Raw emotion swamped Sara. For a moment it all seemed real. Her baby, her husband!
Everything... nay, perhaps even more than she had ever wanted.
Moments ticked by. Reality trickled in. Pain, sweet with longing, filled her. She could not have them both. Indeed, she would be truly lucky if she were not left entirely alone. But she had made a vow, and she would do everything in her power to keep the baby safe. She must be wise and strong.
And she must leave Boden at the first possible opportunity before it was too late.
Chapter 17
Forcing herself across the room, Sara retrieved her feeding gourd and poured milk into its battered bowl. Then, with her heart in her throat, she bent to lift Thomas from the bed.
Boden immediately opened his eyes. Their gazes met.
"You've returned." His voice was husky, deep.
"Aye." She settled Thomas absently into her arms, then tried and failed to concentrate on the child.
Boden sat up, his knees bent, his bare feet flat on the mattress. She saw him wince at the pain in his thigh and felt her heart lurch.
"Ye should lie down," she murmured.
Thomas awoke with a whimper. She pressed the gourd gently to his lips and he fell to feeding.
"I dreamt." It was all Boden said for a moment, but his gaze didn't leave hers. "I dreamt that you were mine."
Her heart pounded like running hooves in her chest, but she dare not show it. How did their thoughts meld as they did? Twas too frightening. "But I am not," she whispered.
"Twas night and you lay in my arms." He continued as if he hadn't heard her. "We wore nothing but the warmth of your hair. And your—''
"Boden!" Her voice sounded panicked to her own ears. "I have sinned. I am sorry. I should not have done what I did. Twas the herbs," she whispered.
He raised his brows at her. The scar beside his lips twitched. "And we didn't realize what we were doing?"
"Aye, tis so."
"Tis a lucky thing I was not here with the goat, then," he said.
She couldn't help but laugh. "Tis not a laughing matter."
"And I'm not laughing," he said, still watching her. "Don't go out alone again."
The change of subject confused her. "What?"
"Twas not the herbs that caused my weakness, lady. Twas you and you alone. I was a fool to let you go alone, unguarded."
"I took yer clothes," she reminded.
His gaze didn't drop from hers. "Better naked by your side than clothed like a king alone. Tis not safe."
"Do you think we are still followed?"
"Aye. We are followed. At least by the juggler, unless he is a fool."
She scowled.
He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke his voice was very soft. "What kind of man would let you go?"
"Liam is naught but a friend, Boden."
"Do your friends always attack your protectors?" he asked.
"I am sorry. He thought ye were the sorcerer. Then when he learned twas ye, he feared for his life, and thought me safer with ye than with him. I am certain of it. He meant ye no harm."
"You are wrong, lady," he murmured. "He meant to take you from me."
His meaning was perfectly clear. But she could not afford to dwell on it, for if she believed he cared for her as she did him, she might never find the courage to leave.
"We must leave," he interrupted. "Before we are found again."
"But ye cannot. Ye must rest."
"I will not risk you."
"Please." Thomas abandoned the gourd and cried. Sara put him to her shoulder and reached past him to touch Boden's arm. "Please. I beg ye to rest. Just for a short while. A few days."
He shook his head, but she could not give up.
"And what if yer leg does not heal?" she whispered. "What then? What if ye die?" Fear tore a ragged hole in her heart. "Do ye think I could survive without ye?"
Emotion smoked between them.
"I will rest then," he said, "but only so long as you stay in this chamber with me."
Sara nodded. Thomas cried again, and she rose to pace the floor and pat his back.
It took nearly an hour for Thomas to become content again. Sara crooned softly to him as she walked. He was finally asleep and felt soft and heavy against her shoulder. She should put him down to sleep, she knew, for she was tired, exhausted really. But once her hands were empty—what then?
There was nothing to do but lie down, and there was only one place to do that.
"So you think you can't trust me enough to share a bed?" Boden asked.
Surprised that he was awake, Sara turned quickly toward him. "Tis myself I dunna trust," she reminded him.
"Good," he said and showed that hint of a smile that made her heart trip. "Come. Lie down.
Rest."
There was no way to argue, and very little point. Finally, she placed Thomas carefully on the bed and lay down with the child between them.
She was tense for a while, but when she looked over at Boden, she saw that his eyes had fallen closed. She lay in silence, watching him, feeling the dull, melancholy ache of love in her heart until sleep took her.
Sometime in midafternoon, they ate. Then, content and fatigued, they slept again. Dreams as sweet as clover honey filled her sleep. There were images of herself playing in the water with a young boy who giggled as he splashed. On the shore, Boden chuckled as he watched. A family. Her family.
She opened her eyes, and found Boden watching her, his expression solemn, his dark eyes steady in the encroaching darkness.
"The child is lucky to have you."
It took a moment to realize he was speaking of reality and not of her dreams. Wasn't he?
"I am luckier to have him," she answered softly. Dragonheart felt warm against her skin. And suddenly she was no longer surprised that Boden could step into her dreams, read her thoughts.
"Nay." He shifted one hand under his cheek. His fingers were sun-browned and battle-toughened. "You will forever have babes to love. Tis in your nature."
She lowered her gaze to Thomas. His lips had opened and he breathed softly through his mouth.
"What do ye know of my nature, Sir Knight?"
"A good deal."
"Such as?"
"You were meant to be loved."
"Everyone is meant to be loved," she whispered.
"Are they?" For a moment his eyes looked haunted, but he shut the expression quickly away.
"You will make an extraordinary mother."
"Nay." The word was very soft. "I willna."
"How little you know of yourself."
"I canna bear children," she said.
"Tis not true."
"Aye." Her woman's time had never been normal or predictable. Though Fiona had prayed Sara would be fertile, it had been plain she had had her doubts. But the truth was obvious now. She was not meant to bear children of her own. Bravery had never been her hallmark, but she tried to keep her expression stoic. Such facts of life were not to be changed and it did little good to cry over them.
Especially now, when the slightest splash of emotion could send her into Boden's waiting arms. "Tis true."
"You cannot know that," he denied, his tone husky.
"Stephen had children by other women," she explained.
A muscle jumped in Boden's stubbled jaw as if he tried to hold his tongue, but finally he spoke, his body tense. "I expect you wished to bear his children."
This was not a simple question, and though, perhaps she would be wise to give him a simple answer, she found she could not. "I wished very much to have a child," she said. "Someone to love.
And mayhap I thought if I could deliver a babe, he would not hate me so. Twas a selfish reason."
"Hate you! He couldn't hate you." His words were absolute, without question.
"He beat me."
"Jesus!" He raised himself to his elbow.
She sat up, wishing she hadn't spoken of her shame. "I should milk Tilly before
Thomas awakes," she said, but Boden reached across the babe to grasp her arm.
"Sara, I am sorry."
"Dunna be." Though she tried to sound flippant, the words came out flat. "For some time I tried to figure out why he hated me so. Now I know he was simply cruel. I should have... In truth, I still do not know what I should have done. I fear I lack the spirit of my ancestors."
"No spirit?" His grip tightened on her arm. "I have seen you challenge a dozen armed brigands with little more than a twig to protect you," he rasped, his eyes deadly level. "And you tell me you have no spirit?"
"But Thomas's life was at risk then."
For a moment all was silent. "So the babe is worth the battle," he murmured. "But you are not?"
There it was. The truth laid bare.
"I was yet young when my mother died. It became my job to care for Da and all the people of Nettlemore. Twas a good deal of work, but in truth, I reveled in it, for it gave me worth. Tis what I do. Tis what I am, and I thought Stephen would appreciate my skills. But what good is a woman who cannot produce an heir?"
"Tell me the name of the man who said that and I'll give you his head on a platter."
Such horrid violence. She smiled. ' 'I fear he is already dead."
Boden stared at her, but finally his grip relaxed and he released a heavy sigh. "There seems little good to this foolish knighthood if I can't even kill who I wish to."
Surely that was nothing to laugh at. But she couldn't help herself, for his anger on her behalf took the sting from her own words. "Thank you," she murmured finally.
"For being a lousy knight?"
She smiled again. Twas like having a tamed wolf in one's bedroom. Twals a comforting feeling so long as he licked your hand. "You will make a fine father."
"Me?" There was honest surprise in his tone. "Tis highly doubtful."
"Nay."
"Aye," he disagreed. "My father was..." He sighed. ' 'Not to speak poorly of the dead, but he was a bastard, and I mean that in the worst possible way. And my mother—''
It was her turn to reach across the babe. She laid a gentle finger to his lips. "Ye will make a fine father," she repeated. "I know it." Indeed, she had seen it in her dreams. But her dreams always became muddled, and for a few moments of bliss she had believed she would be the one to bear his wee ones.
He lifted her hand gently and kissed her knuckles. "The truth is, Sara sweet, I am a score and six years of age. I have been soldiering for nearly half my life and I have naught to show for it but an opinionated steed and a much-scarred sword. I have nothing to offer a wife."
"How little you know of yourself, Sir Knight," she said, smiling. "Ye have much to offer."
Agony smote his heart. God, he could not live without her. He could not, yet he must. He must keep quiet, take her back to Haldane, be content. But he could not stop the words. "Lady—"
She pulled her fingers from his hand to cover his mouth again. "Dunna say it! Ye know it canna be. Yet even so, ye make me feel..." Beautiful. Loved. "Whole," she said softly.
Agony again. He let it come, let it take his soul, let it sweep over him, then seep its ache into every corner of his being. He nodded, forced himself to roll away, and stood up. He barely noticed the pain in his leg, though it seemed little equipped to bear his weight.
''I'll see to the beasts."
"Nay." She sat up quickly. "Nay. Please. Stay. You will open your wound."
He stared at her. Such beauty—never to be his. "It's already been opened," he said, and lifting the bottle of ale from the floor, turned away.
Inside the stable, Boden held the bottle in one hand as he rubbed Mettle down with a twist of straw. It was dark now but he had lit no lantern, for the blackness matched his mood.
Behind Mettle, Tilly munched on something unseen, but Boden's thoughts were far away. The pain in his thigh had progressed to a wild throb, making the sword strapped to his side seem a comical thing. For indeed, if he were attacked, there was little he could do other than fall on the foe and hope to crush him beneath his weight. Walking was painful enough.
Which made Sara more vulnerable than ever. He scowled into the darkness and took another swig from the bottle. She would never be his. Never. He knew that.
Had known it all along. And yet he could not stop the dreams.
He had to stop dreaming and start thinking! What the devil were they doing here? Anyone could find them here. Anyone.
They had to leave. The realization hit him suddenly in a sharp spark of fear, like a pain in his heart. She had asked him to stay and he had obliged. But now, when he could not see her pleading eyes, he could think more clearly. He was only one knight, and not a very good knight at that. He was an idiot! Someone was following her. Someone wished her ill. That much he knew. His only hope of keeping her safe was secrecy and flight, for they were up against a force he did not understand.
Slamming the cork into place, Boden stalked from the stall, stashed the bottle in his pack and picked up his saddle. Reentering the box, he began tacking up. The stallion grunted as Boden pulled up the girth. Tilly trotted forward, easily seen even in the darkness.
Turning stiffly about, Boden searched for his bridle.
"Where is it?'' He almost yelled the words. Fear had turned to sudden, bitter panic.
"Sir?" A youth stumbled toward him, apparently just awakened from slumber in the nearby chaff. "Did you call?"
"My bridle!" He was being ridiculous, like a panicked child, and yet he was sure there was no time to delay. She was in danger.
"Tis here, sir," said the youth, handing over the headstall still attached to the chamfrein. "Are you leaving?"
"Aye."
"Now?"
"Aye." He tore the pouch from his belt and tossed it over. "Take two coins. Give them to the innkeepers."
"As you wish."
"Are the gates of Cheswick locked at night?'' Boden asked, rapidly slipping the bit between Mettle's teeth.
"Aye. Every night at dusk."
"Is there any way a..." He paused. Terror, unreasonable in its flaring intensity, burned through him. Sara was afraid. He did not know how he knew it, but he did. "Is there any way brigands could get in?"
"Brigands? Nay. The gate is well fortified and Simon guards it."
Pain slashed through Boden. Evil had come. He felt her thoughts and screamed her name as he dragged himself onto Mettle's back.
The youth jumped aside. Mettle whirled and thundered outside.
Sara! Boden saw her in his mind, cowering. He spurred Mettle toward the inn, but she was not there. Somehow he knew it.
Where was she? A cross! She was near a wooden cross.
He wheeled Mettle about and thundered toward the cathedral. Terror rode with him. Evil loomed before him, rising with the church's spire. It struck him like a weighted mace. Go back! He must go back! He felt the words in his soul, and suddenly he realized that he had reined Mettle to a halt before the church doors.
Sara's scream ripped through the night, through his mental blindness, tearing away his immobility.
He roared his battle cry. Mettle reared, striking the wooden doors with immense forefeet. They burst open in splintering rage, and Mettle lunged inside.
Sparks flew from the gray's iron-shod hooves as Boden spun him in a circle, searching wildly.
Then he saw her. She lay on her side with Thomas on her back and a dark form leaning over her.
"Leave her!" Boden roared.
The dark-robed figure turned slowly toward him.
"So you have come, Sir Knight."
Mettle shuddered to a halt. The air left Boden's lungs in a rush, as if he'd been struck hard across the chest. Terror welled up anew, like a woolen blanket come to smother him.
"Aye." He could barely force out the word. For suddenly it seemed there was nothing in the world but this man before him, this man who held the power of the universe in his hands.
"But why have you come?" asked the sorcerer, his voice slow and steady.
"To watch the woman die?"
Yes. To watch her die.
The old man laughed. The sound echoed against the stone walls. "You are not a knight!" he shrieked, raising a clawed hand. "You are nothing!"
He had to leave, escape! Before it was too late!
"Yes! Go! Leave now and your life will be spared."
Boden whirled Mettle about. Behind him, he could feel the old man turning.
"No!" Sara cried.
Boden's hands were shaking as he pivoted Mettle back around. "Leave her!" His voice was barely a rusty gasp. "Leave her be."
The old man turned back, and suddenly Boden realized his eyes were as white as winter, and yet it mattered little, for here lay a power far beyond sight.
"You, a leather-Wright's son, dare to challenge me?" asked the sorcerer.
No. He was nothing, insignificant, terrified.
"You dare?" roared the old man.
Boden ripped the fear aside. "Aye!" he screamed back, and spurred Mettle toward the wizard.
Boden swept out his sword, raised it, swung, and...
The blade snapped in two.
Chapter 18
A whimpering cry fell from Boden's lips. The wizard reached for him. But in that instant, Sara's face flashed in Boden's mind.
"Nay!" he roared, and wheeled Mettle into the sorcerer.
The old man was slammed against Boden's leg, then fell with a hiss of anger. Pain shot through Boden's body like a thousand deadly spears. But Sara was there, on her feet, so near.
Mettle lunged toward her. She lifted her arms, reaching for Boden. Their hands met and clasped. Momentum and desperation swung her and Thomas up behind him.
"Kill him!" the old man shrieked.
Mettle wheeled about.
Men loomed in the doorway, swords drawn. The exit was blocked, and terror reigned anew.
Boden spun Mettle about, spurring the steed toward the window.
He heard the old man scream for them to stop, but already they were flying through the air in a moment of breathless anticipation. Then Mettle's armor struck the window. Glass shattered, spraying shards in every direction. Men screamed. The earth lurched toward them. Mettle stumbled and dropped to his knees, then scrambled in the mud, trying to regain his feet.
The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides) Page 21
