The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  Dear God, he was a thing of beauty. Suddenly she saw them walking together in the moonlight, their bodies bare, their fingers entwined. She lifted her face to his and he leaned close to kiss her— "The babe is asleep?"

  "Ack!" She jumped backward when Boden spoke, crashing into a tree and feeling for all the world as if he had risen out of the earth in front of her feet.

  He remained perfectly still, his dark face impassive. "Are you well?"

  "Aye! Aye!" Except her heart had stopped and her lungs refused to draw a normal breath. "I just..." What the devil was wrong with her? What was she thinking, becoming so entranced with her lurid imaginings that she would forget the here and now—forget even to guard wee Thomas as he slept? "You startled me."

  "Really?" His lips cocked upward a notch as he continued to watch her. "You didn't see me at the water's edge?"

  Of course she had seen him, but suddenly he had disappeared into the realm of her imagination and she had joined him there. What was wrong with her? Her hands were sweaty, her knees knocked like chimes in the wind, and she felt very warm, as if Dragonheart was melting a hole in her chest.

  She placed a hand to it, steadying herself. "Aye. I saw ye," she said. "I was simply thinking of other things." Please don't ask what those other things are, she silently pleaded. The heat from her chest crept upward, coloring her face with her risque thoughts.

  "Tis hot," he said.

  Dear God! Yes it was. "Aye."

  He turned slightly away, showing her his profile, and for a shattered moment, she wondered if he did so to allow her time to collect her wits. Mayhap he was accustomed to rattling women so. "As a lad, I would swim with..." He stopped, looking across the narrow stream and seeming to see something she did not.

  "Ye would swim with who?" she asked, and found for some inexplicable reason that she was holding her breath.

  He glanced at her. For a moment it almost seemed as if she saw into his soul, but then the moment was gone. "I would swim alone," he said.

  But he was a liar, and suddenly she knew it. "Who would ye swim with?" she asked again.

  She watched him narrow his eyes and draw a breath.

  "My brother's name was Edward. Sometimes we would swim together."

  "A brother," she said, and in her mind's eye she could see both boys, just as they had appeared in her dream not so many nights before. Boden was there, but he was not the man of brawn and bravery she now desired. Instead, he was a boy that she would have cherished. A small, sun-darkened lad with a wayward lock of midnight hair and an amber gleam in his mischievous eyes.

  "Older than ye, is he?" she said softly, no longer ashamed of her prior thoughts of him, but immersed in his memories.

  For a moment, she thought he might turn his back on her, but instead, he squatted to lift a broken shell from the shore. "Aye. Older he was."

  Was! She remained silent for a moment, reading the nuances, the picture in his mind. "He is dead?" she asked softly.

  "Aye." He didn't look up at her, but kept his gaze on the quicksilver tips of the rushing water as he tossed the shell into the soft waves. ' 'Twas a wager we made. Who could swim beneath the water's surface to the far side of the river. He had taught me to swim himself. Not many could, you know, and we were quite proud. He was stronger than I—a right stout lad, as Tanner was wont to say."

  "Tanner?''

  Their gazes met. A muscle flexed in his jaw. He turned back toward the water. "Edward was a strong swimmer," he repeated softly. "Stronger than I."

  His tone was pensive, deep, making her want to reach out against her good sense and touch him.

  But she kept her hands firmly at her side. "I am sorry," she said.

  "Twas long ago and far away. And of little consequence now." He said the dark words dismissively and tossed another shattered shell to the waves.

  But in her mind she saw the truth—a young boy upon the shore. He was breathing hard and fast.

  At first he grinned down at the water, waiting for his brother to surface, waiting to rejoice his victory.

  Dear God, she could see him in her mind, waiting long minutes, until he was chilled and scared and running like a frantic puppy up and down the shore, calling.

  "I am sorry." Her voice caught. Tears burned her eyes, and one spilled, hot and painful down her cheek.

  "Lady." He breathed the word as he stood and caught her tear on his knuckle. "You cry for Edward?''

  "Nay." She closed her eyes and though she knew she should retreat, she could not help but brush her cheek against his hand. "I cry for a boy alone."

  "Independence breeds strength," he said.

  "Your parents?" Dragonheart felt warm beneath her fingers. When had she clasped it? "They were gone too?"

  He drew a deep breath. "In truth, lass, I did not long mourn my father's death. Twould be a far stretch to say I was his favorite."

  His fingers felt like a bit of velvet heaven against her cheek, igniting a small, warm flame beneath her skin. "But ye were yer mother's," she murmured, for surely no woman could disavow the boy's irresistible charm.

  "I'd best see to a meal," he said.

  But she reached out, touching his arm. "What of your mother?"

  He tightened his jaw, then relaxed marginally and shrugged. "I fear I wasn't very brave when I learned she had left. Edward was the brave one."

  "Nay," Sara said in absolute disbelief. "She didna leave ye. No woman could leave such a bonny lad."

  His face was tense, as if he, too, felt the pulse of her emotion. "Why do you think I was a bonny lad?" he whispered.

  Time hung suspended.

  "I watched ye by the water in the moonlight," she whispered. "Never have I seen anything more beautiful."

  So he'd been right. She admitted it. But now he wished she hadn't, for there hadn't been a moment of the afternoon when he had thought of anything else, when he had not fantasized about her standing on the sand, watching him.

  "I am sorry," she whispered, and he couldn't help but draw her into his arms.

  For a moment he did nothing but hold her. She leaned against him, snug in his arms, her tears hot against his chest.

  "Don't cry, lady," he said and gently, ever so gently, he kissed the top of her head.

  She felt narrow and soft in his arms, slim and fragile, and when she lifted her face, he could do nothing but kiss her.

  Emotion seared. Thoughts strained. Every element of earth and sky stood still as their lips met and their souls swirled—as if all of nature had held its breath waiting for this moment. His hand slipped beneath the thistledown weight of her hair, scooping about her neck, pulling her closer. She felt like sunlight against his bare chest. She smelled like heaven. The cape fell away, baring the smooth, glassy length of her neck. He kissed her there, drinking in her flesh, and she clung to him, needy, needed. Warm and cool, and strong and delicate.

  Her fingers splayed across his back, pulling him closer still. He found her mouth again. Need roared through him, tightening every muscle, punctuating each movement. Desire consumed him, driving him on. His hands trembled lower, down her legs. Her waist was taut and narrow and her buttocks, when he cupped them, were firm and round.

  He should stop! He must stop! But suddenly he felt her hands on his back, pulling him closer.

  Their lips met again in a clashing kiss. Fire screamed between them.

  She wanted him. Dear lord, he didn't know how this could be, but she did. Her kiss seared his soul. Her hands were quick and eager. But his own feelings were far beyond that—beyond want and well into the realm of irrepressible need.

  Dear Lord, he would surely sear to ashes if—

  "Thomas!" She ended the kiss with a gasp, and suddenly, as if the child were in another world, he realized that the babe was squawking. "He is crying!"

  So? he wanted to ask, but suddenly she wrenched herself from his arms and sprinted across the turf to lift the baby into her arms.

  Somehow Boden managed to control his body, to rema
in where he was, to do nothing but watch her. In his mind, he knew it was best that she called a halt. He may think chivalrous love an idiotic thing. He may think pining for a lady from afar, crafting poems to her beauty, dreaming hopelessly of her in his sleep, was foolishness. But it was far smarter than the alternative. Only a dolt would lay with his lord's mistress. Only a suicidal dolt.

  And yet death might be worth the heaven she could give him. Mayhap twas time to admit what he was—not a gentleman at all.

  "Twas naught but a bit of a belly ache," she interrupted abruptly, patting the babe's back and rocking slightly. "He will be well soon."

  "Sara." Boden's voice sounded pleading to his own ears.

  "Please! Dunna say it. Tis my own fault. I dunna..." She paused for a moment. "I dunna know what is wrong with me. I can but apologize."

  "Apologize?" He let out a careful breath, trying to relax. "And me, I was thinking of falling on my knees and thanking you."

  She smiled, though she didn't look at him. "You must think me wanton."

  "Hardly that," he said, and took a step toward her.

  But she lifted a hand, and in that moment, he realized it shook. With what? Fear? Passion?

  Dear God, it would be nice to think it was passion.

  "I am sorry," she said, and turning away, hurried into the woods.

  The night was endless. Every noise disturbed him, and every time he woke it was to look across the embers of the fire into Sara's eyes.

  He hurt. Not his arm, where she had stabbed him, not his leg, where the Welshman had wounded him. But his heart, and his soul and every muscle that screamed to take her back in his arms.

  What the hell was the matter with him? He may not be a well-educated man, but life had taught him a few things. First and foremost, he knew he would be a fool to cross his lord. Especially when it came to this woman, who the duke thought himself in love with. Such an action could get a man killed —or worse.

  He laid back down, still watching her. He knew she wasn't asleep, and yet it made no difference. She had declared her intentions loud and clear. She would remain loyal to Haldane, and if he was any kind of a man, he would accept that. But...

  St. William's wick! If the sun would just rise, he could be on his way—heading north, getting closer to being rid of her. The thought of every moment, with her sitting astride in front of him, her bottom pressed tight and warm against...

  Where was that damned sun?

  An eternity later, and only shortly after Boden had finally found sleep, it rose, rousing him with the pink glow of its first light.

  Sara sat up. Her hair was disheveled and her borrowed tunic tilted on her delicate shoulder, as though, if she moved, it might slip like morning dew from her body.

  It took Boden a moment to realize he was neglecting to breathe. She stared back at him. He inhaled finally, and found he felt no better for it. "A gown."

  The words sounded nonsensical even to him. She stared, her flaxen hair a wild halo, her heavenly eyes wide. "Yer pardon."

  "I said..." He managed to rise to his feet and was rather proud of that fact, considering his current lack of control. "Today I will buy you a new gown."

  "Are we near a village?" she asked, sitting straighter. The tunic slid sideways.

  His every muscle tensed. She stared at him, and then self-consciously pulled the humble garment close about her neck.

  He drew himself from his trance with a start. ' 'It matters little," he assured her, his voice a rusty grunt. "I'll find a village."

  And he did.

  Sara hugged his cloak closer to her body as she felt eyes scour her. They were indeed a strange menagerie. A bare-chested knight, a bedraggled woman in an oversized tunic, a baby in a sling, and a goat. Poor Boden, she thought, but when she dared turn to glance into his face, his expression was impassive, as if he had spent the entirety of his life in just such circumstances and felt not the least bit embarrassed about it. For a moment, she let her gaze linger on his face—for after today she would not be seeing him again.

  Her chest ached suddenly, but she ignored it. She had no choice. She had known from the beginning that she would have to leave his protection. Now, after last night, she could wait no longer, for somehow she had become obsessed with him.

  His gaze lowered to hers. She skittered hers away, feeling her heart bump along its rapid course in her chest, and refusing to look at him again.

  Mettle pranced on, his steps high and cadenced as if he carried the crowned king of England instead of this motley crew. In a moment, Boden pulled on the reins. Their forward movement slowed, but didn't stop until they were even with a white mare that stood beside a ironsmith's open hearth.

  With one foreleg held between the smithy's brawny knees, the mare cocked a disinterested ear at them. Mettle tossed his head and minced more dramatically yet. Boden mumbled something under his breath. Mettle snorted in return, but finally his hooves stilled. He arched his great neck into a regal posture and slanted a gaze toward the bored mare.

  "Your pardon," Boden said, his voice low. "Might you tell me where we can obtain some new garments?"

  The smithy glanced up. He was a young man with a jaw almost as wide as the anvil beside the hearth. But his mouth was open, and his eyes held that vacant expression seen in the very dull.

  "Yer askin' the wrong 'un there, mate," said a middle-aged woman just passing by. She carried a pole across her back and a wooden bucket at the end of each. "Ol' Chapman was dropped on 'is 'ead when 'e weren't more than a babe. 'E ain't never been a big talker."

  "Might you be able to help us, then?"

  "Yer lookin' for clothes, y' say?" she asked, her gaze brazen and steady on his bare chest. "For yourself?"

  "Aye, and—"

  "Twould surely be a sin and crime for me to answer then," she said.

  "Ach, and what your thinkin' would be a greater sin," countered the man who strode up to the hearth. "Now get yourself gone, Molly, afore I tell your man what you've been up to."

  The woman laughed, and swaying her generous hips, gave Boden a leer as she continued on.

  Sara felt her cheeks warm and refused to look at the man behind her. His chest felt hard and powerful against her back, and she had to leave.

  "Pay Molly no mind," said the newcomer. He was a big fellow, similar in looks to the younger man, but full through the waist, with his sleeves rolled up above meaty forearms. "There be a widow just down the way what can help you."

  After a few more questions, Boden cued Mettle to move forward at a high-stepping trot that all but rattled his riders' bones.

  The widow's cottage was small, windowless, and dark. The door stood open.

  Boden dismounted first, then helped Sara down.

  "Good day,'' called a woman as she stepped out, drying her hands.

  "I was told you could supply us with garments," Boden said.

  The widow was a homely woman with pale eyes and a bold, winning smile. "And it looks like you be in dire need."

  Was she, too, eyeing Boden's chest? Sara wondered. But at least this woman had the decency to pretend she was not.

  "Can you help us?"

  "Aye," said the woman, motioning them inside. "That I can."

  Two small girls sat near the door, studiously stitching what looked to be stockings. The widow absently stroked one's hair as she passed.

  "And what might you be wantin'?" she asked, glancing at Sara before diverting her attention back to Boden.

  "A gown for the lady and a tunic for myself."

  "As Molly might say, it would seem a shame to—"

  "We've already spoken with the milk maid," Sara interrupted, then felt herself blush as Boden turned to stare at her. His expression seemed unchanged, and yet there was something in his eyes...

  Curiosity? Laughter?

  "Ahhh," the woman laughed. The sound was clear and bright, but she kept her thoughts to herself. "Well. My name is Fran, and if you'll tell me your wishes I'll try to oblige."


  "We're asking for nothing fancy," Boden said. "Just simple, serviceable garments to see us to our journey's end."

  "Might I ask what happened to your clothing?"

  "The goat ate them."

  The widow raised her brows, but that was the extent of her commentary. Apparently there was little else that needed to be said.

  "Well..." She blinked. "Let us begin then." Stepping forward, she slipped the cape from Sara's shoulders -and blinked at the man's tunic beneath. Removing the ever-present pouch, she seized the tunic and pulled it tight against Sara's waist.

  Boden held his breath, for though the fabric was coarse and the pattern unflattering, he could well imagine the womanly curves beneath his garment.

  Their gazes met and locked over Fran's frizzy head. Sara's cheeks were pink, her eyes dilated wide, an open window to her soul, her desire.

  "I'll gather our other needs," he said, and turned numbly toward the door.

  "But what of your tunic?" asked Fran.

  Boden hesitated a moment. "The lady can decide."

  "And something for your babe, mayhap?"

  There was silence as deep as a well. Boden found Sara's face, suddenly pale now, her eyes bright orbs of thought.

  "He is not mine." For the first time in his life, he felt regret for not having heired a child. What would it be like if Thomas was his? His and Sara's.

  "Nay?"

  "Nay. I am but escorting the lady and the babe to their lord," he said. And with that harsh reminder, he made his escape.

  "Oh." Twas a simple statement, but it seemed to speak volumes as the widow turned back to Sara with a blink of her pale eyes. "So he's not yours. What a pity. And he's got such a nice... voice."

  Sara blinked back and wished for all the world that she could disappear into the ground.

  Boden returned some time later, little relaxed or recovered from his last moments with Sara.

  The sun felt warm against his back as he dismounted. The cottage loomed like a temple of temptations. But the worst was yet to come, for at precisely that moment, Sara stepped from the hut.

  For one sparkling moment all the world was forgotten, and she was his. Not a duke's mistress or a dead man's widow, but his to hold, to have, to cherish.