The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides) (30 page)

"I'll give you a sovereign," he said.

Chapter
19

Big Will turned slowly toward Boden. In his eyes there was malice and in his oversized hands, the power to squash a small village, "She's ours." His tone was as flat as his eyes.

"I'll give you a sovereign," Boden repeated, not taking his gaze from Leoma.

"Deal's already been made," said Lang. "Tell 'im, Will."

"Don't rush me," said Leoma. "I ain't said for sure. M'lord 'ere says 'e'll give a sovereign. What will
you
gents give me?"

"We ain't got that much t'throw away on no scrawny brat!" hissed Will.

"She's mine," whined Lang.

"Then give me the coin," said the mother.

"She ain't worth no sovereign. What with Lang's 'ands on 'er and Danny's love of knives, she won't last out the week, skinny as she is. Now
you
..." He chuckled, slowing his words and turning his bloodshot gaze to Leoma's cleavage. "You'd do
me
fine, but I guess you ain't good enough for 'is lordship."

Leoma stiffened and glanced toward Boden.

Will smiled, showing teeth as rotten as his soul.

"Y' offered yourself t' 'im after all," he continued. "But 'e'd rather 'ave the whelp."

"Give me a sovereign for 'er and she's yers," insisted Leoma.

"We gave y' a angel," said Danny. "That was the deal."

"And y' know we'll be back, giving y' more business," added Will. "This gent..." He turned his eyes to Boden. "'E can't barely wait t' be shut o' y', what with 'is fancy bitch on 'is arm."

Leoma turned toward Sara, her eyes mean.

"I got me a shilling," Lang said, digging into his pouch and drawing forth the coin.

"She's yers!" spat Leoma. "And good—"

"Please!" Sara stepped forward a pace, her fists clenched at her sides. "Please, for God's sake!" she whispered. "You're her mother!"

"You wanna come too?" asked Will. He rose to his feet, his gaze on Sara, his thoughts clear as death in his eyes.

Panic tasted bitter in Boden's mouth. "Sara, step back!"

"Maybe she be lookin' for a man what can satisfy 'er," suggested Will.

The panic settled slowly in the pit of Boden's stomach, like motes of fine dust on a forgotten road. "I recommend you keep your hands off her, friend," he said.

Will stepped forward. "Or what?"

Boden paused a moment for effect—and to wait for his trembling to cease. "Or you'll die where you stand." It was a good threat—stated flatly, level, with an almost flippant tone. His sword sang as he removed it from its sheath and swung it into the air.

There was a moment of silence and then, like a gust of hi^ vind, Will threw back his head and laughed. "Fuck my ass! Tis a good thing y' didn't screw 'im, Leoma, 'cause his wick probably ain't no longer than 'is blade."

The other two men joined in the mirth, and in a moment Leoma too was laughing.

Boden stared at them, then turned his attention to his sword and swore. Dear God, he'd forgotten its pitiful state. He turned to Sara in horror. Her eyes were wide, but her expression said quite clearly, sword or no sword, there would be no backing down.

Wulftic's sainted wart, he was in trouble. "Let the child go," he said, hoping against hope that there was still a modicum of aggression in his tone.

"I don't think so, yer lordship."

There was no way out now, he knew, for if he didn't do something soon, Sara would take matters into her own hands, and the devil take the hindmost. "Let the child go," Boden repeated. "Or your next meal will be in hell." Not bad as hopeless, last ditch threats went, he thought, but just then, Will drew his sword.

"To hell yourself," he swore and lunged across the floor with a roar of rage.

Boden yelled back, though whether in fear or defiance, even he couldn't have said. Still, there was no time to delay, and in a moment of indecision, he flung his blunt sword at his opponent. It clanged against the other's, knocking it aside. Will sped on, and in the instant before he brought his weapon back to bear, Boden grabbed a dinner knife from the table and whipped it overhand.

It sunk into the soft hollow of Will's throat. The huge man staggered back a pace, dropping his sword. Grasping the knife in both hands, he yanked it from his throat and tossed it to the floor with a gurgled snarl of rage.

"Y' bastard!" shrieked Danny and launched himself forward. Boden glanced wildly about for a weapon. A ladle? A milk bladder?

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sara whip a hot kettle forward. The contents sprayed outward in a boiling arc.

Danny screamed as the blistering stew struck his face. Sara stood frozen in horror just as Leoma lunged forward, hands like claws.

Sara swung the kettle like a deadly mace once again.

It struck Leoma in the temple. She staggered to a halt, then crumpled like a broken doll.

Boden stal ed in fascination.

"No!" Sara screamed.

Boden snapped his attention forward. Will was barreling down on him, his gory throat frothing with blood.

"Mettle!" Boden yelled, and in an instant went down beneath Will's tremendous weight.

"Get 'im, Will! Get 'im!" Lang shrieked, forgetting the child in his excitement.

"Boden!" Sara screamed, but just then a movement caught her eye. The girl! Without another thought, Sara lunged after her, catching her by her rags and swinging her into her arms.

"Get Mettle!" Boden yelled again, grappling wildly with Will, and there was nothing Sara could do but run from the inn, the baby on her back, the child in her arms.

The stable was at the back of the inn. Sheer panic drove her until she reached Mettle. She tossed the child into the stallion's saddle. In the second stall, another horse was tied. Sara grabbed the animal's rope and yanked out the knot. In an instant, she was seated behind the girl, and dragging the smaller horse along behind.

They left the stable at a dead gallop and careened around the corner. Boden staggered out the door and threw himself at the trailing horse.

Sara tossed back the rope, and they were gone, thundering out of the village as if the hounds of hell were after them.

By midafternoon, Boden thought he would die from his myriad aches and pains. By evening, he hoped he would. Except for one stop, they kept moving at a steady trot, putting a good deal of distance between them and the hellhole they'd left behind.

Finally, unable to suffer in heroic silence, Boden slipped off the mare's bonny back and fell in a heap on the ground, quietly hoping to die before Sara discovered him there.

But luck seemed to have abandoned him completely.

"Boden!" She turned Mettle back. "Are you hurt?"

"Nay. Nay." He stayed where he lay. It was surprisingly pleasant there, beneath the nag's belly, half in the shade, half out, with his mind floating like umbrella seeds in the wind. "Never better, really."

Slipping from the saddle, she hurried to his side. "Where are ye hurt?"

"Me?" He shifted slightly, trying, without much success, to dislodge a stone that was pressed into the small of his back. ' 'Tell me, Sara, why did you choose those men?"

"What?" She touched his brow, apparently feeling for fever.

"There are a lot of men in England, lady. Evil men, even. Why must you choose the largest of them?"

Her hand slipped from his forehead to cup his cheek. "Ye were very brave, Sir Knight."

Flattery. While it may soothe a scraped knee or a split lip, it would do little good for a leg that had been hacked in two, even when delivered in her melodious tones, with her expression showing a wealth of concern, and the softness of her hand reminding him of the unearthly smoothness of the skin of her breast, with her heart beating soft and strong and her hair like thistle down, and her eyes... He sighed.

"We could have been killed, tortured, mutilated. Did that ever occur to you?'' he asked.

"I am sorry," she whispered. "But the child. You couldn't have left the child."

"I couldn't?"

"Nay," she said, and smiled. The expression warmed him like sunlight on his skin. "Ye are much too kind to leave her, Sir Knight."

"Kind?"

The mare shuffled away a few paces, careful not to step on him, and thus assuring an improved opinion on Boden's part.

"Aye. And good," she whispered, and leaning forward, kissed his mouth.

Contentment shifted through him. ' 'Good?'' he asked.

"Aye, and..." She leaned forward again. He closed his eyes for her kiss, but instead, he heard her gasp of horror as she drew away.

He wrenched himself to his feet. "What is it?"

"Margaret!" Sara cried, and in that instant, he saw the tiny, ragged figure scrambling off into the woods.

"Jesus!" he ground out.

"She'll be lost," Sara moaned.

With a curse, Boden launched after her. It took a good fifty rods to run the child to ground, but he finally did, hauling her to a halt by the back of her scruffy gown.

She turned like a cornered wildcat, swinging at him. One small fist glanced off his thigh. He sucked air between his teeth and dropped her gown to grab her arm.

She sunk her teeth into his hand. He shrieked in pain and let her go and she was off like a race horse.

He lunged after her with a curse, caught her gown again and careened to the earth, dragging her beneath him. Pain shot out in lightning lances of agony as he tried to suck air into his lungs.

"Boden. Boden." Sara's voice finally reached him. "You're squashing her."

It was then, for the first time, that he realized he was lying on top of the child. He rolled off, wondering what body parts he would leave behind.

"Are ye well?" Sara asked.

"Well, my—" Boden began, but Sara interrupted him.

"Are ye well, little one?"

The child lurched onto all fours and scrambled wildly forward. But in an instant, she twisted about with a small shriek of dismay and began digging frantically about in her clothes.

She stopped suddenly, and from her bodice, dragged

forth the sleek, limp body of her weasel. The girl stared at it for a frozen moment, then placing it to her heart, rocked slowly back and forth.

"Margaret," Sara said, staring at.the marten's flaccid body. "I'm sorry. So sorry."

The tattered figure continued to rock in silence. Sara reached out, wanting, needing, to share her grief. But the child jerked back, and in that instant, Sara thought she saw the weasel move.

"Margaret." The child's eyes lit on hers, filled with a raw mixture of anguish, fear, and rage. "I think, mayhap, he is still alive."

It took a moment for the girl to grasp Sara's meaning. Air hissed between her teeth as she glanced down at the unconscious weasel.

"I have some knowledge of medicine," Sara said softly, flicking her gaze from the rodent to the girl. "If ye like, we could return to the horse. Behind his saddle I have my herbs."

The girl's hands shook, but after an agonizing eternity of silent debate, she pushed herself to her feet. Sara did the same, leading the way back to the horses.

"Don't concern yourself with me," Boden said, staring at the branches that leaned over him. "I'll be fine."

Digging into the packet behind Mettle's saddle, Sara silently admitted that she had no idea what she was doing, but she had to do something. She raised her gaze to the girl's. The child had not cried, only whimpered and hugged the rodent more fiercely to her chest, and that, somehow, seemed sadder than tears—beyond pain and into despair. So, to give herself time to think, Sara dragged out her armory of herbs. It was a pathetically small supply. Aunt Fiona would weep at the sight.

She turned and set her medicines on the ground. "May I tend him?"

Indecision crossed the child's face, but in a moment fear won out and she hugged the critter more fiercely to her chest. Not a spark of trust or hope shone in her eyes.

Sara sighed. Her shoulders ached from Thomas's weight and long hours in the saddle, so she slipped him off her back.

Margaret's eyes went wide as she watched Sara gently set the babe on a mossy spot on the ground. Only the top of his head was visible, and Sara wondered now what the child would think.

Knowing something of her background, it seemed best to immediately assure her of the babe's well-being.

"This is Thomas," she said softly, and ever so gently, pushed the sling aside so that the girl could see his face. The babe didn't move and Margaret remained just as wide-eyed as ever.

"He is sleeping," Sara explained, wishing she knew what went through the child's mind.

"Nothing worse. Just asleep." She was crouched beside the babe, looking up at the child. "Mayhap your wee friend is sleeping too."

Margaret turned her gaze to the limp animal in her hands.

"Mayhap, he but hit his head." Or maybe he was dead and far past her help. But it hardly seemed right that God would take the animal from her. For the marten was probably her only friend.

So to fill the time and try to help the girl relax, Sara began to speak.

"Once upon a time there was a small boy whose name was Roman. He had a dog he called Dora. He loved her with a fierce loyalty," she said softly. "But one day when they were tending sheep, Dora was attacked by wolves. She was badly wounded. In truth, wee Roman thought she was dead, but he had heard of a healer, and he thought, mayhap, if the Lord willed it, she could mend his hound. So he carried his dog to her."

Margaret's gaze never flickered away-and in their depths, Sara could see her question.

"Many years later, after a long and happy life, Dora had her last litter of pups. Five of them there are, and each of them looks just like her."

It seemed like an eternity before Margaret stepped forward. When she did her knees shook, and as she placed the weasel in Sara's outstretched hands, Sara could feel her fear like a tiny, tangible fist to her gut.

Their gazes met. Margaret pulled away as if struck by the other's attention. Sara lowered her eyes. Laying the animal down gently, she smoothed her fingers over its silky fur, and there, just behind its front leg, she could feel a pulse. She jerked her gaze to the girl's wide stare.