“Do you . . . ever take any rest?”
“Not when men do foolish things.”
He looked contrite. “I will try to keep any further foolishness to a minimum,” he said solemnly.
She sighed heavily. “You do not want to use such words,” she reminded him. “You are a borderer now. You would not use fancy words.”
“Are they fancy?”
“Aye,” she said, then realized he was teasing her.
He was obviously better.
Still, she persisted. “You must remember. And you cannot stay here long. The Charlton wants to take you to the peel tower, and then they may well learn you be a Scot if you do not watch your speech. Without a name for ransom, they will kill you. They showed no mercy to those wounded on Flodden Field.”
He tried to move again, and the effort showed on his face.
“Stay where you are.”
Audra entered then, and she could say no more. “Audra, take an oatcake to Bear as a reward for finding Mr. Howard last night.”
Audra smiled shyly at the Scot. “I am glad he found you.”
“He did not let me out his sight,” the Scot said wryly.
“He knows I like you,” Audra said.
The Scot gave her a crooked smile. “That must be . . . why.”
It was obvious even those words required as much strength as he had.
“Go,” Kimbra told her daughter.
Audra glanced at the Scot and appeared reluctant, though ordinarily she would have been delighted at the prospect of playing with Bear.
The Scot nodded, and Audra headed toward the table, found an oatcake, and went out the door, Bear at her heels.
Kimbra felt a momentary resentment that her daughter obeyed the stranger more readily than she did her own mother, but then she was angry already. She had spent too much effort for the Scot to throw it all away.
She said nothing more as she found the chamber pot and started to help the Scot as she had her husband. A man’s body was a man’s body and nothing to be shy about. But the Scot refused to help.
“I will do it myself.”
“And do more harm?”
“I swear not.”
She gave him a look that she hoped told him what she thought of that promise.
But his gaze—so blue—held hers, and she knew he would not relent.
“I will be outside the door,” she surrendered.
She went out, but stayed at the door, ready to reenter at the first groan and cry, or bump, or crash. There was none.
She allowed her attention to wander over to Audra and Bear who were chasing each other, or Bear was pretending to chase. She couldn’t imagine Bear leaving the cottage and following the stranger. The beast must have thought the Scot was important to them.
He was not important at all. There would be no ransom or reward. How could you collect one for someone who didn’t know who he was? And she was certainly in no position to discover his identity on her own.
Yet there was something about the Scot that had made her care far more than she should. She knew that when she searched for him last night. She’d been frantic, far more than she should have been for someone she’d known only a short time.
She did not wish to explore her other reactions to him. The way her heart fluttered around him. The warmth that crept through her when she touched him. The odd sensation in her heart when he smiled.
Enough daydreaming. She knocked, then went inside. He was lying back down, his breath coming more rapidly and his face white with strain, but the pot was in a new spot.
She moved it away and sat next to him, taking up the cloth and wiping the moisture from his face. Then she made a potion that should ease him into sleep. She lifted his head as he drank it willingly enough.
As she put the cup down, he raised his hand. It brushed her arm, and she felt as if she’d been touched herself by that white-hot dagger. Heat coursed through her body. She jerked away and stood.
“I am sorry. I did not mean to offend—”
She knew her face must be red with shame. “You did nothing. It is just no man has touched me since Will died.”
“How long . . . ?”
“He died two years ago.”
“You’ve lived alone these years?” His voice was surprised.
“Is that unusual where you come from?”
A look of puzzlement passed over his face. She had hoped that an unexpected question might stir a memory.
“Yes . . . no . . . I . . . God’s tooth but I cannot—”
“Are you from Edinburgh?” she asked.
He shook his head in obvious frustration.
She wished she knew more about Scotland, but all she knew was what came from the minstrels who played songs for a roof overhead and a meal. The tales were of wild Highlanders and rape and pillage.
Yet this man appeared in no way wild. Still he was a warrior, or he would not have been at the side of a king.
“You need rest,” she said. “And I have work to do. The Charlton wishes some herbs.”
“You are a healer then?”
“I just know herbs,” she said, “as my mother did.”
His eyes studied her face. “You are a most unusual woman,” he said.
“Nay, I am just trying to take care of my daughter.”
“Then you would not have brought me here.”
“I wanted a ransom,” she defended herself.
“You knew that was unlikely when you came for me last night.”
“It was not good manners to leave that way,” she said primly.
“Now that is a fearsomely strange reason to haul someone back. But I apologize, Mistress Kimbra.”
“I do not want your apology. I want you to get well.”
“Why?”
“So you can leave, and my daughter and I can have our cottage back.”
“After all your efforts, I will try to do my best.”
His slow smile made her heart pound faster. She forced herself to rise. “I have chores to do.”
She went out and called for Audra. She knew she should have milked the cow earlier but she’d been too tired. Bess would be heavy and sore, and rightfully short-tempered over the neglect. There were several chickens to feed as well. She eyed one as the possible source of soup for the Scot, but they had become pets, and she and Audra depended on the eggs for barter.
While Kimbra saw to Bess, Audra fed and watered Magnus. Together they scattered seed for the hens and one rooster, then gathered several eggs.
The Scot was sleeping when they returned to the cottage, and she breathed deeply in relief. She still felt heat where he had touched her so briefly. It was only, she told herself, because she had been without a man since Will died. And while his lovemaking had often been fast, leaving her wanting something more, she had grown used to his arms, to his warm presence beside her.
But he had not stirred the wild feelings that the Scot did. She felt traitorous to Will’s memory, especially since this man was a Scot, an enemy to Will’s family and to England.
He did not look like an enemy. She couldn’t rid herself of the fact he had almost died to prevent harm coming to her and Audra.
Her heart was becoming far more involved than she’d thought possible.
And that, she knew, was far more dangerous than his physical presence in her home.
Chapter 8
KIMBRA woke to a shout.
Audra, who was sleeping next to her, did not move.
It took her a moment for everything to come flooding back. She and Audra were back on the pallet. They had moved the Scot back into the other room. He’d protested, but she’d argued it was safer. People came to her for herbs. Until he knew more about the borderers, he should keep out of sight.
The shout still rang in her ears, but there was not another one. She rose and went to the door. The fire was still burning from the several logs she’d added just a few hours earlier.
She listened at the door, not wanting
to wake the Scot if he slept. He needed as much sleep as he could get. But then she heard another cry, more a moan. She lit a candle from the fire and went into the room.
He was thrashing across the bed, his face screwed into grief. He had kicked or torn the blankets from his body, and he wore only a long wool shirt that had belonged to her husband. His eyes were closed, and she realized it was probably a nightmare.
“Maggie!” he cried out.
A woman’s name. Someone from his past?
She hesitated. She was far too involved already. But mayhap his memory was returning. If so, she could send word to someone.
She wasn’t sure how, but she would find a way. Then he would be gone, and hopefully return a reward for her and Audra. Oddly, the idea was not as appealing as it had been days ago.
He uttered a guttural cry. She could no longer stand and watch. She placed the candle on the table and went over to him, put a hand on his shoulder.
His arm swung out and hit her across her mouth. It was so unexpected she cried out.
He came awake then with a sudden, violent movement that frightened her, dulling the pain of the blow against her lips. She was aware of something wet and salty in her mouth.
She was also aware he suddenly went quiet.
“Dear Mother,” he muttered as his gaze found her lip. He half sat, his face indicating the effort it took. “What happened?”
“You had a nightmare. You flailed out. Do you remember any of it?”
He ignored the question as he stared at her lip. “Did . . . I do that?”
“You did not mean it.”
A stark bleakness darkened his blue eyes.
“The nightmare,” she pressed, ignoring the blood dribbling down her chin. “Do you remember anything from it?”
He closed his eyes. “Fighting,” he said.
“At Flodden Field?”
“I . . . I . . . do not . . . think so. I . . . God’s tooth, there is something. I . . .”
“You mentioned a woman’s name. Maggie.”
She watched him strain to remember. It was painful to watch. Finally, he just shook his head.
No matter how much she wanted to know his name, she could not ask him more questions, not with the torment she saw in his face.
She sat down on the bed and placed the back of her hand to his cheek. It was cool. She allowed it to linger there, trying to comfort him.
He jerked away. “Your lip,” he said. “Your lip needs tending.”
“’Tis nothing.”
“’Tis a great deal when you have done so much for me. I cut you.”
“It will heal quickly. I startled you. I should not have tried to wake you, but you were . . .”
“Were what?”
“Shouting. I thought you were in pain.”
He struggled to sit, swaying as he did so. He brushed her lip with such gentleness that his touch soothed rather than hurt. “I wish I could care for that as well as you cared for me.”
She felt her face grow warm. Not only her face but the core of her. Something shifted inside as an almost palpable attraction leapt between them, filling the air with its intensity. “You are not well yet,” she said in a shaky voice.
“But soon to be,” he said. “Because of you.”
“You started to say that you remembered something.”
“Jumbled images. Feelings. Fear.” He hesitated, then added in a soft voice, “Something worse. I feel it. But everything is shrouded by a mist. Not solid enough for me to catch it.”
He dropped his hand. It came away with blood on it. She rose and found a piece of cloth and wiped her face with it. The cut was of little matter. She would, though, have a bruise she might have to explain.
“I will get you something to help you sleep,” she said.
“Nay, I will sleep on my own. You must get some rest.” He looked at her quizzically. “Have you slept since you found me?”
“Aye, I have. I have never needed much sleep. I used to ride with my husband on raids. We would ride two days straight.” She heard the longing in her voice. She had loved the feeling of freedom on those rides, galloping across the march and splashing across creeks.
“You liked it?”
“Aye, I did.”
She found herself sitting back on the bed, reluctant to leave. “I always thought it unfair that women had to cook and sew and work the crops, while men slept all day and rode all night. Will taught me to ride, and I loved it. Because we are isolated here, he taught me some warrior skills. To shoot a bow and arrow. To use a dagger. Even a sword.
“But then he would ride out alone, and I imagined all kinds of things. I cut down some clothes he’d outgrown and joined the group of riders as they left one night. By the time someone discovered who I was, they’d ridden too far to return. I took Magnus from the Armstrongs that night, and I was otherwise useful.”
“And your husband?”
“Angry at first, then he thought it amusing.”
The Scot’s eyes lost some of their bleakness. “And himself fortunate,” he said, his meaning quite clear.
“Nay. He died too young. He loved Audra, but he prayed for a son. I wish I could have given him one. ’Twas the least I could do when he took me without a dowry and against the wishes of his family.”
The conversation was becoming far too intimate. His hand rested on her lap, and she liked it there. It felt natural. She hadn’t realized how much she missed that kind of contact with a man.
But this could not be with an enemy. With a noble who was as far above her station as anyone could be.
She rose abruptly. “I must go,” she said, taking the candle and almost running from the room.
HE lay back in the darkness. His hand still tingled where she’d touched him, and he’d touched her.
Since she had first brought him here, she had puzzled him. Though his past was a blank, he was quite sure that there were few women like her. Then that brought back the worry that he might have a wife.
If so, was she anything like this woman who wore men’s clothes, dragged strangers off battlefields, and took them in? Who rode with bandits and stole from the dead, yet had such a gentle way with her child?
She intrigued him, attracted him, challenged him.
If he had a wife, he hoped she was like Kimbra Charlton.
Was he now betraying her with lustful thoughts of another woman?
Despite his lack of memory, he knew that Kimbra Charlton must be unusual. And even as weak as he was, she aroused a yearning inside him so deep that it dwarfed any physical pain.
He turned over. He did not want to sleep again. The images, the emotions he’d felt during the nightmare haunted him. He tried to remember more of the nightmare, the faces within it, but they evaded him. A heavy sense of failure, of despair lingered instead.
KIMBRA lay next to her sleeping daughter and pulled her into her arms.
Remember what’s important.
Life was important. Audra’s and—because of Audra—her own.
She had to look out for herself and her daughter. That meant getting the Scot well and extracting what information she could. She had to prompt those memories.
She wasn’t sure how long she lay there before first light seeped through the windows and Audra stirred next to her.
Kimbra rose, piled more wood on the fire, then looked in on the Scot.
He was sleeping, but the bedclothes were strewn all over. She worried there had been more nightmares.
She watched him for several moments. She didn’t understand why he so intrigued her. Even beguiled her. He was nothing like Will. Yet something inside melted as she watched him. She’d tried so hard to resist her reaction to him. She’d tried to be curt with him. Even unlikable. But he always seemed to see beyond that.
She tore her glance away and put another piece of wood on the fire. Audra sleepily got to her feet and plodded over to her.
Kimbra hugged her close. “I love you,” she said. “Forever and
forever.”
Audra rested her head against her mother’s heart, and tenderness flowed through Kimbra. Each moment with her daughter was so precious, she was shamed that sometimes she didn’t have more time to play with her, to tell her stories, as her own mother had not. She had so longed for her mother’s attention as a child, but her mother had never had time—nor the heart—for it. She had never quite understood, not until Will died. Now she, like her mother, had to spend nearly every moment of the day trying to keep them both fed and housed. The few picnics at the pond were the exceptions.
She’d thought the Scot her only way to provide better for her child.
Now he was more of a curse than the blessing she’d hoped. She dared not leave the cottage, and the Scot, alone.
She squeezed Audra, then set her down. “If you dress quickly, you can help me milk Bess and feed Magnus.”
“Can I ride Magnus?” Audra asked, trying to enlarge her share of the bargain.
“Aye, but just within sight of the cottage.”
It was a promise she’d made weeks ago but had continued to put off. She remembered herself as a child, wanting so much to ride, but as a maid’s daughter, she was unable to do so. When she’d married, Will taught her, and riding had given her so much joy that Kimbra wanted her daughter to share that pleasure. She knew Audra should have a pony to learn, but that was a luxury she doubted would ever be within her grasp.
She would be careful, but Magnus seemed to recognize that Audra was a child, and Kimbra would be at Audra’s side. It was the best she could do.
She prepared boiled barley and added honey to sweeten it, poured some in a bowl for Audra, and more in a bowl for the Scot. Then with a cup of ale, she took it into the Scot’s room. She had to learn to call him—even think of him as—Robert Howard, but he remained the Scot in her thoughts.
He was sitting up, looking better than he had the day before, though as he turned toward her, she saw a muscle throb in his throat as if stifling a groan.
“I have some barley with honey,” she said, handing him the bowl and placing the ale on a table next to him.
The side of his mouth twitched up in a forced smile as he took it and tasted it.
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