The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  The duke smiled. "You are like a son to me."

  Boden's eyebrows rose. This was indeed a day of surprises. The duke had never been short of women he cared for, but words of sentiment for his knights were few and far between.

  Haldane laughed out loud. "I am neither as young nor as healthy as I once was. I have no wish to die with things left unsaid."

  "You must not speak like that," Boden said. The duke of Rosenhurst had as many faults as the next man, but in a score of years, he had never been unfair to Boden. Twas a fact for which Boden would be eternally grateful. Worry coursed through him as he stepped toward the bed. "Tis not your time to die, my lord."

  Haldane smiled again. "Are you certain or are you but hopeful?" he asked.

  "I am both."

  "Well spoken." Haldane reached up to clasp Boden's

  hand. "You have my thanks for agreeing to go."

  "You failed to tell me I had a choice."

  Haldane chuckled and released his hand. "Return the lady safely to my side, Sir Blackblade, and you will be justly rewarded."

  Boden nodded, not for a moment doubting of whom Haldane spoke. Then he left. The hallway down which Boden hurried was lit by a single sconce.

  "Sir Blackblade."

  Boden turned quickly at the quiet voice. "My lady."

  Lady Elizabeth rushed toward him, her white nightrail billowing behind her. Boden took a cautious step backward. Never did Elizabeth realize her allure. It was no different now it seemed, because she reached for his hand with both of hers. They felt warm and soft as rose petals against his.

  "He is sending you away," she said, her voice breathless.

  "Aye, my lady."

  "Please do not go."

  Boden stared in open surprise. Much younger than her husband, she was both beautiful and regal. But now she had abandoned her lofty demeanor. Her dark hair was unbound, making her look young and innocent. Gone was her costly gown, replaced by this touchable bit of linen, as if she'd just left her bed.

  "I've had a frightful dream and I worry for your life," she continued, leaning closer.

  "My life?" he asked. She smelled of lavender and sweet wine. He was not a man accustomed to the company of women, but one thought stood out clearly in his mind—she was his lord's wife, regardless of the duke's philandering.

  "Aye, good sir," she said. "My husband does not sometimes realize your worth, I think. You are the best of his knights. And though I know..." She paused, her eyes very sad. "I know he is not always faithful to me.

  But he is still my husband, and I would have what is best for him."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I fear for his life,'' she said, her voice sounding urgent. "He is not strong these days. And London is such a far way. What if you do not return in time."

  "Lady, you shouldn't speak of such things."

  "But I must," she said, squeezing his hand imploringly. "You must not leave him now. Won't you come to my chambers and discuss this with me at the least?"

  Her chambers! He may not be accustomed to the company of women, but at least he knew the limitations of his self-control, and that was far beyond them.

  "I... I must not," he said, and pulling his hand from her grasp, rushed away.

  Boden's hurried journey to London had been long and fruitless, for when he'd arrived at Holly House, he'd been told that the women for whom he searched were gone.

  Gone! It had taken all of Boden's control not to shake the little servant that elevated his nose as if Boden's scent of fermenting horse sweat somehow offended his sensibilities. Gone where?

  The ladies had not deigned to share that information with Mm, the house servant replied. And it was not his job to ask, but only to see the packing done well and efficiently.

  Packing?

  Yes, for a long and arduous journey, judging by the lady's demands. Caroline had been well spooked after the brigands broke into the house, though her personal guards had bested the villains and secured the house.

  Boden shifted his weight in the saddle as he mulled over his thoughts. It had been five days since he'd left London and he hadn't had a decent meal since. The sun shifted irrevocably toward the horizon, reminding him he would go to bed hungry again. He wasn't one to complain, but his arse hurt.

  It looked like it might rain again.

  His knee still ached from its meeting with the Welshman's scythe. He had a headache, he was weary to the bone, and his chain mail was beginning to rust.

  Beneath him, the dapple-gray destrier called Mettle cocked a hip and heaved a martyred sigh.

  Theirs had been a long and arduous journey, and they were ready for it to end. But as of yet Boden had found no trace of the mistress or her entourage, though he had followed every available lead.

  They were heading north, that much he knew, and though he would like to believe they were returning to Lord Haldane under their own power, Boden's luck had never been what one might call colossal. Thus, here he was, in the midst of nowhere, trying to imagine what had happened to the women for whom he searched.

  Dusk was settling softly around him. Twould be another night spent on the soggy earth, and while that fate was not unusual, neither was it much appreciated. There would be little reason to hurry to his bed tonight. So he would follow Caroline's trail and hope to shorten his quest before morning.

  Mettle stepped forward at a touch of Boden's spurs. Daylight slipped away, fading to a pearlescent luster. Quiet pervaded the earth, disturbed only by Mettle's solid footfalls against the dirt road. They rounded a corner, but suddenly the stallion stopped abruptly. His dark-tipped ears flicked forward above the black metal champfrein that armored his head.

  Boden nudged him. The horse remained immobile but for a twitch of his tensed muscles.

  "Tis no time for one of your moods," Boden murmured. He pricked the stallion's sides again.

  Mettle shook his head in irritation, but finally moved forward, his gait trappy and jarring now, his huge body tense.

  They'd not gone more than ten rods when Boden saw the scrap of crimson cloth. It was draped messily over a branch. But in a moment he saw that the fabric was not intended to be red. No, it was blood that made it so.

  Bile rose in Boden's throat. Sweet sainted Mary, please, not more death, he prayed. But his pleas went unanswered, for not thirty feet into the woods, he found the first bloated body.

  Boden closed his eyes for a moment, willing this to be a nightmare. But it was not, and there was nothing he could do but force himself to dismount and face the truth. His legs felt wooden as he approached the corpse. Memories of a dozen past battles haunted him—sightless eyes, torn limbs, the wails of the wounded.

  But this was worse still, for this was a woman. Caroline. His lord's mistress. He remembered how Haldane had spoken of her freshness, her innocence. The thought twisted his insides into a painful knot, forcing out the contents of his stomach.

  He wretched and wretched again, then stumbled backward, ready to run away like the coward he was. But the next body was only a few yards away. It was a man. His shirt and boots were gone and his chest grotesquely swollen.

  The next corpse was that of another woman. It lay just outside a collapsed tent. A red plaid shawl was twisted about her. Her blond hair was matted with blood and her face half gone. Boden's stomach lurched viciously, but now only bile spewed. It was bitter and galling, and accompanied by the wild ferocity that had seen through dozens of nightmarish battles.

  A ferocity that would exact justice—and take lives.

  Sara whimpered in her sleep. Lord Haldane was going to kill her. She knew it, but she couldn't move, couldn't escape. And suddenly his face changed, darkening, hardening into one she had never seen. His wicked grin was a white slash against his granite features and in his hand he held the hilt of a sword entwined with the image of a black snake. The blade rose. Terror welled up inside her. She couldn't die. Not now. She screamed, and awoke with a start, still gripping the dragon pendant that hung from
her neck.

  Bracken rustled beneath her. Beside her, the feeding gourd and pouch still hung from her belt.

  Glancing up, she saw that the sun hung low in the sky. Inside his makeshift sling against Sara's breast, Caroline's child bumped to awareness. Thomas, sweet Thomas. Sara stroked his head, assuring herself he was safe as she collected her thoughts. It was only a dream—just another of the eerie nightmares that visited her of late.

  Where was she?

  She glanced about, steadying her breathing and remembering.

  It had been Sara's idea to return to the Highlands. They would be safe there, she'd told Caroline. But the journey north had been anything but safe.

  It had started well enough. The weather had been warm and sunny. For two days they had traveled unmolested, singing songs and passing Thomas amongst the three women in the carriage.

  Though Anne of Boneau seldom cared for the babe except to nurse him, she seemed attached to the child. She'd taken a liking to Sara's red plaid shawl and in a moment of playful sisterhood, they'd made an exchange—the plaid for the nursemaid's leather pouch.

  Caroline had laughed as Sara stashed a few items into the bag, a needle, a few vials of herbs that Fiona had given her—her witchy concoctions as Caroline called them. Sara had laughed back and attached the pouch to her girdle, saying she now had all she needed to care for them in any eventuality.

  Their comradery had lasted longer than the good weather.

  The rain began midafternoon, slowing their progress. By evening they realized they would not reach the next inn before dusk. They'd been forced to spend the night in the wilds and they had prepared for that.

  But nothing could have prepared them for the brigands. Nothing but the dreams that had awakened Sara. Even before the first sign of trouble, she had gathered Thomas into her arms. Frantic, and not knowing why, she had tried to warn the women. But Caroline was not in the tent and Anne only rolled over with a sleepy groan.

  Sara scurried into the darkness.

  From the woods she thought she heard Caroline giggle. She rushed toward the noise. Behind her, a guard shouted a warning. It was cut off mid-cry.

  Terror streaked through her, accented by battle cries. There was nothing she could do but run.

  Run and hide from the screams that ripped through the night.

  By morning all was quiet. Sara slunk from her hole. Loyalty and uncertainty brought her back toward their camp.

  She found Caroline lying on her side not far from the body of her favored guard. Dried blood soaked her bodice, but she still breathed and her eyes were strangely peaceful.

  "You have Thomas." The words were no more than a whisper. "I knew you did, prayed you did.

  Waited to make certain."

  Sara reached for her, but the other woman shook her head.

  "Let me talk. Just a few words left." She paused, fighting for breath. "Haldane."

  Sara searched for meaning. "What?"

  "Haldane's snake." She nodded weakly toward the ground not far from her hand. A black piece of metal lay there, wrought into the shape of an adder and broken off of a larger piece. "Sword...

  sent..."

  She spasmed, then relaxed.

  "Caroline!" Sara gasped.

  "Protect him," she whispered through stiffening lips. "From them."

  "From who?"

  "Promise me."

  "I promise. I promise I will!" vowed Sara, but Caroline was already gone, slipping quietly into death.

  The days since had been hideous, the nights terrifying. But somehow, miraculously, they had survived this long.

  Twas only another wicked dream that haunted Sara now, and yet it seemed so real.

  But there was no time to consider that now, for her dreams were eerily premonitory of late.

  Perhaps they were warning her of some nearby evil. Or perhaps not.

  Fear coiled in her belly. Sara pushed herself to her feet.

  A noise rustled in the underbrush! Fear sharpened to terror. She spun away, but suddenly a brigand leaped from her nightmares. His face was dark, and in his hand he held the black blade from her dreams.

  She screamed and yanked out her dirk.

  He reached for her. She slashed. The blade skittered across his mail and sliced into his arm.

  She heard his hiss of pain and drew back to strike again. But already he was behind her, one arm across her throat, the other grabbing her wrist.

  She couldn't breathe, couldn't move. She had to protect Thomas. But the grip on her arm was ungodly tight. Her fingers went numb and she dropped the dirk like a leaf to the forest floor.

  "Do you wish to die now?" hissed the villain.

  She shook her head jerkily, barely able to breathe. Fear froze her muscles. Her heart crashed against Thomas's sling-

  "Move. And don't make a sound." He gave her a shove. Her legs buckled and she almost fell, but his hand on her arm held her up. They hurried through the woods. How had he found her? She had hidden them carefully and well. Why was he alone? Where were the others and where was he taking her?

  She stumbled along for an eternity. A stream appeared before them. It was narrow and swift flowing. Behind it was a tangled mass of foliage, then a cliff that rose more than twenty feet above her head.

  He pressed her into the water. It sloshed cold and rapid against her feet and soaked her gown.

  They were across in a moment. He pushed her into the gorse bushes on the opposite side. The branches closed behind them. A root snared her foot. She stumbled again and he let her fall.

  "Where are the others?" he asked, his eyes hard as obsidian and looking absolutely mad.

  It took forever for her to find her voice, and when she did, it shook. "What others?"

  He smiled. The expression was brittle. "Why did you kill them?"

  She shook her head, trying to make sense of the madness.

  "If all you wanted was the child, you could have let them live. Is it ransom you're after? Who sent you? Where are your accomplices?"

  "Accomplices? I have none!"

  "There's little reason to lie. Already I've killed one of them. I heard your cry. Tis what helped me find you. Did they think to cut you out of the profit? Is that why you screamed?" He leaned toward her, his teeth gritted in anger.

  She cowered back. "Twas naught but a bad dream that haunted me!"

  "Surely you can think of a better lie than that."

  She scrambled to her feet, steadying the babe as she did so. "Tis not a lie. I swear tis true."

  For a moment, he stared at her as if her brain was made of pudding. Then he turned back to scan the woods. "You must think me daft indeed," he said, then more softly, as if to himself, ' 'Where are her friends? And how many? Our backs are safe. They'll come straight at us. Are you hungry, Black Adder?" he asked, helfing his sword.

  Fear mixed with hope. So there was someone out there, someone who could save her, she thought, but if they came for her, this man before her would surely slaughter them.

  A rustle of noise sounded off to the side. Quick as thought, his right hand covered her mouth.

  His attention snapped to the underbrush nearby. Above his mail shirt, the tendons in his dark throat stood out sharp and rigid.

  Sara stared at him, unable to move for the fear that engulfed her. What was he afraid of? From whom was he hiding?

  A fawn rose from its bed in the bracket and darted away.

  The brigand released a heavy breath and dropped his hand from her. His eyes were slightly less wild.

  She stumbled back a pace. "If ye let us go..." She paused, searching for the romanticized courage of the Highlander, the courage that had never been hers. "I will pay ye."

  He narrowed his eyes. A scar slanted through the right corner of his lips, making it almost look as if he smiled. "Pay me?"

  "Aye." She had seen him and his sword in her dreams—the sword with the snake wrapped about the hilt, the same metal viper that had lain so near Caroline as she lay dying. Whoever h
ad killed her had carried the same type of weapon.

  "And why would you pay me?" he asked.

  "I have no wish to die."

  He laughed. The sound was deep and humorless. It curled into her belly in new waves of terror.

  "Why would I want to kill a pretty thing like you? Except of course that you're a murderer."

  She shook her head, but knew her denial would do little good. "I'll give ye..." Her voice trembled and her knees felt as if they might spill her to the earth. What could she give him? In truth, she had nothing, nothing but... She moved her cloak aside with a trembling hand. The dragon amulet winked in an errant shaft of evening light. "I'll give ye Dragonheart."

  His gaze pinned on the silver pendant that hung just above the square bodice of her tattered gown. He reached for it. She jerked shakily back, and he grinned—the expression a white slash against his dark skin.

  "Tis a pretty bauble," he said.

  "Bauble!" She tried to laugh, but the sound was raspy. "Tis far more than a bauble. Tis a magic token."

  He tilted his head at her, still holding his dark sword. But its tip pointed down now. "Magic?"

  "Aye. Twas made long ago when the earth was still young. Crafted by an all-powerful sorcerer, it was."

  One corner of his mouth lifted, causing the fine scar on his lips to dance. He was laughing at her, letting her ramble on while he planned evil things. She had to escape! There was no hope of outrunning him, but she had stashed Caroline's knife inside her cloak. If she could only reach it, this time she wouldn't be so foolish as to stab at his protected chest, for his throat was exposed.

  "Indeed," she said, forcing herself to concentrate, to keep her gaze on his eyes and not on the pulse that throbbed at the base of his broad jaw. ' 'If the pendant is freely given to ye, ye will have...

  twice your usual strength and cunning. Surely that would be useful for a—for a man such as yourself."

  The brigand lowered his gaze to his wounded arm. A muscle jumped angrily in his jaw, and when he raised his eyes they looked primitive and only half sane. "It seems a small scratch for one with twice her usual strength."

  "Nay." She shook her head. "Ye dunna understand. Dragonheart does not give the same gifts to each person. It but enhances those ye already possess." The words were ridiculous, a blatant lie, and yet they seemed to come of their own accord. Perhaps if she blathered on, he would underestimate her, relax, and give her an opportunity to escape.