The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides) (16 page)

He laid back down, still watching her. He knew she wasn't asleep, and yet it made no difference. She had declared her intentions loud and clear. She would remain loyal to Haldane, and if he was any kind of a man, he would accept that. But...

St. William's wick! If the sun would just rise, he could be on his way—heading north, getting closer to being rid of her. The thought of every moment, with her sitting astride in front of him, her bottom pressed tight and warm against...

Where was that damned sun?

An eternity later, and only shortly after Boden had finally found sleep, it rose, rousing him with the pink glow of its first light.

Sara sat up. Her hair was disheveled and her borrowed tunic tilted on her delicate shoulder, as though, if she moved, it might slip like morning dew from her body.

It took Boden a moment to realize he was neglecting to breathe. She stared back at him. He inhaled finally, and found he felt no better for it. "A gown."

The words sounded nonsensical even to him. She stared, her flaxen hair a wild halo, her heavenly eyes wide. "Yer pardon."

"I said..." He managed to rise to his feet and was rather proud of that fact, considering his current lack of control. "Today I will buy you a new gown."

"Are we near a village?" she asked, sitting straighter. The tunic slid sideways.

His every muscle tensed. She stared at him, and then self-consciously pulled the humble garment close about her neck.

He drew himself from his trance with a start. ' 'It matters little," he assured her, his voice a rusty grunt. "I'll find a village."

And he did.

Sara hugged his cloak closer to her body as she felt eyes scour her. They were indeed a strange menagerie. A bare-chested knight, a bedraggled woman in an oversized tunic, a baby in a sling, and a goat. Poor Boden, she thought, but when she dared turn to glance into his face, his expression was impassive, as if he had spent the entirety of his life in just such circumstances and felt not the least bit embarrassed about it. For a moment, she let her gaze linger on his face—for after today she would not be seeing him again.

Her chest ached suddenly, but she ignored it. She had no choice. She had known from the beginning that she would have to leave his protection. Now, after last night, she could wait no longer, for somehow she had become obsessed with him.

His gaze lowered to hers. She skittered hers away, feeling her heart bump along its rapid course in her chest, and refusing to look at him again.

Mettle pranced on, his steps high and cadenced as if he carried the crowned king of England instead of this motley crew. In a moment, Boden pulled on the reins. Their forward movement slowed, but didn't stop until they were even with a white mare that stood beside a ironsmith's open hearth.

With one foreleg held between the smithy's brawny knees, the mare cocked a disinterested ear at them. Mettle tossed his head and minced more dramatically yet. Boden mumbled something under his breath. Mettle snorted in return, but finally his hooves stilled. He arched his great neck into a regal posture and slanted a gaze toward the bored mare.

"Your pardon," Boden said, his voice low. "Might you tell me where we can obtain some new garments?"

The smithy glanced up. He was a young man with a jaw almost as wide as the anvil beside the hearth. But his mouth was open, and his eyes held that vacant expression seen in the very dull.

"Yer askin' the wrong 'un there, mate," said a middle-aged woman just passing by. She carried a pole across her back and a wooden bucket at the end of each. "Ol' Chapman was dropped on 'is 'ead when 'e weren't more than a babe. 'E ain't never been a big talker."

"Might you be able to help us, then?"

"Yer lookin' for clothes, y' say?" she asked, her gaze brazen and steady on his bare chest. "For yourself?"

"Aye, and—"

"Twould surely be a sin and crime for me to answer then," she said.

"Ach, and what your thinkin' would be a greater sin," countered the man who strode up to the hearth. "Now get yourself gone, Molly, afore I tell your man what you've been up to."

The woman laughed, and swaying her generous hips, gave Boden a leer as she continued on.

Sara felt her cheeks warm and refused to look at the man behind her. His chest felt hard and powerful against her back, and she had to leave.

"Pay Molly no mind," said the newcomer. He was a big fellow, similar in looks to the younger man, but full through the waist, with his sleeves rolled up above meaty forearms. "There be a widow just down the way what can help you."

After a few more questions, Boden cued Mettle to move forward at a high-stepping trot that all but rattled his riders' bones.

The widow's cottage was small, windowless, and dark. The door stood open.

Boden dismounted first, then helped Sara down.

"Good day,'' called a woman as she stepped out, drying her hands.

"I was told you could supply us with garments," Boden said.

The widow was a homely woman with pale eyes and a bold, winning smile. "And it looks like you be in dire need."

Was she, too, eyeing Boden's chest? Sara wondered. But at least this woman had the decency to pretend she was not.

"Can you help us?"

"Aye," said the woman, motioning them inside. "That I can."

Two small girls sat near the door, studiously stitching what looked to be stockings. The widow absently stroked one's hair as she passed.

"And what might you be wantin'?" she asked, glancing at Sara before diverting her attention back to Boden.

"A gown for the lady and a tunic for myself."

"As Molly might say, it would seem a shame to—"

"We've already spoken with the milk maid," Sara interrupted, then felt herself blush as Boden turned to stare at her. His expression seemed unchanged, and yet there was something in his eyes...

Curiosity? Laughter?

"Ahhh," the woman laughed. The sound was clear and bright, but she kept her thoughts to herself. "Well. My name is Fran, and if you'll tell me your wishes I'll try to oblige."

"We're asking for nothing fancy," Boden said. "Just simple, serviceable garments to see us to our journey's end."

"Might I ask what happened to your clothing?"

"The goat ate them."

The widow raised her brows, but that was the extent of her commentary. Apparently there was little else that needed to be said.

"Well..." She blinked. "Let us begin then." Stepping forward, she slipped the cape from Sara's shoulders -and blinked at the man's tunic beneath. Removing the ever-present pouch, she seized the tunic and pulled it tight against Sara's waist.

Boden held his breath, for though the fabric was coarse and the pattern unflattering, he could well imagine the womanly curves beneath his garment.

Their gazes met and locked over Fran's frizzy head. Sara's cheeks were pink, her eyes dilated wide, an open window to her soul, her desire.

"I'll gather our other needs," he said, and turned numbly toward the door.

"But what of your tunic?" asked Fran.

Boden hesitated a moment. "The lady can decide."

"And something for your babe, mayhap?"

There was silence as deep as a well. Boden found Sara's face, suddenly pale now, her eyes bright orbs of thought.

"He is not mine." For the first time in his life, he felt regret for not having heired a child. What would it be like if Thomas was his? His and Sara's.

"Nay?"

"Nay. I am but escorting the lady and the babe to their lord," he said. And with that harsh reminder, he made his escape.

"Oh." Twas a simple statement, but it seemed to speak volumes as the widow turned back to Sara with a blink of her pale eyes. "So he's not yours. What a pity. And he's got such a nice... voice."

Sara blinked back and wished for all the world that she could disappear into the ground.

Boden returned some time later, little relaxed or recovered from his last moments with Sara.

The sun felt warm against his back as he dismounted. The cottage loomed like a temple of temptations. But the worst was yet to come, for at precisely that moment, Sara stepped from the hut.

For one sparkling moment all the world was forgotten, and she was his. Not a duke's mistress or a dead man's widow, but his to hold, to have, to cherish.

"Are you content with my work?'' asked Fran.

Dear God, she was beautiful. True, she was not attired as richly as she should be. No gold-edged coif adorned her head. But her hair had been plaited with ribbon and wound about her skull like gossamer strands of precious metal.

No fine, rich velvets draped her form, but her skin above the square neckline looked as smooth and as rich as pale, warm cream.

She wore no stomacher or girdle to cinch her middle, and yet her waist looked no bigger than his thigh.

The pale pink brocade set her skin aglow. Or was it the light? Or was it simply her?

The seamstress cleared her throat. ' 'I will assume you are content," she said.

Boden wrenched himself from his reverie with a scowl. "Your pardon?"

Just the crack of a grin nudged the widow's lips. "I was lucky to have the gown nearly finished.

Twas an order from the mason's wife. But..." Her voice seemed to fade to nothing.

Sara's hands were so delicate, her eyes so wide. She should be no man's mistress, but a wife.

His
wife.

"It fits her well, does it not?"

Too well. Far too well.

"Tis laced up the back."

Good Lord! Why would he need to know that? Even his knees were beginning to sweat.

"Tis what makes the marvelous fit."

Nay. Twas the woman within that gave the dress form.

Fran chuckled again, but he barely heard her until she reached for a pile of fabric and approached him. Lifting the first, folded article, she said, "The old tunic. Yours, I suspect."

Boden shifted his gaze to the widow and in that moment, the truth was perfectly clear; he was an idiot if he thought he could pretend disinterest in this woman. Even this seamstress, whom he had never seen before, knew his feelings for Sara. And if she knew, how much more would Haldane know?

"Aye." His voice sounded horribly guilty as if reciting heinous sins to his confessor. And why?

He had done nothing. He had done
almost
nothing—but he had wished to do much. "Tis mine," he said, taking the tunic.

"And the new one," Fran said, holding up the new tunic by the shoulders.

Twas a leather garment. He raised his brows in surprise. "You're a tanner as well?"

Fran chuckled. "I but took it in trade. I thought it would suit you."

"It will suit me well. What do I owe you, mistress?"

She stated her price, and he paid the due. Finally, donning the simple shirt, he escorted Sara and the babe from the house.

Outside, the sun was bright and hot. Tilly lay close to Mettle's huge feet, chewing her cud.

Entwining his fingers, Boden helped Sara mount, then steadied her as she settled into the deep-seated saddle. Through the soft cloth, her thigh felt warm and alive, and for a moment he could remember nothing but her standing on the moon-colored sand, watching him.

"We'd best be on our way," she said.

"Aye." He managed to lift his hand from her leg, and in a moment had settled himself behind her.

The tension between them was as thick as fog. Though she tried not to, Sara could feel his chest against her back. She had hoped the tunic would somehow shield her from him, guard her from his allure, but twas a foolish hope, she knew now, for a full suit of armor and a wooden barricade would do little to lessen his effect on her.

She had to quit thinking, is what she had to do. She had to concentrate on the duties at hand. She had to
escape.
Now! Today! Before she could not bear to do so, not for the sake of the child, or even her own life.

"Is there ought you wish to purchase before we journey on?'' he asked. The feel of his voice whispered down the nape of her neck. She should have kept her hair down, as an insulation against him. But what foolishness! It would do no good. She had to get away—before they left the village.

For he said any beast could track in the woods, surely that meant he would find her there.

"The gourd will not last much longer," she said, thinking fast. "Mayhap I could obtain a bladder for milk."

"Had I the time I would make you one," he said. The words shivered over her skin again, causing the small hairs to rise on the back of her neck and creating an unwelcome image in her mind.

She could see his sun-bronzed hands, tapered fingers working, suppling, preparing a skin for wee Thomas.

"Ye have skill with leather?" she asked, trying to find words to keep between them.

"A bit."

He would fill the bladder with milk, then take the babe in his arms, settling the child against the heaped muscles of his bare chest. His nipples were dusky and peaked, his stomach flat, and just below his navel was a thin line of dark hair.

Quit thinking!

"Look!" she said, startling even herself with her desperate need for a diversion. "There is a crowd gathering near that platform."

She felt his gaze slip from her face and over her head.

"Aye. Tis."

"Mayhap someone there could direct us to a leather shop," she said, and against every bit of sense she possessed, she turned in the saddle. Her thigh burned against his.

He leaned closer, as if pulled by invisible strings.

"Look!" She jerked away from him, her heart racing like a wild steed's. Please God, give her strength. "Tis a show about to begin," she continued desperately, but suddenly a man stepped onto the stage in front of the crowd, and her jaw dropped as she recognized him.

The balls swirled in front of Liam's eyes, making a blur of vivid colors. He had no need to watch them, for his hands knew the routine, leaving his head to concentrate on more important things.

Such as the bonny brunette at the front of the crowd. And the redhead. But no, not a redhead for him.

For she would remind him of another who did nothing but drive him to distraction.