Laird of the Wind Read Online Free Page B

down beside her. He then examined the wound in the dusky light that came through the arrowslit window.
    Without asking her leaven, he lifted the hem of her skirt—she gasped at that—and tore a wide strip of linen from the hem of her chemise. He wadded cloth around the seeping, throbbing wound in her right arm. Isobel drew the silk veil from inside her sleeve with a shaking hand, and pressed it to the bleeding cut above her ankle.
    "Arrow wounds are painful," Lindsay said. "I have had several myself. But these will heal well enough." He shook his head. "Foolish to stand up on a battlement like that."
    "They will not fire if I am on the wall. But they did not see me then."
    He took the cloth from her hand and wrapped it around her ankle. "Do you have some agreement with them?" He glanced at her sharply.
    She sucked in a breath at his tone. "Their king wants me brought to him. And that has helped us in this siege. I stood up because I hoped to halt a battle."
    "Heroic," he muttered. He rose to his feet and gazed down at her as if angry.
    "Why are you here?" she asked. "What do you want here?"
    "I came," he said softly, "to find the prophetess of Aberlady." Something in his tone sent a shiver along her spine. "We have matters between us, you and I."
    "I do not know you, though you seem to know me."
    He shrugged. "You are widely known. Let me make a prediction, Black Isobel," he said in a low voice. "You will come to know me well. And you will come to regret what you and yours have done to me and mine."
    She gasped. "I do not understand."
    He turned toward the door. "I will come back to look after your wounds. You will be safe here." He stepped through the doorway into a hail of falling arrows.
    Isobel stared after him, and wondered just how safe she was.

 
     
     
    Chapter 3

     
    "Those Southrons are overfond of fire arrows," Henry said, as another burning shaft traced an arc overhead, smacking into the wall-walk. He glanced at James.
    "Aye. Let them fire the castle—we will not have to bother." He nocked an arrow and drew back the string. The point found its mark over a hundred yards away, for he saw an English archer clutch his shoulder and fall to the ground.
    "That," James announced grimly, "is for the lass."
    "This morn you were not so fond of her."
    "I did not know she was besieged, or starving—or quite so young." James drew another arrow from the quiver at his belt and set it to the bow.
    "Or so lovely, hey." Henry grinned.
    James released the arrow. "She needs our help, regardless."
    "True. Hah! Look there! I'll wager that soldier would like to know he was just caught in the leg by the Border Hawk!"
    "I am sure he would," James drawled, and shot again.
    The full moon rose quickly in the indigo sky, and English fire arrows flew like a host of comets. James shot steadily, one arrow after another, and beside him, Henry Rose did the same. Beyond them, James saw Aberlady's garrison, and his own men—Quentin Fraser, Patrick Boyd, and Geordie Shaw—raining a steady volley of arrows down on English heads.
    Henry looked around then. "Sir Eustace, is it?" he asked the man who approached.
    "Aye, baillie and captain of Aberlady Castle."
    "I am Sir Henry Rose." Henry held out a hand.
    Eustace put a hand to his sword hilt. "That's a Southron name," he growled. "And you use a longbow with Southron skill."
    "I'm English," Henry said. "Would you have me use a short bow like a Scot? Scotsmen are a sorry lot of archers. But for Jamie here, I'd think none of them had any worth with a bow. With a broadsword, now, 'tis a different matter."
    Eustace scowled. "If you be Southron by fealty, then leave this castle the way you came into it, or bid the world farewell."
    "Peace, man." James held up a hand. "Henry is Southron by birth, and a master of the longbow. But he fights for the Scottish cause."
    "My wife is a Scotswoman," Henry said. "Her people are mine now. And I've seen King Edward's chivalry toward the Scots. I'll take no share