Her One Desire (13 page)

John intended to escort her into Middleham Castle on Lord Maxwell’s orders. He risked his life to obey that order. At the very least, she could talk to his wife. “I will do it.”

“Take care, lass. Celeste is a lot of woman.” Lizzy raised her skirts and walked through a bed of lavender bellflowers bordering the woodland, making a mental reminder to return for at least two sprigs. Stockings and a stained tunic hung over a low branch where Celeste spread wool blankets on the ground. An evening breeze pushed strands of hair across her face and the yellow remains of sunset shone on her like fairy dust. She displayed curves the great artists would fight to paint and wore a smile that made Lizzy feel welcome and wanted.

Celeste rushed to relieve her of her boots and stockings.

“We’ve yet to have us a right fine chat, m’lady.”

“Lizzy. I wish for you to call me Lizzy.”

“As ye wish.” Celeste hung Lizzy’s stockings and set her boots in the fading sun. “How are ye and your new husband fairing?”

Lizzy’s face fell. For two days they’d traveled in each other’s company. Why had no one bothered to tell Celeste the marriage was a ruse? If Lizzy intended to befriend this woman, the truth needed to be spoken. “He is not my husband. Lord Maxwell thought it best we act the part for safety reasons.”

“Damned lying Scots.”

“Aye,” Lizzy agreed before she realized what she agreed to. “My mum told me never to bed down with one if I could prevent it; then I find out I been beddin’ one for two years. Two years, Lizzy. Can ye even conceive such a notion? Now I’m to live with a whole herd of them.” Celeste carried on while she spread out two more wools.

“I’m certain they are not all damned lying Scots.” Lizzy released Beatrice, stroked her soft speckled feathers, and gathered the egg rolling in the bottom of the cage. She set it aside and took a place on the wool next to Celeste. “I know three Scots: John, Smitt, and Jul… Lord Maxwell.” Celeste plucked off their names with her fingers. “My John’s a liar, your Maxwell is a liar, and I know for certain that drabber, Smitt, is a liar. He promises marriage to every woman who comes into the tavern.”

Lizzy mulled over her words. Lord Maxwell hadn’t lied to her in the short time she’d known him. Nonetheless, he did lie to Celeste. “How long have you known Lord Maxwell?”

“He and his brother came to the inn with John and Smitt two summers past. They left for months at a time. Holding court, John said. Another damned lie to be certain,” she spouted and handed Lizzy a leather flask. “Spying for their Scottish king ‘tis more the way of it.”

The document,
Lizzy thought. Buckingham’s words of malice so eloquently written. Such proof of intent would hold a great deal of worth to a man who spent his days searching for a way to destroy his enemy. She battled a possibility she didn’t want to accept. Was Lord Maxwell protecting her or the document? She didn’t want to believe his kiss was part of a plan to gain her trust.

“The whole lot of ‘em are barbarians.” Celeste tossed the empty words into the air.

“As wanted as a vat of toad slime and fish guts,” Lizzy added and then took a long draw on the flask while Celeste’s mirth turned to hiccoughs. This couldn’t be helping John. Celeste’s dark eyes searched for an insult equally clever.

“As vile as maggots in meat pie.”

Lizzy covered her mouth and wrinkled her nose while her stomach churned around the mead in her belly. She held up one finger, knowing she had one better. “As disgusting as the drippings from their livestock.” That one had belonged to Edlynn, but her old friend would be happy for someone to voice it.

Celeste hooted and held her belly. “’Tis a wonder they find women to breed, cursed with looks as they all are.” They fell into a fit of laughter—gut-wrenching, tearwatering, unladylike guffawing. Lizzy couldn’t remember a time she’d laughed harder. Even Beatrice danced with merriment, flapping her wings and bobbing to and fro.

“Good den, ladies.” Smitt offered a casual greeting as he walked past. Lizzy choked on a mouthful of mead.
Mercy Mary!
He was completely naked. Next to Lord Maxwell, Smitt had the finest backside she’d ever seen. He flaunted flexing cheeks with every stride toward the water. She gawked. What woman wouldn’t?

He stepped up on a flat rock, peeked over his shoulder to see if they were watching—

which they were—and then dove gracefully into the water.

“Mayhap one or two Scots have been spared such foul wretchedness.” Lizzy turned toward Celeste; then Celeste’s eyes eventually followed the movement. Celeste licked her lips. “A woman wouldn’t need a spoon to feast on that one.”

Nodding agreement, Lizzy thought of one other Scot whose lips tasted of sin and spice. A caterwaul sounded before she managed to gain her wits. John sprinted from behind them—naked—and jumped high off the rock, wrapping his arms around his knees. Water sprayed high and soaked the stockings hanging from the tree branch. Like frolicking boys, the men splashed in the water, dunking and fighting and performing. Through it all, John watched his wife with utter adoration. Celeste s smile was sad, but a smile just the same. “Tis no jest that I love my John. He makes me laugh and looks at me like I’m the most beautiful woman in all of England. I daresay I would follow the man into Hell, even if that Hell bears the name of Scotland.”

Lizzy didn’t know if she’d helped John, but the look in Celeste’s eyes was indeed a little softer. “God save me from my king for saying so, but I think Scotland might be a little more like Heaven than you think. Mayhap you should consider forgiving your husband.”

“Mayhap I will.” Celeste flashed an all-knowing smile, then plucked off her outer garments. She skipped to the rock in naught but her pale tunic, pinched her nose, and jumped in. John immediately swam toward her, circled her, tested her, let her tease him with wayward glances. Lizzy studied them, trying not to envy their play while wondering what it might feel like to have her own Scot look at her with so much fire. Lord Maxwell popped out of the water among them, no doubt equally as naked as his brethren. She sat up straighter and checked the bank for his garments. Curse it! How had she missed his entry? Her lips pursed into a little pout. Twilight glistened off his fine muscled chest. Water slicked his raven black hair and dripped in highlights over his strong face. He floated on his back with grace and beauty before he disappeared back beneath the water. Completely unaware of anything but him, Lizzy propped her chin on her knees and simply watched. Something about him made her forget who she was, and what she traveled so far to accomplish. He was strength, power, and brawn, all in one beautiful man.

He glanced up at her.

She turned away before he caught her staring.

“Come in, Lizbeth. We were sitting in the itching weed.” He pushed the water back and forth, stirring black circles around him.

“Itching weed? This is your ploy to get me in water far too cold for swimming? ‘Tis clever.”

“Think ye I lie? I’ve the spots on my arms.” He started to rise out of the water. She jumped to her feet with her hands up, palms flat. “Please. ‘Tis not necessary. I believe you, m’lord. I have some gypsyweed in my satchels. I will mix you a poultice to stop the itching when I tend to your stitches.” Thankfully, he settled back. “Are ye not itching?” “Nay. Some people get the spots, some do not. I am one that does not. Father can look at it and break out in a rash.” “Who is your father?” Celeste asked. Lizzy took a step backward. Her gaze never left Lord Maxwell, pleading for his help, though she didn’t know what she expected him to do. She didn’t want to lie to Celeste, not now.

“He serves King Edward in the Tower,” Broc explained. His answer certainly put a new perspective on Father’s duty. Curiosity satisfied, Celeste returned to taunting her husband. Lizzy quickly switched the discussion. “Twill be dark soon. Do you want me to fetch up kindling?” “Nay. I want ye to come swimming.” He arched one dark brow.

“Pray forgive me, m’lord, but I do not swim.” Still bruised by his earher rebuff, she declined the temptation all the while knowing he would never get her in the water, regardless of how delicious he looked wet.

“Everyone swims!” Smitt hollered. “What kind o’ woman does not swim?”

“The kind who is afraid of water.” Lord Maxwell exposed yet another of her secrets. Everyone feared something, be it death or spiders or storms. She was not so different, but the energy to argue the point with him deserted her. She turned and shuffled Beatrice into her cage, set her atop a soft patch of grass for the night, then bent to gather bits of dry sticks and bark. “Gather your flowers, lass. Dinnae waste time on the sticks. We’ll not have a fire this night.”

No fire! Was he jesting?
She whirled around, hands full of kindling. She counted to ten in one breath, determined to remain calm. The rising moon was but a sliver, and dusk already pushed mist over the lake like a low-hanging cloud. “A fire would alight our position. We are too close to your goal to be caught now,” Lord Maxwell explained, obviously sensing her anxiety.

“We should’ve traveled on to an inn. You should’ve told me there would be no fire,” she scolded, now crushing bits of debris between her fingers.

“I just did.” His intention to humor her failed miserably.

She shook her hands free and plodded through the clearing. She had to find sleep quickly. After tending her ablutions, she took two long draws of mead before settling atop the blanket. Father drank heavily at night, else his thoughts tormented him and prevented any hope of rest. Behind closed lids, she counted to one hundred twice, but their catcalls screamed in her ear like tortured prisoners. Angered by their continued play, she sat upright. Celeste and John were inching their way out of the water, while Smitt spun in circles, poised to attack Lord Maxwell when he emerged. What purpose did their foolish game accomplish? Smitt’s search took in a wider area. His head cocked, determination slipped to curiosity. He whirled, then dove below the water. Long moments passed before he broke through the water’s surface, coughing. “John, come back in the water,” Smitt ordered between gulps of air.

If the sound of concern in his voice hadn’t alerted Lizzy, then the expediency with which John obeyed did. They talked in a hushed tone, searching, craning their necks, and narrowing their eyes.

Both disappeared into the black depths.

The sickly feeling of dread quickened Lizzy’s pulse. She shot to her feet and rushed to the water’s edge, her hands already wrapping around her long sleeves.

“Damned idiot.” John surfaced first. “Broderick,” he bellowed into the mist, then stood perfectly still, listening. With eyes stretched wide, Lizzy refused to give pause to what their actions implied.

John looked at her. “He will come up.”

“What do you mean, he will come up?! He’s been under for full minutes! Find him!” she screamed and took another step forward. Her toes touched the water. She held her breath, searching for the slightest ripple. In her mind’s eye, Emma’s face flashed, upside down, suspended over the river, her mouth gasping for air.
They lowered her below the surface.

“Broderick!” John yelled again.

Lizzy hugged herself and paced along the bank, waiting, feeling helpless.
They pulled Emma up, tormenting her, tormenting Lizzy.

She pressed her hands against her eyes, hiding from her memory. Sickness churned her stomach. A sour taste thickened in her throat.

She was going to be ill.

John and Smitt made no movement, but Lizzy read their faces, eyes disbelieving, heads shaking in shock. Tears grabbed hold of her heart and squeezed. Her mind shouted,
Find
him!
but the only sounds echoing into the woodland were her empty cries.

Chapter 10

Broc emerged from the water gasping for air, driven by the race in his head. Five breaths had been all he needed to swim to the other side. Even Aiden would have lost this race. Pushing the water behind him in broad strokes, he kicked his feet, searching the curtain of mist for the bank. The willow peeked through the haze, guiding him to where he’d entered until his toes stuck in thick silt. Weeds scratched his bare legs as he walked from the loch and searched for his garments. With his legs gloved in his trews, he heard the baritone drone of his Christian name.

A scream ripped through the fog.

Lizbeth!

“They’ve been found.” He voiced his fear in a whisper, then wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his broadsword and sprinted into action. One word repeated in his head—

protect. He raced along the water’s edge, nearly blinded by darkness. Bare feet crushed the ground, urging him forward—harder, faster. He would not fail.
Not her.

The warrior in him cast emotion aside and prepared for battle. Lungs burning, his skin stretched around his knuckles gripping the hilt.

Her screams repeated, knifing through his ears. Why had he left her?

Then he saw her, standing at the water’s edge, draped in shadows. She was alive, and he would kill to keep her that way. Her hands pressed flat against her ears as if her own cries were more than she could bear. Broc searched the bank for the guards, but there was no one, save for Celeste staring at John and Smitt in water to their waist. Confusion lowered his broadsword to his hip. “What’s amiss?!” he yelled when only feet separated them. Their attention turned toward him.

“Piss ‘n’ nettles!” The worried frown left John’s face first. Lizbeth’s entire person fell a little. She stumbled back. The relief he might have noticed in those actions quickly disappeared, replaced by anger. Her brows slanted, one eye narrowed a bit farther than the other, and he would wager her teeth were suffering severely beneath the intensity of her bite. The woman was wowf.

As if she’d heard his insult, she marched toward him, all Hell and fury combined in one wee angel. She pushed him hard.

He faltered a step back, trying to understand what had transpired.

“You are an ass!” She swiped tears from her eyes and pushed him again. She sniffled, then stepped around him toward the knoll.