Her One Desire (11 page)

“He’s occupied at the moment.” The woman pulled the candle back far enough into the chamber to prove her point. “What is it?” Smitt crawled off another woman and strutted toward the door like the proud cock he displayed. He rested his forearm against the door frame and grinned. “Do ye ever sleep?” Broc knew his cousin to be a bit randy, but the man was going to contract diseases if he continued such continual play.

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Are ye ready to go?” “Soon. I was hoping to get a wee bit of assistance from your lady friends before we left.”

“Your spitfire turn to ice, did she?”

Instantly piqued by the comment, Broc unsheathed a dirk from his waist and pressed the tip into Smitt’s chin. “She is not my spitfire, and she damned certain is not ice. Reserve your filthy tongue for pleasuring the ladies, else you’ll find it on the tip of my blade.”

“Easy, cousin. Twas a jest.” Smitt stepped back, raking his fingers through his black hair. What was it about Lizbeth that made Broc so damned protective? He retracted his weapon and tamped his unwarranted anger. “Get dressed and find out where the guards are sleeping. Your lady friends may remain in their skin if they please.”

Broc slipped out the back entrance and flattened his back against the side of a chicken shelter. If the warbling hens couldn’t detect his presence, then neither could the guard relieving himself by an old oak. Anticipation sped up his heart rate. Perspiration dripped down his back, tickling his wounds. He peeked around the corner. Between the moon’s descent and the blush of dawn, Broc saw the guard stumble. He was blootered. An easy mark. Broc took two deep breaths of cool mist, sheathed his dirk, and bolted into the open. His fist made contact with the back of the man’s head before he even detected Broc’s intentions. With any luck the man would awaken with a pounding headache and assume he’d dipped too far in the cups. Broc lifted the guard beneath the arms and dragged him through the muck and into the stable.

The horses pranced. Their tales swished in agitation. He gently lowered the guard into a pile of hay, wanting him to sleep peacefully. He scaled a ladder to the loft, where he found John snoring beneath a wool next to Celeste. He nudged John’s shoulder. “Tis time.”

John sat up straight, pulling the blanket off Celeste’s bare back with the action, and scratched his chest. His eyes remained closed. “I’m ready.”

Broc didn’t trust his response. “John, wake up. I need ye, my friend.”

His eyes popped open. “What do ye want me to do?” “Ready the guards’ horses with England’s colors and tie all our belongings to them. Tether the other mounts and have Celeste help ye walk them to the top of the knoll.” “Ten horses? Are ye wowf ?” John spouted, fully awake now.

Celeste raised up, tucking the wool beneath her arms.

“Don’t be such a milksop, Scotsman. What can I do?” Broc pulled a cobweb from her dusty brown hair and offered her a smile for her eagerness. “There’s an unconscious man below. Strip him of his garments and pack his clothes with our things.” Broc started back down the ladder, then popped back up. “Dinnae forget Lizbeth’s chicken.” Celeste bobbed her head, making him proud to call her kin. The timing wasn’t appropriate for an apology, but Celeste seemed to be in reasonable humor. “I lied to ye, Celeste. My name is not Sir Julian Ascott. It’s Broc Maxwell. I am the son of Lord Magnus Maxwell, and I live in the West Marches of Scotland. I would like to welcome ye to my clan and beg your forgiveness.”

Her head fell bashfully; her dark lashes batted. “Thank ye, m’lord. Ye are forgiven.”

“Am I?” John asked.

“Nay,” she returned sharply.

Broc dropped back down the ladder, leaving her scowling at John, and located Lizbeth’s satchels. Confident his orders would be followed, he returned to the inn and back to the chamber he’d shared with Lizbeth.

Thinking the dark might steal her senses when she awoke, he replaced the candle in the wall sconce with a tallow he lit in the corridor. The small chamber filled with light, casting a glow over his angel, who looked seductively disheveled. Dark red waves fell over the pillow, and her pursed lips resembled the look of a satisfied woman. One long leg had wormed its way out from beneath the coverlet and her pale undername had crawled clear to her hip.

Broc’s eyes drank in every curve from her ankle, alongside her calf, and locked on the top of her thigh. He angled his body to get a peek at her sweetly rounded backside. His already stiff cock gave a little kick. He jerked upright, stepped to her side of the bed, and shook her shoulder. “Lizbeth, wake up.” Her hands rose out of the covers and stretched high above her head. With feline grace, she arched her back and moaned. The laces of her undertunic had loosened in her sleep and now rode low enough to expose the soft outer ring of her nipple.

Devil take it!
He wanted to taste her. He wanted to slide his tongue over the velvety texture until her nipple hardened between his teeth. His heart pounded against his tender ribs. Saliva thickened around his tongue. He licked his lips and swallowed. He had to physically and mentally stop himself from bending down and taking her into his mouth. Why did everyone have to be so damned naked? Not trusting himself to even touch her shoulder again, he bent over her and blew in her face. “Lizbeth, wake up. I need ye.”

“Ohhh … Broc, I need you, too.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him to her mouth. She suckled his bottom lip between her teeth and whimpered. He braced himself overtop her with two fists on either side of her waist. His mind yelled at him to pull away, but his mouth completely disregarded the command. He nibbled her lips, tasting the sweet nectar she unknowingly offered and knew in that moment he would always crave more. She’d used his given name. The fact she’d even been dreaming about him made her lips all the more difficult to leave. His conscience pushed to the forefront. He wasn’t the type of man who wanted stolen kisses. He peeled her arms from his neck and raised the hem of her undertunic with his thumb and forefinger, then waited for her to ground herself in her surroundings.

Her eyes fluttered open. She looked confused and out of sorts, but not afraid. “Did you just kiss me?” “Nay. Ye just kissed me.”

Her fingers touched her wet lips; her gaze dropped to his mouth. “Why?”

“I suspect ye were having a right fine dream about your lover,” Broc teased, trying to save her from embarrassment. “I have no lover.”

“Mayhap ye should take one. Tis a shame to waste all that passion in a cloister. I lived in a religious community for two years and nigh lost half my senses.”

Lizbeth cocked her head, obviously stupefied by his suggestion.

“Did you wake me to talk about entering the church?”

“Nay. I have your satchels, and I need your help.”

“Do ye want me to check the stitching?”

“I want ye to mix up a potion.” He grabbed her hand and

pulled her from the bed, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate. She wavered. He gripped her around the waist, supporting her weight from behind until she could manage the task on her own. Every second he held her was another second he held his breath.
Two days,
he reminded himself and wondered if he could hold his breath all the way to Yorkshire. “I fear I cannot walk.”

“Work the kinks from your legs, angel. We’ve work to do.” He left her side and retrieved her damp garments from the peg. He tossed the stiff bodice on the bed, pulled her skirts apart, and widened the opening of the waist of her underskirt. He bent on one knee and waited for her.

She didn’t move.

He glanced up at her. “Step in.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m dressing ye.”

“I can dress myself.”

“Think ye I have time for this argument again? Step in.

Twill be quicker if I assist ye.”

With one hand on his shoulder for support, she dipped her toes into the opening. He pulled the skirt over her hips and tied it with remarkable speed. He focused on his mission and damned the nervous boy inside him for allowing his hands to tremble. He snatched up her bodice and experienced a brief moment of relief when she willingly punched her fists through the openings.

“Is there something amiss, m’lord?” She stood stock-still while he tied the laces. He didn’t respond immediately. The sooner he got the lass dressed, the sooner he could quit ogling her tempting curves beneath her thin undertunic. “Not yet. Do ye have the herbs to make the tincture ye put on your father’s whip? The one that steals a man’s legs?”

Her gaze shifted to the bed, where her satchels lay. “I do. But the mixture can be lethal if mixed improperly. I would know who you intend to use it on before I agree to assist you.”

“The guards.” Invigorated by his plan, Broc rubbed his hands together. Lizbeth agreed with one nod and set to work. He watched her mix the herbs with the utmost respect for her skill and intelligence. Grandmum had spent her life dabbling in medicines, most of which never helped. He knew firsthand Lizbeth’s potions worked.

‘Twas a shame her talents were wasted in the Tower.

Her fingers worked the pestle around the mortar until she achieved a fine powder. “Your attention is setting my nerves on edge. Mayhap you could fetch that pitcher of water.”

While she poured the powder in the pitcher, he held his breath, not taking the chance of inhaling the dust. ‘”Tis done. Enough for five men.”

“Gather your things and finish dressing. Dinnae leave this chamber until I return.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

Broc repeated his earlier steps to Smitt’s chamber, fully prepared this time for the naked beauty who answered his knock. He flashed her a flirtatious smile. “Want to earn a few extra coins, lass?”

Her eyes lit up and the black rotten grin she gave Broc made him take a step backward to regroup. Smitt came to the door dressed and alert. “Who are we killing?”

“No one.” Broc entered the chamber, far too small for four people, and set the pitcher on the cuttie stool. He pulled seven coins from his doublet and tossed them on the bed. Focusing his attention on the other girl, who thankfully wore a thin wrapper, he pointed at the coins. “There is a ducat for each guard ye manage to get a cup of this drink down, one of whom is in the stable. The two groats are for the delivery of two guards’ garments. Are ye interested?”

The girl nodded her head. “ ‘Twill be my pleasure.”

Broc and Smitt followed the two girls down the corridor and waited outside the guards’

chambers. The door Smitt stood beside opened first. A hand popped out delivering the first pile of garments. Not long after, the woman Broc had followed mimicked the action. The girl stepped out. “The drink. Tis a poison?”

Broc couldn’t prevent the memory her question solicited. “Nay. ‘Tis not a poison, but a product of mercy. Divide the drink five ways. Can ye count?”

“Aye, sir.” She flashed him another ugly smile. “Five coins, five drinks, five guards. I’ll tend the man in the stable myself and have Ulna deliver the other four. Thank ye, sir. Your coin is most appreciated.”

Broc gave Smitt orders to head for the knoll while he fetched Lizbeth from her chamber. He opened the door and found her sitting on the bed, holding her satchels. She looked up at him, her golden eyes filled with a trust he couldn’t begin to understand. But he wouldn’t fail her.

Not her.

He extended his hand, palm up. “Come, Lizbeth.” She stood and placed her hand in his as if they’d known each other a lifetime and allowed him to lead her out of the inn. When he pulled her toward the knoll instead of the stable, she hesitated, but didn’t release his hand. Truth was, her hold tightened. “Where are we going?”

He motioned toward the crest of the hill where the silhouettes often awaiting horses blackened in front of a pink dawn.

“What are you about, m’lord?”

He pulled her in front of him and raised her knuckles to his lips. “I believe ye are worth saving, Lizbeth Ives. I am escorting ye to Middleham Castle in Yorkshire as Sir Julian Ascott, guard and noble servant to the King of England. I haven’t the same faith as ye regarding the Duke of Gloucester’s benevolence, and I’ve no intention of sending ye into his domain alone.”

Chapter 9

Lizzy s legs spread wide around the belly of her steed. She didn’t know why Lord Maxwell put her on the largest of the stolen horses, but the strained muscles in her thighs already burned, and they’d only been astride a few hours. She watched him trade their original mounts to a tenant landlord for food and coin, then divided the fare among John, Smitt, and Celeste. He swaggered toward her, possessing a noble air which had naught to do with the stolen garments he wore. A crimson satin doublet embroidered with golden suns stretched around his broad shoulders and tight black trews emphasized every angle in his muscular thighs. For reasons unbeknownst to her, all the man had to do was breathe in her direction and her breasts stood at attention.

“Ye will eat whilst we ride.” He handed Lizzy a chunk of demain bread, dried mutton, and a flask of watered mead. “Aye, m’lord,” she agreed, knowing he would force her otherwise.

After a quick check of the horse s hooves, he stood at the beast’s nose and stroked its muzzle. He peeked at her through inky lashes with the shy look of a boy, but his wandering eyes belonged to a man, for his gaze sent jolts of heat up her spine.

“He is a powerful steed. Think ye can ride him the remainder of the day?”

Nay.
She redirected his question with one of her own so she wouldn’t have to lie. “Why am I astride the biggest horse?”

“He is the fastest. In the event of an attack, I want ye to be able to escape,” he explained and mounted a horse four hands shorter than hers.

I
would prefer to ride with you,
she admitted silently, but forced the valiant smile he undoubtedly searched for and picked at the bread.

“If we ride all day, we will be outside Yorkshire by nightfall.” He spurred his steed forward. “I will take ye to your duke on the morrow.”

Her heart fell a little. His vow to protect her would be served once she settled things with the king’s brother. There would be no reason for Lord Maxwell to remain behind. Living out her days at Fountains Abbey may have once sounded glorious, but now seemed as lonely as her life in London.