Her One Desire (14 page)

From the corner of his eye, Broc saw Smitt emerge like a rabid beast. “I’m going to kill ye.” He drew back an iron fist. Broc ducked the blow but heard the air swish above his head. “When I want a fight I will order it, cousin. Stand down and pull on your trews.”

Broc used his status, but oddly enough didn’t wallow in the power. John stepped from the water, accepting a tunic from Celeste.

“Ye should not be playin’ such games.”

“ ‘Twas no game. I went to retrieve my garments and heard her screaming.” Broc glanced over his shoulder. Lizbeth became smaller with each stride.

“Ye swam across the loch?” Smitt sneered. “Tis a wide loch, cousin. I think ye jest.”

“Are ye naming me a liar?” The intensity of the race still pumped through his veins, encouraging him to let Smitt take another swing at him.

John stepped between them. “Tis over. There will be nay fight here. Your lady needs ye. She thought you’d drowned and was nigh mad with terror.”

Your lady.

Broc spent no time correcting John’s statement. Truth was, he rather liked the sound of it. He spun and trudged after her. stopping only long enough to light a candlebox with a flint he located in her satchel.

A hollow pocket darkened a field of bell-shaped blue flowers. Their smell so intense, he could taste them on the back of his tongue. He walked in the knee-deep blooms guided by the hymn of her numbers until he stood directly over her. Lying on her side beneath a pile of dusky skirts with her hands wrapped in her rosary beneath her head, she looked young, innocent, alone.

Stomping down an area to accommodate his size, he settled on his side in front of her and mimicked her position—bare toe to bare toe, knee to knee, eye to eye. He set the candlebox between them, casting a small glow only for them. No words were spoken, but he felt her through her watery gaze. The flame turned her eyes to gold, the treasure behind far greater than coin.

“I do not like you at the moment.” She swept dark lashes low. He smiled, but only a little, then broke off one small flower and placed it between them.

“Forgive me. I swam back to the willow. ‘Twas not my intention to scare ye.” She looked at the flower, then back at him. “I admit I am easily frightened, but mayhap you could have announced your departure before you decided to disappear into a body of water the size of England.”

His angel’s protectiveness kindled a small fire inside him. The lass had definitely been fashing over him. A man of his size and strength rarely knew the tickling warmth of having someone worry over his well-being. ‘Twas foolish, but he liked having a guardian angel. “I am skilled at holding my breath. Ye know this.” He tried to humor her. She shot air out of her nose and humphed. “Could you not have walked?”

“I was naked. I swam back to the willow to collect my garments.” Her gaze fell to his chest, and her foot moved enough to touch his toe. “I daresay you forgot most of them.”

He worked his toes over hers, playing, tickling, until her taut lips softened; then he pushed the flower toward her with the tip of his finger. “My Aunt Radella says the blue flowers help ease the bad dreams.”

“Mother said bluebells are unlucky. According to myth, if you walk through a patch, they ring and alert the fairies to cast spells. She told me many things when I was a child, but my mother and father truly believed the spirits followed them.” Her gaze never left him as her hand slipped out to tuck her rosary into her skirt. She gathered the flower in her palm, curled her fingers around it, then tucked her fist back beneath her cheek. “Do you want to know why I like flowers so much?”

“Aye.” He held his teeth together, determined to give her the time she needed to speak.

“Because my mother did. She dried them and sprinkled their dust everywhere, protecting our cottage from evil spirits.

We snuck away to a market fair once and sold vials of scented oils and small soaps. We even sold a few of Father’s carved birds. ‘Twas the only time I ever left London. She contracted the fever when I was eleven summers.” A tear slipped over the bridge of her nose. “The day God took her from me, she set her rosary in my hand and told me to place lilies upon her grave.”

“Lizbeth, ye dinnae have to—“

“You want to know, do you not? You want to know why I’m so afraid.”

He suspected being her father’s daughter was reason enough, but he would listen to her tell him more. Mayhap ‘twould set her free. “Only if ye want to tell me.” Lizbeth inhaled a shaky breath and fixed her eyes on the candlebox. “After Mother passed, my father sent me to the chief warder’s new wife for fostering. Her name was Emma. She was sixteen summers and terrified of her husband. My brother had already been apprenticing under Lord Hollister for a year when I took up quarters in the Tower.” “Ye lived there?”

“Aye. In a chamber smaller than the nobles imprisoned there.”

“With nay window?” he guessed, picturing a young Lizbeth curled into a ball in a dark corner.

“There was no window, but ‘twas not as you think. I was free at the time to leave my quarters, to help in the kitchens and the gardens. I showed Emma how to mix fragrances and it became a passion for both of us, a release from reality. The Tower was not a horrible place to live as most might think. I had a few friends and Kamden close at hand before he left.” “And your father?”

“He did his duty,” she said, as if the man she spoke of was the baker or brewer. He wouldn’t argue this point with her while her spirit was so fragile. He held his tongue, which was difficult given the number of questions he wanted to ask her.

“Emma gave birth to a son only a year after I came. Another son followed three summers later. Years passed before the bruises started showing up on her skin, most of them hidden. Her eyes lost their vitality, and she kept mostly to the keep. Lord Hollister beat Emma and used her at his leisure. I was too young to understand why and too afraid to try and prevent it.”

“Could no one help her?”

Lizbeth’s eyes pooled instantly. Broc wanted to drag her into his arms and chase the demons away she had buried inside her.

“Kamden would have, had he known, but he left the Tower the day he turned four and twenty to escape Lord Hollister and the family occupation. He fought four years for England.” “Against us?”

She nodded. “He returned to the Tower last fall and nigh went mad when he saw Emma. Her skin clung to her bones, and I suspect he discovered bruises and mayhap even scars hidden beneath her garments.”

“Your brother was in love with her?” Broc wished he could have met the man Lizbeth put above all others. “Aye. Had been since the day Emma came to the Tower. Lord Hollister found them in bed only because Kamden wanted to be caught. My brother intended to kill the man, but Lord Hollister had him arrested on false allegation of treason. As the chief warder, he had enough nobles in his pocket to see the lie through. The king himself signed Kamden’s death sentence. He was beheaded the following day.” “By your father’s hand?”

Lizbeth started shaking, her tears coming fast and furious now. Broc’s muscles tightened, holding him in place. He wanted to be her savior, her protector, her champion. He wanted to touch her, to push the hair from her eyes, but he did naught, save for watch her spend her tears.

“Lord Hollister forced Emma and I to the gallows to watch. Father manned his position while he waited for his attendants to bring his only son to the chopping block. Kamden was proud and placed his chin in the divot without force.”

He’d heard enough. “Ye dinnae have to finish.”

“Please.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands.

“I want you to understand, if you will listen.”

Broc nodded once.

“After the execution, Emma told Lord Hollister his sons belonged to Kamden. She was mad with grief and wanted some kind of retribution. She couldn’t have known what he would do to Eli and Martin. Lord Hollister publicly named her an adulteress. She was tied to the dunking stool and immersed eight times in the river before death took her.”

“And the boys? Did Kamden know they were his?” “He did. ‘Twas part of the reason he left, I s’pose. While Lord Hollister paid the boys little heed, they were being raised according to their station. Emma was free to take them to festival and to mass and they spent a great deal of time at Edlynn’s. Kamden kept Emma’s secret, knowing the boys would have a better life as sons to the chief warder.” “And not grandsons of the executioner.”

“They were happy and safe from Father’s curse. Had Emma kept her secret, all might have been different.” Broc waited, knowing there was more. He watched her tears dry up as she stared into his eyes. All her pain, her sorrow, her longing passed through her gaze and settled deep inside him.

“Lord Hollister murdered my nephews,” she finally said, “and promised me I would pay for my brother’s sins every day for the rest of my life.”

Broc’s heart ached. Is that what he felt for her? Pity? Or was it something greater? Did he see something no one else had because of who she was?

“I played Lord Hollister for six months. I catered to him, fed him. I did everything but lay with him, but he promised that would come. He intended to take another wife and make me his mistress to punish my family for what he believed my brother had stolen from him. So I stole the document from him, knowing his association with Buckingham would gain him a trip to the gallows.”

Regardless of how badly Broc wanted to deliver her document to his king, he wouldn’t take it from her now. She’d earned it, but damned if he would leave her in Gloucester’s hands. Mayhap the bastard would leave the north to engage in a new battle. “Ye are a strong lass to have survived such a life.”

Her eyes flashed with anger. “I did not tell you because I want your pity.”

“Then why did ye tell me?”

She sat up. He followed, ready to grab her if she ran. “Because I wanted you to know that I am a person who has fears and reasons for those fears. I am not just the executioner’s daughter. I am Lizbeth Ives.” She reached for his hand and pressed his palm over her heart. “I am a woman. I feel and breathe and hate and …”

“And desire?” he asked, wanting it to be true. Her pulse pounded against his hand. His own beat twice as fast, reminding him he, too, was a man who could feel and breathe and hate …

“And desire.” She finished his thought and answered his question at the same time. Even the great Achilles couldn’t have stopped him from touching her. The backs of his knuckles caressed her collarbone while the swell of her breast rose to touch the tips of his fingers. What control he may have possessed deserted him when she cupped her hand over his and gently pressed. Blood shot straight to his groin, filling him with need, hard and fast. He pulled her onto his lap, fingers tangled through her hair, drawing her head back. She searched his face with an intensity that burned his flesh. Her eyes, beautiful, golden, trusting, would haunt him for the rest of his days. “Lizbeth,”

he whispered, and intended to say more, but her fingers slipped between them to still his lips.

She couldn’t know that her simple caress stole the last of his resistance. He lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers, knowing he would never leave her behind.

Lizzy returned his kiss with fervor, determined to hide her lack of expertise. She opened her jaw wide and teased his tongue with quick, creative movements. The freedom she felt for having shared her secrets opened a place in her heart—a place she wanted to fill with memories of him. Though her intentions were selfish, he seemed more than willing to give her what she desired.

Her fingers gripped his thick arm, nails piercing skin, holding on while he yanked at the ribbed edging of her bodice. Excitement tightened her nipples, sharpening them to sensitive points. A moan of frustration vibrated in her throat. The heavy embroidered damask bound her like an iron breastplate. She’d known imprisonment, known the hollow feeling of loneliness within stone walls, but never had she felt more trapped than she did at this moment in her garments. She wiggled her backside, squirming inside her own skin, her body desperate for him to find a way to free her from her armor. He conceded and raised her skirts to her thighs. She gasped and her head fell back, filling her vision with winking stars. She memorized the sky, the smell of bluebells, the feel of his lips on her neck. He gave her a gift she would cherish forever—a dream to champion her nightmares. Teeth nibbled her earlobe as cool air blew between her knees. His strong hand curved along the inside of her calf, behind her knee, up her thigh. Gooseflesh broke out over her chest along with a contradicting coating of perspiration. A quickening flitted in her mons, causing her knees to fall wider.
Touch me.
… She was insane with want. “Broc, give me a memory,” she whispered.

His movements stilled, then left her all at once, stealing her air. She peeked at him through languid eyes. His dark features blended with the sky. Blue eyes rimmed with silver bore straight into her soul.

‘”Tis wrong of me to want ye,” he said in a voice filled with tension. Curse him and his chatter! Her skin burned everywhere, her breasts ached, and the throbbing between her legs had become painful. “Tis not wrong for a man and a woman to be together.”

“What ye offer belongs to your husband, ‘Tis not mine to take.” He smoothed her skirts back over her knees with trembling hands.

“I belong to no husband, nor do I ever intend to take one. What I offer is mine to give.”

Lizzy cursed his honor, but caught a glimpse of the burden weighing him down. Why did he have to be tormented by chivalry now?

“Ye will marry someday and have bairns to coddle.” He kissed her brow and set her on legs still weak from their tryst. “I can never bear children as long as I reside in England.”

He got to his feet, scratched his arms, and snuffed out the candlebox. “Then ‘tis fortunate I am taking ye to Scotland.” “What?” Lizzy’s defenses erected. “You lied to me. I must go to York. ‘Tis imperative, not only for my father, but for England.”

“Your father doesnae deserve your loyalty. Nonetheless, I am still taking ye to York, so quit glaring at me.” He took her hand. “Ye will deliver your document and make your requests of your country’s defender. If Gloucester is the man ye think him to be, then he will honor your efforts by setting your father free of his duty. What Lord Ives chooses to do with that freedom will be entirely up to him. Without the document, howbeit, your life will hold no value and your knowledge of your country’s treachery places ye in danger, which is why I’m taking you across the border.” Dumbfounded by his words, Lizzy couldn’t decide her mood. Of course, anger set close to the edge of her sanity. He was arrogant to act as her ward and make decisions about her well-being. He held no reign over her person. The only thing keeping her anger in check was the picture he’d painted of Scotland. ‘Twas a magical place in her mind. She had thought little about her future. Freeing her father and seeing Lord Hollister pay for his crimes had consumed her life, but after her meeting with Gloucester, she would be free to enjoy the splendor of such a place. She wasn’t fool to believe Lord Maxwell offered her marriage, but a chance to live among his kin. A chance to know the love and friendship of those who might know her the way he did. He must surely understand the importance of her remaining unwed. Her foot sank into mud. They were almost at the water’s edge before she even realized they’d been walking. Though the moon was thin, it had risen high enough to cast the landscape in silver edges. The woods sounded like festival, and it was only then that she realized Lord Maxwell was quiet. She glanced up at him. The corners of his mouth lifted into a presumptuous smile. “Why are you smiling?” “Because ye are not sparring with me.”