The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides) (6 page)

"We've no choice," said Sara. "If the babe does not get milk soon, he will surely die. Please help us."

"Well!" The old man shifted his bird-bright gaze to his wife who met it and reflected the same fierce gleam. "Tilly could fulfill their need."

"Aye. Tilly could." The old crone shifted her gaze to the pair on the horse and back to her husband. "But nay! They'll not have my Tilly."

"There now," soothed the codger, creaking forward to pat his wife's humped back. "Tis for the babe."

"Nay," croaked the woman, grasping her husband's sleeve with gnarled fingers. "Twould break my heart to part with our dear Tilly."

"There there." He patted her hand and shouted the words. "Think of our David. When he was small."

The old woman's face twisted into what might be called a reminiscent smile. "Such a sweet babe."

"Aye, aye. Remember how he would cough?''

The crone nodded. "David. Aye. He did cough."

"Robert's daughter brought by a potent."

"Such a sweet lass."

"Aye, she was, and surely saved our David's life."

The wife scraped a weathered finger below her eye as if wiping away a tear they could not see.

She sniffled once. "But to give up our Tilly..."

"Tis our Christian duty."

She sniffled again, then turned, twisted her husband's tunic in her hands and wailed loudly into it.

"There there." He patted her back as he shouted condolences. "There there."

She continued to cry, loud, hacking noises that echoed in the open space. He patted her again.

She lifted her face, sniffed. He patted.

"Twould not be Christian to—" he began, but suddenly the wife wailed with renewed vigor.

The old man scowled and patted harder. "There there!" he said, more forcefully this time.

"We will pay, of course," Boden said, watching them closely.

The old man nodded, seeming to have no trouble hearing those words. "We would not accept payment, but..." He paused and sniffed as if he, too, might join in his wife's piteous outburst. "We'll have to replace her—"

"Replace Tilly!" the wife sobbed, looking up at them. "It cannot be done."

"I am sorry." Sara's words were little more than a whisper. "If our need were not so great I would not ask."

"Nay." The old woman waved a bent hand. "Ya must do what ya must for the child."

"Aye," her husband agreed quickly. "What'll ya give us for her?"

Boden watched the man for a moment, then opened a pouch behind his saddle and drew out a woolen blanket.

But the old man was already shaking his head as he hobbled forward. "I've got blankets aplenty.

What else have you got in there?"

Frowning, Boden draped the blanket over Mettle's rump and pulled out a tightly wrapped bundle of soft hide. "Tis fine leather," he said. "Carefully tanned and dyed."

"What is it?" the codger asked loudly.

"Tis leather," Boden said. "Ready to be crafted into whatever you need."

"Crafted! Do I look like a bloody tanner? Nay. By the time I got it made into something useful I'd be in the ground. What else have you got?" he asked, dipping his papery hand into the pouch and pulling out another bundle of leather. When he drew it out it fell open to reveal a finely tooled doublet.

The old man smiled toothlessly up at Boden. "Ain't much to ask for the life of a child, I suppose. But it'll do."

Boden scowled at the elderly couple. "I'd rather not part with that."

"Have ya got three pounds instead?" shouted the old man.

Boden leaned back in his saddle. "Might this Tilly be embossed with gold?"

The old man stiffened as if immediately affronted. "If ya don't want her, tis fine by me!"

"Nay!" Sara gasped and turned her pleading eyes up to Boden's. They smote him like twin flames of blue. "Please!" she whispered. "He will surely die else."

Three pounds! Boden had paid only a little more than that for Mettle as a colt. Surely a goat could not be worth such a fortune. But when he glanced down at the woman cradled between his thighs, he knew he could no more refuse her than cut off his own arm.

"We'll try the milk first," Boden said. "If the babe doesn't drink it there will be little reason to take your Tilly from you."

The old woman's gaze shifted quickly to her husband's. He stared back, then jumped as though zapped by some phenomenal idea. "We've already milked her. Come inside."

Boden dismounted, then turned to assist Sara. The baby awoke and set to crying.

"Here. Here." The old man shouted as he motioned to them. "Come along."

They did so. The ceiling beams were low and sooty, the room unlit but for the open door and the hole in the roof where the smoke from their cookfire was meant to escape but didn't. A wooden bucket filled with frothy milk sat atop a table, and a steaming kettle was suspended from a hook near the failing embers.

Sara eased the makeshift sling from her neck. The baby swung erratically, his screaming becoming high-pitched. She soothed, cuddling him against her shoulder. It did little to quiet him, Boden noticed.

"Hold him," she said, pushing the child, sling and all, toward him.

Boden backed quickly away.

The old woman chortled. "Here then. Give the child to me," she said.

Sara did so reluctantly, then untied the gourd from her girdle. Covering the tiny hole with her finger, she ladled a bit of the warm, creamy milk into the receptacle.

Boden watched as she prepared to take the babe back. "Have you fed a child this way before?"

he asked.

"Nay." Sara raised her gaze to his. "Why?"

"In the spring, when the grasses come in fresh, Mettle will rush out into the meadow." He eyed the rich milk. She eyed him. "There's rarely been a time when he hasn't become sick. It seems as if the same might happen with the babe."

"Ye think I should dilute the milk?" she asked.

Boden shrugged. He was far out of his realm, yet it seemed likely that what was good for a colt was good for a babe. "I don't see how it could hurt."

She nodded. Boden took the kettle from its hook near the fire and added a few drops of hot water to the milk.

Sara stirred it in, then, biting her lip, retrieved the screaming child and placed the gourd to his mouth.

How, Boden wondered, could anyone tolerate such a cacophony? And how could such a tiny creature create such noise? He waited, breath held, hoping the sound would cease, but when he looked into the lady's face, he wondered if she even noticed the racket. Emotion was written on her face—a love so deep it stole his breath away.

The child turned away from the gourd, screaming louder still if such was possible. A droplet of milk spilled onto his cheek, seeming unearthly white against his scrunched red face.

"Please drink," Sara whispered, but he would not, so finally she handed the gourd to Boden and eased the child to her shoulder.

She had taken off her truncated cloak. The dragon amulet winked in the early morning light as she turned, swaying gently. Slowly, quietly, she began to sing.

Boden covered the gourd's hole and remained still and silent as the melody built in the small room. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized the language was none he recognized. And yet the words seemed to matter not at all, for the magic of her voice was everything.

Gradually the cries turned to sniffles, the sniffles to silence, and finally, she slipped the babe from her shoulder and onto his back. Still swaying, still singing softly, she motioned for Boden to give her the gourd. He broke out of his trance with a start and handed her the milk.

The baby whimpered. She slipped the impromptu nipple into his mouth, and though her song was still haunting and sweet, Boden saw the worry in her eyes as she waited.

The babe gnawed, scowled then took one suck on the gourd. His fair brows converged, puckering over his midnight blue eyes as though he were contemplating some great, universal mystery.

He paused. Not a soul in the cottage breathed, until finally he sucked again. Milk bubbled from the sides of his mouth as he turned his face away and stuck out his tiny tongue, tasting. And then, like a miracle, he twisted his head back and began to suckle in earnest. Smacking sounds filled the hut. He curled his tiny fist up tight against his chest. The angry color faded from his face. Looking into the mother's eyes, Boden saw tears sparkle in the sunlight.

Something knotted hard and fast in his chest. This woman had stabbed him. Had run from him.

Possibly she had lied to him and was lying still. He had no loyalty for this woman. He had no
feelings
for this woman, he reminded himself.

But what would it be like to feel her fingers soft as morning against his skin? To hear her whisper to him in that satiny voice? The questions caught him by surprise. He was a knight, and therefore nothing more than a soldier of fortune, no matter how romanticized the title might be. Surely softness was the last thing he needed. But her expression was so tender, her voice so entrancing, her eyes so damn blue.

"Where's the goat?" he asked, and turned away.

Twas a fairly certain thing, Boden thought. The goat had won, and
he
had been rooked by an ancient pair of crofters who could conjure false tears like a magician might conjure gold coins from an ear.

Replace Tilly. It cannot be done, the old crone had moaned.

True enough. It could
not
be done, unless you could find a demon-possessed bag of bones with horns like a battering ram, and a kick that would intimidate a fortress.

The old couple had produced a rope, surprisingly free of charge, with which to lead the bony beast. The problem was, as Boden soon learned, the goat wouldn't be led, no matter what he did. She would rather lie down and be dragged like so much timber down the trail, a fate Lady Bernadette was quite distressed to see.

How the hell had he gotten himself into such a predicament?

He stepped down from Mettle, simultaneously glaring at the stinky goat that was tied across his proud destrier's ample arse. Tilly glared back, her marbled eyes eerie in the evening light.

"Is she quite well?" Bernadette asked as she slid back from the high pommel.

"I hate goats," Boden said, seeing no reason to reassure her. "They have bad dispositions and bad body odor."

She stared at him as if thinking the same could be said of him.

He scowled. "I'm usually in better humor." Silence. He cleared his throat. "Tis not me that you smell. Tis... the horse."

Mettle irritably flicked back an ear.

A fleeting smile lifted Bernadette's lips as Boden turned to help her dismount, but she refused to look into his eyes. Hell, he'd bought the damn goat, given up his best doublet for her—even told the old codger how fine he looked in the soft hide jacket that hung like an empty sack nearly to his knees.

Couldn't she, perhaps, after all that, trust him a wee bit by now?

"Ye could have left me at the crofters' cottage," she said.

And there was another thing. Why did she wish to be left behind? There was something she wasn't telling. And he would be damned if he'd leave her before he knew what it was.

"You said you want to return to Scotland," he said. "Tis my duty to grant your wish."

The nanny thrashed behind the saddle's cantle. Mettle shifted his feet, rolling white-rimmed eyes toward his unlikely baggage.

"If ye'll get Tilly down, I'll feed John," she said.

Boden grunted noncommittally and untied the goat. The beast thrashed more wildly, and though Boden tried to catch her, she slipped over Mettle's rump and fell from view with an irritable bleat.

The stallion skittered nervously to the side.

"And you call yourself a warhorse," Boden scoffed. He drew back on the reins, pulling Mettle in a tight half circle as Tilly bounded to her feet. "St. Dismas's cold arse, you'd think the bony beast was going to—" It was pure bad luck that when Tilly charged, she thumped directly into Boden's wounded knee. Pain shot up his leg like slivers of fire. Tilly backed away, and Mettle jumped sideways, pulling Boden with him. He fell with a curse, finally releasing the reins and grabbing his knee.

"Sir Blackblade."

Boden opened his eyes to see Bernadette bending over him. Sometime during the day, she'd braided her hair. The messy plait hung well past her shoulder.

"What?" he growled.

She grasped the braid in one hand and backed off a step. "Is there ought I can do for ye?''

"Other than killing the goat?"

"Aye. Other than that." The flicker of a smile crossed her face again. It did nothing to improve his mood.

"Nay."

"But your knee—"

"I'm fine!" he snapped.

She opened her mouth, then nodded pertly and retreated another step, her eyes bright with the humor she wisely kept to herself. "Then I will see to the goat."

"Aye," he grumbled. "And when you're done with her I'll make myself a fine leather purse."

There was little enough to do once the baby was fed, so Sara wrapped them both in her shortened cloak and settled down on a trampled stand of bracken for the night.

It took only moments for sleep to take her, and not much longer for the dreams to follow. They were pretty dreams, deep and quiet.

Sunlight sparkled off the silvery waves of the chuckling burn. From its edge two boys laughed in unison. They were bare to the waist, one broad and one skinny, with their hose pulled up high and their calves pink from the chilling waves that washed past.

The skinny one splashed, chasing a fish, and the other lad laughed as he watched. The sound blended musically with the burble of the waters.

From somewhere far away, Sara watched too. She knew she didn't belong in this pastoral scene. Yet, she couldn 't look away, for the children were so beautiful in their innocent play. The husky boy laughed again, then glanced, to his right, and there, upon the shiny pebbles of the far shore, was a black sword.

A chill washed over Sara. The boy turned, mesmerized by the weapon as he made his way through the deepening water. Dark clouds suddenly raced like mounted steeds toward the sword, swirling from the sky, ready to engulf the boy.