why does my welfare matter to you? 'Tis said the Border Hawk is loyal only to himself. 'Tis said—"
"I know what 'tis said," he barked. He glanced through the burning frame of the gate. The fire in the bailey, which lit up the dark sky, had consumed the outbuildings and now encroached on the tower. In the shadows by the back wall, he saw his men, and Aberlady's garrison, waiting.
"Come," he said firmly, taking her right wrist. "We have to get out of here. Now."
She resisted his tug. Fiery light gleamed on her fine-boned cheeks and in her glossy dark hair as she looked up at him. "Why did you come here, James Lindsay?" she asked.
"I came to rescue you, whether or not you believe that," he snapped impatiently.
"I do not believe it," she said. "There is more. Tell me what 'tis."
He leaned forward. "Are you blind, lass? There is fire all around you! We do not have time for a wee chat."
She gaped at him. He could not think why.
"For now, I am your champion," he muttered sourly. "Later you may call me something else, if you like."
He bent down and scooped her into his arms. Then he strode through the smoldering, fire-spitting gate and headed across the bailey amid a shower of bright sparks.
* * *
She might have done him the courtesy of passing out, James thought, as he climbed hand over hand down a sturdy knotted rope ladder.
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