"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 he
r, 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.
The skinny lad turned, terror in his eyes.
"Go back!" Sara screamed. "Go back!" But no one heard her.
The boy touched the blade. The clouds turned to dark, gnarled faces. And the river turned to blood.
"Nay!" Sara shrieked. She woke with a start. Evil approached. She felt it in her heart, and in wild desperation, snatched up a branch from the fire.
Her scream ripped Boden into wakefulness. He grabbed for his sword and slashed even as he leapt to his feet.
Shadows sprang toward him through the darkness. Boden slashed again, catching the nearest man across the belly. He screamed and crumpled to the ground, but there was no time to think. The first brigand was felled, but there was another behind him, shrieking a battle cry. He dove from a nightmare, hefting his sword as he came.
Boden ducked, stabbed, and ducked again. Blood spurted into the night air. A man fell with a gurgling cry. Another came on.
Where was the woman? Was she dead?
Boden slashed again, then felt the bite of steel against his arm. The hiss of pain was his own, but his opponent fell, and now he could see the woman. She stood with a blazing brand in her hand while a villain lunged at her.
She screamed, but in the same instant she swung. An arc of sparks sprayed outward, lighting the villain's hideous expression. Wood met steel and the wood was severed. The villain laughed as he sprang forward.
Boden lunged toward them. A mace swung from the darkness. He leaped sideways, but not soon enough.
Thunder echoed in his head and he staggered. The world slowed. Reality trembled as a brigand screamed a battle cry. The sound echoed in Boden's mind. He turned, disoriented, dulled. Someone leapt toward him. He reacted by instinct. His arm lifted, blocked, parried, and suddenly the villain was impaled on his sword.
The man fell, dragging Boden's blade with him. He staggered sideways, pulling Adder free and searching for Bernadette. Did she still stand? He turned, trying to focus.
She was there. The flaming end had been severed from her brand, but she stood with her legs apart, nearly atop the child she so desperately tried to protect. The villain laughed again and lunged toward her, but in the wavering shadows of the failing fire, he tripped, and in that instant she swung wildly. The club connected with his skull and he fell to his knees.
Bernadette stumbled backward. The baby cried. She reached down, scooping him into her arms, but in that instant the brigand rose with a roar.
Darkness swirled around Boden. He grappled with it, yanking it aside as he struggled through the tattered webs of his failing consciousness toward her.
The brigand lunged. Bernadette raised an arm, trying to shield the baby.
A battle cry ripped, unbidden, from Boden's throat. Adder swept upward and suddenly, like black magic, it was embedded deep and ugly in the villain's back.
Boden watched the sword drop from the other's hand, watched his body reach skyward and stiffen before it crashed to the earth.
Then there was silence. Boden listened to it for a moment, nodded to the woman, and then he, too, slumped into darkness.
The music and the dream became one, cushioning him like a lover's arm, easing his aches, drawing him gently toward consciousness.
Still, the two young boys played on in his mind. One was dark, with a crooked smile, the other fair. A golden-haired woman with ethereal eyes and the face of an angel stood nearby. A river flowed over his feet and away into happiness.
Boden drank in the feelings, let them swirl around him, fill him. There was peace here, happiness, a soft cocoon between him and life's harsh realities. A man smiled, and suddenly he realized it was himself. The woman laughed and he reached for her hand. Warmth washed over him.
He opened his eyes slowly, and he saw her. Bernadette. The woman with the heavenly eyes. It seemed right somehow, predictable, fated.
"Can you stay?" he asked, still wrapped in the soft cocoon of his dream.
Her eyes were very wide and shone dark in the light of the fire behind him. He could see a pulse beating in her throat just below her jaw. "I thought ye had left us," she said, not answering his question.
No. He had not, for this place was too filled with beauty and peace. This place so difficult to find—until now. Until he was with her.
He held her gaze as a thousand soft emotions washed over him.
She shifted her eyes away. "You've been wounded. I feared ye might not come to."
Reality bloomed suddenly in his head. There was no peace. Dear Lord! They were under attack! Memories swarmed in. He jerked upright, trying to clear his head, to find his sword.
"Nay. Dunna," she pleaded and pressed him back down.
He tried to push her aside, but there was no strength in his arms. Terror seized him.
Vulnerability threatened. He struggled harder, but she merely tucked away his hands and eased him onto his back.
"Quiet! Lie still! Ye are safe. Shush now."
But the brigands! He must fight. Yet he could not. Panic welled up.
"Ye are safe," she said again.
He forced himself to relax, remembering his dream, the feel of her slim hand in his. "Tell me, lady," he murmured. ""Are you an angel?"
"Hardly that, sir."
"Then are you a witch?"
"Nay," she denied, drawing back. "Why would ye say such a thing?''
He lay still, drawing in percep
tions. Her hair was the color of spun gold, her skin like fine ivory, and when she turned her eyes on him, his heart felt somehow too heavy for his chest. "You make me feel things I've not felt before. To dream dreams I've not dreamt."
She glanced momentarily sideways, then hurried her gaze back to his. "Tis the battle. Not me."
The battle. Possibly. Boden tried to concentrate on the events just past. Brigands had swarmed out of the darkness. How many? Five? Six? He had slashed and swung by rote, the familiar terror making him act. A man had fallen, then another and another. Boden had ducked but not quickly enough, and he had been struck.
He shifted his eyes to glance sideways. A half dozen bodies lay strewn on the ground about them. The earth was dark with their blood. So the battle was over. Once again the maniac inside him had been loosed, and once again he had survived. Nausea twisted his stomach, replacing the panic as it always did. He turned his attention back to the woman and saw that her gaze had followed his own.
Her body was stiff, and in her eyes he saw the shock he had missed before.
"There's no need to worry," he said, though his own pulse was just now slowing again.
A shudder racked her fragile form. She turned her gaze to his face. "They are dead," she whispered.
The statement almost made him laugh. Pain and the possibility of death always made his mood unpredictable. "Aye," he said, managing to keep his tone subdued. "They're dead. They'll not hurt you." But even as he said the words, her eyes told him he spoke a lie, for their deaths already haunted her. When had it ever been that a death did not scar the living?
He watched her face, lit only by the firelight's golden glow. A million thoughts were reflected there. A million emotions in her eyes. They worried him, scratching at his soul. The feeling was uncomfortable, so he pushed it aside, concentrating on what he knew. Survival.
"What woke you?" he asked.
"I was dreaming," she whispered.
Her answer seemed nonsensical, and he saw now that she was struggling to keep her gaze from straying onto the field of battle. He'd seen young squires look the same. Boys who had thought war would be bold and glorious had found the ravaged, horrifying truth far different from their expectations. Many emptied their stomachs after the sight of their first skirmish. But only a weak-kneed few were nauseated after every battle. Boden tried to ignore his queasiness.
The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides) Page 5