The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides) (12 page)

"Can you make it back to the babe on your own, venerable one, or shall I carry you?'' The thought of holding her in his arms was almost overwhelming.

But she shook her head and turned away.

"I fear in your senility you've forgotten your way. The lake lies yonder," he said nodding to the side.

She limped a little farther and finally bent to retrieve a small pile of something from the ground.

It took him but a moment to realize they were potatoes. It had been some days since he'd enjoyed a decent meal, and taters would go a long way toward improving his lot, but it would not do nearly as much good as a night in her arms.

She hurried farther away, but soon she stopped and bent again.

He followed her, seeming unable to do anything else. "Here. Let me," he said, bending too.

"I can get it," she said, but just then their fingers brushed together along the smooth, green tube of a scallion. Her breath hissed softly between her teeth. A shiver ran up Boden's arm. They were so close he could feel her warmth. But in a moment, she straightened.

"I can do this," she murmured, and all he could do was nod and turn away before it was too late.

It was dark by the time Boden reached camp. The onerous task of butchering the boar had given him time to think, to catch his breath, to reprimand himself. She was his lord's, and not for the likes of him. From now on he would treat her as he would a sister. He could do that.

Sara had built a fire upon the sand. It burned orange and bright and smokeless in the surrounding darkness. The aroma wafting from the low, hanging pot made his gaze skim hopefully in that direction.

"Shall I save the pork for tomorrow?" he asked.

"I am cooking the rabbit," she said, looking up from where she chopped something on a flat log.

"But more meat would only improve the taste. If ye like I will add it to the broth." She prepared to rise, but he noticed her stiffness and motioned her back down.

"I am not unaccustomed to cooking," he said, and slicing the meat in strips, tossed them into the pot. "How is your leg?"

"Tis fine," she said.

He watched her eyes. Even by firelight, they looked unearthly blue. "I've heard better lies from monks."

"I dunna lie."

"Not well at least," he admitted. "Your leg needs washing and bandaging."

"I'll see to it in a moment."

"See to it now, lass."

"The scallions—"

"Can wait," he said, and stepping forward, took her arm and steered her toward the lake.

"Rather pushy for a callow youth," she said.

He settled one hand around her waist, steadying her. Surely he would do the same for a sister.

"Tis the advantage of being knighted at birth. Instantaneous respect"

He thought he saw her smile, and suddenly wished with a terrible longing to see it more, to hear her rasp his name in the middle of the night, to feel her hands, soft as velvet on his skin.

Sister! He was going to treat her like a sister.

They had reached the water's edge. She stared across the glassy, moon-bright surface. He tried to pull his hand from her waist but couldn't quite manage it.

"Thank: ye. I will be fine now."

"The night is warm," he said. What a clever statement. And so brotherly.

St. Edward. Her waist felt as slim as a reed beneath his hand.

"Twould be a fine night to bathe." His lips said the words long before he could recall them.

Her gaze darted to his face, her eyes bright as sapphires in the moonlight.

"And wash your clothing," he added. Well hell, he'd say the same to his sister. "There is blood on your gown. And mud."

She opened her mouth to speak, but he hurried on.

"I have a spare tunic and a cape. You could borrow them while your garments dry." Why did he do this? Did he have a need to feel the spur of desire bite him even deeper? Even knowing that her eyes were bluer than the heavens, her voice softer than a song? Suddenly he found himself wanting to beg. Although he wasn't certain for what, he knew he wanted far more than a sisterly kiss.

Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips. He watched and felt his brain go limp.

"If I bathe do ye promise not to look?''

Was she out of her mind? There was no reason to try to convince her to bathe if he couldn't watch. He wasn't, after all, a complete idiot. He'd learned early to take what this world had to offer, whether it be coin or opportunity or women. But damn, her eyes were blue, and he was a ' knight, and somehow that foolish title must have afflicted his mind, for he heard himself say, "I will keep the babe safe."

"A bath would be most welcome," she said.

It took him a moment to decipher her words, for all he was aware of was the slow, mesmerizing movement of her lips. But finally her meaning settled into his brain. "I'll fetch my cape and tunic," he said, and forcing his hands from her waist, jerked away.

He was back in a matter of moments. Placing the garments on the sand, he stared down into her eyes again and offered her a small sliver of soap. ' 'Do you need any further assistance?"

She stared into his eyes. It was safer to watch him under cover of darkness, for surely her emotions wouldn't be so easily read now. "Nay. I shall be fine. Thank ye."

He nodded once and slipped away into the night.

Maybe she trusted him far more than she knew, or maybe, she thought as she let her gown slip down around her ankles, maybe she was such a wanton that she didn't care if he saw her. Her undergarments followed her gown. The night air felt soft and gentle as a lover's touch. But truly, how would she know how a lover's touch would feel? The only man who had touched her had been her husband.

Her breath felt tight in her throat. She glanced over her shoulder, but she could see nothing of the knight who guarded her.

For one wild moment she thought of screaming to draw his attention. After all, there might be any kind of danger in these English waters. But the idea left her with a nagging feeling of guilt. She waded quickly into the lake, past her knees, up to her thighs, and then she slipped farther in, letting the tender waves seep over her shoulders and soothe her aching muscles. The water was surprisingly warm, still heated by the sun and trapped in the tranquil peace of the silent hills that surrounded them.

Unlike most of her peers, she and her cousins and siblings had been taught to swim. Thus she swam for a while, letting her hair caress her shoulders and arms in silken waves. At times it would flick soft as goose feathers against her buttocks and thighs. She searched for any sight of Sir Boden, but he was nowhere to be seen. Swimming toward shore, she touched her feet to the sand and walked to the beach to retrieve the soap he'd given her. It smelled like nothing more than its basic components, tallow and beech ash, but reminded her, strangely enough, of this man. She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the scent that conjured up feelings of large, strong hands on her waist, of a whisky soft voice against her ear, of an almost smile, tilting up the corners of a sardonic mouth—so near she could almost— This had to cease! Turning hastily, Sara slid back into the water until it lapped at her waist.

There, she leaned back, letting her hair float in the waves until it was saturated and slick as seal skin.

She shampooed it, rinsed it, shampooed again. Then, rubbing the bar between her palms, she urged forth a hard-won lather and soaped her body from heir shoulders on down. Her breasts felt strangely sensitive, her nipples erect. And dead center between them, Dragonheart felt warm and heavy.

Finally, her bath finished, she hastened to shore, donned the tunic Boden had left her and quickly soaked and scrubbed her clothing. Wringing them out without soiling them again was a bit of a struggle, but she managed. In a short while, she threw the cape over her shoulders as much for modesty as for warmth, and hurried back to camp.

Boden was resting with his back to a log, but instead of facing the fire, he was looking away, into the darkness.

Sara slowed her steps as she entered the wavering ring of light. She cleared her throat, then, "My thanks," she said. Never had she felt more ill at ease. Never had each nerve been stretched so tight, each desire been so stark.

"The water was warm?" he asked, rising to his feet.

"Aye." Their gazes met. "Aye, it was warm." She turned away, fiddling with her gown and finally striding to a branch where she could spread the garment on the limb. "And Thomas? He has been quiet?"

"Aye," Boden said quickly. Her feet peeked from beneath the hem of his cape, he noticed. They were narrow, pale, delicate—and bare. Dear Lord! "And your leg?"

"Fine!" she said rapidly. She turned to face him, seeming to forget she still held the gown scrunched carelessly in her fists. "Tis fine."

"I had best bandage it."

"Nay!" She said the word very fast. "Nay. That willna be necessary. Ye were right, I'm certain.

Twill heal on its own. And too, I have my amulet."

She lifted the pendant from her chest, and somehow, as if by some magical force, the chain came free from her neck to lie in her hand. The dragon's eye winked ruby bright in the firelight.

"Good luck is it?" he asked, stepping closer. Dammit! He was forgetting to breathe again. But this time he would remember not to touch her, for when he did so he could not think.

She didn't raise her gaze to his, but studied the clasp. It seemed unbroken. How had it come free? And why? "Aye. Tis lucky," she said distractedly. "So Liam tells me."

"Liam?" He felt emotion rise in his throat. But it could not be jealousy, for such would make no sense.

"A friend," she said, her voice soft as air in the darkness. "Twas his long ago. Then it was lost.

But just before I left for London he rediscovered it at the bottom of Burn Creag. Like magic it was, he said. As if it had come just to be with me."

"He gave you the amulet?"

"Aye. He said it would keep me safe."

Who was this Liam to her? he wondered. It was a foolish question and none of his concern. Yet, he could no more stop his wondering than he could stop his hand from straying toward her.

Nevertheless, he diverted his fingers just in time, turning them aside to touch the pendant in her hand.

"Then we'd best take no chances," he said. "For surely luck is needed until we reach Knolltop."

The silver felt strangely warm against his fingers, the chain as supple as a serpent when he stepped behind her.

Gathering her hair in both hands, she moved it aside, baring her slim, pale neck. Boden's breath caught in his throat. He'd be a fool to touch her. A fool to take that risk.

But he'd been called a fool before.

His knuckles seemed to burn where they touched her neck.

"Lady, I..." For a moment he forgot every word he had ever learned, like a knock-kneed boy caught stealing a peek through a brothel's open door. "I..." Dear Lord! He slipped his hand from her neck. "I need a bath," he said, and pivoting on his heel, hurried toward the water.

Sara turned more slowly, clutched the dragon in her hand, and drew a deep, cleansing breath as she watched him go.

Dear God, what was wrong with her? Why did she feel such hot, foolish emotions? She was no giddy maid, but a widow with responsibilities and vows she must keep.

She should check on Thomas. She should stir the stew. She should see to Tilly.

But one truth stuck in her mind like a burr caught in wool.
She
had never promised not to watch
him
bathe.

Sara was heading toward the water and just managed to stop herself in time. What was she thinking? She couldn't follow him like some hound on a hot scent. She was Sara of the Forbes, sensible, kind, caring.

Pivoting swiftly on her bare heel, she paced toward Thomas. He remained as she had left him, blithely asleep, his body snugly wrapped in his narrow cocoon, his face pressed against the soft cloth.

He didn't need her. She fingered her wet gown again, and then spread it upon the branch not far from Thomas's impromptu swing. After, she wrapped Boden's bulky cloak closely about her. It smelled of pine and leather. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent, then shook her head and hurried to the fire to check the stew. But there was little to be done there. It was cooking well on its own, its fragrance rich and full. She stirred it once, then remembered Tilly and tied her in a spot where there was more browse available.

She could milk the goat now, but by the time Thomas awoke the milk might well be cold. So she fidgeted again and scowled toward the water. Mayhap she should tell Boden it was time to sup. After all, twould be best to eat before wee Thomas awoke.

It was logical. And too, he'd been gone some time now. Several seconds at least. Would it not be prudent to check on him? After all, he
was
wounded.

Yes! He was, she thought, and turned toward the lake.

Her heart was beating very fast, but her feet seemed inordinately slow. Perhaps she shouldn't be doing this. Perhaps it was ridiculous to think she could nurture a seasoned warrior. Her father had been wont to tell her that she couldn't be responsible for all of Christendom. But if that was true, didn't someone have to be responsible for her? Yes. It was Sir Boden's job to protect her, and surely he couldn't do so from the lake.

Feeling better for her logic, Sara straightened her back and quickened her stride. She was doing nothing wrong, merely calling him for a meal. She would not tarry. Indeed, she would state her business and if he was within view, which was doubtful, considering the darkness, she would avert her eyes and leave.

Overhead, the fat, round moon grinned at her through tattered clouds. "Sir Boden," she called, but the name was barely audible to her own ears. For heaven's sake, what was wrong with her? "Sir Boden," she said again, clutching a gnarled branch. But still there was no answer.

Surely there was no need to panic, she told herself, and yet she could not help the shiver of worry that hurried up her spine.

"Sir Boden," she called, but just then something leapt from the water near shore.