Her One Desire (24 page)

“Dinnae slander your brother’s name with words of debauchery!”

Mam yelled, rippling the mead in their goblets. If she sought the truth, then he would provide it. “We ended up in the Tower because the Earl of Kressdale caught his wife abed with your son. I suspect Aiden flaunted his heritage in her bed, which is why Lady Kressdale was quick to name us Scottish spies to save her own skin from lashes.”

Broc had half a mind to rip his shirt off and show Mam what he’d endured for the favored son, but doubted the act would benefit his cause. “Had Aiden been faithful to his betrothed, mayhap the Earl of Kressdale would not have beaten him nigh to death. Then he would be here for ye to kiss his feet.” A growl ripped through her throat. One eye curved into a crescent shape. She snatched up a goblet and hurled it at him. He ducked. The goblet crashed behind him and bled rose-colored wine down the wall. Mam rounded the table. For a moment he thought she might take up a sword, as the women in his family were wont to do. He wiped his sweaty palms over his trews, preparing to defend himself should their heated words drive her to such extremes. Her shoulders drew back; her spine grew tall. “And this angered ye, because ye felt Aiden should be loyal to your Lady Juliana.”

“She is not
my
Lady Juliana.”

Mam laughed—a wicked chortle. “Broderick Maxwell, ye have lusted after Laird Scott’s daughter since the day she grew into her curves. ‘Tis nay reason to hide your desires now.” “I admit a marriage to Lady Juliana did once appeal to me.” “Tis no matter if she appeals to ye or nay. Lady Juliana belongs to ye, along with her properties and her title.”

“I no longer wish to marry Laird Scott’s daughter.” “We need the support of Clan Scott.

‘Tis your duty to see that we are provided for. Ye will set the banns on the Sabbath, and in three sennights Lady Juliana will pledge her vows to ye and to Clan Maxwell.”

He wished she had half the faith in him she’d had in Aiden. “I will not need to marry Lady Juliana to align the border clans if I have France behind me.”

“France?” Her brows stitched together.

Mam’s duty within the clan was to mandate the servants and tend to the needs of the womenfolk. She had not been privy to months of council meetings with Da and the elders. “The council sent Aiden and I into England six months past to acquire information that might convince King James to align with France.”

Her head tilted, and the pompous lift returned to her chin.

“But you failed your mission.”

“Nay,” he corrected quickly. “Aiden failed. I, howbeit, did not. King Edward is dead, and I have proof that England’s nobles will be engaged in a battle for the crown. ‘Twas my intention to send Da to Edinburgh to provide this evidence to King James and plead with him to align with France. Ian will have to go in my stead, for I’ve other business to attend to.” She scoffed. “Ian cannot represent the clan before the King of Scotland. He does not hold your status, not to mention I’ve only seen him once since Magnus passed.” Mam paced the small walkway between the council table and the wall, her finger tapping the corner of her lips. “Ye must go to Edinburgh and upon your return you will honor the agreement Magnus made with Clan Scott.”

“Nay. Da made that agreement, not I.”

“If ye decline marriage to Lady Juliana, ye will insult Laird Scott and start a border war.”

“I will deal with Laird Scott on my own terms when I return from London.” He thought of Lizbeth and a sense of calm settled beneath his skin. Mam may doubt his abilities, but Lizbeth trusted him to be her champion. He would not fail her or his clan.

“London? Are ye wowf ?” Mam threw her hands in the air.

“Clan Maxwell has been leaderless for nigh two months now. Ye will send your da’s seneschal into London to act as arbitrator on your behalf.”

“My return to London has naught to do with political negotiations.” Broc clasped his hands behind his back and stood tall. “I made a promise to someone I intend to keep.”

Mam gave him a sidelong glance. “Would this someone happen to be the Englishwoman John said ye escorted to York?”

“Aye.” Broc’s smile grew in volume.

Mam’s lips thinned into a tight grimace. She stepped close enough for him to smell the bitter stench of her hatred. “I trust ye left her with Gloucester.”

“Nay. I brought her here.”
And yourfoul temper is exactly
why I left her with Grandmum.

“Ye would ruin ties between clans for her?” The flesh beneath Mam’s right eye twitched.

“Ye shame Clan Maxwell by bringing an English whore onto my soil.”

If they were visible, he would rip the horns from Mam’s head. “Tis my soil now.” He had no more patience. “Ye disrespect me as your son and your laird. Ye insult me with your accusations. The woman I returned with saved me from the Tower. Ye owe her your gratitude, not your forked tongue.” Mam’s nostrils flared. The sting of the back of her hand across his cheek came before he realized she’d even reared back to slap him. This woman was his mam, and he would not allow himself to hate her, but in the present, he didn’t much care for her. He pivoted on his heel and walked toward the door. “Tell me, Broderick. Who will lead Clan Maxwell should ye die in London?”

He stopped and felt her glare on his back.

“Ian?” she suggested. “He is barely twenty summers and has only seen a battlefield once in his lifetime. He does not train with the
mesnie\
instead he rides with a band of reivers on the border. He is no leader.”

Broc craned his head over his shoulder, but not enough to look at her. “Ye bore twelve bairns. Ye should have trained more than one of them to be a leader.”

Mam’s skirts rustled behind him. “Are ye going to her?” He wanted to. He thought of Lizbeth’s golden eyes, her soft lips. She caused a flutter in his gut, a fire in his chest, a yearning so strong he feared he might give up his soul to be with her. His body ached for her. He could spend the night in her arms making love to her; then he realized how utterly exhausted he was. “I have been astride a horse for nearly a sennight. I am tired, and I have much to do on the morrow to prepare.”

“Ye will find your chamber is not the way ye left it. After Magnus passed I had my things moved from the north tower in order to prepare the laird’s solar for—“ “For Aiden?”

“For Aiden, but ‘tis yours now, son. Find your rest. I will send a maid to tend ye.” Her tone softened far too fast. “Nay.” He didn’t have to see Mam’s face to know she was conniving. “I’ve nay need for a maid or mistress. Da may have kept them, but I am not Da, nor Aiden. Good den, Mam.” He blew a breath the moment he crossed the threshold, leaving the guilt she instilled in him behind. He now understood why Da tucked Grandmum away. Mam wouldn’t be content. She would do everything in her power to see the alliance honored with Clan Scott. He hadn’t even told her who Lizbeth’s father was and already Mam hated her. And where the devil was Ian?

How was he supposed to go to Edinburgh and return to London at the same time?

Chapter 16

Lord Maxwell had abandoned her in the hands of a woman so heavily touched by madness, Lizzy guessed she slept with her sword. If the dance Grandmum performed beneath an old birch tree yester eve didn’t prove her senile, then the way the woman talked to her sword did.

‘Two wretched days,” she announced aloud as she scooped the last stall free of manure. Broc had left her on this little estate to fend for herself. He’d taken the document, her satchels, and her soap. The sour smell following her was unfortunately her own and impossible to get away from.

She set her shovel aside, wiped the sweat from her forehead, and paid heed to her accomplishments. Six stalls she’d labored over this afternoon. The barn had suffered as much negligence as the hen hutch she cleaned the morn before. How did the animals survive such neglect? And why one old woman needed so much livestock perplexed her even further—two dozen chickens, four goats, and a herd of sheep whose wool needed shearing. Grandmum obviously didn’t go anywhere, so what was the purpose in keeping two horses, nags though they were?

“Think ye can fix the roof?”

She whirled. Grandmum appeared behind her like a specter, pointing her sword at the holes in the thatch ceiling. A breath made of surprise and exasperation moved the cobweb floating in front of Lizzy. She brushed her hands on the plaid kirtle Grandmum had provided her and rallied her temper. “Nay. I cannot fix your roof. Just like I cannot fix the kiln in your apothecary or the spade on your plow.” Grandmum shrugged. “Then milk the goats, else they’ll dry up. I’ll see to our whisky and fluff the feather tick. Make haste, else I’ll find my sleep without ye.” She teetered out of the barn. No doubt she was tired. The old woman spent the last two days spouting orders. “Milk the goats, aye?” Lizzy looked down at the poor creatures who’d followed her around all day nipping at her garments.

Big pale eyes blinked up at her with long white lashes.

“Baaa.”

She sighed and rubbed its long droopy ears. “I’m not baa-d.

She is. And how dare you side with her.”

She walked past the barn opening to fetch up pails and a stool. Dusk played havoc with the sky above the timberline. Gray clouds slashed through the remains of a pink sun. Serene though it was, she wouldn’t watch another sunset in Scotland, nor did she intend to spend another day under Grandmum’s watchful eye.

Her backside landed hard on the short stool and one of the goats ambled up in front of her. She began pulling its teats, squirting thick yellow milk into the pail below. The monotony of her actions sent her mind wandering. The first image that formed behind her eyes was of Eli and Martin imprisoned in a small chamber. And here she sat milking a goat.

She should have left at first light the day before. Her nephews needed her, and she had to find the courage to return for them, even if it meant going alone. It seemed as though half a world now separated them. She’d been selfish to come here. The fool inside her let impossible dreams taint her better judgment. Regardless of the feelings she’d developed for Broc, she knew she didn’t hold a place in his life or his heart, else he wouldn’t have taken the document and hidden her away with his grandmum.

Another goat stepped into place, and she mindlessly swapped pails. She was too cowardly to think about how she would free her nephews from the Tower. She would have no choice but to ask Father for assistance. Mayhap he would lay down his ax and escape with them. They could go to Westminster. Nay, too close. Fountains Abbey was no longer an option as it was too close to Gloucester. Mayhap they” could go south to Bath Abbey? It didn’t matter where they ended up as long as they were safe and free of Lord Hollister. She filled three pails before the last goat took its place in front of her. She pulled on its teat and made up her mind to cross the border before sunup. She would buy one of the horses from Grandmum and mayhap barter for a weapon or two. The woman certainly had plenty to spare. Truth was, she could sharpen a blade, but she didn’t know the first thing about wielding a sword. Dreading the days ahead, she now wished she’d never stepped out of a tunnel with a thieving Scotsman who stole her heart.

“I see Grandmum found a use for ye.”

Startled, she spun on the stool, shooting a stream of milk into the dirt below. Her breath caught. Braced against the wood frame of the barn was her Scotsman, trussed up in the garb of his country. A red and green plaid draped over one shoulder and gathered around his waist with a thick leather belt. The pleated material formed a short skirt and revealed his muscular thighs. He looked deliciously handsome. Gooseflesh broke out over her forearms.
Curse it! He left you here, you fool!
she scolded herself, but didn’t posses the wit to move. He looked refreshed with a smooth jaw and silky black locks hanging boyishly over his brow, while she felt like the filthiest peasant alive. He grinned behind a piece of straw he moved back and forth over his lips. Then she saw it. Arrogance. Prime. A superior state of authority. She quickly reminded herself of every reason she needed to leave and not fall victim to his touch.

“Good den, nvlord. I trust you found these past two days free of complications.” Temper surged where it didn’t belong. “I have been met with more complications than ye can possibly fathom.” He swaggered toward her, an odd twist of mischief lifting his lips. “I intended to come to ye yester morn, but the elders ambushed me, as did my mam, twice, my cousins, and … others.”

“Others, aye?” Maidens, no doubt, from the satisfied glint in his eye.

“Others,” he echoed and squatted beside her. His gaze dropped to the hem of her tunic, which hung brazenly low in her current position. He licked his lips and swallowed. Curse him for smelling like a patch of fresh clover. And why in Hades did her breasts ache when he was in her presence?

Milk sprayed the ground.

His finger traced the laces of her tunic. “Ye look good in the
plaid,
but I’d rather see ye out of it.”

Lord, prime, or otherwise, he wasn’t going to strut in here and have his way with her, nor would she sit by and let him gawk at her like some drab. Wrapping her fingers around the goat’s teat, she shot a stream of milk straight into his eye. “Ach!” His hand splayed out in front of him.

One shot wasn’t enough to appease her. She leaned to the side and sprayed him until pale yellow dripped down his neck and seeped into his pristine white shirt. She felt oddly happy with her outburst. She giggled.

His eyes blinked open, sending yellow rivulets over his cheeks. “Ye are a wench,” he snapped the insult and then licked milk from his lips. “I should bend ye over my knee and spank your arse/’ “Mayhap,” she admitted, knowing she’d acted childishly and thinking his threat didn’t sound like punishment at all. His eyes shifted to the full pail beside her leg. She managed to rise up off the stool, but wasn’t fast enough to escape the downpour over her head. She gritted her teeth while the warm substance flattened her hair to her scalp and gushed down her tunic. “You horned beast!”
Baaa-a.”
The goat voiced its encouragement. Without a moment’s thought, she snatched up the second pail and threw it at his chest, her aim spot on. “God’s hooks, woman!”