The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides) (35 page)

"Ye wouldn't want Marten to miss his chance to play in the water," Sara added.

Margaret chewed her lip. Marten popped his sleek head out near her neck as if agreeing with the fact, and finally, very slowly, the girl made her way toward the stream.

Boden was already seated on a rock with his impromptu pole stretched out over the water.

"Yours is there," he said, motioning toward the branch he'd left several rods away.

Marten rushed out of her gown and down her skirt to slap at the water with his sharp-clawed toes, and finally Margaret picked up her pole and sat on the bank.

Twas nearly an hour later that they returned to camp together.

"Just in time ye be," Sara said, dropping a wild scallion into the boiling kettle. "What did ye catch?"

Boden held up two scrawny fish, none exceeding three inches in length.

Sara laughed. "Judging by their size, ye must surely be a knight," she said.

He grimaced at her. "I was busy training."

"Truly, and how did the wee trainee do?" she asked, turning to the girl.

Shy as a kitten, Margaret drew forth her stringer. Five handsome fishes hung there, each more than a foot in length.

Sara clapped her hands in glee. "Well, ye've certainly earned yer supper, lass."

One corner of Margaret's mouth turned up, just showing the wide gap where her front teeth were missing.

"However, the knight did not do so well," Sara said, taking the fish from Margaret. "Shall we let him eat anyway?"

The shabby child hunched her shoulders and turned her wide solemn eyes up to Boden's face.

He watched her watch him.

"Aye," she lisped in a nearly soundless whisper. "'E tried 'is best."

"So how did ye get her to talk?" Sara asked, turning the last piece of fish she was smoking over the fire.

The moon was very bright. Far off, a wildcat shrieked, but it did nothing but make this spot seem cozier, for near the fire, the children slept, and not far away, Sir Boden Blackblade rested with his back to a bent elder as he watched her.

She approached him slowly, memorizing his face, the slant of his jaw, the tilt of his head. "I would like to know your trick."

He shrugged "I'm a knight, you know."

How could he thrill her so? How could such simple things seem so important? "So knighthood enables ye to heal the mute?"

"Of course. Tis but one of the many remarkable but necessary skills."

"For knighthood," she said and sat down next to him.

"Aye. That and a thousand other things," he said airily.

"And what things are those, Sir Knight?" she asked.

His gaze caught hers. The playful moment was ended.

"Sara." His voice was soft and low, suggesting a hundred tortured thoughts.

"What?"

He reached out slowly and touched her face. The feelings flashed like lightning from his fingertips. "We have almost reached Knolltop." He paused. She watched a muscle dance in his lean jaw. "Soon you'll be with Lord Haldane."

She couldn't look at him any longer, couldn't face him. She turned to stand, but he tugged her back down.

"How will I let you go?"

"Shh." She whispered the sound and pressed her fingers to his lips. "We mustn't talk about it."

He pulled her hand away. "I cannot let you go."

"Please!" She jerked to her feet, terror and pain ripping through her heart. Facing away from him, she squeezed her eyes closed. "We will do what we must."

"What we must? Even if that means giving yourself to one man while yearning for another?"

She drew in a deep breath. She would not make him an exile. She would not let him deny his vows to his lord. "Aye," she said. "I will bear what I must." Pain ticked away. Silence lingered. "I can bear anything, so long as I have these moments with ye," she whispered and turned.

He looked at her for a long, painful moment then he stood and walked away.

Morning dawned thick with fog, but it was no darker than Boden's mood. They traveled in relative silence, only the wheels of the cart and the muffled clop of the horses' hooves disturbing the stillness.

They stopped only for a short time in the afternoon, then moved on again. Margaret said nothing, and despite her laughter and speech of the previous day, seemed little changed from when they had first found her. She huddled against the goat in the back of the cart, cradling Thomas in her lap. Tilly chewed her cud in utter content, seeming to be the only one unmoved by the pervasive gloom.

Clouds, thick as curdled cream settled in. It began ta drizzle. They clopped on down the road, their hearts growing heavier by the moment until Boden finally stopped the mare and turned back.

"Sara?"

"What?" Her tone was high and tight, and when she lifted her face, he saw the fear that reflected his own. It set a warning bell clanging in his mind.

"Turn off here. Quickly," he said.

She did so, urging Mettle into the woods. Margaret glanced anxiously at the road they left behind, then huddled even lower in the cart as if hiding from something unseen. So she felt it too.

"Hurry!" Boden ordered.

Sara slapped the lines against Mettle's back. He broke into a trot.

"Faster!" Boden said, for it seemed as if the clouds themselves were lowering on them, closing in.

She slapped the lines again, but the forest was no place for a cart. Wood creaked against wood.

The cart jerked to a halt, lodged against a bent tree.

Boden slid from the saddle, grabbed a branch from the forest floor, and pried upward at the cart. It creaked away from the tree that bound it.

He heard hoofbeats thundering down the road on the wings of evil. Boden cowered, terror smothering him.

But the noise thundered past and his breathing eased.

"Go!" His voice was barely audible.

They moved through the woods like haunted wraiths, barely daring to breathe. The terror slipped a notch, leaving a bitter residue. But they did not stop, even to feed Thomas, though the going was heavy and hard and swamps often clogged their wheels.

Daylight finally faded into dusk. Darkness followed. Still they traveled on until they came to a river. It was loud and raucous, white capped and wild.

Boden stopped the mare, glancing to his right and left. Little could be seen except for a fading ribbon of silvery waves and the dark mask of trees overhead. He turned to Sara. She looked tired but alert as she too gazed off along the river.

"I dunna feel anything," she said.

It was, mayhap, a strange comment, and yet he knew what she meant. The evil could be as tangible as a wall of stone, but now it was gone.

"We'll pass the night here," Boden said, and dismounted.

They didn't attempt to light a fire. Inside a thicket of blackthorn bushes, Boden found a spot that was relatively dry. Stomping down the undergrowth, he laid a blanket down, and after feeding Margaret a bit of dried fish, they put the children down to sleep.

The night was long and oppressive, disturbed by hunting beasts and accented by lingering vestiges of fear. In the darkness, Boden roamed the banks of the river, searching for a place to cross.

Morning finally dawned. The clouds had broken up a bit. Smoked fish was getting tiresome, but he had no wish to chance a fire.

Even Thomas seemed affected by the gloom and cried more than normal. The sharp sounds seemed to pierce the air around them.

"We must be moving," Boden said finally.

"Do ye ken where we are?" Sara asked.

She looked worried, he thought, and would have given the world to take that worry from her, to give her a place where peace was the norm, and laughter was as common as speech.

"I know this area a bit," he said. "There should be a bridge some miles to the east of here, but it's on the open road."

"We dare not risk it," she said and he nodded, remembering the direction the riders had been traveling.

"Downstream, a half a league or so, there's a place we might cross."

They loaded into the cart. The going was even slower along the river, for the earth was boggy and the underbrush thick. Still, they reached the predetermined place before noon.

Much to Boden's dismay, the river looked no less intimidating in the bright light of day. It was a good furlong wide, bedeviled with rocks and rapids. Boden stared at it queasily, watching the water roll over itself in its wild exit to the sea. He would be glad to let it go without disturbing it.

"This is the place?" Sara asked. She was staring into his face.

Boden scowled and looked down at her. Exactly what could she read in his expression? Could she see the memories of his brother's drowning? "Aye. This is it." His tone sounded no more enthusiastic than he felt.

They sat in silence for a moment, then, "Shall I and the children cross first?" she asked.

"Aye. That's a good idea. You and the goat and the baby and the child—just to make certain the water's safe for me."

She lifted the reins to drive Mettle forward, but he stopped her.

"St. Peter's pate! I jest, Sara. I will test the depth first. Find the best place to cross."

With that, he dismounted, took a deep breath, and stepped into the water. It swirled around his feet like hungry carrion. His stomach turned at the same rate. He stepped back out, tried to think of a reason to change his mind, and finally satisfied himself with a short sojourn from the water's edge to find a long, stout branch.

Finally, he could think of no more excuses and stepped back into the water. It swirled and threatened and bullied, making it difficult to keep his feet in the rapid waves. He ignored it like a true warrior, until it rose nearly to his waist. Then he pushed down the bile that curled into his throat and refused to look. But finally he was back on shore.

"Twill be safest to take the cart across empty," he said, his tone harsh. "The floor is uneven and rocky, but if we're careful all should be well."

In a matter of minutes he was mounted bareback on Mettle. Tilly was left in the box to fend for herself.

To Boden's eternal amazement, they reached the other side with all parties still alive.

Breathing hard, he unhooked the cart. Mettle turned a disgusted look on him. "Unless you'd like me to tell the mare about your fear of thunderstorms, I'd suggest you keep quiet," he said. The stallion flicked his ears back irritably. Boden mounted the gray bareback and turned him into the water again.

Nausea was becoming the norm. Reaching the opposite side was not. Nevertheless he did just that.

He sat soaking wet on his destrier and thanked God for continued survival. But they had no time to spare, for his fear of the water paled in comparison to the fear he had felt at the sound of the riders that followed them. He glanced at Margaret. She drew in her breath sharply and scampered away. He scowled, thinking, mayhap it was best if he didn't take the girl with him anyway, seeing as how his seat was less than perfect with a wounded leg and a barebacked horse.

"Can the three of you ride the mare?" he asked.

But Sara was already gathering the reins and stepping into the near stirrup. Even while carrying a babe she had an amazing fearlessness and grace.

It took little enough coaxing to convince the girl to mount behind her.

Unhitching one of the long lines from Mettle's bit, Boden clipped it to the mare's headstall for extra support lest she lose her footing.

Again the water swirled. Thomas slept peacefully in his sling against Sara's bosom while Margaret sat very still behind her. Only Marten seemed nervous as he poked his pointed head from his mistress's bodice. He disappeared and reappeared again moments later. Yes, only the rodent and the knight were nervous. Wonderful, Boden thought. He was now in the same category as the weasel.

But where he sat very still, with a white-knuckled grip on the reins, the marten twitched and chattered, climbing up on Maggie's shoulder only to scurry down her arm and back up to perch on her head.

Mettle tripped once on a submerged rock. Boden's stomach streaked to his throat, but the stallion righted himself and seemed to chuckle as he did so.

They had nearly reached the safety of the shore when Boden heard a squeal of dismay.

Panicked, he jerked about just in time to see Marten hit the water.

Margaret shrieked again and nearly launched herself from the mare's back.

"Nay!" Sara cried and yanked the child back just in time. "Boden. Help!"

Help? Help? Boden thought. It was a weasel! Just a weasel. It was a pest. It stunk... and it was going under. And the girl was crying and fighting Sara's hold.

"Jesus!" he swore and without another thought dove from Mettle's back.

He hit the water like a flat board, spraying foam in every direction. But the weasel was there, in his hand—for an instant. And then it was gone, swept beneath the current again.

Panic spewed up. It was just a weasel, Boden remembered and turned back. A wave hit him square in the face, knocking his feet out from under him. The undercurrent rolled him down. His head went under. Water filled his nose, sharp and cold as death. His feet hit bottom and he shot to the surface, gasping for air. But he was only there an instant before he was rolled under again. Terror roared in his head. With fingers like claws he grasped for anything to hold onto. There was nothing but frothing water and the memory of his brother's cold, limp body.

His leg banged against something. Agony pierced him, threatening unconsciousness. But he twisted and grabbed. Too late. His lungs burned and his head throbbed. Something brushed against his arm. He snatched at it. It was slick and narrow and twisted wildly in his hand, but he held on with chill desperation, trying to pull himself upward. Out of hell. Back into the sweet air. But suddenly something sharp and wicked sank into his thumb.

He let go of the marten with a shriek of pain. Water filled his mouth, his lungs, and the world went gray.

Something clawed at his neck, his ear, his head, and suddenly, like a miracle, he cleared the water.

Air spurred into his lungs. He flailed again. His feet struck the bottom. He grabbed wildly, and there, at the end of his reach, he found a branch. He grasped it like a lifeline, gulping air that seared his lungs with sweet agony.