The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  Willing her stomach into submission, she tried to draw her legs up beneath her.

  "Lie back." He was beside her in an instant, and the moment his hands touched her shoulders, she felt like she might cry.

  She twisted her neck, refused to acknowledge her weakness, and tried to peer around him.

  "You're certain? You're certain it's dead?"

  "Aye." His voice was steady and deep, his scowl dark. He pulled his hands quickly away. "Lie back."

  "Thomas!" She tried to sit back up as she remembered the child, but he pushed her down again.

  "The babe could sleep through the crusades. Not a knight in the making, I'm thinking."

  She remained on her elbows, trying to ignore the pain in her leg at least until her queasiness retreated. "I suppose ye were saving damsels in distress afore ye learned to stand."

  "I was born standing," Boden said and pressed her shoulders to the earth with stubborn hands.

  In a moment, she felt him push her skirt past her knees. "And most probably ordering people about, I suspect," she said. Idle conversation seemed a good bet. Fear was not. Yet, she could feel her heart thumping wild and hard against her ribs. Her head felt strangely light.

  "Giving orders with a sword in one hand and my crossbow in the other," he said, his voice deep.

  "So ye were born a knight," she deduced, staring at the sky.

  "Aye. They took one glance at my manly face and decided to bypass the formalities. Roll over."

  "How bad is it?'' Her voice shook when she asked.

  "It's still attached. Roll over."

  She did so, and found that her hands were shaking. The earth smelled musty beneath her. Her twisted braid lay littered with leaves beside her head. Why, after more than a score of years could she not plait her hair into a respectable braid? " Such a pale little sparrow,'" Mairi, her father's mistress, would say. "Ye think yer father will ever wish to come home to such an untidy child?''

  "Sir—" she said, her tone shaky.

  "Call me Boden."

  "I was about to."

  "No 'sir,' " he said, "just Boden."

  "Such informality hardly seems proper with a man who departed the womb already knighted."

  "I can afford to be magnanimous," he said.

  His touch felt gentle and warm against her calf—strange for such large and calloused hands.

  For a moment she thought she felt them tremble? But that was silly, of course. Twas her own body that shook with fear.

  She bit her lip. Tears prickled her eyes. "How bad?"

  "Twill need stitches."

  "Nay!" She twisted rapidly about and found his eyes with her frantic gaze.

  He smiled. It lifted the corners of his dusky mouth into an expression that momentarily stopped her heart. "I jest," he said. "It's jagged and long, but not deep. Though these wounds can heal grievously slow, it should mend on its own. Tis a good thing too, for I fear my stitchery is not much coveted."

  She turned over with a wince. "Being born a knight, I imagine ye have little need for the feminine skills."

  His hand remained on her leg, bumping up her heart rate, warming her flesh.

  "Tis true of course," he said. "I have my hands full rescuing fair princesses from dragons and whatnot."

  "Tis sorry I am to take up yer time from the royalty," she said. But that was far from the truth.

  His nearness only made her want to move closer to him, to feel the strength of his arms around her.

  Their gazes met. "Fair damsels of any station are well worth my time."

  Forbidden hope twisted in her gut—hope that he might feel a modicum of the desire she felt.

  The pain had momentarily eased in her leg, but her heart felt strangely tight. "I fear ye've been at battle too long if ye think me a fair damsel, sir."

  "I have been at battle too long."

  She couldn't hold his gaze, but lowered her eyes quickly. Shona was the bonny one. Or Rachel.

  Or Mairi. But not her. She was Sara—the little mother. "I am an old woman, married and since widowed."

  "Truly?" His voice was husky and low. A corner of his mouth lifted into a slash of a smile.

  "And how old are you, lady?"

  "Tis two and a score years I've seen."

  His smile deepened. Twin grooves stretched down along the sides of his mouth. "St. Notburga's nose! Tis a miracle you've survived to such antiquity."

  He was laughing at her boast of old age. Scowling, she tried to rise to her feet, but he pushed her back down again. She should have been relieved that he'd moved his hand from her ankle. But still her skin tingled from his touch.

  "Rest a while, lass."

  "I am hardly a lass," she said, wanting more than anything to push her unwanted emotions aside.

  "Rest, then, old hag."

  She deepened her scowl. "There seems no need to insult me."

  "Tis strange," he said, "you object just as strenuously when I call you fair as when I call you hag."

  The forest was very quiet. She should ignore his words, should turn away, should at least keep up the inane banter, but she could not "Think you that I am fair?"

  There was surprise in her voice. Boden stared at her. Could it be that this woman didn't realize her allure, didn't know that he longed for even her simplest touch? Could she not know that she consumed his thoughts, that her voice was as kind as a song, her skin as smooth as fine satin, her eyes so— Dear lord! What was he thinking? This woman, widow or not, was not for him. Hardly that! In fact, he had been ordered to bring her home to Lord Haldane, and although Haldane was generous with his knights, he was not the type to take kindly to the seduction of his favored mistress. And not for an instant had the duke pretended she was anything else.

  Boden had known Haldane for many years, had fought for him, respected him, argued with him.

  And although Boden had never met Sara, he had known from only a few words the value Haldane placed on the Scottish lass.

  Boden pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind. Twas his job to return her to Knolltop, and he would do his job. "Can you stand?" he asked, reaching for her hand.

  "Aye," she said, and ignoring his offer of help, pushed herself to her feet.

  Boden knew the moment she would fall, for he had seen a hundred warriors overestimate their abilities in just the same way. He caught her in his arms as she went down.

  Her gasp of pain whisked against his face. Her hands clutched his arms as his encircled the taut diameter of her waist.

  For a moment he could find no words, for unlike the hundred seasoned warriors, her body was as alluring as forbidden fruit, as soft as a lover's sigh.

  "Are you well, lass?" he asked, finding his voice, and aching at the touch of her fingers on his arm.

  "Aye." Her tone was breathy. She looked embarrassed and pained, but in a moment, she righted herself. "I am simply..."

  Her words faded away. What would happen if he kissed her? Just once. Just to taste the sweetness of her lips.

  What was wrong with him? He had to start thinking. And not about her—at least not in that way. "Simply what?" he asked, scrambling for some foolish words to calm the too-rapid beat of his heart. Settling her on her feet, he tried to find some coherent thought, but his voice sounded rusty, his sense of humor, sorely taxed. Her heavenly blue gaze settled on him. "Surely it is your old age that caused the fall."

  Apparently his words made her forget her infirmity because she took a tentative step. Was her expression grateful? Had she, too, felt the impact of their touch? Did she, too, know the folly of reacting?

  "Methinks it is unbecoming for one so nobly borne to bait an old woman," she said.

  The last rays of sunlight shone through the branches, setting something akin to a halo aglow over her head. He could not help but notice how it gleamed off her flaxen hair, liming her fragile profile, setting blue flame to the depths of her indigo eyes.

  "Can you make it back to the babe on your own, venerable one, or sh
all I carry you?'' The thought of holding her in his arms was almost overwhelming.

  But she shook her head and turned away.

  "I fear in your senility you've forgotten your way. The lake lies yonder," he said nodding to the side.

  She limped a little farther and finally bent to retrieve a small pile of something from the ground.

  It took him but a moment to realize they were potatoes. It had been some days since he'd enjoyed a decent meal, and taters would go a long way toward improving his lot, but it would not do nearly as much good as a night in her arms.

  She hurried farther away, but soon she stopped and bent again.

  He followed her, seeming unable to do anything else. "Here. Let me," he said, bending too.

  "I can get it," she said, but just then their fingers brushed together along the smooth, green tube of a scallion. Her breath hissed softly between her teeth. A shiver ran up Boden's arm. They were so close he could feel her warmth. But in a moment, she straightened.

  "I can do this," she murmured, and all he could do was nod and turn away before it was too late.

  It was dark by the time Boden reached camp. The onerous task of butchering the boar had given him time to think, to catch his breath, to reprimand himself. She was his lord's, and not for the likes of him. From now on he would treat her as he would a sister. He could do that.

  Sara had built a fire upon the sand. It burned orange and bright and smokeless in the surrounding darkness. The aroma wafting from the low, hanging pot made his gaze skim hopefully in that direction.

  "Shall I save the pork for tomorrow?" he asked.

  "I am cooking the rabbit," she said, looking up from where she chopped something on a flat log.

  "But more meat would only improve the taste. If ye like I will add it to the broth." She prepared to rise, but he noticed her stiffness and motioned her back down.

  "I am not unaccustomed to cooking," he said, and slicing the meat in strips, tossed them into the pot. "How is your leg?"

  "Tis fine," she said.

  He watched her eyes. Even by firelight, they looked unearthly blue. "I've heard better lies from monks."

  "I dunna lie."

  "Not well at least," he admitted. "Your leg needs washing and bandaging."

  "I'll see to it in a moment."

  "See to it now, lass."

  "The scallions—"

  "Can wait," he said, and stepping forward, took her arm and steered her toward the lake.

  "Rather pushy for a callow youth," she said.

  He settled one hand around her waist, steadying her. Surely he would do the same for a sister.

  "Tis the advantage of being knighted at birth. Instantaneous respect"

  He thought he saw her smile, and suddenly wished with a terrible longing to see it more, to hear her rasp his name in the middle of the night, to feel her hands, soft as velvet on his skin.

  Sister! He was going to treat her like a sister.

  They had reached the water's edge. She stared across the glassy, moon-bright surface. He tried to pull his hand from her waist but couldn't quite manage it.

  "Thank: ye. I will be fine now."

  "The night is warm," he said. What a clever statement. And so brotherly.

  St. Edward. Her waist felt as slim as a reed beneath his hand.

  "Twould be a fine night to bathe." His lips said the words long before he could recall them.

  Her gaze darted to his face, her eyes bright as sapphires in the moonlight.

  "And wash your clothing," he added. Well hell, he'd say the same to his sister. "There is blood on your gown. And mud."

  She opened her mouth to speak, but he hurried on.

  "I have a spare tunic and a cape. You could borrow them while your garments dry." Why did he do this? Did he have a need to feel the spur of desire bite him even deeper? Even knowing that her eyes were bluer than the heavens, her voice softer than a song? Suddenly he found himself wanting to beg. Although he wasn't certain for what, he knew he wanted far more than a sisterly kiss.

  Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips. He watched and felt his brain go limp.

  "If I bathe do ye promise not to look?''

  Was she out of her mind? There was no reason to try to convince her to bathe if he couldn't watch. He wasn't, after all, a complete idiot. He'd learned early to take what this world had to offer, whether it be coin or opportunity or women. But damn, her eyes were blue, and he was a ' knight, and somehow that foolish title must have afflicted his mind, for he heard himself say, "I will keep the babe safe."

  "A bath would be most welcome," she said.

  It took him a moment to decipher her words, for all he was aware of was the slow, mesmerizing movement of her lips. But finally her meaning settled into his brain. "I'll fetch my cape and tunic," he said, and forcing his hands from her waist, jerked away.

  He was back in a matter of moments. Placing the garments on the sand, he stared down into her eyes again and offered her a small sliver of soap. ' 'Do you need any further assistance?"

  She stared into his eyes. It was safer to watch him under cover of darkness, for surely her emotions wouldn't be so easily read now. "Nay. I shall be fine. Thank ye."

  He nodded once and slipped away into the night.

  Maybe she trusted him far more than she knew, or maybe, she thought as she let her gown slip down around her ankles, maybe she was such a wanton that she didn't care if he saw her. Her undergarments followed her gown. The night air felt soft and gentle as a lover's touch. But truly, how would she know how a lover's touch would feel? The only man who had touched her had been her husband.

  Her breath felt tight in her throat. She glanced over her shoulder, but she could see nothing of the knight who guarded her.

  For one wild moment she thought of screaming to draw his attention. After all, there might be any kind of danger in these English waters. But the idea left her with a nagging feeling of guilt. She waded quickly into the lake, past her knees, up to her thighs, and then she slipped farther in, letting the tender waves seep over her shoulders and soothe her aching muscles. The water was surprisingly warm, still heated by the sun and trapped in the tranquil peace of the silent hills that surrounded them.

  Unlike most of her peers, she and her cousins and siblings had been taught to swim. Thus she swam for a while, letting her hair caress her shoulders and arms in silken waves. At times it would flick soft as goose feathers against her buttocks and thighs. She searched for any sight of Sir Boden, but he was nowhere to be seen. Swimming toward shore, she touched her feet to the sand and walked to the beach to retrieve the soap he'd given her. It smelled like nothing more than its basic components, tallow and beech ash, but reminded her, strangely enough, of this man. She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the scent that conjured up feelings of large, strong hands on her waist, of a whisky soft voice against her ear, of an almost smile, tilting up the corners of a sardonic mouth—so near she could almost— This had to cease! Turning hastily, Sara slid back into the water until it lapped at her waist.

  There, she leaned back, letting her hair float in the waves until it was saturated and slick as seal skin.

  She shampooed it, rinsed it, shampooed again. Then, rubbing the bar between her palms, she urged forth a hard-won lather and soaped her body from heir shoulders on down. Her breasts felt strangely sensitive, her nipples erect. And dead center between them, Dragonheart felt warm and heavy.

  Finally, her bath finished, she hastened to shore, donned the tunic Boden had left her and quickly soaked and scrubbed her clothing. Wringing them out without soiling them again was a bit of a struggle, but she managed. In a short while, she threw the cape over her shoulders as much for modesty as for warmth, and hurried back to camp.

  Boden was resting with his back to a log, but instead of facing the fire, he was looking away, into the darkness.

  Sara slowed her steps as she entered the wavering ring of light. She cleared her throat, then, "My thanks," she said. N
ever had she felt more ill at ease. Never had each nerve been stretched so tight, each desire been so stark.

  "The water was warm?" he asked, rising to his feet.

  "Aye." Their gazes met. "Aye, it was warm." She turned away, fiddling with her gown and finally striding to a branch where she could spread the garment on the limb. "And Thomas? He has been quiet?"

  "Aye," Boden said quickly. Her feet peeked from beneath the hem of his cape, he noticed. They were narrow, pale, delicate—and bare. Dear Lord! "And your leg?"

  "Fine!" she said rapidly. She turned to face him, seeming to forget she still held the gown scrunched carelessly in her fists. "Tis fine."

  "I had best bandage it."

  "Nay!" She said the word very fast. "Nay. That willna be necessary. Ye were right, I'm certain.

  Twill heal on its own. And too, I have my amulet."

  She lifted the pendant from her chest, and somehow, as if by some magical force, the chain came free from her neck to lie in her hand. The dragon's eye winked ruby bright in the firelight.

  "Good luck is it?" he asked, stepping closer. Dammit! He was forgetting to breathe again. But this time he would remember not to touch her, for when he did so he could not think.

  She didn't raise her gaze to his, but studied the clasp. It seemed unbroken. How had it come free? And why? "Aye. Tis lucky," she said distractedly. "So Liam tells me."

  "Liam?" He felt emotion rise in his throat. But it could not be jealousy, for such would make no sense.

  "A friend," she said, her voice soft as air in the darkness. "Twas his long ago. Then it was lost.

  But just before I left for London he rediscovered it at the bottom of Burn Creag. Like magic it was, he said. As if it had come just to be with me."

  "He gave you the amulet?"

  "Aye. He said it would keep me safe."

  Who was this Liam to her? he wondered. It was a foolish question and none of his concern. Yet, he could no more stop his wondering than he could stop his hand from straying toward her.

  Nevertheless, he diverted his fingers just in time, turning them aside to touch the pendant in her hand.