The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  "Then we'd best take no chances," he said. "For surely luck is needed until we reach Knolltop."

  The silver felt strangely warm against his fingers, the chain as supple as a serpent when he stepped behind her.

  Gathering her hair in both hands, she moved it aside, baring her slim, pale neck. Boden's breath caught in his throat. He'd be a fool to touch her. A fool to take that risk.

  But he'd been called a fool before.

  His knuckles seemed to burn where they touched her neck.

  "Lady, I..." For a moment he forgot every word he had ever learned, like a knock-kneed boy caught stealing a peek through a brothel's open door. "I..." Dear Lord! He slipped his hand from her neck. "I need a bath," he said, and pivoting on his heel, hurried toward the water.

  Sara turned more slowly, clutched the dragon in her hand, and drew a deep, cleansing breath as she watched him go.

  Dear God, what was wrong with her? Why did she feel such hot, foolish emotions? She was no giddy maid, but a widow with responsibilities and vows she must keep.

  She should check on Thomas. She should stir the stew. She should see to Tilly.

  But one truth stuck in her mind like a burr caught in wool. She had never promised not to watch him bathe.

  Chapter 7

  Sara was heading toward the water and just managed to stop herself in time. What was she thinking? She couldn't follow him like some hound on a hot scent. She was Sara of the Forbes, sensible, kind, caring.

  Pivoting swiftly on her bare heel, she paced toward Thomas. He remained as she had left him, blithely asleep, his body snugly wrapped in his narrow cocoon, his face pressed against the soft cloth.

  He didn't need her. She fingered her wet gown again, and then spread it upon the branch not far from Thomas's impromptu swing. After, she wrapped Boden's bulky cloak closely about her. It smelled of pine and leather. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent, then shook her head and hurried to the fire to check the stew. But there was little to be done there. It was cooking well on its own, its fragrance rich and full. She stirred it once, then remembered Tilly and tied her in a spot where there was more browse available.

  She could milk the goat now, but by the time Thomas awoke the milk might well be cold. So she fidgeted again and scowled toward the water. Mayhap she should tell Boden it was time to sup. After all, twould be best to eat before wee Thomas awoke.

  It was logical. And too, he'd been gone some time now. Several seconds at least. Would it not be prudent to check on him? After all, he was wounded.

  Yes! He was, she thought, and turned toward the lake.

  Her heart was beating very fast, but her feet seemed inordinately slow. Perhaps she shouldn't be doing this. Perhaps it was ridiculous to think she could nurture a seasoned warrior. Her father had been wont to tell her that she couldn't be responsible for all of Christendom. But if that was true, didn't someone have to be responsible for her? Yes. It was Sir Boden's job to protect her, and surely he couldn't do so from the lake.

  Feeling better for her logic, Sara straightened her back and quickened her stride. She was doing nothing wrong, merely calling him for a meal. She would not tarry. Indeed, she would state her business and if he was within view, which was doubtful, considering the darkness, she would avert her eyes and leave.

  Overhead, the fat, round moon grinned at her through tattered clouds. "Sir Boden," she called, but the name was barely audible to her own ears. For heaven's sake, what was wrong with her? "Sir Boden," she said again, clutching a gnarled branch. But still there was no answer.

  Surely there was no need to panic, she told herself, and yet she could not help the shiver of worry that hurried up her spine.

  "Sir Boden," she called, but just then something leapt from the water near shore.

  She stumbled into the bushes with a gasp.

  What was it? A sea monster! But it wasn't a sea!

  Boden!

  The truth drained into her mind. It was Boden, just lifting his head from beneath the water's surface. Sara closed her eyes and placed a shaky hand over her heart.

  Twas not like her to be so jittery. There was nothing to fear. Sir Boden squatted in the water, which reached just past his hips. Bathed in moonlight, his hair shone blue-black. Silver-gilded water rolled down his face. She saw him scoop his hands up his cheeks and over his hair, wringing it out so that it settled against his powerful shoulders.

  One slick, tidy strand remained on the tight mound of his right pectoral. It nearly reached his dusky nipple. He straightened, revealing the rippled muscle of his abdomen, the flat expanse of his belly.

  "Boden!" She called his name, trying to stop him before it was too late, but the word came out as nothing more than a pathetic squeak of sound, easily drowned by the lap of waves against sand.

  And suddenly he was standing, and the water barely reached his calves. She tried to close her eyes, but it was the strangest thing—they wouldn't shut and she found herself staring like a naughty, mesmerized child.

  He was hard. All of him. She swallowed. The least she could do was look away, but she could not. Her gaze slid down his body and caught on his manhood. It pointed toward the moon as his thighs, wide as oaken boughs, the left one scarred high up, shifted back and forth, bearing him toward shore and causing the light to gleam off a thousand moon-kissed muscles.

  He stopped, and suddenly she realized he had left the water behind. She forgot to breathe as he bent over. The moon shone on the hard curve of his buttocks, the broad expanse of his back. His arms flexed as he retrieved his tunic. Running the garment over his chest, he stared up at the sky. The moon smiled down on him.

  Dear Lord! She was beginning to sweat.

  He slipped the tunic lower, over the hillocks of his abdomen, across the mounds of his hips, down the endless length of his legs. And then he straightened, naked as an egg and just as unconcerned. Finally, he picked up the remainder of his garments. Suddenly it dawned on Sara that he would now return to camp. And she wasn't there!

  Her mind whimpered a small cry of defense. How could she possibly explain her whereabouts?

  Perhaps if she circled around. No! Pretended she'd not seen him! Sweet Jesus! She could cause a distraction, she thought, but just then he turned and headed down the shoreline, naked as a babe, sculpted as a warrior.

  With desperate relief, Sara slipped from the bushes and sprinted toward camp.

  Boden stepped into the wayward light of the fire. He wore only his hose and boots, for his tunic was still wet from its washing, and he couldn't quite force himself to wear his mail without something to protect his skin from its chafing.

  He tried, for a moment, to keep himself from staring at Sara, but the firelight illuminated her face—his lord's mistress's face, he reminded himself. She sat on a rock with his own tunic and cape wrapped close about her. The garments were large and enveloping, exposing nothing more than her bare feet and a bit of ankle. Still, the sight made his heart beat speed up a bit.

  His lord's mistress! His lord's mistress, he reminded himself. He averted his eyes, ladled a bit of stew into a shallow wooden bowl and concentrated on the taste.

  But she was singing, softly, in that way she had. In that ethereal, moon-soft manner that made his gut clench and his brain go soft. What kind of woman could live out here without complaint, prepare a meal from fresh-killed boar and salvaged potatoes, then nurture another woman's babe as if this was her heart's full desire?

  She turned suddenly toward him. Her gaze, bright as the firelight, caught his. "She was my friend," she murmured.

  He forced himself to remain still as he watched her. But in that moment, just when she seemed most ethereal, he imagined her naked, as she would have been not long before, caressed by the moon, revered by the stars. Dear lord! She belonged to Haldane.

  But if that bit of truth didn't worry him, he could at least be concerned with the fact that she seemed to have the uncanny ability to read his mind. He snapped his attention back to his previo
us thoughts.

  "Caroline was your friend?" he asked, though he knew that's what she had meant.

  "Aye."

  She had plaited her hair and somehow managed to confine it to the top of her head. It left the long, pale length of her throat perfectly bare. Bare feet and a bare throat. St. Bruno's butt, it was more than any man should be expected to resist.

  "She was Lord Haldane's ward." Sara paused and glanced at the baby. A slight frown marred her smooth brow. ' 'It was more than a year ago that she came to live with us. Lord Haldane would often visit. When he learned she was expecting his child, he sent her to London. Baileywood seemed very quiet without her."

  "Baileywood is your home?"

  "My husband's home," she said quickly, then hurried her gaze back to the babe. He wondered if her cheeks were red, but twas a hard thing to tell by the fickle firelight.

  He waited a moment for her to continue. But she did not. Reticence would be a wise course here, he knew. And yet her words intrigued him. "Twas it not your home also?"

  "I only meant to say Baileywood was not mine by birth," she said, but her voice was too soft to be believed.

  "Baileywood is in England?"

  "Aye. Stephen considered himself English. Though his mother was part Scots."

  He watched her face. "I am sorry for his death." It was the proper thing to say. Wasn't it? Or were knights not allowed to lie even when spouting platitudes.

  "Aye." Her voice was barely discernible. He tried to read the nuances. There was a pause.

  "Thank ye."

  "He was good to you?"

  Her gaze snapped to his, her eyes wide with surprise. Apparently that wasn't a knightly kind of thing to say.

  But hell, he wasn't a knightly kind of man.

  "He was..." She paused again, and for a moment he wondered if she was holding her breath.

  "He was from a good family."

  So was that all that mattered to her? The heritage of a man? "He treated you well then?" he asked again, beyond caring that it was not the proper words to speak to a lady.

  "He wished for an heir." She paused and looked down at the child again.

  "Your pardon?"

  "I canna bear children."

  The night was very quiet, broken only by the mournful call of a distant tawny owl. Boden waited.

  "He was impatient for an heir. My failure to produce one was certainly a disappointment to him," she said finally.

  Though Haldane had given him some details of Stephen's death, Boden longed to learn more.

  "How did he die?" he asked.

  Her eyes again, large as a speckled fawn's. Was there mourning in those eyes or was it another emotion?

  "Twas a hunting accident."

  Boden remembered Haldane had said that it was just that the hunt had killed him. What did that mean? "I'm sorry," he said. That lie again. And a gentle man would question her no further, but rarely had he been mistaken for one of those, even when he tried. "Was he killed by another archer?''

  "Nay. Twas a buck. He had wounded it. It went down. He thought himself a great hunter." She bit her lip. "He was a great hunter. He went to kill the beast, but it rose up. Lord Haldane said he died immediately. There was nothing he could do to save him."

  Boden pushed away his dark thoughts. Haldane had his faults but he was no murderer, regardless of how much he might have coveted another man's wife, and Boden would not allow himself to consider it. The duke of Rosenhurst had been more of a father to him than any other he had known.

  "The duke was a friend to Stephen's father." She said it in way of explanation. But it seemed to open a wealth of questions that he didn't want to consider.

  So Haldane was a friend of the father, but was he a friend of the son? The duke had said he'd become enamored with Sara the first moment he'd seen her, and the duke was accustomed to getting what he wanted.

  Boden shut off those disloyal thoughts and turned the subject aside.

  "Why did you leave your husband's house after his death?" Haldane had said her husband hadn't deserved her, but did any man? "Surely you inherited some of the property."

  "The usual amount," she said, then looked into the darkness that surrounded them. "But in truth, I wanted nothing of Baileywood."

  "Why?"

  For a moment he thought she wouldn't answer.

  "I missed my homeland."

  "But you soon left your homeland again, when you went to live with Caroline, did you not?"

  "Caroline was afraid to bear her child. She needed my help. And too, my father died while I lived at Baileywood. With him gone, Nettlemore did not hold the same appeal."

  "You spent a good deal of time there during his burial?"

  She paused. "My duties didna allow me to return for his burial."

  "Damn him!" Boden said, leaping to his feet.

  Her eyes went wide. She leaned away, hugging the child to her breast.

  Boden stopped his motion with an effort. He clenched his fists and drew a steadying breath.

  "He did not even allow you to return for your father's funeral!"

  "I didna say that."

  No. She had not. But twas the truth. He knew it. "Lord Haldane was right. Twas just that he die by the hunt. He was not worthy of you." The woods were silent for a moment. "I lied," he said. "I am not sorry he is dead."

  "Nor am I," she whispered.

  Boden took a step toward her, but suddenly she was on her feet and backing away. Every emotion that plagued him shone in her fire-bright eyes. But she was stronger, for she was the one retreating, holding him at bay.

  "Nay. Please. Dunna come any closer. Twould surely not be right to betray Lord Haldane's trust. We must not."

  Boden stopped, clenching his teeth and his fists simultaneously. "Have you feelings for him?"

  "Feelings? For... the babe?" she asked, knowing her question was foolish, but needing time to think, to sort out her emotions.

  "Haldane!" Boden growled. "Do you care for him?" Against his will and his better judgment, Boden moved toward her again.

  "Aye!" she burst out, then steadied her voice and tried again, trying to push him away with that one word. "Aye. I care for him."

  Boden remained as he was, trying to read her thoughts, to judge her feelings, but he was out of his depth. Retrieving his sword, he strode into the darkness.

  The night lay soft as a down blanket against Sara's skin. She woke slowly, languidly, not certain what had disturbed her sleep. It almost felt as if someone had touched her face, kissed her throat. A hand seemed to be caressing her thigh, slipping her tunic upward.

  Against her better judgment, she bent her leg and moaned. She felt wet and hot, alive with an eagerness that could only be caused by the dream. But this was foolishness. She blushed at her own feelings and opened her eyes.

  Boden leaned over her. His dark hair lay spread across his endless shoulders, and his face looked shadowed and sculpted in the flickering firelight.

  "Boden!" His name escaped her lips like a solemn prayer.

  "Aye, lass. And the answer is yes," he said. His kiss was like liquid fire on her face, her throat, her shoulder. Her nerves jangled. Her heart raced like horses at dawn. Mists roiled in her mind.

  "The answer to what?" she whispered.

  "I think ye are fair.'' His eyes were as deep as forever. "Though I try to deny it. Though I fight to keep my distance. You call to me, for you are far more than fair. As golden as the sunrise after a long night, as sweet as wine to a parched man." And suddenly he was kissing her lips.

  She wrapped her arms about his back. It was bare, crisscrossed with muscle and as broad as a stallion's. His arms were tight about her, his fingers warm and strong as they slipped through her hair.

  Shivers raced up her spine. She moaned again.

  One hand pushed her tunic higher. "We don't need this, lass," he murmured, and there was naught she could do but agree.

  Her clothing disappeared.

  "Sweet Mary, how I need you
," he whispered. She could see the fevered light in his eyes, could feel the tremble of his hands as they smoothed up her waist and over her breasts.

  She wanted him. Like never before in her life, she wanted a man. Gone was the little girl who had hoped for nothing more than children and a hearth of her own. Gone was the woman who would be content with another's family to foster. She wanted this man. And she wanted him now.

  He kissed her again. The heat seared her senses, scalded her thoughts. ' 7 need you,'' he whispered, his voice husky. "This moment!"

  "Aye," she moaned. His erection was hard and hot. She gasped as he pressed against her.

  And suddenly, she woke up!

  Sara sat up with a start, her heart pounding, her hand closed about Dragonheart. Across the fire from her, Sir Boden rose, too. The blanket fell away from his bare torso. His hair, still damp from his bath, was slicked back from his sharply sculpted face, and his eyes were fierce and dark.

  "Are you well?" he asked, his tone husky.

  "Aye." What had she said in her sleep? How much did he guess and how much could he read in her face? she wondered. But just then her gaze caught on his bare chest. He was so close, almost near enough to touch, to run her hands down the dramatic strength of his arms, over the undulating muscle of his abdomen. Every coherent thought evaporated like fog in the sun.

  "A dream," he whispered.

  "Aye," she said, but in a moment she realized it had been a statement and not a question at all.

  It was then that she saw that his breathing raced along in rhythm with her own. His muscles were as taut as bowstrings, and his jaw like granite as he watched her.

  "It was..." Dear God, what was it? A dream, yes. But so real she could still feel his fingers against her skin, could hear his words reverberate in her soul. What was wrong with her? Never had she set store by a man's looks, never had she needed the physical. "It was... distressing," she whispered.

  He didn't agree to this, but watched her as a falcon might study a hare.

  She could think of nothing to say, nothing to do but stare into his eyes. "Tis sorry I am to have wakened ye."

  "Twas not you that awakened me," he murmured. "Twas the dream."