Page 64 of The Hawk Laird

“He has been ruined, this gos,” he murmured. “Whoever had him before spoiled him utterly.”

“Then he is not from my father’s mews. Papa raised hawks properly. As you do,” she added.

The wing beats stopped, and he scooped the bird back to his fist. “I cannot right damage done by a poor falconer. There is not enough patience in the world for that.”

“If anyone has the patience, it is you.”

He huffed. “This bird may be hopeless.”

“He is not—are you, Sir Gawain!” She looked at the bird. “Tell the man you can be reclaimed.”

“I thought you wanted me to set him free.”

“When the time comes, aye. But his wing must heal before we let him go.”

We.He noticed that. “Every bate he makes delays his healing.”

Isobel plucked up a deck feather lost by Gawain in his tantrum and handed it to James. He used it to stroke the bird’s breast and legs. The hawk glared, bronze eyes resentful, and perched with wings hunched forward, talons flexing restively.

“He is hungry,” James said. “See how his talons clench. Exhausted, too, yet he will not sit the fist quietly.” He reached into the hawking pouch, found a scrap of raw meat in a cloth, and fed it to the bird. “Look at you,” he told Gawain. “Just as bedraggled as when I first found you in the tree. And you have twisted your tail feathers with all these bates. They will have to be straightened, and that is not a merry process,” he told Isobel sourly.

“Let it wait. You both are exhausted. You need rest, and can start afresh with the training.”

He sighed. “I have to train him. It is harmful for him to behave wildly, and I cannot let him go with a weak wing. He must be able to hunt or he will die.”

“You are an honorable man,” she said quietly, “to rescue a hawk and train him for his own well-being, and at a cost to yourself.”

Surprised and pleased by the compliment, he gave her a wry look all the same. “This from the lass who thinks me a wretched traitor?”

“I think you are like that goshawk.” Her eyes were gray as the rain.

“Foul tempered and bedraggled?”

A smile played over her lips. “That too. As well as wild, strong, and stubborn.”

Despite discouragement and fatigue, he felt his mood lighten at that hint of respect from her, as well as the easy humor she began to show toward him.

“Stubborn,” she continued, “for neither of you will give in.”

He huffed. “I seldom relent over any matter, but this goshawk may defeat me.”

“I do not think anything could defeat you,” she murmured.

He glanced at her, curious, touched, seeing a glint of admiration in her remarkable eyes. For a moment he remembered a sweet, lingering kiss shared among the ferns. Grateful for her trust, he felt discomfited too, sensing he did not deserve it.

“Oh, I have been defeated before,” he drawled. “I just keep it to myself.”

Isobel tilted her head, her gaze gentle, though it pierced through him. His blood surged with the need to touch her, sip some of the sweetness he saw on those lips, in those eyes.

Fatigue blurred his thoughts, blurred years of self-discipline. If he stayed with her longer, he might do something he would regret. Something kind and caring that he could not step back from easily.

“Come outside.” He stood. “I will show you the Craig.”

Chapter Eighteen

The wind ontop of the crag was fierce, beating her hair about her head, whipping her skirts against her legs. As her hair blew back, Isobel tried to capture it, wishing she had the use of two hands to braid it. She stood beside Jamie Lindsay on the summit of the crag, looking out over a glorious view, the sky bright after rain, dove-gray clouds rolling overhead. The forest stretched out below, its deep greens muted under veils of mist. Beyond its expanse lay lochs and streams like shining ribbons.

Isobel smiled at Jamie, who held the hawk on his gloved fist. “’Tis beautiful,” she said in awe.