The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides) (8 page)

She started, her eyes going wide as she swung her attention to him. But in a moment she steadied herself. "How do ye feel?" she asked.

Like he had been skewered by a meat hook and concussed by a battering ram. "I feel well," he said.

She stared at him and for a moment he saw the flicker of a smile on her face. "Ye dunna look well," she said, her tone relaxed now.

How was it that even with her hair littered with leaves and her gown torn and soiled, she seemed like an angel? Perhaps she had not lied about the dragon's abilities. Perhaps it had enhanced her feminine charms, for surely no woman could be so entrancing.

"Why did you stay?'' he asked again, frowning at the lush ridiculousness of his thoughts.

"I wanted to leave you," she said, settling back on her heels. "Actually, twas the babe who thought we should remain."

"Indeed?" Boden asked, studying her face. The gamine angel, with sunlight at her back and magic in her voice. "And his opinion carries more weight than your own?"

"Nay. Twas Mettle that broke the tie. He said we must stay."

"So you
are
a witch," Boden said.

She stiffened immediately. "I am not."

"Forgive me." Twas not unusual for him to insult when he meant to amuse. "I fear the brigand's mace did little to improve my sense of humor. I meant the words as a jest."

She relaxed marginally, and he hurried on, hoping to put her more at ease. "If every person who spoke to a steed was accused of witchery I fear I would have been staked and burned long ago."

"Tis when they begin talking back ye need to worry," she said.

"And do you speak from experience, bonny Bernadette?"

For a moment, he thought she might answer, might speak of the worry he saw in her eyes, but she did not. "I examined the wound on your head," she said instead.

He wished he could call back her more relaxed nature, but in lieu of any better plan, he opted for levity. "And am I destined for the graveyard?"

"Eventually, but not from that wound."

"More's the pity?" he asked.

Again, she didn't answer, but gestured toward his upper body. "I was about to have a look at your arm when ye awoke."

He lifted the mentioned limb. Pain stabbed through his flesh, ripping him from shoulder to wrist. "Tis fine." He lied, but with a certain degree of panache, he thought.

She canted her head slightly. The wink of a smile mesmerized him. "It burns like hellfire," she countered.

"And why would you assume that?" he asked, hoping he looked stern, yet wondering if he only managed to appear cantankerous.

"Because my father would oft say the same when I knew in truth that he was badly wounded."

"Your father," he said, and suddenly he saw her as a child, smiling up at him with raspberry-stained lips and eyes that glowed like sparkling blue waters. A bright mixture of sunshine and laughter.

St. Polycarp, he was getting sappy. He was not the kind to think of children, fondly or otherwise.

"Was your sire a knight?" he asked, forcing his mind to the matter at hand.

"Nay." She turned away, and he saw now that she had built a small fire and placed his kettle in the rocks near it. Wrapping her hand in a cloth, she lifted it from its spot near the flame. "He was the laird of a small castle."

"Was?" Had he caught her in a lie? "He is dead? I thought you wished to return to him."

"There have been times I wished I could be with him," she said softly and poured a bit of water into the pearlescent hollow of a shell. "He died in a skirmish with the border lords."

But she'd said she lived near Edinburgh. "You lived on the border?"

"Ye must remove your mail and tunic if I am to see to your wounds."

"Tis just my arm that's cut," he said, surprised by her words. "Dare I hope this is some ploy to view more personal parts of my anatomy?"

She blushed, and he grinned.

"Ye may be more appealing if you staunch the flow of blood," she said, her voice stern, but her cheeks still pink.

"What?"

"There is blood seeping through your armor."

"Nay," he argued, but glancing down he saw that she was right. Damn it all, he didn't wrap himself in rusty mail for fun. Twas supposed to keep his torso safe. "Probably just from my arm."

"I had best check."

"I told you, I am fine."

"Aye," she interrupted, "and I told ye I'm accustomed to brave lies. Take them off."

Boden considered arguing with her, but it would take a good deal of energy, and she looked quite insistent. At times she seemed such a delicate thing, but not at the moment.

He managed to sit up, but not without her help. Disrobing was going to be the devil's own fun, he thought, and he was right.

Removing the chain ring mail was difficult enough, but removing the tunic sent waves of pain splintering off in every direction. For several moments after he gritted his teeth and staunchly refused to faint again. Surely he'd impressed her enough with his ability to swoon already.

"So..." He drew breath through his teeth and stared straight ahead, refusing to look at the wounds. "Ye lived in the border country?''

"It looks as if the brigand's sword didn't actually cut ye," she said, lifting a rag from the kettle of hot water. "But the force of the blow against the metal rings scraped off some flesh. There's a good deal of bruising, but it does not look to be too serious. Your arm, however—''

"Is fine," he interrupted.

Her eyes softened. "Ye've little need to pretend it doesn't hurt, sir. I've seen grown men cry for less grievous wounds."

"Cry!" Good Lord! He'd rather die of the clap right here and now. Boden concentrated hard and came up with a respectable glare. "Need I remind you that I am a knight, lady. I don't pretend. Nor do I lie. If I say I am fine, I am fine."

"Oh. Well..." she said and tipping her hand over, dropped the hot cloth against his wound.

Jesus, God! Boden jerked up with a mental roar of pain. Fire seared his arm, consuming his mind. She was trying to maim him! Dismember him! Kill him! But no. Reality settled slowly back in like dust motes on an abandoned path. He dropped from the balls of his feet back into a flat-footed stance.

She'd stood up with him. Still holding the cloth to his arm, she stared dead center into his eyes.

"My apologies," she murmured. "Did that hurt?"

It was nearly impossible to breathe. But he managed to draw in one shallow inhalation and said, "Nay." She
was
a witch. "Not atall."

To his utter surprise she chuckled. The sound surely should have irritated him, but somehow it did the opposite.

"Regardless of what ye think, I am not a witch," she said.

"Nay?" he managed from between his teeth.

"Nay. I be but an evil woman bent on vengeance."

He turned his eyes to her, nervously watching as she removed the cloth, rinsed it in warm water and replaced it on the wound.

"Revenge for saving your life?" he asked.

Her gaze rose swiftly to his. "Revenge for threatening to take it."

"I did no such thing."

"I am Bernadette," she said. "Your badgering will do nothing to change the facts."

He drew another deep breath. Pain shot through his torso. "My apologies," he said. "Being skewered and clubbed always seems to put me out of sorts."

"That does not change who I am," she said. "Nor will it."

From somewhere unseen she produced a needle. He eyed it nervously, reminding himself not to run screaming into the woods. After all, he
was
a knight, but St. Boniface's butt, he hated needles. Far better to suffer untouched. "What are you planning to do with that thing?"

"I will stitch your wound for ye," she said.

He said nothing for a moment, but couldn't remain silent for long. "If I apologize again would it change your mind?"

"Tis my duty," she said, smiling a little.

"If I apologize to the goat?" he asked.

She laughed aloud. "I would give ye spirits to help ease the pain if I had any."

"Leaving me alone will ease me enough," he said.

"Do ye forget that I owe ye for saving my life?"

"I would have done it for anyone. Even the goat, if she but smelled a bit sweeter. Tis in the time-honored vows of the knighthood."

"Truly?"

"Aye."

"What a hero ye are."

"Tis good you've noticed."

She nodded. "Cold water will bring down the swelling."

"What?"

"Twould help if ye would soak your arm in the burn."

"The burn?"

"The river," she said, translating from Gaelic to English.

He turned toward the rapidly flowing stream, then back to her. "It surprises me that a face like yours could hide such a cruel heart. That's not water. Tis ice that flows."

She propped her hands on her hips. ' 'Is whining a part of your training, knight?"

"I don't whine."

"Then get yourself in the burn, afore the swelling worsens."

He glanced at the stream. It was fast-flowing, shallow, strewn with rocks the size of his fists.

The night had been bad. It looked as if the day would show little improvement.

She should have left him. Sara stared at Sir Blackblade as he lay on the rocky shoreline with his torso draped in the racing water. His back was dark-skinned, crisscrossed with a myriad of scars and muscles, and very broad. She had been a fool to think he couldn't care for himself. She owed him nothing. Her loyalty was to Thomas; he was hers now. Her heart twisted as she glanced at the babe, then back to the knight.

She should have taken Mettle and left while Blackblade was still unconscious. Hadn't she learned anything from her haunting dreams? She couldn't trust this man, and yet he drew her to him.

He had the smile of a rogue and the wit of a jester. Against her will, against her better judgment, these things intrigued her. Which made it even more imperative that she leave.

Blackblade moved, drawing his arm from the water and rising to his feet. Sara yanked her gaze away from him and onto the items she had laid out on her cape on the ground—the needle, several hairs from Mettle's tail, and strips of cloth torn from her much-abused underskirt.

Boden came toward her, and though she could sense his approach, she refused to look up. True, she was a widow, and therefore somewhat accustomed to the sight of a man's body. But it seemed there could be vast differences in men's bodies, and this one made her heart race and her skin flush.

He stopped not far from her cape. She stared at his boots. "Was it cold?" she asked.

"Nay. Not atall," he said, but she thought she heard his teeth chatter on the last word.

She hid a smile and motioned for him to sit down. When he didn't comply, she was forced to glance upward. It was like looking up the face of a mountain.

"I am ready," she said.

"For what?"

She motioned toward the cape and her paraphernalia set upon it. "Tis obvious, I think."

He narrowed his eyes at her. They were dark eyes, nearly matching the color of his hair which was tied back behind the broad width of his sun-darkened neck. "Ye said I should soak in the stream instead of stitching it."

"I said no such thing. Sit down."

He raised his chin and thrust out his chest. It was a mammoth chest, mounded with muscle and tipped by ruddy-colored nipples that stood erect from their time in the freezing burn. She turned her gaze rapidly away.

"I am a knight," he said. "I do not, nor have I ever, taken orders from a woman."

"Tis fine with me then," she said. "But I wonder how a one-armed knight will fare. Of course, ye are probably the heir to a fine estate. Mayhap ye've but to rest on your laurels and await your father's death."

She waited in silence. In a moment he sat down, cross-legged before her.

"Have you any skills as a physic?" he asked.

"Did I not tell ye? My aunt is the great healer?"

He scowled at her. "And my horse can outrun a stag for a hundred rods. It doesn't mean I can do the same."

She stared at him.

"Not to say I am slow," he corrected.

She forced herself not to laugh. "Tis your choice,"

she said. "But ye'd look rather unbalanced with only one arm."

A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Tell me, Lady Bernadette, have you always been so cruel?"

"Aye," she said, and threaded the needle with aplomb. "Those who know me call me the butcher of the border."

"I fear your sense of humor is lacking."

"I did not say I was jesting," she said, gripping his arm in her left hand.

She felt his muscles tense and for a moment she thought he would yank his arm from her grasp.

"Just stitch it up," he said instead.

But she didn't want to. If the truth be told, she was no healer. True, she had watched Fiona work on any number of injuries. Her uncle's wife could sew and patch, medicate and soothe, all with a confidence and kindness that could not help but reassure her patients. But Sara knew only the rudiments of healing. At best, her skills and assurance were adequate, but now, after long days of terror and deprivation, she felt her hand shake.

The knight turned his face toward her and lifted a brow. "Are you going to start, or shall we wait for the next band of brigands to come along and finish what they already began."

"I won't stitch the lower wound," she said.

"The one
you
gave me, you mean?''

She cleared her throat. "Aye. It's ahh, it's not terribly bad, but the one higher up..." She paused, lifting her gaze to his biceps. His upper arms were as big around as her neck. Surely it was a sin to mar such beautiful muscle.

She sat immobile until she felt his gaze bore into her. Lifting her gaze to his, she reddened, and then, steadying her fingers against his arm, pushed the needle into his flesh.

An eternity later the angel-witch tied off the last stitch and settled back on her heels. Probably she wanted to see how much pain she had managed to inflict. It was his duty as a knight not to let her know, but he thought perhaps the rivers of sweat flowing down his forehead might give her a clue to the truth.