The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides) (33 page)

Apparently not, Boden thought, for she remained absolutely still.

"Better yet," Sara said, barely missing a beat, "add that to the kettle. But have a care not to burn yerself."

The child did so, giving them both a wide berth as she moved toward the fire.

Sara rose and fetched water she had boiled and left to cool. Dunking a cloth in the bowl, she raised it above Boden's thigh. He tensed, but when the cloth settled against his bandage there was no pain. Even when she pulled the binding away, there was only slight discomfort.

Still, he didn't look, being one to distinctly dislike the sight of his own blood.

Thunder rumbled overhead.

"How does it look?'' he asked finally, as much to keep his mind off her work as to gain an answer.

"Ye are a fast healer, Sir Knight."

"Indeed?"

"Aye. Already it is knitting together nicely."

Well it hurt like hell... except when she was touching him.

"But I fear riding without a saddle has added undue strain."

"There is little to be done about it," he said, thinking himself quite chivalrous to utter the words.

After all, she was now packing gunk in his thigh wound.

"Ye could ride in a cart."

He raised his gaze to hers. "Your pardon?"

"If we could obtain a pony trap, ye could ride in it. Surely twould be better for yer leg."

"I am a knight," he said slowly. "And knights do
not
ride in pony traps." But neither should they feel like swooning every time a woman touched him. And yet he did. Pathetic.

Luck, Boden found, hadn't abandoned him completely, for the rain held off. Late the next day, when the first fine drops were just beginning to fall, he saw a small spiral of smoke against the evening sky.

Carefully, they approached it and found that there, amidst the verdant hills, was a wattle and daub cottage and a number of sheds made from the same substances.

Boden confined everyone to the shelter of the trees for a while, and finally, when all looked safe, they ventured forth.

A dog barked as they rode up to the low house. A woman stepped out, wiping her hands on her apron. Her face was plump and her graying hair was bound on top of her head and partially covered with a white coif.

"Mistress." Boden nodded to her. "We have been traveling a long while and have nowhere to spend the night. I wondered if we might make use of your barn to shelter from the rain."

Two small children trailed after her to hide in the folds of her generous skirt. Behind them, a stout man stepped out into the light drizzle.

"Who are you?" he asked, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"My name is Michael Briar, a leather wright by trade," Boden said. "And this be my wife, Mary." He nodded to Sara. Mayhap there was no need for such subterfuge, but mayhap there was.

The farmer's gaze skimmed over the motley crew. "Where might you be heading?"

"My sister died some months back, leaving her daughter orphaned," Boden lied, and quite well, he thought. "We traveled to London to bring her home with us."

All eyes turned to the wild girl who perched so stiffly behind Sara.

Silence stretched forever.

"We ain't got much to eat," said the farmer.

His wife pulled her gaze from Margaret with an effort. "We surely have enough to share with hungry travelers," she argued softly.

It was settled.

Boden gave the hares to the farmer's wife. Then they rode to the stable and dismounted. Mettle had to duck his head to step inside, but once there the stone building was large enough for all of them with room to spare.

Sara milked Tilly as Thomas lay on a pile of chaff and cooed. Margaret remained near the door, ready to make a dash for freedom if necessary.

But soon footsteps were heard outside, forcing the girl to duck around the corner and hide. A gangly boy of twelve or so appeared in the doorway. His legs seemed endlessly long and his elbows poked through the holes in his tunic.

"Mother says I'm to fetch you in," he said, barely able to make eye contact.

It was no easy task to convince Margaret to accompany them to the cottage, but they finally did so. The hut was crowded, but the meal was filling and hot. Even Margaret, who stole morsels from her plate and fed them into her gown, seemed comparatively content after a few minutes.

It was dark when they trooped back toward the barn, carrying a horsehide blanket and lantern loaned by the farmer's wife. Glancing behind the building, Boden thought he caught a glimpse of a broken wooden wheel. They stepped inside, lantern in tow. The place was cozy and snug. The rain fell soft and quiet on the tile roof. Two goats bleated from the corner where they were tied. Tilly turned up her nose and resolutely ignored them as she chewed her cud near Mettle.

Hay was piled on the loft overhead. Sara nodded toward it. "You may sleep up yonder, lass,"

she said softly.

But the girl didn't move.

"Nothing will harm you," Sara assured. "Sir Blackblade will be here to watch over us."

The words were said with quiet confidence, and sent a shiver of painful pride through Boden, but it seemed to do little for the girl. She remained motionless, her gaze stuck on the babe in Sara's arms.

Silence for a moment, then, "I will put Thomas to sleep there. Mayhap, if tis not too much trouble, you might watch over him for me."

Still, the girl didn't move, but Sara stepped toward the ladder. Once on top, she rustled about, making a bed for the babe.

Margaret backed toward the horses and flickered her gaze between Boden and the loft.

He made no move, lest she fly like a panicked starling over his head, and soon Sara was back at his side.

"He is already asleep," she said to the disheveled child, "and will not need us for a while.

There is a burn just the other side of the house. Mayhap ye would like to bathe."

A fine idea, thought Boden, remembering her distinctive odor, but the girl didn't respond.

"Well, tis up to ye," said Sara. "But I will make use of the water while I may." She turned toward the door. "Sir Blackblade, might ye come along and make certain the bum is safe?"

Caught off guard, Boden raised his brows at her, but she only smiled and stepped into the darkness.

There was little Boden could do but turn down the lantern he'd hung on the wall and follow her outside.

They stood near the door in silence. Moments later they heard Margaret scramble, quiet as a woods creature, up the ladder to the loft.

Boden cleared his throat. "I suppose I can hardly return immediately now that your ploy worked."

Their gazes met in the darkness. "Twould surely frighten her," Sara agreed, and suddenly found that her breath had been stolen away, for he was close, within inches of her.

"Come, then, I'll walk you to the stream."

When they reached the water's edge, Sara turned and found him tense and silent as he looked down at her. A thousand wayward thoughts sparked between them, a thousand steamy images. He cleared his throat and looked away. "There's something I would speak to the farmer about," he said, and turning quickly on his heel, headed back to the house.

Sara watched him go. Disappointment lodged in her throat, but she refused to acknowledge it.

He was Lord Haldane's knight. He was not for her, she knew, but as she undressed in the dark, she felt the fingers of desire slip like smooth satin across her skin.

The water felt soft as lily petals as it rose up her legs. She waded in farther, then swam, letting the waves float over her. Her hair streamed across her back, caressing, teasing. Overhead, the beleaguered moon shone for a moment between tattered clouds, causing silvered images to dance on the rippled surface of the water. And there it seemed she saw Boden's face. His eyes were half closed, his lips curled up in that expression that was distinctly his. Hair as black as midnight seemed to move across the face of the stream.

But suddenly a movement caught her eye. She glanced toward shore and he was there in the flesh, as if summoned by her desire, his face shadowed, his body shrouded in darkness. She knew it was him, could feel it in the beat of her heart.

And suddenly nothing mattered. Life was short. Her time with him was shorter still. Soon they would part. Too soon. The words echoed in her mind, and without thought, without volition, she rose from the water.

Sweet Saint Stephen! Boden tried to turn away—to think. But all his blood had suddenly drained from his brain into other regions that demanded it more. So he lowered his expectations and simply tried to keep breathing as he watched her approach.

The moon, three quarters full, shone bright as a silver penny, gilding her face, caressing her breasts, falling like fairy dust on the freckles across her nose and cheeks.

And suddenly she was there, before him, like an angel.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she placed a finger to his lips.

"I know ye are a knight and vowed to loyalty," she whispered. "I know ye are true and strong and disciplined. But tonight. Just tonight, I need ye."

"A damsel in distress!" he murmured. "I can hardly refuse."

With a smile, she kissed him. Her touch was like a spark on dry tinder, burning up any hope of resistance. So he would lose his knighthood. So he would be ostracized. So he would be drawn and quartered. There were worse things.

He swept her into his arms, kissing her, caressing her, no more able to stop the embrace than he could stop the beating of his heart.

Her hands were warm and impatient, pulling, prodding, slipping the clothes from his body, and suddenly he was naked, too. Her breasts pressed against his chest. He moaned at the impact and deepened the kiss, savoring, loving, melting in her heat, in her desire.

"Boden!" Her tone was throaty, driving him wild. "Boden."

He drew away a fraction of an inch.

"Tis raining," she said.

And so it was. But who cared?

He kissed her again, but she slipped out of his arms, grabbed his hand, and pulled him into the water. It rose up to his knees. Fear coiled around his throat. He hated the water, but she was going deeper, and he could not stay behind. The stream lapped at his thighs, rose to his waist. Panic welled up, but still she went on. Waves washed across his ribs, and now he noticed that her breasts were nearly hidden beneath the surface.

"No farther," he said, pulling her into his arms. "I cannot bear to have your beauty hidden from me."

Their lips met. Panic faded. Desire roared within him. Her hands were everywhere, caressing, smoothing. Hot pleasure touched him where her hands ventured. Ecstasy waited.

He skimmed his fingers down her back, over her buttocks. She shivered beneath his touch and suddenly her legs were wrapped about his waist and he slipped inside her.

She enveloped him like a warm, velvet sheath. He tilted his head back, feeling as if he might explode, and pulled her more tightly against him. He heard her moan of pleasure, felt her nipples press hard and warm against his chest. The next moan was his own.

"Ahh, lass, what magic do you work here?"

She arched against him. "Tis ye that is the magician," she murmured. Her eyes were closed, her beauty surreal.

"Then let me make our worries disappear, if only for a moment," he said, and pressed into her.

Their rhythm increased. Desire had built to a crashing cascade, driving them on. She rocked against him. He pushed back. She moaned louder, pressed again, arched hard and tight against him.

He watched her face as ecstasy took her, and thus his own release could not be delayed.

For a moment, he thought his legs would give way, but the buoyancy of the water and his own freed spirit kept him upright. Her thighs loosened from around his waist. Her feet slipped to the sand, but he couldn't bear to be parted from her, and so he lifted her into his arms and bore her to shore.

The rain was still falling, not cold or unfriendly, but warm and soft, caressing them, binding them. He kissed her lips, and then, when the river water no longer cradled her hips, he let her feet slip to the earth.

They stepped out of the water, but when Sara reached for her clothes,, he couldn't bear to be separated from her even by a layer of cloth.

Retrieving his cloak from beneath the shelter of the tree, he wrapped it about them both, then grabbing their clothes, he steered Sara toward the barn.

The door creaked quietly open. They stepped into the soft circle of light. Mettle nickered. Tilly bleated, the mare munched hay—the quiet sounds of contentment.

Boden led Sara beneath the hayloft and spread the horsehide onto a corner of the floor where they could not be seen from the perch up above. No words were spoken as they lay down upon its soft warmth. And in the shelter of his cloak, he kissed her.

The tiny flame from the lantern offered them little light, and yet Boden's pleasure was not dimmed, for he could feel every curve of her delicate body, could taste the sweetness of her lips, and when her fingers brushed feather light across his chest, he let the feelings shiver into his soul. Finally there was nothing to do but love her again, soft and slow, bringing them both to ecstasy until she fell asleep in his arms.

He watched her from inches away, memorizing her every feature, etching every detail in his mind, her hair drying to golden glory, her face pale and soft, caressed by butterfly lashes.

She was his. If only for this moment, she was his. And regardless of the outcome—regardless of everything, he would keep her safe. Thus, he would do what he could to make the journey more pleasant for her.

Quiet as morning, he rose from her side.

Sara slipped through her dreams on gossamer wings. Boden's hands were warm and strong against her skin. Raindrops, water-lily soft, kissed her face as waves sloshed against her backside.

Pleasure washed gently across her. She was safe, she was warm, all was right with the world.

The baby cried again from above. Sara sat up with a start. Reality hit her hard. She was naked and alone, covered with nothing but Boden's abandoned cloak.