The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides) (32 page)

Sara turned toward the knight as Tilly tottered away toward Mettle. "I am sorry to have awakened ye."

"Tis you that should be sleeping."

She glanced away, into the darkness. "I wished to thank ye anyway."

In profile, she looked very like he imagined an angel might. God, he was sappy. "Thank me?"

he asked.

She glanced back. "For saving Margaret."

Why did she take his breath away? He was a knight. All right, so he was a tanner's son, knighted because of some ungodly accident of nature. Still...

"The girl bites," he said.

"She's been wounded."

"And she stinks."

"Tis probably the marten that smells. She's a beautiful child, is she not?"

Boden raised his brows in the darkness. The child was missing both her front teeth. Her arms were as thin as pale willow switches and her hair was tangled to a mass of snarls so dense he was certain they could not be undone. "Aye," he said. "Beautiful."

Sara smiled at him. And he knew she read his thoughts—again. If he had the sense of a squirrel that disconcerting thought alone would keep him at bay. But the fact that their thoughts melded seemed no more unnatural than the unearthly blue of her eyes. "Inside," she whispered. "Inside she is beautiful."

The child still bites, he thought, but... "With you to guide her..." He hadn't meant to speak his thoughts aloud, and although he stopped them before they were complete, he couldn't help but reach out to touch her face.

And suddenly, somehow, certainly against his will, she was in his arms. Her kiss was like magic, so soft, so sweet, so breathtakingly surreal, that for a moment he thought he must be dreaming.

"What can I do?" she murmured, realizing she was probably hurting his leg.

"Don't stop," he pleaded, and kissed her again.

Heat was building like a blaze out of control. Her skin felt like velvet beneath his touch and in his mind he remembered every moment he had spent in her arms, every word, every thought, every touch. And he yearned for more, to feel welcomed into her inner core, to press past the boundaries of their minds and...

"What was that?" she asked, pulling away.

Nothing! It was nothing! Nothing! Oh, God, let it be nothing! "I think the babe is crying," he said. How was it that his words always betrayed his body?

She glanced at him regretfully, breathing hard, her eyes wide with something he could only hope was desire.

"I must see to him," she said.

He was going to kill himself. "Aye," he said, and she slipped from his arms.

He let his head bang back against the tree behind him, but the concussion was as nothing in comparison to the throbbing in his nether parts.

In a moment he had caught up with Sara. She stood near an elder tree, just peeking round the trunk to stare out at their small fire.

Thomas lay not far from it. His arms were waving and now and then he squawked unhappily.

But that was not what she watched, for beside him, crouched like a frightened tree frog, was the girl.

What was she planning? Boden wondered, and was just about to barge into the firelight and chase her away, when Sara caught his arm. He scowled down at her, but remained where he was, hidden in the shadows until a small noise issued from the girl.

"Shhh. Shhh," the child whispered, and glanced furtively toward the woods.

The babe cried again.

"Shh," she said and reached out one grubby hand.

Boden tensed, ready to lunge forward.

But he saw that Margaret's touch was feather soft on the babe's head, stroking him with such tender care that it made his heart lurch.

"Shhh," she whispered again, but the baby would not be hushed, and wailed louder still.

Her eyes looked frantic now as she scanned the woods, but just as she reached out with both hands, Sara stepped forward.

Margaret gasped and cowered away.

Sara stopped. "Thank you," she said, "for soothing him. He is hungry."

Margaret lunged to her feet and scampered toward the brush where she stopped and turned to stare at them. Above her sagging neckline the weasel's tiny head popped out, his dark eyes bright as beads in the firelight.

"I will milk the goat," Sara said.

The tone of her voice was as soothing as a spring breeze. Boden took a single step forward.

Margaret's gaze snapped to him, but he stopped there and leaned against the tree.

"Sir Boden has been keeping watch," Sara said. "So that none come to harm us."

Aye, he had been keeping watch, before he fell asleep and began dreaming of Sara. Before she had walked right up to him without him hearing. Before he had let her distract him as if he were a callow youth. St. Rupert's rump. He was a sad excuse for a warrior.

"I will be awake now," Sara said, her tone still ultra-soft as she turned to him. "And Margaret will help watch. Get some sleep, Sir Blackblade. Please?"

He didn't want to sleep. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, make love to her. Barring that, he just wanted to stare at her. He was pathetic. But there was little he could do but pretend he was not.

"You'll wake me if there is any sign of danger?" he asked.

"Aye."

He forced himself to toss his cloak on the ground, but in a moment, he straightened. "You won't do anything foolhardy will you?"

It seemed a silly question now, for she was so small, so slim, so genteel, holding a baby near her breast, her heavenly eyes serene.

"Such as?" she asked, and it was the spark of laughter in her eyes that worried him.

"If there is any sign of danger, call me."

"I will."

"A cracking twig, a lumpy shadow, a fearful thought—''

"I'll wake ye," she said and watched him as he lay down.

In all honesty and knightly good manners, he tried not to grimace as he lowered himself to the ground, but his leg hurt and other things hurt too. Less knightly things, that ached in direct proportion to her nearness.

He felt her gaze on him as he wrapped himself in his cloak, but the baby cried again, drawing her away, and despite everything, he slept.

Sara didn't bother to try to lead Tilly. Instead, she led Mettle into the firelight, and Tilly followed. Still, even in her intoxicated state, the nanny wasn't fun to milk and managed to knock the kettle over twice. Righting the pan, Sara glanced toward Sir Boden, hoping he hadn't been awakened.

He had not. For a moment, she studied his face. It was lean, too lean, she thought, and wished suddenly that she could let him rest indefinitely. That he could sleep on one of the poster beds at Glen Creag and wake to a fine, leisurely meal. She would serve him herself, and they would sit and tell stories to the children and...

She was doing it again, she realized. Pretending things that could never be.

After the milking, she loosed Tilly and poured the warm milk carefully into the bladder. Still there was some left over, so she set the kettle aside and turned her gaze to Margaret, who crouched in the shadows some distance away.

"You're welcome to it," she said, "if ye've a taste for milk."

The child didn't answer, and since the babe was not so silent and apt to wake Sir Boden, Sara lifted Thomas onto her lap.

He nursed greedily. For a while Sara was absorbed in the beauty of his innocence, the rapt attention on his face, the darling tilt of his nose. But soon she felt Margaret's gaze on her, and looked up.

Terror! It was there, felt as well as seen in the child's wide eyes. But why? Did she fear Sara would hurt the child just as Leoma had hurt Margaret? Or did she think Sara would harm the babe just as she had wounded Leoma? After all, Sara had hit the girl's mother—struck her with all the force she could, and had not even waited to see if she would recover. Of course the child would fear her.

Remorse flooded her. Moving slowly, she settled Thomas back onto his blanket.

"Margaret." She spoke quietly to the shadowed figure, yearning to do more, to pull her into her arms, to make things right. "Tis sorry I am. So sorry. I did not wish to harm yer mother. Twas just..."

But the shadow was suddenly gone, the darkness empty, and there was nothing she could do but wait and pray she would be back in the morning.

Sara settled onto the grass, putting her shoulders to a tree and listening to the darkness. But no untoward sounds disturbed her peace.

Her mind wandered and spun until the sun rose and the world turned light and Sara rose to her feet. Much to her surprise, Margaret was standing only a few feet from her, silent as the dawn, her grubby hands wrapped firmly round the weasel she held before her.

Hope slashed across Sara's mind, and after that came a silent thanks for Sir Boden's quick ploy that had kept the girl close at hand. But she was careful to show no expression on her face and remain still.

"Tis time for his tonic," Sara said.

The child neither affirmed nor denied the statement. Instead, she stood perfectly still as if afraid to move closer, but determined to remain.

Tilly wandered over to Boden, and lowering her nose, bleated in his ear.

Boden lurched to his feet. Margaret squawked, Sara jumped, and Tilly, affronted, ran to Mettle for protection.

"Timothy's sainted toes, that goat's going to be the death of me," Boden growled, and trying to look forbidding, stumped off into the woods to relieve his bladder and his peace of mind.

Short of running the girl down and forcing her into the saddle, Margaret could not be convinced to ride with Boden, and so she rode with Sara. Even then, she didn't go willingly, but sat perched stiffly behind her, where she could tumble from Mettle's back and flee at the first sign of trouble.

Sir Blackblade sighed. What had happened to him? There had been a time when he was respected. Feared even. But now his charger was ridden by a woman whose presence made him sweat, and two children who smelled rather like an overused barnyard. As for his own knightly self, he had been relegated to riding an aged, bony mare of uncertain heritage. But probably better that than riding Mettle, because ever since the mare had joined their ranks, the gray charger had been prancing about like a half-witted colt. That jarring gait was likely to kill Boden.

But if that was not enough, he feared the goat was infatuated with his bold destrier. Dear God, things couldn't get any more humiliating, he thought.

Unfortunately, he was wrong, he realized, for just then he noticed Tilly had eaten Mettle's tail.

During the day Boden managed to shoot a trio of hares with his crossbow. Near noon, they roasted one of them.

By nightfall, his leg was stiff and painful. Apparently, riding bareback put added strain on it.

He all but fell from the mare's sharp back.

"Boden."

Sara rushed over to him. He should, of course, have some pride, but when she touched him, there seemed little purpose.

"You are hurting," she said. "Let me see to your wound."

Reality flooded back. "Nay," he said. "You do evil things to wounds." She was so close he could feel her warmth. "However, you are exceptionally good with other parts of my anatomy."

She blushed, but her tone was not so demure. "Sit down," she ordered.

Why did he constantly forget her nasty side? "The light is fading," he said. "And I would catch our meal afore tis too late."

She raised her brows and propped her fists on her narrow hips. "Are ye thinking of running down a stag, mayhap?"

"I thought I might just catch a few fish instead. Give my leg a rest," he said, and with that, he managed to turn away.

Surprisingly enough, she let him go. Sometime later, he was at the stream with a hook tied to a string and the string tied to a branch. He found a comfortable spot with his back to a maple and let the evening fall down upon him as clouds gathered overhead.

In less than an hour he had caught and cleaned three graylings and an eel.

Sara had a small blaze burning and the kettle boiling water above it. Thomas was lying nearby, gurgling and blowing bubbles.

Margaret was nowhere to be seen, Boden noticed, but suddenly her furry friend launched himself from the shadows, scrambled up Boden's leg, and onto the nearest fish. In a moment he was scurrying away, the fish flapping behind him.

Boden watched him go. "And not a word of thanks," he said.

Sara turned from the fire with a laugh, and taking the remaining fish from him, dropped them into the kettle to boil. "Take off yer hose, Sir Blackblade," she said.

Boden raised his brows at her. "Lady, I am shocked."

"Somehow I doubt it. Margaret, please fetch another bowl of water from the burn."

Boden saw the girl now, little more substantial than a shadow as she stood at the edge of the campfire.

"The burn," Boden said. "Tis our Sara's endearing way of saying stream."

Margaret remained motionless for a moment, then, stashing the weasel, fish and all, into her bodice, she crept forward to retrieve the bowl from Mettle's pouch. Nervous as a cat, she scampered away a moment later.

"So you have a need to torture me again?" Boden asked, feeling strangely content.

"I've a need to see ye healed," she countered.

"Ahh."

"Roll down yer hose."

"Leave me some little pride," he said. "I'm a knight and—"

"And ye look good with two legs."

"You think so?"

Her gaze caressed his face. "Aye, Sir Blackblade. I do indeed. Now sit down and lie back."

He did so, because he was weak and could not help himself when she flattered him or teased him or looked at him. Pathetic. He loosened his lacing points with some effort.

Sara's hands felt warm and soft against his thigh as she rolled down his hose. He felt her untie the bandage and his body tightened. But a sudden noise behind him made him yank himself to a sitting position.

Margaret squeaked and jumped back, splashing water down the front of her gown.

"You've scared her again," Sara said.

"Her?" His heart was contemplating jumping from his chest. "Couldn't we put a bell around her neck?"

"Dunna worry, Margaret," Sara said, looking over his head as he lay down again. "Tis enough water still in the bowl. Can ye bring it here?"