Free The Lady and the Knight (Highland Brides) by Lois Greiman Page A

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