"A soldier sleeps lightly by necessity, lest he sleep forever," Boden said, holding her gaze with his own and willing hers not to stray to the gore beyond the fire's brightest glow. "I heard nothing to wake me. What alerted you?"
She lifted her gaze, looking dazed, but now he found the strength to grip her arm and hold her attention with his eyes.
"How did you know they had come?" he asked again.
"Twas the dream," she said, clutching the silver dragon in her fist.
Premonition laid its cold hand on Boden's shoulder. "What dream?"
She didn't answer immediately, but stared at him as if she were entranced. "Of two boys by a river. One was stout, the other small with dark hair and a crooked smile."
His own dream! "What woke you?" he asked again, his tone raspy, his heart racing.
Still she stared at him. "I dreamed he was in danger."
St. Adrian's arse! What was she doing dreaming his dream? Boden wondered. But he gave himself a mental shake. It was purely coincidental that their dreams were similar. Nothing but coincidence. He pressed his mind on to other matters. "What did they want?" he asked, turning toward the, dead bodies.
She tried to pull from his grasp, but he had found a modicum of his strength and held her steady.
"I dunna know," she said.
The fire sparked once, then fell silent.
"I think you lie," he said.
"Nay. I dunna know what they wanted. Coin, I suspect. Plunder."
He watched her face. He'd learned long ago that if one was openly trusting, he was likely to find himself parted from his head at a tender age. And he'd grown rather attached to his head.
So it seemed worth his while to try to sort the truth from fantasy, especially since the truth had brought on a half dozen men with big, nasty weapons. What had they been after?
"I dunna," she repeated, then drew a deep, shuddering breath. Her eyes, wide and haunted, shifted sideways. "They're dead," she whispered, and a tear, bright as citrine in the firelight, slid down her cheek.
Dear Lord! He scowled as he watched the tear glide along the curve of her delicate jaw. He might hurl on the enemy, but he never cried over them.
"Get the child," he said, stuffing his emotions quickly away. "We leave this place."
They rode for several hours, moving quietly through the darkness.
"You were singing in French."
Sara started from her reverie, but God knew it was foolish to jump from this man, for she was, once again, cradled in his arms like a lover as they rode along.
Tilly was tethered behind them. Perhaps it was the smell of blood at their campsite that had made her decide to follow docilely behind.
"Lady," Boden said, interrupting her thoughts with his low voice.
"Ye are mistaken. I dunna speak French," she said. Despite the darkness that still surrounded them, she could sense his gaze on her face, could feel the tautness of his chest against her back.
"It seems unlikely you could sing in French when you do not speak it. And singing you were.
Twas the words from my youth that brought me to consciousness."
Sara felt her heart thumping in her chest. She had sung in French. But how? She did not know that language. Where had the words come from? Why did she dream such frightening dreams? Why did Dragonheart seem so warm against her flesh at times? Was she going mad?
He was staring at her.
She didn't turn toward him. There was no need for that. She knew how he would look. She knew his face, for she had seen it before ever meeting him. She had seen it in a dream. She had seen it, his sword, his childhood! Dear God!
"Your mother is French," he said, breaking into her frantic thoughts. ' 'Yet she does not speak her native language?"
Sara caught her breath. She had forgotten her lies. "Nay, Mother does speak the language, but I dunna."
"Yet you were singing in that tongue just this night."
She twisted about, desperately catching his gaze. "I was not. I dunna know that language."
"Perhaps the amulet spoke it to you," he said, his expression dark, his tone the same. "Perhaps singing is one of your fine attributes that the pendant 'enhances.'
Was that not the word you used?" His eyes smote her. He was very close. So close she could feel his breath fan her cheek, could feel his forbidden allure.
She forgot to breathe as she fought his dark appeal and the swirling confusion. She could not afford to trust him. She had made up lies about Dragonheart's powers, pure lies, to save her life.
"Ye were unconscious," she said, trying to quiet the thrum of her heart. "Ye dreamed it."
"You were not singing?''
Perhaps insanity had truly gripped her for a while, for yes, as the dead men had lain in their hideous positions upon the ground, she had cradled Thomas to her chest and sung. "Nay I was singing."
For one crazed moment she was tempted to reach out and touch his arm, to beg him to protect her from the insanity that surrounded her, to tell her that all was well and normal. But all was not well and things were definitely not normal.
How had she known where to find the farm? Where had she seen his face before?
She remained as she was, staring into his eyes, lost in uncertainty, and fighting the inexplicable desire to touch him.
The horse had stopped.
"Twas a song from my boyhood you sang. A song that soothed me when I was small," he said.
His voice was very soft, but deep, like the quiet babble of rapid waters. "Twas French."
"Nay." She shook her head. "I swear, I dunna speak French. Twas Gaelic words I sang."
The world stilled as he searched for truth in her eyes, but suddenly he grabbed her arm in a tight frustration.
"Why do you lie?" he rasped, leaning closer.
"I dunna."
"You do. Who are you?"
"I am Bernadette."
"You lie!" he snarled, and slipped onto the earth in a heap.
He felt her presence like a ray of warmth the moment he awoke. Daylight had come. He lay on his back on a swath of green beneath a bent oak. The sunlight streaked between the branches overhead and glistened on her gilded hair. Her face was turned sideways, showing her delicate profile.
"Why did you stay?'' he asked.
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.
Chapter 4
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 st
ill 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.
The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides) Page 6