The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  "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.

  Chapter 10

  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.

  His gaze skimmed the throng. Twas a fair-sized gathering for a small village, with the average type of fare: farmers come to town with their pigs, maids with milk buckets.

  "Watch the balls, my good people. Watch the balls," he called. "Nay, ladies," he cried, sounding affronted, "not those balls."

  There were snickers and a few outright laughs.

  "Well, all right then, ladies, if ya cannot help yourself. But ya may miss the grand finale if your attention is diverted even for a fraction of an instant. Before your very eyes I will make these balls disappear. Disappear completely..." He paused, drew a deep breath and grinned, flashing that self-effacing smile that always helped win a crowd, perhaps a meal, and if he were really lucky, a night in some willing woman's arms. "Hush now, hush," he warned. "This takes the utmost concentration." But his concentration was elsewhere again.

  Ahh—there was a likely lass, not so young that he would feel the cad, yet comely in an earthy way with pretty eyes and a gown cut low enough to suggest she knew her way into a man's...

  God's nuts! Liam's mind spun as his gaze caught on the woman on the gray charger. Twas Sara!

  His Sara!

  For a moment Liam's hands forgot the pattern, and the balls nearly crashed onto his head, but he found the rhythm just in time and spun the orbs off into space again as he stared at her.

  Sara looked down as Boden dismounted. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest. This was her chance to escape. Liam had noticed her. She was certain of that. Their gazes had met, and in that moment the bond that had formed long ago had welded again. He had seen her and he would help her.

  She had but to slip into the crowd and hide long enough for Liam to find her. For he surely would.

  Boden glanced up at her, his face half-shadowed by the nearby oak tree. Sara looked quickly away, scanning the crowd and hoping she appeared casual.

  She felt Boden's gaze slip away as Liam's voice grew louder. Just one more moment. Just one...

  "Pay close attention," Liam called.

  Boden took a step forward, gazing over the crowd to the stage, and Sara acted.

  Quick as li
ght, she slipped from the saddle. Without looking back, she jolted away. One stride.

  Two, her heart pounding in her chest.

  "Where are you going?"

  Sara jerked about as Boden's hand closed over her arm.

  "Let me go." She felt as desperate to get away, and desperate to stay with him.

  He scowled, his brows lowering over his dark eyes. "What are you doing?" he asked, pulling her closer.

  "I was just... trying to find a better vantage point to watch the show."

  "You were on Mettle, well above the crowd."

  "But I was behind a tree. I couldna see the stage."

  He stared at her as if he didn't believe her, but finally pulled her closer to his stallion. "Get on.

  I'll make certain your view is unimpeded," he said, and pushed her aboard Mettle.

  Sara settled stiffly into the saddle and glanced toward Liam. Their gazes caught for an instant, then shifted away.

  What the devil was Sara doing here? Liam wondered. He had seen her off to London himself.

  Had prayed for her happiness, had placed Dragonhead: about her neck with his own fingers. Why she was here he could not say, but he had seen the warrior snatch her back to his side. Liam was certain of one thing: Sara was being held against her will, with a babe in her arms and fear in her eyes.

  She needed him! He knew it as well as he knew his own name. His wee little lass needed him, and that was all he needed to know. But first he must distract the crowd completely.

  "Watch the balls now. All eyes up here, for as sure as you live and breathe, they're about to disappear," he called, still juggling madly. "In fact I'll give a silver groat to any person who can lay his hands on a single ball."

  "A silver groat!" The words were murmured through the crowd, but Liam's attention was elsewhere.

  God's nuts, who the hell was the man who guarded Sara? He was big as a damn castle, built like a destrier, and about as cheerful as a lonely bull. Leave it to his Sara to be abducted by such a man. Couldn't she have found less of a challenge for him? Someone old and decrepit. Maybe a little lame, blind in one eye? But she needed him now, and he would not fail her again.

  "Watch now. Watch closely," he called, and making certain the mountainous warlord was looking directly at him, he performed his finale. Tossing the balls high into the air, he yanked the string at his waist. Black powder poured from the tiny bag stashed in his hose. With one quick movement, he struck a spark with the flint on the bottom of his shoe, tripped a hidden lever, and dropped through the trap door to the ground beneath. The powder exploded—a bit early, almost singeing his hair on the way down. But twas no time to worry about that. Smoke sprouted up above him. The balls hit the replaced trap door with a wooden clack. But already Liam was running, grabbing his cloak from the top of a box as he flew past. Twas a simple disguise, but one that would gain him a few precious seconds. He dashed behind the wooden fence, stepped into the crowd, spotted his prey, and voila! She was in his arms.

  Boden jumped at the sound of the explosion. He gripped Mettle's reins tighter and stepped close to the horse's head. Still he kept his attention on the stage where smoke rose in roiling waves. The juggler! He was gone. But where? The balls clattered to the wooden floor. The audience swayed back with astonishment, before gathering its courage and rushing onto the stage. They scrambled to reach the closest ball, shoving others aside, warring for the promised silver coin like dogs for a bone. But that was not the reason for Boden's interest. Hardly that. Why had Sara seemed so stunned when she saw the magician? Why was she so interested? Did she know this man? If so, how? What did he mean to her? And where the hell had he gone?

  Boden turned, and lifting his gaze, prepared to ask Sara those very questions. But in that instant his stomach knotted and his mouth fell open. St. Thomas's sacred teeth! She was gone!

  Their passage through the crowd was frantic, their journey down the side alley, quick and furtive. In a matter of minutes, Liam pressed Sara through the door of a simple cottage and stepped in after.

  An elderly woman rose with a start from behind a battered table, but for a moment Liam ignored her as he dissected his own thoughts. If he was any judge of people, and he was, the warlord would be about thirty seconds behind them. And in that time, Liam was willing to bet, the man would have worked up a pretty good rage. Best to get completely out of sight at least for a few minutes, until the warrior decided they had already left the village.

  "I hear you make a hearty stew and England's finest pudding," Liam said, desperately trying to find a reason for their presence in the cottage and smiling at the old woman who stood speechless behind her table.

  Dropping her paring knife with the potato she'd been peeling, she gasped, "Who are you?"

  Liam scanned the hut quickly. Twas small. One room. Soot-darkened beams overhead. One tiny window—too little to fit through. Details flooded in, assuring him they were safe for the moment. But Sara was nervous. He could feel her emotions through the small of her back. If that bastard had hurt her, Liam would kill him with his bare hands. The man was rather large, though.

  "We be but hungry travelers. Is the meal nearly ready?" he continued, not missing a beat as he scanned the cottage. There was a place set for one on the crude table—a wooden board, a single knife and a clay mug, stamped with, if he wasn't mistaken, a red dragon with a raised paw. The symbol of the Welsh.

  "Nearly ready?" The gray-haired lady reared back in surprise. "I've not seen you before in my life."

  Liam laughed, showing a good deal of teeth, but not too much, he hoped, because judging by the humble surroundings, the woman was a widow and therefore more vulnerable than most. Time to put her at ease, he thought, and added just a hint of a Welsh accent to his next words. "Of course you haven't seen us. Tis that not the way with passers-by? But my apologies for not introducing myself earlier. My name is Roger and this be my lovely bride, Mavis."

  The old woman's face crinkled thoughtfully as she glanced at the babe strapped to Sara's chest.

  "Bride?"

  "Aye, well..." Liam laughed again. "Even / was not man enough to wait for the wedding. But I was man enough to convince her to marry me. Aye, my love?"

  Sara's eyes were blue and wide. For a moment he thought she would falter, but she didn't.

  "Aye," she said, and somehow, to Liam's surprise, she was able to produce a fine blush as if to attest to his manly attributes. "Ye are the only one for me," she murmured, touching his arm. "I knew it always."

  For an instant Liam was lost in those confusing feelings she had engendered in him ever since their adolescence. She was his wee Sara, like a small, angel sister, but more, always more. Even as a child she had possessed an indefinable something, a sparkle, a promise. Now that promise had been fulfilled. She was complete—a woman, with a woman's allure, and a woman's wit. Sometime during their separation, his Sara had grown up and could keep pace with him without a moment's hesitation.

  She nudged his arm slightly, prodding him back to the present.

  "Aye," he said, remembering the Welsh accent as he placed a hand over Sara's and glanced toward the widow. "We've been traveling a goodly ways, mistress, and her father be close behind us."

  "So your sire does not approve of you marrying a Welshman?" the old woman asked Sara.

  Liam acted surprised for a moment, then chuckled. ' 'Is my heritage that obvious then?"

  "If one has Welsh blood herself, it is," said the old lady.

  "Nay. You too?" he asked.

  "My mother's family."

  "Ahh. I should have known by the bloom in your cheek, lass."

  The old widow waved away his words with a girlish giggle. "You've got the Welshman's way about you, that you have. But I fear you've been mispoke to. I do not cook for the public."

  "Nay?"

  "I told you, my love," Sara murmured. "Twas not the third cottage down at all. Twas the thirteenth."

  "And it looks as if you were right again, my—"

&nbs
p; There was a clatter outside the door. "I asked if you have seen a lady!" a gruff voice demanded.

  Sara tensed. Liam scowled, then pulled a dirk from his boot.

  "Nay!" she rasped, pushing the knife down in terror.

  "Her father?" whispered the old woman.

  "Aye. The bastard!" Liam growled.

  "Put away the blade," ordered the widow. "What would your lady think if you spilled her sire's blood?"

  Sara's celestial eyes bored into his. He slid the knife back into his boot.

  "I'll hide you," said the widow.

  Liam glanced about, but Sara was already tugging him toward the door. He scowled. She motioned toward the beams near the ceiling.

  He nodded once, hoisted her up the wall, baby and all, and was soon perched there beside her.

  In less than a heartbeat, the house reverberated with the warlord's pounding.

  The widow glanced once at them, pressed a gnarled finger to her lips and limped toward the door. It creaked open just a few inches beneath their feet.

  "Have you seen a lady?" asked the warrior.

  From above, Liam could see little more than a head of dark hair and a hand wrapped hard and fast about the hilt of a black sword. He didn't look any smaller from up above. But surely if Liam catapulted down on his head, Liam would have the advantage. Maybe. However, one glance at Sara's wide, worried eyes kept him in his place.

  "A lady?" the widow asked.

  "Aye." The single word was gruff. "Aye. She has a babe with her." He paused for a moment.

  His fingers loosened then tightened on his sword.

  "There are many with babes in—" began the old woman, but the warrior stopped her.

  "You'd notice her if you saw her," he interrupted, then shuffled his feet as if loath to go on.

  "She's like the sunrise. You cannot miss her."

  Poetry from a warlord? Liam glanced at Sara, saw her expression soften, her lips part. Raising his finger to his own mouth, he motioned her to silence.

  "Nay. I've seen no such lady," said the widow. "Mayhap she is visiting the dressmaker. She lives not far away."