The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides) (37 page)

Breakfast was heavenly—warm barley meal cooked with honey, dark bread with butter, and a sweet wine. Even Margaret ate her fill, though she kept careful watch of everyone in the hall.

Eventually, sated and tired, they were led up the curving stone stairs to a small anteroom.

The serving girl pushed the door open. "Lord David asked me to prepare you a bath."

And there it was—a large wooden tub. A conduit ran from the wall, spilling water into the basin. Beside it, two women emptied buckets of hot water into it.

Sara sighed. "You've my everlasting gratitude."

The girl smiled. "If you'll but test the water, we'll fetch what is needed."

Sara entered the room. Margaret followed cautiously behind, and Boden, nearly as large as the doorway, leaned against the jamb and watched as she dipped her fingers into the water.

A thought flashed through her mind—two people in a similar tub, their hands roving... She blushed, refusing to look at the knight who filled the doorway.

"M'lady?"

"Tis perfect," she said, straightening quickly. "Sir Boden will bathe first."

"Nay." His tone was low, drawing her gaze against her will.

Memories flashed between them, hot and torrid. She felt suddenly as if she had been struck with something broad and flat, stealing her breath and her thoughts.

"Please." Twas a word spoken out of context, and suddenly even she didn't know what it meant.

The world faded to nothing. There was only him and her and a tub of perfect water.

"M'lady?" asked the maid.

"Please!" she said, drawing from her trance with a jolt. "Sir Boden, ye must bathe first."

For a moment she thought he would not respond, but finally he lifted his weight from the door.

"I will await your pleasure," he said, and left her to her raging thoughts.

The room seemed strangely silent.

"Would you like me to stay and assist you while you bathe, lady?" asked the girl.

He awaited her pleasure. What did that mean? Sara's mind felt boggled. Her body weak. And for a moment, she was tempted almost beyond control to go after him.

"M'lady?"

"Ohh. Nay!" She had said the word sharply and drew a breath now to try again. "Nay. That will not be necessary. Thank ye."

"As you wish. There are soaps and towels beside the basin."

Sara thanked her again, and soon the room was empty but for herself and Margaret.

She turned to the girl. Margaret watched her, and suddenly Sara wondered what the child could read in her flushed face.

"Well," she said, turning away, feeling flustered. "Shall we bathe?"

No answer. She turned back to the child, who shook her head rapidly.

"No bath?" She dipped her fingers in the water. "Tis warm."

Margaret shook her head again.

Sara reached for the bar of soap and lifted it to her nose. "Ahhh," she sighed, "lavender." She lifted the next, then closed her eyes as a thousand memories rushed through her mind. "And heather,"

she whispered, remembering the wild hills of her homeland.

The girl's eyes were as wide as goose eggs. Sara drew herself back to the present. "Come, Margaret, smell. Which scent do ye prefer?"

The child took a scant step forward, then another, until finally she was close enough for Sara to lift the soap to her dirt-streaked nose.

Sara smiled. "And this is the scent of my hills," she said, lifting the other soap for the girl's inspection. "Tis heather."

Margaret smelled that one too. Marten slithered out of her gown and down her arm to test the scents then scratch insultingly at his nose. In a moment, he crawled down her skirt and up the wooden tub to dip his paws in the water.

"So which do ye think?" Sara asked, watching the girl and feeling a thousand tender thoughts touch her. "Or would ye like to soak whilst ye consider it?"/

The girl glanced at the tub and gnawed at her lip.

Sara waited in silence, and finally the words were spoken in whispered reverence.

"Which is Sir Boden's favorite?" Margaret asked.

The detangling process must have hurt, Sara thought, for the snarls in Magaret's hair went clear to the scalp. Still, the child sat in the cooling water, not voicing a complaint as Sara wrestled with the knots. Finally the job was finished.

Sara shampooed her own hair and Margaret mimicked the task, choosing the heather-scented bar. Then they washed thoroughly while Marten walked round and round the edge of the tub, testing the water at regular intervals. Finally, trying to overreach, he fell in with a splash.

In the end, Marten, too, got a thorough scrubbing. The three of them emerged from the tub, squeaky clean and sweet-smelling.

Their clothing had been taken away by the maidservants, and so, uncertain what else to do, they wrapped in the linen towels supplied and wandered sleepily through the arched doorway to the adjacent room given for their use.

And there was the bed. Twas six feet wide if it was an inch. Covered with a fine velvet counterpane, it was topped and curtained in the same rich, green fabric.

Sara turned her attention from the bed to the girl. Margaret glanced at Sara in disbelief, and then they smiled.

It was impossible to guess how long they slept. But finally Sara opened her eyes. The bright light from the narrow window had faded a bit, and her stomach felt empty.

"M'lady." A light knock sounded at the door, making Sara realize twas the same noise that had awakened her.

"Aye," she called, then cleared her voice and tried again. "Aye."

"I was told to bring your clothes."

"Oh." They must have slept for quite some time indeed if their clothing had already been washed and dried. Glancing across the bed, Sara saw that Margaret still slept at the far side of the wide mattress. "Come in," she called, not wanting to wake the girl.

The maid entered, but instead of carrying the much-abused gowns surrendered to the laundress, she bore something else entirely—gayly colored attire complete with undergarments.

Sara lifted her gaze to the servant's. "Either ye have a wonderfully talented laundress or these be not our gowns."

The girl smiled shyly. "Your lord sent these."

Sir Boden, Sara thought. But he was not her lord. He was not her husband. He was only her love. Her heart ached, and there was nothing to do but accept the gifts.

"He asked that I suggest you wear these when you come down to sup."

"Is it that time already?'' Sara asked.

"Nearly so," answered the maid.

A moment later, the door closed behind the serving girl.

Sara touched the sleeve of the largest gown. Had Boden chosen it himself? And if so, where and how had he obtained it? Had he imagined how she would look in it? And what was he doing now?

Sara shook the thoughts from her head and turned to Margaret.

The girl slept curled into a tiny ball, all but the top of her head hidden beneath the covers. The weather was warm, but she was so thin, mayhap it took a good deal to keep her from becoming chilled.

Reaching out gently, Sara touched a wayward strand of the girl's hair. Much to her surprise it had proven to be the color of late summer wheat—a somewhat darker version of her own. In truth, she could have been Sara's own child. Her heart twisted. If only she could find a place of peace apart from the world they knew, a place where she could nurture the people she loved, where she could feed them and caress them, where they could laugh and love and trust.

Carefully pressing the blanket lower, Sara examined the child's face. The scar on her temple was still red, but the bruising around it had faded to a tannish brown.

Sara touched it gently, smoothing her fingers from the brow into the silky hair. If only life were different. There were few things love and blackberry scones couldn't cure. But right now she could only think of staying alive, of protecting Thomas as she had vowed to do. She sighed again and pulled the blanket higher.

Twas then the girl awoke.

There was not an instant of time between sleep and wakefulness, not a sigh, not a blink, not a twitch. One moment she slept, the next she was out of bed and backed against the wall, her eyes wild, one hand clutching the marten, the other holding up her sagging towel.

Dear Lord, what had this child endured that a few hours of sleep would return her to such a wild state, make her forget that Sara meant her no harm?

Seconds ticked painfully away as Sara tried to marshal her senses, tried to find something to say.

"Tis nearly time to sup," she said, her heart twisting at the sight of the terror in Margaret's face.

The girl bit her lip, breathing hard and glancing toward the door.

"And my hair is all atangle," Sara said, running her fingers through her disarrayed locks and praying time would heal the child's wounded soul. "We'd best not dawdle. Tell ye what," she added, shifting her gaze to the gowns on the bed. "Ye dress whilst I plait my hair, then I'll see to yours."

Margaret shifted her gaze to the gowns. Her eyes grew wider and she pressed even harder against the wall behind her.

Pain and regret felt hard and bitter, and for one evil second, Sara hoped the girl's mother had not only died, but had died painfully.

"There is nothing to fear, lass," she said softly, no longer able to pretend all was well and normal. "I will not hurt ye. Indeed, had my greatest wish been fulfilled I would have a daughter of mine own." Silence filled the room. Sara's throat grew tight with the force of her emotions. "She would be just like you," she whispered. "With all your goodness and beauty and spirit."

The girl's lips parted slightly and she blinked as if confused by the other's words. Then she scowled. "I am evil," she lisped. "A witch."

"Who told ye that?" Sara demanded, lurching from the bed.

Margaret cowered against the wall.

Sara stopped, drawing a deep breath and shaking her head in an effort to calm her emotions.

"Listen to me, lass," she said softly. "It does not matter who told ye that lie, for a lie it surely is. Twas the speaker who was evil. Twas the speaker who did not know good when she saw it." It took all her strength to keep from reaching out to draw the child into her arms. "For ye are good, lass. Naught but good."

Still the girl didn't move. But mayhap her eyes had lost a bit of their frantic hopelessness.

"Ye are good," Sara repeated then smiled. "Sir Boden knows it. See, twas he who sent ye the gown."

The hall was crowded with soldiers and servants. The day had passed quickly for Boden for he'd done little but sleep. Exhausted, he had fallen onto the first available cot and passed out. Then, finally awakening far past noon, he had bathed and dressed, but his thoughts never left her. What else was there to consider but how she looked, how she felt, how she laughed?

Where was she?

David had somehow managed to obtain suitable clothing to replace their own tattered ones. The garments had subsequently been sent to the master chambers.

So where was Sara and the child? Maybe Boden shouldn't have allowed them to use the master's room, for David was hardly above reproach when it came to women.

Blackblade glanced toward the stairway. Trenchers were being delivered to the high table by rushing servants, and the hall was louder than ever.

"Sir," said a young man at his elbow, "will you have wine or ale?"

Boden glared at the stairway again. Where the devil were they?

"Sir—"

"What?" Boden asked, irritably turning his attention to the server.

"Will you have wine or—"

He stopped in mid-sentence, his eyes going wide and his jaw dropping slightly as he stared into the distance.

Boden deepened his scowl. "What?" he said again, but suddenly he realized that the hall had gone silent and that every face had turned toward the stairs.

He whipped his head around and caught his breath. There at the bottom of the steps stood a pair of delicate angels. He stood without realizing it, drawn inexorably toward them.

The taller of the angels was adorned in a gown of rich, mauve brocade. The neckline was square and low, revealing pale, perfect skin, as cool and regal as the lace in her slashed sleeves, as soft as the velvet of the gown.

Her hair, plaited and wound about her skull, looked like a delicate circlet of gold.

And Margaret... She was clean. Her hair was adorned in exactly the same manner as Sara's, and her mint-green gown was graced by tiny bows in the center of the bodice and at the top of her softly puffed sleeves.

A pair of angels—of princesses—of goddesses, come to grace lowly man.

But suddenly Boden's poetry came to a grinding halt, for he realized the angels' eyes were wide and bewildered and that they were holding hands. It made a sweet effect, and yet, when he looked closely, he realized their knuckles were white with the strain as they stared at the sea of unknown faces before them.

They were afraid—the two of them—his ladies.

All but sprinting from his spot, Boden raced across the floor toward them. But just then he saw another figure bearing down on them from the right.

"Sweet Sara," said David, somehow reaching them first. To Boden's growling anger, the other knight raised her knuckles to his lips. "I knew you were beautiful. But I was a fool, for I didn't know you would challenge the very sun with your radiance."

St. Bernard's butt, thought Boden, give him two seconds alone with David and the man would think the sun had
burst
in his head.

But in that instant Sara lifted her gaze. In her eyes Boden saw a thousand thoughts, a thousand emotions, a thousand yearnings. Then her gaze shifted worriedly to the girl who tried to hide behind her skirts.

It was all very clear.

Boden stepped around David. Margaret went absolutely still. Her eyes met his. Her breath stopped in her throat.

"Margaret," he said softly. "But nay, it cannot be my Maggie for she has no marten on her neck."

The girl bit her lip, then, slipping her hand from Sara's, dipped it into her opposite sleeve to pull out the rodent.

Boden could do nothing but laugh.