Page 89 of The Hawk Laird

Was he? “Aye,” he said slowly, as certainty dawned.

“Jesu,” the man muttered.

“Good to meet you, Jesu.” James felt almost drunk with wooziness and pain.

“Nah,” the man barked. “John Seton.”

“Seton?” James sought the mental niche where the name belonged. “I know a William Seton of Dal—Dalrinnie. And a Seton—a lass—of Aberlady.”

“I am Aberlady,” the man rasped. “Sir William is a cousin. The lass—is my daughter.”

James stared at him. “The—prophetess. The—” What was she? Oh God. His own heart, she was.

“We were at Carlisle together, remember?” John Seton went on. “I saw you there. You and the lass Janet and others. We were taken north by Leslie’s patrol. You escaped. I know who you are.”

James scowled as he pieced it together, his head and eye throbbing.Isobel.

He narrowed his eyes to focus on the man. Those startling blue eyes, nearly luminous—just like the lass. “Jesu,” he breathed.

“Nah, John, I told you.”

“Ish—Ishbel,” James murmured, his swollen lip clumsy. “I know her.”

“What do you hear of Isobel? Do you have news?”

He nodded. “I remember now. Aberlady was besieged. Burned. I am sorry, sir. I was there.”

“So it is true. The guards told me.”

“We had to torch it to keep the English out.”

Seton drew a sharp breath. “What of Isobel?”

“I took her away safely. She is here—at Wildshaw.” He looked around again. Wildshaw was his home. He knew where he was now—in the base of the northwest tower, where two dungeon cells were located.

“Here? How do you know?”

“Leslie has her.” James leaned his head against the wall. “I tried to reach her. But they took her faster than—”

“What do you mean?” John Seton growled. “Lad! Wake up!”

The ache in his head swamped his reason, and darkness returned.

Cool, gentle handsstroked his face. Then a damp cloth sponged his brow, slicked over his eyelids and temple, stinging and cleansing. He winced, opened his eyes.

“Jamie.” He loved the sound of her voice. “I am here,” she whispered. “Papa is here too. Dear saints, at least you are both together. But—”

“Ishbel,” he muttered. His lip felt like a sausage.

“Aye, Ishbel,” she laughed softly, and caught back a sob. She kissed his brow, and he realized she was kneeling on the awful straw beside him. “Are you hurt badly?”

“I am fine,” he lied, sitting up, stiff and awkward, and accepted the cup of water she tipped to his lips, though it dribbled as he swallowed. He looked at her. God, she was beautiful. An angel. His angel. “Love you, Ishbel. I do.”

She gave him an exquisite, watery smile, tears in her eyes, and touched his cheek. She smelled like flowers and sunshine, a font of blessings. He raised a hand to touch her arm.

“The goshawk—” he began.

“Isobel, we must hurry,” a woman said.