The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides) (36 page)

His arms shook, but he pulled himself along the partly submerged log until he was in the center.

It stretched almost all the way to the opposite shore, but right now he didn't care. Closing his eyes, he managed one single prayer, and then, like so much laundry on the line, he draped his body over the slick wood and vomited into the water.

An eternity later, he lifted his head and found, to his dull surprise, that there were scratches up his neck and a weasel clinging to his back.

For a moment, he was tempted almost beyond control to drown the damned thing. But he lacked the strength, and so, pulling himself hand over hand, he yanked himself clumsily toward shore.

Finally, less than two yards from the bank, the branch ended. He stopped as his stomach churned. He wasn't about to venture through those last deadly few feet of water. He wasn't going to.

He'd simply rather stay where he was and die.

"Boden! Boden!"

He lifted his head. It was heavy and dull, but even so, he could see Sara, splashing into the water as if there was no great danger. And behind him, like a tiny water nymph, galloped Margaret.

Why couldn' t they let him die like a proper hero? Self-disgust spurred through him. Snatching the weasel from his shoulder, he let go of the branch and splashed into the water. It washed against his thighs, but no higher. And soon, somehow, he was in Sara's arms.

"Boden!" She kissed his face, half dragging him from the water. "Boden! Dear God, ye could have been killed. Ye could have died!"

"That thought crossed my mind," he rasped. But he hadn't died and here he was, in her arms, her tears warm against his face. The roiling water receded from his mind. She kissed him again, sweeping the hair from his face, kissing his ear where Marten had scratched it.

"Why did you do it?" she whispered.

Maggie stepped forward. They turned to her in unison. Her brown, solemn eyes were bright with unshed tears. She was breathing hard through her parted lips, and her small, grubby hands were shaking. Against her pale skin, the scar on her forehead showed up with vivid contrast.

Boden drew a deep steadying breath. There seemed very little to say, barring a hysterical, "That damned weasel nearly killed me," which didn't seem very heroic. So, "Here's your rodent," he said and then handed him to the girl.

They didn't delay by the river. In truth, Sir Boden Blackblade, the brave knight, had little desire to linger by the noisy waters, even though Sara was wont to fuss over him, so they tacked up the horses and journeyed on.

By nightfall, fatigue weighed like a millstone on his back. But he refused to stop.

"Sara," he said, turning in the saddle to look past his stallion at the menagerie pulled by the charger, "crawl into the cart and rest. Mettle will follow the mare."

Surprisingly, she did as requested, and so they traveled forth.

At some point during the night Boden felt the evil creep over him. Despair rode him, and every shortcoming he possessed seemed in that moment to be amplified a hundredfold, but it passed, leaving him tense with fear.

He pressed the horses onward.

Sometime far after midnight, they came to a road. Boden halted the horses and stared into the darkness, waiting, listening, feeling. But all seemed safe. And so they turned, and picking up their pace, hurried toward the northeast.

Sara's dreams ranged across a broad scope, through laughter and tears and into the years beyond, but in every image, against every backdrop, was a knight—dark, loyal, true. He was beside her at every turn, holding her in his arms, loving her against all odds.

"Blackblade!"

Sara awoke with a jolt at the sound of a strange man's voice. Beside her, Tilly quit chewing her cud long enough to rise to her feet in the cart. Margaret slept on, curled up like a bundle of rags beside Thomas.

"Blackblade! What the hell happened to you?"

Sara sat up, pushing wayward strands of hair from her face as she tried to get her bearings.

"Tis a long story, David." Boden sat relaxed atop the bony mare. "Are you considering letting us in or should we travel on?"

"Travel on?" Laughter. Sara turned toward" it, realizing finally that they had come somehow to a castle. They were now on its drawbridge. "I don't think you could travel on, my friend. Not on that nag."

"You might be surprised what one can do when sufficiently motivated," said Sir Boden dryly.

"Ahh. So that's the way of it," said the other, then, "I cannot bear to miss this tale. Raise the portcullis, lads."

The iron gate lifted amidst the creak and rattle of chains. Feeling ridiculous, Sara crawled from the cart bed onto the seat, trying to press her hair into some semblance of order. Obviously this man was an acquaintance of Sir Boden, and the thought of her disheveled appearance made her cheeks flame. But there was little she could do about it. A half a lifetime in the wilderness had not improved her sense of style.

In a matter of moments, they had traveled beneath the portcullis and were encased by high brownstone walls.

"I hadn't thought it possible, old boy, but you look even worse close up," said the man who approached them. He was not a particularly handsome fellow, nor tall, nor brawny, but he had a bearing that suggested he knew none of those things. His gaze skimmed over the makeshift cart, the diapers drying on the back, the goat that perused him with baleful eyes, the bundle of children, and finally Sir Boden's scarred and wounded body. "Tell me the tale."

"I see your manners haven't improved with the inheritance of Avian," Boden said. "The lady is weary and hungry. Might we not break the fast before I satisfy your bloodthirsty curiosity?"

"Ahh, the lady," said David, skimming his gaze to Sara before approaching the cart. "And who might the lady be?"

He bowed at the waist, then straightened and reached for her hand.

Sara felt her blush deepen, but restrained from trying to press her hair into place, for there was little hope. "Sara," she said, raising her hand to his. "Of the Forbes."

"And Blackblade's wife?" he asked.

"Nay." The blush deepened, and she felt the fool.

"How glad I am to hear that, Sara of the Forbes." He kissed her knuckles. "Might you be of the Forbes that rule Glen Creag Castle?"

"My uncle is the laird," she said.

"Truly?" He seemed delighted to hear it. "Tis said the women of Glen Creag are the most beautiful in all the world."

She tugged gently at her hand, but he didn't relinquish his grip. "I am sure you are thinking of my cousins."

His gaze didn't travel from her face. "I am certain I am not," he said.

"David!" Boden's voice was sharp.

"Aye?" Still he didn't look away.

"About that food..."

"Tell me, sweet Sara, whose daughter are you?" David asked, still intent on holding her hand.

But now Margaret awoke and narrowed her eyes at David.

"Colin Forbes was my father," Sara said, glancing at Margaret.

"Was?"

"He died some months back."

"My sincerest condolences," said David. "I've heard many good things about—"

But now Margaret sat up. Marten crawled from her gown and onto the seat of the cart where he leaned from the wooden plank to sniff at David's sleeve.

Releasing Sara's hand, David turned his gaze first to the weasel and then to Margaret, his expression startled as he searched for words. "And who might this be?"

"Give us a meal and a bath and I'll tell you the tale," said Sir Boden.

"A deal then," said David, laughing. "And my apologies, lady, for making you wait. Please. Let me help you dismount," he said, and reached for her hand again. But just then, Margaret grabbed Marten and scrambled over the seat holding the weasel before her like a shield.

Sara glanced at her in surprise, then dismounted on her own before walking to the back to lift out Thomas.

David widened his eyes even further. "The tale gets more and more interesting, I see."

"It's worth the wait," said Boden, and lifting his leg over the cantle, grimaced as pain shot through his thigh.

Sara was beside the mare in a heartbeat, cradling Thomas in one arm and reaching for him with the other.

"Careful," she said. "Please." Their gazes met. Warmth flooded her like morning sunshine. "Or ye'll break open your thigh wound yet again."

"More and more interesting," said David.

Both Sara and Boden raised their gazes to their host.

"Please," he said, indicating the open doors of the nearby hall with a flourish. "Enter."

The hall was large, capped by huge beams overhead and protected from winter drafts by colorful tapestries that lined the walls. It was empty now, but for a few soldiers who lingered at the trestle tables.

"Phoebe," David called to a woman across the room.

She hustled toward him, her broad hips wiggling madly. "Yes, m'lord." Her tone was gruff and her scowl suggested she had other things to do than his bidding. But suddenly her expression changed to one of ecstatic joy-

"Sir Boden!" she cried, wrapping him in dimpled, white arms.

"Phoebe." Boden smiled nervously down at her. "Tis glad I am to see you."

"Glad to see me? Is that all you've to say after this long time? But I would hardly recognize you.

What have you done to yourself? Have you been going off to battle without breakfast again?"

Boden's laughter was sweet and low. "Nay, Phoebe. But I fear I've had a bit of trouble."

"A bit!" She looked him over from head to toe. "Twould appear you've been living in trouble.

And a couple stone too thin you be." Propping her hands on. her generous hips, she continued. "And I had such hopes you would straighten up once you got shed of Sir David here."

"Phoebe," David said, nodding to Sara. "The lady has brought a babe into our midst."

The big woman's jaw dropped, then she clapped her hands in sudden joy, apparently just recognizing the bundle Sara carried. "A babe," she crooned. "Ohh, and such a wee little fellow, too.

Might I hold 'im?"

Sara flicked her gaze indecisively to Boden.

"Not to fear, Sara," he said. "Phoebe is Avian's official mother hen. Chicks come from the country round about to gather beneath her sheltering wings. Do they not, Phoebe?"

"I've been waiting half my life to hold one of you rogues' babes," Phoebe said, nodding toward David, but reaching for the babe. Sara placed Thomas in her arms. The older woman reverently spread the blanket back from his face. "Ohhh, what a beauty. What a bonny babe. How I've been longing. But 'is lordship 'ere won't give me a single one to spoil."

"Well, Phoebe, if that's all you wish for..." David began, but the old lady interrupted with a snort even as she crooned to the bundle in her arms.

"I want you wed right and proper's what I want. Like our Boden here," she said, beaming up at the battle-scarred knight.

Boden cleared his throat.' 'I'm afraid that's not quite—" he began, but David cut him off.

"Well, until that happy eventuality, mayhap you could see to the lady's comfort instead of wearing her ear off with your chatter," said David.

"Your pardon, lady," said Phoebe, sending her master an evil look. "But what good is a man that scatters his seed like chaff to the wind?"

"I..." Sara searched hopelessly for a response.

"Ahh, but you're the smart one, you are, Lady Sara, landing yourself our Blackblade. Not everyone could see his worth. Tis said takes a lady of quality to see through the rust to the kettle below."

"I fear—"

"And here you be, a baby already in your arms. Lord David, you should be ashamed for not—"

"The child's not mine," Boden said abruptly.

Phoebe's mouth fell open. Her brows rose. She settled her gaze on Boden, then on Sara, then on Boden.

"The lady is not my wife, Phoebe, though..." He stopped. Sara stood in breathless anticipation, every nerve taut. "The lady is not mine," he repeated, softer now. "I am but delivering her to her master."

"Oh." Phoebe could not have looked more crestfallen had he declared the king of England was a wart-covered frog. "But the babe..."

"Lord Haldane's," Boden said, his tone curt.

"Haldane!" David said. "You're still loyal to that—"

He stopped abruptly and glanced at the men in the hall. "We shall talk later. Phoebe, take care of the babe, and mayhap you could see to the..." He paused as he tried to determine what to call Margaret, who half hid behind Sara's back. "The... girl?"

"Margaret shall stay with me," Sara said. "Please, if you would be so kind as to care for Thomas that would be more than gracious. There is a goat in the bailey that gives the milk he is accustomed to."

"A goat?" Phoebe began, skimming her gaze over Sara's modest bosom.

"You'll find the nanny and the milk bladder in the cart the lady arrived in," Boden said, his tone and expression brooking no more comment.

"In the cart. Aye m'lady. Twould be my pleasure," said Phoebe, and bobbing a curtsy, hurried off.

They were shown to the table set on a dais in the center of the hall. David pulled out his own padded chair at the end of the trestle. "For you, my lady," he said.

Sara sat, but before David could commandeer the chair to her right, Margaret had rushed into it, her eyes wide as she kept the stranger from sitting next to Sara. David raised his brows. Boden smiled, just the corner of a grin.

The girl met his gaze, and then, like a tiny coy fox, she smiled too. Sara couldn't help but notice the exchange and as Boden seated himself on Sara's left, she felt her heart rip. So the girl had found a champion, and insisted on protecting him.

"Lord David," Sara said, diverting his attention from Margaret's obvious ploy, "how do you know Sir Blackblade?"

"From more battles than I can recall," he said. "I would happily regale you with the tales, but I see you are hungry and I am outmaneuvered." He nodded toward a server who appeared from the kitchen with a tray. "Eat now, sweet Sara," he said, and lifting her hand, kissed it again. "I will speak with you later."

"You owe me a tale," he said to Boden before exiting the hall.