Her One Desire (35 page)

Again he pressed her palm to his chest and languidly blinked his eyes. “We worked as diligently as we could to forge the document.”

“Forge the document?”

“Your da ran from the dungeon to the Constable Tower to get parchment and an ink pot whilst Madoc went to the gardens for rowanberries. If Hollister had taken the time to study the document, he would have found a very poor fabrication of Buckingham s signature. The wax seal was cheap tallow mixed with red juices from the rowanberry and stamped with a ducat. Took an eternity to harden.” She should have known something was amiss when Father came in sweating. He never sweat. Very little effort was required to cut off a man’s head if the blade was sharp. “Truth?” She was afraid to hope.

“Truth. I vow it upon my soul.” Broc kissed the column of her neck, then dawdled across the valleys of her collarbone. She gave a little shiver and slid her hand up his neck to play with his ear, trying to focus on the topic and not the feel of his hot lips against her skin. “Where is the document now?” “Your da has it. I suspect he might torture the bastard a wee bit before turning him over to Gloucester.” “He deserves any punishment Father might delve out.” Twas quite a plan Broc and her Father had developed and performed in such a short period of time. She wrestled with the events as they’d occurred.

“Why stage the execution?” “’Twas not intentional. Your father thought Hollister would release ye into his care once he provided him the document. ‘Twas his intention to bring ye to me so we could escape through the tunnel, but Hollister’s desire to further torment you complicated our plan. Whilst you were being escorted to the gallows by Hollister and Madoc, we were feverishly rearranging guards. ‘Tis why Godfrey was at London gate and not the Tower.”

Father was certainly a powerful man. Feared by most, and definitely capable of keeping the king’s guards at bay, but she found it difficult to believe Father would hand her over to Broc. “Why did Father set you free? He could have easily executed you and put me in sanctuary.”

Broc’s head rose. His features shadowed beneath the moonlight. “When we were in the tunnel I told him I would go to the gallows to protect ye.”

“Because of your vow to me?” she asked, hoping there might be another reason. Her hand fell away from his neck and twisted inside the black cloak while she waited for him to answer, desperate for him to share part of his heart with her. “Ye are my wife. I could not bear it if I failed ye.” The way he’d failed his sisters. Part of her suspected she’d filled the hole in his heart left from his sisters’ deaths, but she didn’t know how long she could live as their memory. He was willing to give his life for her. If his actions were because of honor and not love, then she would accept it, and mayhap someday he would love her half as much as she loved him.

“Do ye know what I feared most?” He cradled her head in the palm of his hand. She shook her head and met his sad eyes.

“I feared I would be left with only your memory. I feared I would never again feel your warmth or know your kiss. That I would never see ye round with our child or dance with ye again in the rain.”

A spasm convulsed in her belly. She felt his pain and wanted to weep for him, to comfort him. He’d never shown weakness, and she wanted to protect him as he’d always protected her. “We will have many memories together.” He placed a gentle kiss on her nose, her chin, then found her hand buried inside the cloak and once again pressed her palm against his chest. “Touch me, Lizbeth, please.” Her hands roamed free over the hard plains of his chest. She inhaled his air seconds before he pressed his lips to hers. A storm blew through her insides when his tongue slipped in to claim hers. He dove into her mouth, raked over her tongue, again and again, until finally ending, oh so sweetly, on each lip. “I want to make a memory now.” He pulled his shirt over his head and tucked it into the harness, then pushed the cloak from her shoulders to drape around the horse’s mane. She followed the direction of his gaze over her shoulder. The moonlight showed her a glimpse of the ten Maxwell men cresting the hill of the next valley. The world was theirs. It seemed the meadow had been created for them and them alone, sprinkled with starlight and filled with the sweetest scents. Clouds dotted the sky and the moon poured over the grasses like glistening tears.

Broc loosened the laces of her tunic and gathered the material around her waist. He embraced her, pressing her skin to his, and kissed her hair. She felt a near desperation to be intimate with him. A hum escalated throughout her body as she placed featherlight kisses along his jaw, hoping they would come upon an inn soon. He moaned, licked his lips, and pushed her tunic high over her bare thighs. The thickness of his manhood grew to pulsing proportions beneath her bottom, causing her knees to latch a little tighter around him. Clasping her fingers around his neck, she leaned back, needing to feel his caress and the warmth of his mouth. “Touch me.”

Her breasts bobbed in rhythm with the steed’s canter until he caught one in each hand and circled her nipples with the tips of his short nails. At last his moist tongue sprinkled her areolas with wetness one at a time until her nipples crinkled. She wiggled, growing more aroused, feeling his passion through every ounce of coddled skin. The tension became unbearable, and the muscles inside her flexed and throbbed.

She gasped and tightened the clasp of her ankles behind him as a streak of fire flashed through her. “Will we be stopping
soon?” Please say aye.

“Nay. With Smitt leading us, ‘tis quite possible we will ride all the way to Scotland.”

Holding her hands in one of his to aid her balance, he lowered her onto the horse’s nape.

“Lie back. I want to see ye. I’ll not let ye go.”

Her breasts glistened in the moonlight, and the wind slid over her like cool satin. He gathered her tunic at her navel and played over her skin, teasing all of her curves. “Do ye know I’ve pictured ye like this.”

Through the slits of her eyes, she recognized the hunger in his gaze, and the vixen who’d been locked away far too long wanted to play. “Ye pictured me naked atop a horse?”

“Aye.” He tickled her small nest of curls, drawing heat straight to his hand. “I pictured ye naked in the tunnel the first time I ever smelled your scent,” he admitted, “but I pictured ye naked atop a horse the morning after we left the inn. Ye are far more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.”

His words caused a blush to further heat her burning skin.

She was about to beg him to touch her when he delved two

fingers between the wet folds of her womanhood and circled her sensitive ball of flesh with the tip of his thumb. Her wrists buckled inside his grip as she lifted her hips off the horse’s back. “Oh, Broc.” His name passed over her teeth with a sharp intake of air. “You must stop the horse.” “Nay.” He urged the steed faster across the open plain, stroking her, bringing her closer to the brink of ecstasy. Her core fluttered in anticipation. She held tight to his hand and cried out his name over and over into the night. Desire seared through her loins. The pinnacle of her climax lay on the surface. He tore his fingers from inside her and let go of her hand.

Nay!
Her core pulsed.

He stood in the stirrups and released the laces of his trews to free his erection from its confinement. “I need ye.” “You intend to make love to me on a moving horse?” She sat forward, struggling to keep her balance without the aid of his hand.

“Oh, aye.” He curled his hands around her buttocks, lifted her overtop him, and nipped her ear. “Wrap your arms around me.”

She did and tucked her face in the crook of his neck as he opened her to him.

“Make love to me, Lizbeth.” He slid himself into her wet canal and fell into rhythm with the stallion’s rocking gait. Her nails dug into his shoulders, holding on, as each stride filled her with his thickness. The horse controlled the pace of their lovemaking, beat after beat, pulse after pulse, until the spiraling friction escalated and sent her searching for air. The sound of wet slapping flesh heightened her desires, exciting her in ways she’d not yet experienced.

Fingers spread wide around her cheeks, teasing the crevice of her backside, circling the puckered hole until one finger snuck in to its knuckle and mimicked the to and fro movement of his hard shaft inside her. She cried out and squeezed her muscles, wanting him to stop … wanting him to go faster, harder.

“Ye are mine. No one will ever take ye away from me again.” His groans were animalistic. Deep, throaty … primal. “Mine … “ He repeated the word with each thrust.

“Mine.”

“Mine.”

“Mine!” he roared and crushed her pelvis to his. Digging his fingertips into her bottom, he dominated her, and she wanted to show him the same aggression. He was her mate, her husband, her lover. Empowered by his passion, she reached between them and squeezed his tiny nipples and sunk her teeth into his shoulder. Pleasure took hold of her body in rippling waves.

Like a caged animal set free, he bellowed an instinctual growl so fierce and loud it vibrated in her ears, and then he erupted into her heat. He flooded her, surge after powerful surge, filling her with life.

The beat of his heart thundered as one with hers in the aftermath. His thighs tightened, slowing the steed up the side of the knoll until they came to a stop. His forehead rested on her shoulder, and his harsh breaths heated the space between them. “Oh, Lizbeth …”

She waited for him to finish, expectation making her heart gallop faster than it had moments before. He must love her; his touch told her so. He’d been willing to die for her. She nuzzled into his neck, wanting desperately to hear him profess his love.
Say the words.

The sting of tears prickled her eyes. Her lips brushed the rim of his ear.
Love me,
she begged silently, but her plea echoed throughout her heart… unanswered.

Chapter 23

“Is it really necessary for you to enter Grandmum’s home with a dagger?” Lizbeth pursed her lips and scowled at Broc, a face she’d worn often enough over the last few days. He suspected she was weary. For nearly a sennight, they rode hard, slept little, and made love every chance they could slip away from the others. Lizbeth was at her most playful before dawn. Twice he’d awoken with her atop him wanting to play the victor. And twice he’d put her back under him. Every day that passed she became stronger, bolder, more dominant. He was eager to get her back to Skonoir Castle, but she’d insisted on paying Grandmum a visit since the sun was still high. Standing on the stone walkway behind him, Lizbeth crossed her arms under her breasts, displaying her stubbornness, but the effect was lost on the daring cut of the deep purple gown he’d bought her at Market Cross in Leicestershire. He paid little attention to her temper as his gaze focused on the creamy swells of her breasts, currently accentuated by a thick gold hem that followed her curves down the front of her skirt where her toe drummed an impatient tune. Waiting.

“Dinnae tap your toe at me,” he demanded, which only made her glare at him with those flaming eyes and tap with more ferocity.

“Sheath your weapon.”

“Grandmum will not poke me if I’m wielding a weapon.” “You are a foolish Scotsman. Step aside.” She brushed past him, leaving a sweet scent in his nose reminding him of the thick garden of white and red flowers where he’d made love to her before dawn. Gillyflowers, to be more precise. Why the woman insisted on educating him on every floral species across England he didn’t know, but it made her smile. ‘Twas enough for him.

“Are you coming?” She offered him her hand from the threshold.

“Aye.” He sheathed his weapon, took her hand, and stepped in front of her to lead her into the entranceway. The tip of a sword found the hollow of his throat the moment they entered Grandmum’s great room.

“Tis about time ye returned.”

For a moment Broc thought he stared at his reflection, except the man before him was younger and wore the
plaid.
He almost didn’t recognize Ian in the colored light of Grandmum’s stained-glass window. Truth was, nigh a year had passed since Broc had seen his younger brother. “You’ve grown. A lot.”

“Aye.” Ian slid his sword into the sheath at his hip, then clasped Broc’s hand and embraced him with a slap on the back. A hearty slap. “I’ve been safeguarding the border whilst ye’ve been frolicking about England. Is this your woman?” Ian ran his gaze over Lizbeth, bringing her eyes away from Grandmum’s window.

“Aye. This is Lizbeth.”

“I am his wife,” she corrected, “not his woman.” “ ‘Tis one and the same,” Ian remarked with a nonchalance that made Broc consider slipping from the room. The lad still had lessons to learn.

“Pray forgive me, but nay they are not. A wife is expected to be faithful to her husband. To be dutiful and support him and help him make decisions. A woman is someone a man ruts over before he finds a wife to guide him.” Broc wanted to applaud her for standing up to Ian. No doubt, she worried over her position as Lady Maxwell. Mayhap she feared being incapable of managing the household. For days he’d searched for reasons to justify her low spirits.

Ian opened his mouth, then closed it. He stared at Lizbeth for long moments before turning to Broc. “Have ye been to Skonoir?”

Lizbeth humphed and went to the sill housing Grandmum’s dolls.

“Nay,” Broc answered and worried over Lizbeth’s mood.

“Why are ye not at the keep?”

“He is hiding.” Grandmum limped into the room. Thankfully, her poking fingers were occupied with a flask of whisk)’, four small cups, and her sword.

“I am not hiding. Think ye a mon cannae visit his grandmum without everyone accusing him of misdeed?” Ian denied Grandmum’s accusation, but Broc knew something was amiss. No one visited Grandmum lest they wanted a medicine or a place of refuge.

“Ah chad Ye
been here a sennight, and the roof on the barn still needs to be fixed, as do the fences.” Grandmum turned a blind eye to her grandsons, set the whisky and cups on the trestle table, and then hobbled toward Lizbeth, who was completely preoccupied with Grandmum’s dolls.