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

lifting her gaze to his. "Your silence makes me nervous."
    He didn't answer right away, but lifted a stone, turned it in his fingers once, then skipped it over the waves. "I've seen you fight brigands with nothing more than a flaming brand," he said. "I thought mayhap, nothing made you nervous."
    She laughed softly. "Ye know little of me, Sir Knight. Many things make me nervous."
    "Does Lord Haldane?"
    "What?'' Her eyes got very wide.
    Boden cursed himself in silence. He shouldn't have broached the subject of her relationship to Haldane? Twas none of his affair. His task was to return her and the babe to Knolltop. Nothing else.
    Neither her youth nor her feelings had anything to do with that mission.
    Nevertheless, the question gnawed at him.
    "We'd best move on," he said, rising quickly to his feet. "Every hour we delay will make your love worry more."

Chapter 6
    It was almost dusk when they drew near a small lo-chan. Sara slipped from the saddle. After the nooning, Boden had mounted behind her, and thus they had ridden for endless hours. Her legs and back ached from remaining immobile for so long—trying, and failing, to keep a respectable distance between her and the huge knight that rode behind. But no matter what she did it seemed she could feel his nearness—if not his hands, at least his gaze.
    Sara heard him dismount behind her. Thomas had been awake for more than an hour during the ride, and slept again now, secure in his pouch, his face scrunched against the soft fabric. Slipping the carrier off her shoulders, Sara turned her neck in an effort to ease the tension caused by the baby's weight. The discomfort remained, so she glanced about, looking for a safe place to settle the child. It wasn't difficult to find a branch suitable for her purposes, for an oak tree grew nearby. It was a venerable old tree, weathered by years and untouched by the transient problems of man. Its branches grew as thick as her waist, horizontal to the ground and just above her head. Twas a simple task to secure Thomas's sling to a sturdy portion of it. She watched him for a moment. He was undisturbed by this position so similar to his place against her heart. A gentle breeze wafted through the trees, setting the sling to sway slightly and soothing the baby even more with the tranquil motion.
    Stretching her aching muscles, Sara walked down to the water's edge. The shoreline was sandy, and along the serpentine coast, prickly bushes grew in profusion. She knelt beside the lake, drinking her fill before washing her face with the sun-warmed waves.
    She rose to her feet. Her stomach grumbled a complaint, and as Boden led Mettle down to the water, she wandered off, noticing that some of the thorny plants were raspberry bushes that twisted and twined up in profusion. Here and there she could see a small cluster of red. She picked what she could of the seedy berries. They tasted indescribably, almost painfully sweet as she savored them and moved on, searching for more.
    Supper would be modest. But they had a bit of rabbit left. Perhaps if she were lucky, she might find something to use in a stew and boil up what little meat they had left.
    She wandered on. The raspberries gave out. But in a quiet sheltered spot, where the sun still slanted kind and soft through the woods, she found a patch of wild potatoes. Breaking off a dead branch, she dug up the small tubers and put them in a pile. She noticed, too, a cluster of tiny, pink blossoms drooping beneath soft, green leaves. Comfrey, she thought, and smiled as memories of quiet evenings at Glen Creag soothed her. Fiona would often send the girls to bed with mugs of comfrey tea. Twas good for "what ails ye," she would say, and would launch into a litany of specifics. Most of that knowledge had bypassed Sara, but she remembered well that a poultice could be made from the roots and used to heal wounds or mend bones. Twas more than once that her father had sought out Fiona for just such a