The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides) (11 page)

"Does Lord Haldane?"

"What?'' Her eyes got very wide.

Boden cursed himself in silence. He shouldn't have broached the subject of her relationship to Haldane? Twas none of his affair. His task was to return her and the babe to Knolltop. Nothing else.

Neither her youth nor her feelings had anything to do with that mission.

Nevertheless, the question gnawed at him.

"We'd best move on," he said, rising quickly to his feet. "Every hour we delay will make your love worry more."

It was almost dusk when they drew near a small lo-chan. Sara slipped from the saddle. After the nooning, Boden had mounted behind her, and thus they had ridden for endless hours. Her legs and back ached from remaining immobile for so long—trying, and failing, to keep a respectable distance between her and the huge knight that rode behind. But no matter what she did it seemed she could feel his nearness—if not his hands, at least his gaze.

Sara heard him dismount behind her. Thomas had been awake for more than an hour during the ride, and slept again now, secure in his pouch, his face scrunched against the soft fabric. Slipping the carrier off her shoulders, Sara turned her neck in an effort to ease the tension caused by the baby's weight. The discomfort remained, so she glanced about, looking for a safe place to settle the child. It wasn't difficult to find a branch suitable for her purposes, for an oak tree grew nearby. It was a venerable old tree, weathered by years and untouched by the transient problems of man. Its branches grew as thick as her waist, horizontal to the ground and just above her head. Twas a simple task to secure Thomas's sling to a sturdy portion of it. She watched him for a moment. He was undisturbed by this position so similar to his place against her heart. A gentle breeze wafted through the trees, setting the sling to sway slightly and soothing the baby even more with the tranquil motion.

Stretching her aching muscles, Sara walked down to the water's edge. The shoreline was sandy, and along the serpentine coast, prickly bushes grew in profusion. She knelt beside the lake, drinking her fill before washing her face with the sun-warmed waves.

She rose to her feet. Her stomach grumbled a complaint, and as Boden led Mettle down to the water, she wandered off, noticing that some of the thorny plants were raspberry bushes that twisted and twined up in profusion. Here and there she could see a small cluster of red. She picked what she could of the seedy berries. They tasted indescribably, almost painfully sweet as she savored them and moved on, searching for more.

Supper would be modest. But they had a bit of rabbit left. Perhaps if she were lucky, she might find something to use in a stew and boil up what little meat they had left.

She wandered on. The raspberries gave out. But in a quiet sheltered spot, where the sun still slanted kind and soft through the woods, she found a patch of wild potatoes. Breaking off a dead branch, she dug up the small tubers and put them in a pile. She noticed, too, a cluster of tiny, pink blossoms drooping beneath soft, green leaves. Comfrey, she thought, and smiled as memories of quiet evenings at Glen Creag soothed her. Fiona would often send the girls to bed with mugs of comfrey tea. Twas good for "what ails ye," she would say, and would launch into a litany of specifics. Most of that knowledge had bypassed Sara, but she remembered well that a poultice could be made from the roots and used to heal wounds or mend bones. Twas more than once that her father had sought out Fiona for just such a purpose.

Carefully pulling the plant up by the roots, Sara added it to her treasury.

Then, through a maze of brambles, she saw the straight, shiny tops of what looked to be scallions. She hurried through the woods. Perhaps it was her excitement over the thought of her stew that made her careless. But whatever the reason, she failed to notice the wild boar until she heard its disgruntled snort.

She turned, and froze. The boar lumbered to his feet, its beady eyes trained on her, its tusks protruding half a hand's length from its lower jaw. One side of the animal was covered in drying mud, but the flies still tormented it It switched its bristly tail, then rutted up a patch of turf and tossed it at its back.

The flies buzzed and settled again. The boar grunted, then angry at the insects that bedeviled it, threw its head back to chase them away.

The movement startled Sara, and she jumped. The boar started, stared, and then, without warning, charged.

Sara screamed and pivoted away. The woods were thick, her skirts long. Terror thundered through her as the boar crashed after her. A low-growing elm loomed ahead. If she could reach it she could scramble onto the bottom branch.

But suddenly tusks ripped at her skirt. Shrieking, she darted toward a broad-based oak, her heart in her throat. But the boar was gaining on her. She felt the rip of her skirts again and lunged for the tree trunk. But just then the beast's tusks caught the flesh of her calf.

Pain ripped up Sara's leg. She shrieked in agony as she fell and rolled, shielding her face with her hands. The pig came on, trampling her legs, head lowered.

She screamed again. Death swept down upon her.

But in that moment there was a squeal of rage. Blood sprayed into the air. The boar twisted away. His tusks skimmed past her face, and then, like a felled fir, his body crashed to the earth beside her.

She was frozen to the ground, her gaze locked on the grizzly sight of a black sword protruding from between the beast's ribs.

For a few moments there was no sound but for the ragged rasp of her breathing, then, "Dead?"

she asked on a breathy whisper.

"Aye." The answer came from her right. She turned shakily in that direction and watched Boden shove his dagger back into the top of his high boot. He looked casual and relaxed, as if he saved foolish maids from wild boars every day before breakfast.

Sara pushed herself to her elbows. Her stomach roiled, but she refused to gag, not with this giant warrior standing over her looking bored. True, she thought, he was a knight, and thus had seen much worse than this little drama. Still, it wouldn't have killed him to look worried.

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.