The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides) (23 page)

"Couldn't you let me sleep in peace? Not for a moment?"

"You've been sleeping," she said. "I could wait no more. I had to cauterize the wound. It is not so long. Just a couple of inches. But I worried. Twas my fault. Liam mistook ye for the enemy and threw his knives. He did not mean to harm you. I'm sorry."

"Sorry!" He managed the word through gritted teeth. "You
will
be sorry. As will you!" he yelled, turning his head to roar at the others who stood nearly out of his line of vision.

Three men scrambled toward the door. Boden tried to reach them, but his arms were still bound to the bed.

The innkeeper stopped in the doorway. "If... if that's all you'll be needing, my lady..."

"Aye." She rose slowly to her feet.

Her voice sounded weak. Good! He hoped she fainted dead away. Who knew what evil things he could think to do to her before she awoke. If she'd just take the damned ropes off his arms. St.

Silvester! His leg burned like the fires of hell! He jerked at the ropes again, but they didn't budge.

"That will be all," she said. "Ye... ye have me thanks. And Sir Blade's."

Boden growled. The innkeeper scrambled after his friends.

Boden turned to look into her face again. She was just as pale as before.

"You are a conniving little liar!" he accused.

"I thought twould be better for ye if ye were asleep."

"You burnt my damned leg!" he roared. "You thought I would sleep through it?"

Her eyes got wider still, and he saw now that her hand that held his knife was shaking. Good.

She deserved it.

Even though she looked like she hadn't slept for a month. She'd walked while he rode—carrying the baby—in the rain. He remembered it all now. Still, she had no right to lie to him. After all, he was a knight, trained, true, tested. It wasn't as if he couldn't have borne a little pain while awake.

God, his leg hurt.

"Sit the hell down," he growled. "Before you fall over."

"I do feel a wee bit faint," she said, wobbling a little on her feet.

"No you don't. No you don't!" he said, jerking at his bonds. "Cut me loose before you pass out."

She stumbled toward him, then sawed weakly at the rope that held his left arm. An eternity later, it frayed loose.

She stood, wobbled then weaved around to the far side of the bed. Again the blade was set to the rope, but the strokes were weaker yet.

"Sit down!" he ordered, and taking the knife from her, sliced through the hemp. "Sit down!" he said again when he realized she hadn't obeyed.

She did so now, plopping down on the bed beside him.

He sat up with a considerable effort, then. "Tell me, lady," he said, gazing down at himself.

"Wasn't it humiliating enough to tie me to the bed and mutilate me while I slept? Did I have to be naked as well?"

"You were covered with a blanket."

"The blanket seems to have abandoned its post," he said, glancing at the woolen on the floor.

"I thought..." She didn't sound so good. "I thought ye might have sustained other wounds."

"Where?"

"Under... Ye know."

"If you thought I'd been cut there you might at least have been kind enough to just slit my throat instead of frying my poor, tattered, bloody—"

She made a strange noise. He turned toward her. She gagged again, and his hand shot out just in time to grab the nearby kettle and jam it under her head before she expelled the contents of her stomach.

A tortured minute later, she straightened.

"Are you all right?" he asked, setting the stinking kettle aside.

"I dunna feel so well."

"Good!" he said, but in a moment he reconsidered and slammed the kettle back under her nose.

She gagged into it, then finally straightened. "Sorry."

She looked like a small, bedraggled kitten, wet, skinny, lost.

"You should be. Feeling better?"

"I think so," she said, and shivered.

He glanced down at her. She was wet from her head to her shoes and dirty, though not quite so dirty as he remembered her being.

"We're going to have to get you out of those clothes."

Her head came up with a snap. Twas a wonder, he thought, that her eyes didn't pop out of her head.

"What's good for the goose..."

"You're a knight," she said, "bound by ancient codes of honor."

"You lied to me," he said. "All vows are off if the lady lies."

"Boden..."

"Oh shut up!" he said, and wincing, turned her away to loosen the ties at the back of her gown.

They were soggy and twisted and tied in tight knots. He considered cutting them loose, but thought better of it. In a moment they came free.

"There now." The fabric slipped from her shoulders. They were pretty shoulders, very white, soft, smooth. He swallowed. "Take it off."

"I can't."

"Look at me."

She turned, but her gaze didn't quite manage to reach his eyes.

"Do I seem to have any clothes on?" he asked. "Even a stitch?"

"Nay." She didn't raise her eyes to his.

"St. Peter's peter!" he said. "Tis too late to act the modest maid now. Tis far too late after..." He waved his hand up and down through the air, indicating his own nudity.

"I had no wish to hurt you."

"But you wished to undress me."

He thought he saw the corner of her lips twitch. "Aye."

Dear Lord, she was beautiful. He slid to the edge of the bed and rose to his feet. For a moment, he considered fainting. But it didn't seem like much fun.

"Hand me that blanket."

She did so, managing it without looking at him.

With a twist and a tuck he wrapped it around his waist.

"All right then, get up here," he said and pulled her to her feet.

Still, she did nothing to undress and her skin felt cold as death beneath his hands. Cold and smooth and oh so soft. He slipped the bodice lower. Her breasts came free and he forgot to breathe.

Instead, he stood like a great, beached whale, staring, longing, fantasizing.

"Sara..." He breathed her name.

She lifted her gaze, and her cheeks were no longer pale, but flushed bright with life and beauty.

"Aye?" she whispered.

He watched her lips move, then against his will, he smoothed his thumb over them and felt her shiver like a frail leaf in the winds of a storm. But she was not frail. She was a woman, strong and hale, and beautiful beyond hope.

And she was not his. She was
not
his. And if he wished to live out the year he would remember that.

"I..." He was breathing hard now, trying to think, to remember that he wanted to live. Even without her, he wanted to live—didn't he? "I need..." He touched her lips again, but suddenly Lord Haldane's memory reared its ugly head.

"Aye?"

"The pain is terrible," he said hoarsely, and managed, just barely, to turn away.

"Oh." He heard her breathe the word behind him, and it seemed he could
feel
her pull her gown back into place. He nearly cried when he knew she covered herself. "Tis sorry I am. I should have realized you'd need something to dull the ache."

God yes!

She hurried past him, picked up the disgraced kettle, and dispatched it to the hall. Then, retrieving the bottle he'd tested before, she brought it to him.

He glanced at it with a scowl. "Did this stuff knock me unconscious, or was it the effort to find you that exhausted me?" he asked.

"It was finding me," she said, looking guilty. "Besides, that was a different bottle."

"Where is the other one?"

"The innkeeper took it."

"When?"

"After you passed out."

"Passed out?" he said narrowing his eyes at her. "How long did I sleep?"

She bit her lip. "A day and a night."

"A day and a—!" He nearly screamed the words.

"Fiona didn't tell me it would make you sleep. I didn't mean to trick you. I fell asleep, too, but you were sleeping so long and—"

"You got bored?"

"I was worried."

"So you thought you'd wake me up with a hot knife."

"I'm sorry," she murmured, sounding just a little miffed. "But your fever is down. And I've had time to search for new herbs."

"So that's how you got wet?" he asked. "Dashing around in the rain for medicines to cure me while I slept like a... like an overgrown turnip?'' He glowered at her.

She almost smiled, but seemed to think better of it. "Drink the wine," she said.

If she got sick it would be his fault. But of course she wouldn't. He was the weak one.

Adversity only seemed to make her stronger, brighter, more beautiful.

"Drink," she repeated.

Yes! he thought. He'd get drunk. Twas a fine idea. Twas a great idea. Twas a—No. He couldn't get drunk. If he got drunk he would... He looked at her. God, even wet, even freezing, even exhausted, even really, really aggravating, she was alluring beyond words.

He couldn't get drunk. Pain had a tendency to lower his inhibitions. But spirits killed them.

"Drink," she said, and he did.

Boden drank again, then, looking at Sara, saw that she shivered and handed her the bottle.

"Drink," he said.

She did, then trembled, and drank again. He watched her throat move, then lowered his gaze.

Although she had replaced her bodice, she hadn't taken the time to pull the ties tight. The neckline sagged slightly. That alone was enough to cause him heart palpitations. Under that gown she was naked. It was a strange thought. And odder still how it affected him. He remembered her breasts, small and firm, and unearthly soft. In fact, he remembered them so clearly that they might as well have been bared. But they weren't. He took the bottle back and drank.

"You'd best take off your clothes, lady," he said.

Her eyes widened. How was it that she seemed so young sometimes, so untouched, and then at others she could hold the whole world at bay for the sake of an unprotected infant that was not hers?

"Take them off." He wished he was drunk now, beyond caring, but his tone sounded disturbingly sober. "I'll try not to look."

"Try?"

"I mean, I
won't
look."

For one crazed moment, he thought he saw the pink bow of her mouth lift into the whisper of a smile. He stared, trying to make sure, trying to decipher her moods, her thoughts, but she was forever an enigma to him. How, he wondered, could she be so alluring even under these circumstances? Wet, cold, bedraggled, with her hair hanging down around her face, she still made his brain stop and his heart pump blood to all the wrong places. He drew a deep breath and tried to look away. He should be accustomed to failing miserably. "The bathing tub. It looks ready to use."

"Aye." Her voice was as soft as a dream. "They sent it up the first night, but ye slept for so long, so we waited to fill it. This day I had them bring water and a meal for I was fairly certain ye would wake up when I..." She motioned to his leg and winced, then cleared her throat. "Tortured ye."

He almost laughed at her choice of words. "Aye, well..." Scowling down into her pale face, he realized what it had taken for her to cauterize his wound. It had been a difficult task. Though it was not a large wound, he knew how they could fester. Twas possible she had saved his life after Liam, the bastard, had cut him. But surely Boden didn't have to thank her. Did he? After all, she'd lied to him —said she was going to sleep beside him and all the while she'd been planning wicked things. He shuddered at the thought. His leg hurt like hell.

"You'd best bathe afore the water cools," he said.

"I'll see to your leg first," she countered.

He felt himself pale. "Nay." His voice was hoarse. "You've done quite enough." And more.

"Twill not hurt," she vowed.

"Ha!" He barked a laugh. The wine sloshed messily in the bottle.

Her eyes were wide and solemn. ' 'I should have said, it will not hurt when I am finished. Come now, Boden. I only did what I thought was right. Twas not any evil intent on my part. Please. Let me tend ye."

Tend ye]
How was it that she made that sound appealing? He knew she was planning to do evil things to a part of his anatomy that was horribly close to another part he was very fond of.

"Nay," he said. "It will heal well on its own now, I'm certain."

She stared at him with obvious skepticism.

"You have mended it for good and always. See," he said, managing with a sweating brow to bend the leg back and forth beneath the blanket. He was quite proud that he didn't swoon to the floor like a lady in waiting. "It hardly hurts at all. The pain is gone. How clever you are. I don't know how you managed it."

Her lips turned up ever so slightly. "Have ye ever considered a career on the stage? Ye're quite an actor."

"And you're not going to touch my leg."

She laughed. Actually laughed. What a mean-spirited little thing she could be sometimes. But the sound of her humor softened something in him, making him want to hear that sound again and again.

"I promise I will not hurt ye," she murmured.

There was that sweet tone again. Damn her! But he knew now what she was really like. She was like a wildcat. Soft and deadly.

"I'm not scared if that's what you're thinking," he said.

"Nay." She blinked, all innocence. "Of course not. Lie back on the bed."

No! God no! Please! he wanted to whimper. But instead he swallowed, lowered his brows, and tried his frantic best to think of a way out of this predicament with a shred of dignity intact.

"Take off your clothes and I'll do as you ask," he said.

Her face went white as hoarfrost. Merciful God! He'd found a way out.

"That's unfair, Sir Boden."

"Unfair." He laughed. "You burnt my leg. All's fair. But believe me, I have only your best interests in mind. Twill be good for you to get out of those clothes." He allowed himself a grin and another swig from the bottle. "And it will do me no harm either."

"I thought ye were a gentle man."

"Well, Lady Sara, you thought wrong. Take off your wet clothes and I'll allow you tend my leg."