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  When it grew dark, she and Audra rode Magnus back to Jane Carey’s. Audra went to sleep in her arms, and Kimbra was consumed by overwhelming love for her daughter. Audra should come first in all things.

  So why was she risking so much for a man who was an enemy?

  She had promised him. It was as simple as that.

  After she returned to her cottage, she changed into the men’s clothes she’d once worn on raids. She pulled on leather breeches, then a doublet followed by a jack, a quilted coat of stout leather sewn with plates of horn for protection. Finally she tied her hair in a knot and placed a steel bonnet over it. Except for those few who had once ridden with her husband, no one would realize she was a woman.

  A woman on a horse would be questioned. A borderer, a raider, would not, especially one with a sword at his side and a wicked-looking dagger on his belt. She started to leave, then returned to bundle several of Will’s garments together.

  It was well past midnight when she mounted Magnus and rode toward the battlefield. She felt the horse’s unease as the odor of death enveloped them. As yesterday, figures moved among the dead, looking for anything of use or value. By now, the pickings would be slim. The weapons, the jewelry, the clothes and boots would be gone. It did not take the border reivers long to find whatever was valuable.

  To the poor, anything was of value.

  The moon was visible this night, though sometimes shaded by clouds drifting across the sky. The smoke had disappeared, but the acrid scent remained.

  Magnus picked his way through the dead, prancing nervously at the smell. He was well trained, but horses didn’t like the smell of blood, nor did they want to step on the dead.

  Kimbra had memorized landmarks. The place where the cart had stopped. Her own journey through the dead. Several of the bodies near the spot where she’d found the Scot were gone. They must have been of importance or they, too, would have remained here like so many others.

  Had her Scotsman been found? Or if he hadn’t, was he still alive?

  She dismounted and led the horse to the silent clump of trees. Below it was a stream she had not noticed the night before.

  She saw the outline of bodies down there as well.

  In the light of the moon, she found the place where she’d left the Scotsman. Kimbra knelt and brushed off the leaves and dirt.

  He moved and opened his eyes. He looked startled, then apprehensive as his gaze focused on her, on her clothes. He tried to sit up but fell back with a moan.

  A streak of emotion ran through Kimbra. He was alive!

  “’Tis only me,” she said. “The one who found you last eve. I left the water.”

  His face relaxed slightly. “You . . . came back.”

  “Aye. I said I would.”

  “Thirsty.”

  She glanced around him and found the flagon. It was empty. He would have to wait.

  “Later,” she said and put an arm under his shoulder. “Can you sit?”

  He didn’t answer, merely tried with her help to raise himself. A groan escaped his lips, yet she felt the determination in him. He fell back, then tried again.

  “I have a horse and a litter. But you have to help me,” she said to him. “I cannot get you on it myself.”

  With a grunt, he managed to heave himself to a sitting position, though she knew by his harsh breathing that every slight movement was agonizing. She handed him Will’s clothes. They would be too large for him, but they were certainly safer than the plaid and shirt he wore.

  She used her dagger to cut the plaid from his body.

  He held out his hand, stopping her.

  “I am English,” she said, careful of her speech. “My husband’s family is English. You must also be English. The plaid says otherwise.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then nodded.

  “Why?” he asked suddenly. “Why . . . are you doing this?”

  She couldn’t answer, because she wasn’t altogether sure herself. “Does it matter?”

  “Nay,” he said. “I am . . . grateful.”

  She continued to cut the cloth, even as she saw him struggle to stay in a sitting position. Each time he moved to try to assist her, pain flicked across his face. A low involuntary moan came from deep in his throat.

  “Who are you?” she asked as she continued to work.

  There was no answer.

  “Your name?” she said again, this time more sharply.

  She saw a bewildered look settle in his face. “I do not know, mistress. I canna remember. You said I was a Scot. I donna remember that, either.”

  Her heart sank. He was addled. How could she get a ransom or reward if she knew not who he was?

  He spoke well. His clothes, speech, and manner all bespoke of rank and nobility. But she would need his name.

  She remembered the jeweled crest that had fastened the plaid. Should she mention it? No, he would want it back. She surely deserved something for her trouble, and he was a noble. He probably had many such baubles in Scotland.

  She decided not to mention it for now.

  As for not remembering, he could be lying. But the confusion in his eyes belied that.

  She should leave him here and keep the crest. She knew she would not, though. In this field of death, one survived. Surely God had had a hand in that. There was also something vulnerable about him.

  She ignored his nakedness once the plaid and shirt was cut from him and helped him into Will’s jack and breeches. She had to pull them over the large gaping wound in his leg, and she heard the swift intake of his breath. No outcry, though, and she was grateful.

  The next problem was getting him on the litter.

  “You will have to help me,” she told him again. “Once I get you to my cottage, I can tend you.”

  He nodded.

  She stood and offered her hand. For a moment he looked at it helplessly.

  “I am strong,” she said.

  He took it and tried to stand. He fell back. She heard voices and stooped beside him, quickly pushing the plaid and shirt underneath the dirt and leaves that had covered him.

  “If anyone challenges you, say nothing. If someone questions me, I will say you are addled but obviously from your dress you are an Englishman. Your life rests on that.”

  He may have forgotten his name, but she saw intelligence in his eyes. He did not question her, but merely nodded. He was very still, and the voices faded again.

  She stood again. “We must go. Every moment is dangerous.”

  She offered her hand, and he tried to stand again. He got to his knees. Pain and determination stiffened his face as he rose on his good leg, then managed, with her help, to get to the other. He put his arm around her and hobbled to the litter, collapsing on it. She tied him there so he would not slip off, then—on foot—guided Magnus toward her cottage.

  She tried to think. She needed to get the Scot to the cottage and tend his wounds. The wound on his leg was the greatest concern. But he had other injuries as well. His breath was short, and it was obviously painful for him to breathe. She had noticed the deep purple and red bruises on his chest, where he’d been struck by a pike or spear. She prayed those injuries would not lead to the lung sickness.

  Then there was the huge knot and bruise on his head that had evidently cost him his memory.

  She urged Magnus forward. She kept looking behind, afraid the Scot would fall off the litter. She didn’t know whether she could get him back on it again, and if she could not . . .

  After safely avoiding the bodies on the battlefield and staying afoot to keep the horse calm, she spotted a fallen log that she could stand on to help her get up on the horse. Once mounted, she kept Magnus at a slow pace to prevent any unnecessary joggling of her charge.

  She prayed she would arrive without meeting anyone on the way. It could well mean his death and her banishment. Or worse.

  EVERY step the horse took sent waves of pain through him.

  He stifled groans. Instinct warned him o
f danger. It also told him to trust her.

  She said he was a Scot. He knew the word, Scot, but he could not relate it to himself. All he knew was a black void, and the woman’s voice was the only thing he had to hold on to.

  He started to drift away, and then a hard bump sent a new jolt of agony through him, bringing him back to a present he wasn’t sure he wanted. Darkness was easier. Darkness didn’t require answers to questions pounding in his brain.

  Still, he tried to remain conscious. Tried not to allow the darkness to overtake him. He yearned to be drifting into a gray netherland where there was no agony, where the fierce need to understand what and who he was would fade away.

  Think. Remember.

  After what seemed forever, the movement ceased and he was aware of the woman leaning over him, trying to help him to his feet as a dog barked. He tried to stand but couldn’t quite do it, and then he was falling.

  She broke his fall, and he was aware they were both on the ground. New pain rolled through him in continuous waves, almost blinding him in its intensity.

  “Can you move?” she after a pause.

  “Aye, I . . . think so.”

  “A few steps,” she said. “Just a few steps, and we will be inside. There is a bed. I can tend those wounds.”

  With her help he struggled to his feet and managed to stand there. His legs barely held him.

  A step.

  Another.

  He forced himself to keep moving, to ignore the agony streaking down his leg, the sharp pain in his chest that made every breath an effort.

  Then he was inside a dwelling. Where?

  And who was he? It was like a long wail in his head. She lowered him onto something soft. And the need to move, to stay awake, was gone. His eyes closed, and he drifted again into a dark void.

  Chapter 3

  KIMBRA looked down at the Scot lying in the feather bed she and Will had shared.

  The second he sank into it, his eyes had closed, and she knew he had used every bit of his fading strength to get inside. She was relieved that he had lapsed into unconsciousness again.

  Fire. She needed fire. There were no embers left, and starting one was always difficult, even after all these years. She finally got a fire going, and hung a pot of water over the flames. Then she went into the other room to check on the Scot. Will’s breeches were soaked with fresh blood from the wound, and like her own clothes yesterday, she couldn’t afford to destroy them. The stranger—if he lived—would need the garments. She would have to clean them, then make adjustments to the size. She hoped that, if anyone came, they would not recognize them as belonging to Will. The borderers—both English and Scots—wore much the same clothing and spoke with similar accents.

  His speech, though, was not that of the border. She would have to warn him to be cautious in what he said and how he acted.

  She realized she was expecting him to live now. She was thinking about his future.

  Kimbra undid the laces on the breeches, pulled them off him and examined the leg. It had been a day without treatment, more than long enough for poison to spread. She covered him with a blanket, then went back to the other room, where she took out the herbs she’d gathered earlier and stirred them into the steaming water. In minutes she’d made a poultice. She would try that before burning the wound.

  She pulled back the blanket, averting her eyes from parts of his body other than the wound. She applied the poultice of comfrey and aloe. That was one of the few benefits of centuries-ago Roman occupation. They’d left their herbs when they moved on.

  The Scot’s body flinched, then relaxed as she secured the poultice to the wound.

  She carefully removed Will’s jack from his body. His harsh breathing told her there had been damage to his ribs. When he woke again, she would bind his chest and pray the ribs were only bruised.

  In addition to those to his leg and ribs, there were other wounds. Slices in his left shoulder and right arm. A huge lump on the back of his head.

  His body was dark with dried blood and dirt. She found a towel and poured more hot water in a bowl, then returned to his side and started to clean the filth of battle from his skin. She had to repeatedly throw out the dirty, bloody water and refill the bowl. She stitched the worst of the wounds and tried not to think about what she had done in trying to save this man. He was the enemy.

  It was dawn when she finished spreading a thick salve on the last of the wounds. She could do nothing about the lump on the back of his head.

  She straightened and fought off weariness. She had to shed her man’s clothes and change into a gown. Audra was expecting her.

  She hurriedly washed the blood from the clothes the Scot had worn and spread them out in front of the fireplace. She added several logs to the fire, praying they would be sufficient to keep it going until she returned.

  She would have to bring her daughter back, and she had to warn the Scot to be cautious in anything he said.

  She leaned over him. His breathing was still raspy.

  Kimbra studied him as he slept. His body was lean. There was a scar on his shoulder, so he’d obviously battled before. Yet his face was more saint than warrior. His eyes drew her to him. They had been so blue. So tortured. Her heart had reacted, and she—and more importantly Audra—could not afford that.

  She tried to wake him several times, before his eyes finally opened and focused on her. She put the palm of her hand against his cheek. Miraculously it was not warm. He had escaped fever thus far.

  God must be looking after him.

  “I will fetch water,” she said. His thirst would be a mighty thing after a day lying on the battlefield.

  “My . . . thanks.”

  She mixed water with rosemary and poured the mixture into a cup. She returned and handed it to him. He took a sip, made a face at the bitter taste.

  “It will help you sleep,” she said.

  He took another sip, then another, until the cup was empty.

  “Do you remember who you are now?” she asked.

  Frustration filled his face, bewilderment his eyes. He shook his head.

  “I have to leave you here and fetch my daughter. She is seven. She must think you English,” she said. “You must have a name.”

  “I . . . do . . . not know.”

  She had been thinking during the time she had bathed him. “You are Robert Howard. ’Tis a large and scattered family, and no one would want to question a Howard overly much. It is said they have powerful friends at court.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, then repeated, “Robert Howard. Can you remember that?”

  He nodded, then said, “But I have to know—”

  “Later. I have much to do.”

  “Your . . . husband?”

  “He is dead. By the hand of a Scot.” She stood.

  “Your name?”

  “’Tis Kimbra Charlton.”

  “Kimbra Charlton . . . I am sorry about your husband.”

  She stood, aware that his eyes followed her every movement.

  “My thanks,” he said again. “I do not know why you are doing what you are doing but—”

  “’Tis not for you,” she said abruptly.

  “Then why?”

  “You have the look of a noble or man of wealth. There may be a ransom. A reward.”

  A light in his eyes dimmed, and an unexpected stab of self-disgust went through her. She had purposely rebuked him, wanting to distance herself. She had tended wounded men before, men not her husband, and she had never felt anything but pity and a fierce desire to defeat death.

  She felt something more now. She told herself it was pity, but pity was no longer a part of her. She admired his fierce determination to live. Anyone else with his wounds would have succumbed. There was something indomitable about him, and it reminded her of Will.

  She hadn’t saved Will. Mayhap she could save this man.

  He closed his eyes. The rosemary slowly took effect, and finally the Scot slept, thoug
h fretfully.

  Would he remember what she had told him? It was ever so important. Audra had no guile, nor did Kimbra want her to have it.

  Anxious to return quickly, she left and rode Magnus to Jane’s hut and found Audra sitting on a stone in front of the door. Her daughter’s worried face creased into a toothy smile.

  “How’s my love?” Kimbra said as she dismounted and swept her daughter into her arms for a hug.

  “I have to talk to Jane,” she said, setting her daughter down. “Can you wait here and watch Magnus?”

  Audra beamed.

  “Remember what I told you. Do not get too close and do not make a quick movement. It could startle him.”

  “I will sing a song to him.”

  “I think he would like that very much.” And he would. Audra had a sweet and true voice.

  The door opened as she started to knock. Jane welcomed her with a smile.

  “Thank you for keeping Audra.”

  “She is a joy.”

  “I will be home this night, and hopefully the next nights.”

  Jane’s face fell. “I will miss her.”

  “I suspect you will see her soon. I will bring her over to visit, along with some bay leaves for your legs.”

  Jane nodded. She had pain in her legs, and Kimbra’s bay leaves could be made into an oil that relieved it.

  Kimbra said her farewell and hurried out to Audra. It had been only seconds, but she worried about her daughter, nonetheless.

  The sweet sound of her daughter’s voice stopped her. She was singing an old lullaby to the horse. The picture, and melody, sent pangs through Kimbra’s heart. What if she was endangering her daughter by shielding the Scot? She should forget this fancy and ride immediately to the Charlton, the acknowledged leader of the family, and tell him she’d found a Scot. Let him decide whether he would be kept as a hostage.

  But she truly didn’t know what he would do. And the hours she had spent nursing her patient had created a responsibility. She would wait until he had more strength. Then she would decide her next step.

  She waited until Audra had finished her song, then swooped down on her, lifting her high and into the saddle. She walked the horse to a block and mounted. Cuddling her daughter on the way home, she asked what she had done the night before.