Beloved Stranger (15 page)

“I wanted to help. I have learned something about myself. I know little about milking cows.”

If not, he was learning fast. She watched as he finished and gracefully ducked another switch of Bess’s tail.

“You should be in bed.”

“Nay. I will get stronger if I am active.”

“Someone might see you.”

“I would have a sudden spell.”

That momentary panic turned into anger. “This may be a game to you, but it is my daughter’s life.”

The light left his eyes, as did a little half smile from his lips. “I am well aware it is no game and what you have risked for me. My only payment can be to leave as quickly as possible. I cannot get stronger if I stay abed.” His voice softened. “And I cannot lie in bed and watch you work so hard. The least I could do is milk a cow.”

The anger seeped slowly away.

“Can you help me up?” he said. “I got down but . . .”

She held out her hand, and he balanced on it as he reached for the crutch and lifted himself to his feet. He
was
better than he had been in the morning, and even at noon when he’d taught Audra and her the letters. Steadier. Not well enough to leave on his own, but . . . soon he would be.

Kimbra stayed by the Scot’s side as he limped toward the cottage. She had to stop thinking of him as
the Scot.
She had to convince herself, Audra, and him that he was a Howard. And yet . . .

They were almost to the door when he stumbled. She reached out to steady him and put her arm around him. He immediately righted again but his arm went around her shoulder.

The touch sent frissons of heat rushing through her. And something else.

It belonged there.
The thought was so strong, and the emotion so clear that her breath locked in her throat.

She looked up at him. A muscle throbbed in his throat.

“I . . . thought I was steady enough,” he finally said, slowly withdrawing his arm, though his fingers lingered at the back of her neck as if reluctant to end the connection. “I am sorry,” he said. “I wanted—”

“To help. Aye, I know.” Then his touch was gone, but not the heat that had flooded her.

She stood aside as he went inside. He started for the chair.

“’Tis best if you stay in bed,” she said. “If someone comes . . .”

But she was not as worried about someone approaching, as she was about being in the same enclosed space with him. Her heart pounded unsteadily, and her hand trembled.

What was wrong with her?

Audra didn’t seem to notice anything, though. She frowned. “I want Mr. Howard to stay with us.”

The Scot—Mr. Howard—glanced from Audra to her, then started for the other room. “Your mother is right. I need to rest this leg.”

“Can I come with you?”

“I think your mother would like your company.”

Audra’s eyes opened wide with hurt. “You would not?”

“Indeed, I would, Miss Audra,” he said, casting an apologetic look at Kimbra.

“Then you can teach me the song you sang to Bess?”

“I fear it did little for her mood,” he said, his eyes suddenly alive with amusement. “I do not think your mother wants a cranky Audra.”

“It was not you,” Audra replied with great earnestness. “She is cross to everyone. She even tried to whack me with her tail.”

“I hope you fared better than I.”

“I ducked.”

“I will have to learn to do that.”

Kimbra listened with both a smile and ache in her heart. She’d never seen Audra respond so readily to another person. She held her tongue as Audra followed him into the other room. ’Twas obvious the Scot and Audra enjoyed each other. Audra had no children with whom to play, and few adults in her life.

She wished the realization didn’t hurt so. She would miss the masculine presence, the wry smile, the music in his voice. And he would go, not knowing where to go.

Mayhap the crest would help him find wherever he belonged.

The Charlton’s words were like a sword over her head. She could not bear the thought of wedding any of those who had shown an interest in her. Without means, she would have no choice but to wed or surrender her cottage.

She told herself the crest would probably make little difference to him. If he could not remember his own name, how could he remember a crest?
But once he was in Scotland, others might recognize it.

She wished the thoughts away as she prepared the pie and oat cakes and placed them in the hearth. Despite the wall separating them, she heard the song the Scot had been singing to the cow, this time with a young sweet voice accompanying it.

She felt something wet on her face. She wiped the tear away. She had not cried in a very long time.

Holy Mother, why was she doing it now?

 
 
T
HE oat cake was terrible, but the berry pie could have been the elixir of the Gods.

He ate the oat cake, though he had to work at it. He thought if he dropped it, it would bounce across the floor.

He had the pleasure, though, of watching the berry juice deepen the color of Kimbra’s lips and seeing the berry-smeared grin on Audra’s face. At that moment, he did not want to be anywhere else. He did not care about the past. Or the future. He only wanted today. This moment.

His eyes locked with Kimbra’s. There was a smudge on her cheek. He longed to touch it, to run his fingers through her hair and feel her body against his. Blazes, he should feel nothing but a fierce need to return home. To his own country.

Tearing his gaze away from her, he looked at Audra who was trying unsuccessfully to swallow a big yawn. Her eyelids were fluttering back and forth. A wave of tenderness swept through him.

Almost as if Kimbra read his mind, she rose from her chair and went to Audra, picked her up, and hugged her close, before taking her over to the pallet on the floor.

She returned to the table, poured him more ale. He drank it slowly, not wanting his mind to become addled. The fire in the hearth was roaring, the room was warm, the air dense with the attraction roaring between them.

“I am taking your bed,” he said. “I can sleep in here.”

“Nay. Audra’s asleep now, and it is safer for you to be out of sight.”

He asked the question that had been plaguing him. “What if the Howards say they have no one named Robert?”

“There are many Robert Howards, too many to count. They are scattered all over the border. It will take weeks to reach every branch of the family.”

“But when they do not find one missing, will they ask questions of you?”

“I can only tell them what you told me.”

That did not assuage his worry for her. She had risked much. At first she’d said it was for ransom, but even after she learned there probably would never be a ransom, she’d tended him.

He swore he would repay her. No matter what awaited him. She would never suffer for helping him.

He got to his feet with the help of the crutch. It was dark now, and Kimbra followed him with a candle lamp. He reached the bed and watched as she set the candle down.

“I should change the cloth around your wound,” she said.

“It is doing well.”

She was close to him, too close. The crutch slipped from his fingers, and his arm rested on her shoulder.

Her face, the bonny face that was usually so contained, was wistful. The smudge was still on her face, and he touched it, suddenly realizing it had been a tear. Her guarded eyes touched the core of his heart.

He unbraided her hair and watched as curls fell down her back. He touched it almost reverently.

He folded his arms around her as he balanced his bad leg with the good and held her tight. Relishing her scent of flowers mixed with berries, he lowered his head, his lips touching the soft skin of her face, caressing until he found her mouth and brushed a tentative kiss across her lips.

Her lips responded. She raised up on tiptoes, and the kiss turned feverish as her arms went around him and tightened around his neck. Need burned straight through him, and he knew by her response that she felt the same. The kiss deepened with a fierceness that nothing could break, a natural joining meant and destined.

He knew he should stop. But there was something so right about holding her, acknowledging the passion that was so strong it swept away every barrier. Need took over, need so great it threatened to consume him. He crushed her to him, his mouth insatiable as it tasted and wanted more, as heat sizzled between them.

His body arched as hers instinctively stretched against his, and her hands caressed the back of his neck.

Her tongue licked at his lips. Tension coiled in his body as he responded in kind, his mouth seducing hers. He savored the taste and feel of her.

A groan reverberated deep in his throat. He was aware of a craving he could not quite control. Lust mixed with something so much more tender.

He wanted her. He also wanted to protect her. The two were incompatible. Until he knew more about his life and future.

He drew away and looked at her. Her gray eyes smoldered. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen by his kiss.

“Kimbra,” he said raggedly.

He stroked the side of her face, then her neck in gentle movements, and then unable to resist, his mouth touched hers again. Everything in him wanted her.

With another groan, he drew his lips away. In the flickering light of the candle, he saw her face, saw the desire she couldn’t hide, the same wonder in her eyes that he felt.

He lowered himself to the bed, his hand catching hers until she, too, sat. He bent his leg, feeling streaks of pain as wounded muscles pulled. He welcomed the pain. It was a reminder of forbidden fruit.

“I should not have done that,” he said.

She fixed with that level gaze of hers. No blame. No regret. Instead, her fingers wrapped in his.

“I was as much at fault.”

She reached up and touched his face as if memorizing it.

“If I knew I was free . . .”

“You are obviously of a noble family,” she said, her face wistful but determined. “And you are a Scot. It would not matter if you were free.”

He wanted to persist, but the determination on her face stopped him. He wanted to say he didn’t care. But his mind was too full of holes. He knew nothing about his life. His family. The honorable thing was to wait until his memory returned.

He had no interest in being honorable. Not at this moment.

But she stood and took several steps backward.

He owed her enough to respect it.

“I
will
come back,” he said.

But he saw that she did not believe him.

Instead, she headed for the door.

“I will milk Bess in the morning,” he said.

“Nay,” she said, then smiled wanly. “She will probably never give milk again if you do.”

“That wounds me.”

“The best thing you can do is rest. Or you will never get back to Scotland.”

They were both ignoring what had happened minutes earlier, talking in strained tones to avoid the explosiveness still in the air.

“I am walking steadier. And breathing better,” he said. “You are a fine healer.”

“I just grow herbs,” she insisted. “That is all. If I could have brought you a physician I would have.”

Then she left, or fled, out the door.

H
E knew he had made a grave mistake.

He’d had no right to kiss her.

He went to the window. The night was soft. No clouds. Only a deep blue sky and millions of stars. ’Twas hard to imagine that so much violence and tragedy occurred weeks ago.

Then he saw her stride to the stable, her head high, her back straight, that glorious dark hair falling free.

I want her. I want her more than life itself.
Thoughts of desire for Kimbra pounded through his head, heated his body. Had he ever wanted anyone else like this?

As if summoned, the image of a brown-haired lass flickered through his mind. She was running, her brown hair streaming behind her. She turned and tossed him a wide smile. Then as suddenly as she appeared, she was gone, vanished into a thick mist.

His wife?

He buried his head in his hands. Was that a true memory? A dream? Whatever it was, he had to find where he belonged.

He turned away from the window before the temptation of going to Kimbra became more than he could control. He’d done abysmally at controlling his actions earlier. If he stayed here, he surely would be damned. He could not use the woman who saved his life. Nor could he betray a woman to whom he might have given vows.

Bloody hell, what kind of man had he been?

Had he always been . . . so weak?

The questions didn’t stop coming at him, and the few flashes of what might have been answers were only enough to tantalize him.

He used the crutch to walk around the room. He was steadier. The pain was still agonizing, but nothing he could not tolerate. The aching in his ribs intensified with any movement.

Could he sit on a horse?

Aye, if he had to.

He tried to concentrate on that. On the questions plaguing him. But his thoughts kept turning to Kimbra. The way she looked when he kissed her, then the stricken expression as she left the room.

In his mind’s eye, he saw her returning to the cottage, a pail in her hand. He went to the bed. She would look in on him. She always did, as if she were afraid he might have wandered off again.

This time he would be asleep. He had to be asleep.

Honor demanded it.

And he was an honorable man.

Or
—he wondered—
was he?