The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides) (22 page)

He leaned harder, and then she felt him tremble. It was difficult to turn, for he was pressing her forward, but she did so, and found that his eyes were closed.

"Boden."

He awoke with a jolt and a grumble.

"Ye were asleep. Are ye well?"

"Aye," he said.

Rain streamed down his face. Who could sleep in the rain?

"Are ye certain?"

"Aye," he repeated, but now she felt him shiver.

She pressed the back of her hand to his brow. Heat seared her fingers and she gasped. "You're fevered."

"Nay." He shook off her hand. "Just tired."

"Ye are sick," she repeated. Fear made her voice taut. "We must get ye out of the rain."

His eyes dropped closed again. "Mayhap ye brought your father's castle, that we might rest there," he said.

She couldn't tell if he was delirious or just sarcastic.

"Are you all right?"

"Aye. I try to slice myself up twice a week at the least. Truth be known..." His head lolled back slightly. "Your lover did me a favor. Now I won't have to go to the trouble."

"Boden!" she said, catching him as he listed to the right. "Wake up."

"I'm awake!" he said, righting himself. He narrowed his eyes, then lowered them to gaze at her.

"St. Aidan's arse, you're beautiful."

"And you're delirious," she said.

One corner of his mouth lifted in unison to his hand. His palm felt hot against her cheek.

"Strange that you don't believe me."

Fear was rising in her. She couldn't be responsible for this man. But neither could she turn her back on him. Panic welled up.

"Why do you not believe me, lady?" he whispered, his eyes falling closed again. "With all the men that desire you? But mayhap I am the only one who will die for you."

"Dunna say that!"

His eyes snapped open in surprise.
"Would.
I meant I am the only man who
would
die for you.

Lord Haldane..." He gazed over her head and fell silent. "I wonder, how could he bear to send you from his side. How could he bear it, even for his wife?" He lowered his gaze to hers. "Though she is young and comely. There are those who call her a saint."

"And there are those who call her a witch," Sara said, remembering Caroline's words, but immediately feeling guilty for repeating them. She was not usually prone to jealousy. "Which one are ye, Sir Knight?" she asked.

His gaze didn't shift, but his tone was slurred. "She looked like a dark angel when she came to me. But not..." He shook his head, remembering. "Not like you. Her eyes..." His voice trailed off.

"They didn't speak of heaven. Still, she was lovely. But I have been loyal to Lord Haldane," he said.

"Always loyal. Despite everything. Twas the one thing I have been."

What was he talking about? She tried to form a question, but he spoke again.

"The juggler left you, lady."

"Is it me or are ye obsessed with that fact, Boden?"

"I am obsessed," he murmured, his gaze unwavering.

"Does it seem so strange to ye that he would choose to save his life?"

He chuckled. The sound seemed hollow. "Nay. Not strange atall. Tis a coward's way to think of his own safety first. You can trust me to know this."

Beneath her hand, she felt his muscles tense as he struggled to straighten in the saddle.

"He thought ye were Warwick," she said softly. "Mayhap when he saw it was ye, he decided I was safer at your side than his."

"Then mayhap he is a fool," he whispered, and slipped sideways.

Sara shrieked, trying to hold him upright, but finally abandoned him lest she be pulled off and land atop him.

Boden crumpled like an autumn leaf then slid to the earth beneath Mettle's huge hooves.

"Boden! Dear God! Boden!" she cried, jumping to the ground.

He lay unconscious, his head cocked at an odd angle, one leg bent beneath him. And suddenly she realized that the lower half of his cloak was soaked in watery blood.

She tore her gaze away. "Please, Boden." She touched his face. Raindrops splattered on his closed lids. "Wake up."

"You do not love Lord Haldane." He opened his eyes and grumbled the words, as if that were the only thought that was clear in his blurry mind.

"Ye must get up, Boden. I will find somewhere warm for ye to rest and mend."

"Tell me," he whispered. "Tell me the truth."

"Mettle waits and worries. He does not seem to like the rain. Please get up."

"Never have I met a woman like you. Never have I thought I would want to. Tell me the truth, lady. I need to know."

Sara glanced at Mettle. He stood with drooping head, his eyes showing their white rims through the holes of his armor. "Mount your steed and I will answer ye."

"You swear it, lady. You'll tell me the truth?"

"When have I ever lied to ye?"

He snorted. "Just after you tried to kill me."

"Get on the horse."

"This isn't some pathetic attempt to keep me alive is it?"

She laughed. The sound was very close to a sob. "Nay!"

"Twould be a kindness to leave me to die, you know."

"Dunna say such a thing. Please. Get up."

"All right then." He moved his limbs, failed to sit, but managed to straighten his head and glance crookedly at Mettle. "God's bones, that horse is big."

"He hasn't grown," she promised, taking his hale arm and trying to pull him to his feet. "I swear it."

"You never know." He sucked air through his teeth as he sat up. "He eats like a horse."

"He is a horse," she blathered, trying to keep him distracted.

Twas the devil's own battle getting him on his feet, but she managed. He braced his legs and held himself up with the fingers of his right hand tangled in Mettle's mane.

"Up now," she urged after a breather.

He leaned against the steed's side. "You're a very cruel woman. Have I mentioned that?"

"Last time ye were wounded."

"Which was because of you, as I recall."

"Up now," she said again, and miraculously, he mounted, though his face went gray with the effort.

"Tell me now. Do you love Haldane?"

Worry left no room for lies. "I owe him me gratitude," she said. "Mayhap, I owe him me very life. But I dunna love him."

He stared at her for an eternity then let his eyes fall closed. "Maybe I'll decide to live a bit longer."

The rain continued forever. Several hours after noon they came to a road. Sara pulled Mettle to a halt. Thomas slept in his sling against the aching middle of her back. Mud was splattered halfway up the skirt of her gown. It hung heavy and scratchy, but she had no time to think about that. Boden sat hunched in the saddle, bent like a weary old man over the pommel. He needed attention. He needed rest, and he needed it soon. But where could she go? Would they be safe on the open road?

She had no answers, only questions and nagging worries. So she closed her eyes for a moment and prayed with deep ferocity. Finally, needing to do
something
, and feeling no particular divine direction, she turned Mettle to the left and trudged down the muddy trail.

It was nearly dusk when she saw the pale peak of a church rise from the green hills ahead. Just before nightfall she came to the village.

"Who goes there?" someone called from the far side as she approached the gate.

Fatigue weighed on her like a millstone. "I am called Bernadette. Please let us in." It seemed all she could manage to say.

"Who is with you?"

"He is a knight," she said, steadying him with a hand to his thigh. "Badly wounded and in great need."

There was a buzz of voices, but in a moment the gate creaked open.

"Thank ye," she said, leading Mettle through.

"You've no need to thank me," said the gatekeeper. "We've no psychic here in Cheswick, and your husband looks unwell."

"Is there an inn?" she asked. "Somewhere out of the rain?''

They directed her down the muddy, rutted street. Mettle stopped finally and let his head droop.

Steadying Boden again, Sara rushed to the door. "Sir Boden is badly wounded," she said. "Please, have ye a room to let?" she asked the man that appeared there.

He was a big man, stooped, graying. His gaze skimmed her. "Not for the likes of a bloody Scot," he said, and moved to close the door.

Rage roared to life in Sara's breast, and suddenly she had a foot in the door and one hand clutched the man's tunic. Her other reached for her dagger. It slid from its sheath and in a moment it pricked his neck.

His gasp rattled up his throat as he tilted his head back. A dark droplet of blood seeped away from the pinpoint blade.

"In the past fortnight I have been thrice attacked by brigands," she said. "They are dead. I am not. Ye know us bloody Scots. We're a vindictive lot."

The innkeeper swallowed.

"The knight is badly wounded. Have ye a room to let?"

"Aye." The single word squeaked out. "Aye, one room for the good knight and his lovely lady."

Not for an instant did Sara consider trying to explain their circumstances. "Then we will take it."

"Good. Good." His head was still cocked back, his eyes very wide as he tried to see the point of the blade. "Can I help you get my lord to his room?''

"Aye." She drew the dagger slowly away and stepped back. "That would be appreciated."

Between herself and the innkeeper, they dragged Boden upstairs to a room. He groaned as they eased him onto the bed.

The innkeeper backed away. "Is there ought else you need, m'lady?"

"Aye." Still sitting on the bed, she turned to him, vaguely realizing that she must look like Satan incarnate, for she certainly felt like it. ' 'We need spirits to help him warm up, and we need them immediately. We need a bathing tub, hot water, and a warm meal." She struggled to her feet and eased Thomas's pack from around her neck. After one quick glance inside, she laid him carefully on the bed.

' 'We need extra blankets, bandages, and a kettle."

"Aye, m'lady." He bobbed again, still sweating. "Anything else?"

"Someone to take care of the animals."

The innkeeper shifted his gaze sideways. "I'd be happy to see to such a proud beast," he said, and turned away.

Sara scowled. "And innkeeper," she said, straightening her back. "They call me husband The Blade and he is very fond of his horse."

The man nodded, birdlike, and hurried out.

"What happened to the sweet woman with the soft voice?''

Sara turned to Boden. He lay flat on his back with his right leg bent and his left limp. His cape still covered the wounds. "She got wet."

A corner of his dusky mouth lifted. "You must be the very devil in the spring," he said.

She nodded, but her attention lay on the wound she had yet to see. "We must get ye out of those clothes," she said.

He closed his eyes and let his face slump closer to the mattress. "I like this wet lady."

She approached him slowly, then reached for his cape and paused. "I am scared."

"Not you," he said and lifted a hand to her cheek. "Never you."

"I am not a healer and I fear ye are badly wounded."

He nodded shallowly. "My apologies, lady."

"Apologies?" Her eyes filled with tears. "Why?"

"I always talk gibberish when I'm wounded. Tis the coward in me."

"Nay, Boden," she whispered. "Ye are brave beyond words. Beyond imagination."

He opened his eyes slowly. "Do you ever see the bad, sweet Sara?"

"Not in ye."

His eyes looked moist. "I will heal, lady, for you."

"I will see to your wound."

"Nay!" He said the word quickly, then drew a deep breath and chuckled at his own fear. "There is no need."

"Aye, there is."

A knock sounded at the door. Sara answered it and took the bottle from the boy in the hall.

Boden's gaze found her immediately. "You need rest, lady. Sleep."

"Not until I've seen to ye, surely."

"Please?" The plea sounded pathetic to his own ears. "I will mend if I rest."

Taking her ever-present pouch from her belt, she opened it, drew out a small leather bag and tossed a pinch of powder into the bottle. "Here. Drink this first."

"Then I can sleep?"

"I should tend your leg."

"Nay! Truly, tis fine."

There was sorrow in her eyes, and worry. "Are ye certain?"

His leg was going to burn off and in a minute he was probably going to start bawling like a baby. But he was terribly, incredibly tired. Perhaps there was a chance he could fall asleep and wake up healed. Twas said that miracles could happen.

"Aye, I'm... certain," he said, taking a quick swig. Grimacing, he stared at the bottle, then at her.

She touched her finger to the glass, tilting it back to his lips. It tasted no better the second time. Or the third. But he'd drink tiger piss if she'd promise to leave his leg alone. "There is room beside me." He patted the mattress on the far side of him, finding it ridiculously difficult to make that simple movement. "Here." He tried to turn his head toward the indicated spot, but it didn't work. "Lie down.

Rest." Darkness was coming for him. "Sweet... Sara."

"As ye wish, sir," she whispered, leaning close. Her voice was like a warm breeze singing softly through gossamer leaves. "Sleep then. I'll not bother ye."

"Saint," he whispered. "Saint Sara."

"Holy, fucking hell!" Boden roared. Pain ripped through his leg. He grappled to rise.

"Hold him down!" cried Sara. "Hold him!"

The smell of burning flesh stung his nostrils. Jesus, God! It was
his
flesh! He gasped a deep breath, recoiling for another effort, and in that moment hell was revisited.

He roared in agony, bucking against the mattress.

"Tis done! Tis done!" cried Sara, dropping to her knees beside him.

He roared again, trying to break his arms free. But it was no use. He rolled his head to the side.

Her face was as pale as winter, accented by eyes wide with terror.

Damn her to hell. She
should
be scared, for in her lily white hand she still held the instrument of torture—his own damned knife, still smoking from the fire. And he would make her pay.