Her One Desire (39 page)

“And when he does, I will take ye to see Grandmum.” Lizzy had tried repeatedly to get Grandmum to accept Broc’s offer to move back to the keep, but she was a stubborn old woman who liked her peace.

Broc dove beneath the water and resurfaced in front of her. ‘”Tis one step, Lizzy. Trust me to protect you.” He extended his hand.

She inhaled deeply, grumbled, and focused all her energies
on her footing. Do it. Take the
step.

Curse it!
Her stomach became aflutter with nerves. She took his hand for support, knowing he wouldn’t pull her in.

Her gaze lowered. Long moments passed in silence while she
stared at her toes. Take the
step. This day. Now.

The rough stone slid beneath her foot.

Her knee bent.

She took the step. Her feet flattened on the bottom as water rose to her breast. She sucked in air, but her vision remained clear, as did her senses. Worry lines etched Broc’s face.

“Are you breathing?” she asked, concerned about the red tinting his bronze skin. He shook his head.

“Breathe and get me.”

Without hesitation, he pulled her into his protective arms and filled his lungs with an audible gasp. “I’m proud of ye, Lizzy.”

In truth, she was proud of herself, but going under would have to wait another day. “Do not let go.”

“Never.” He kissed her hair and curved his hand over the bump in her belly. “Mayhap someday we will get ye into the loch to swim with our children.”

“Mayhap.” She wrapped her arms and legs around him and kissed him. Naught seemed impossible anymore. As long as she was with him, in his embrace, feeling his love, the world belonged to her.

A tap came at the door, followed by a click. “M’lord, may I enter?”

“Nay!” she shrieked and tightened her thighs around Broc’s waist. She was practically naked. While everyone in the clan respected their privacy, Smitt was a lecher. ‘”Tis important,” Smitt said and opened the door a little wider.

Broc turned his back to the doorway, hiding her, and craned his neck over his shoulder.

“What is it?” Smitt’s head popped through the cracked doorway. “John and Ian came across an Englishmon riding on Maxwell soil.” “A messenger?”

“I know not for certain. He claims he was invited and is demanding entry. He is detained in the gatehouse. Ian sent a squire to retrieve ye.”

“Give us a moment,” Broc said and waited for the door to click. Lizzy held tight as he carried her from the water, his brows pinched slightly and a grim line tightening his lips. He had immense responsibilities that weighed heavily on his mind daily. “Do not fret, husband. ‘Tis only one man.” He nodded as he helped her into a heavy robe, then vested himself in the
plaid.
He laced his boots and sheathed the sword that was never far from his person at his hip. When the rustle of clothes settled, Smitt poked his head in again. “Did she go under? Can the rest of us use the bathhouse yet?”

Lizzy shot him a warning glare. “You are not going anywhere near my bath until the little beasties have moved out of your forest. Are you using the medicine I gave you?” “Aye, m’lady.” Smitt frowned like a scolded boy and redirected his attention toward Broc.

“Want me to kill the Englishmon?”

“Nay. I will tend to the matter. Go to the kitchens and have Aunt Radella prepare our guest a warm meal and fetch a flask of your da’s whisky.”

Smitt dipped his head and exited.

Broc raised her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. “Go dress in something suitable to your station and meet us in the Great Hall.”

“Why?” she questioned as unease sent her fretting. “I invited only one Englishman onto my soil. In truth, I dinnae think he would come.”

“Who?”

“Your father.”

Four, Jive, six. Cease! You are no longer that person. Lizzym
chided herself for her nervousness.

She released the tails of her sleeves and smoothed her garnet-colored skirt, determined not to fidget. Instead, she paced in front of the crackling hearth of the Great Hall and rubbed the gemstones encrusted in the pendant hanging around her neck. She was wife to the chieftain. She carried the heir who would lead Clan Maxwell. Lady Ives was dead and gone. So why was she counting?

Father was her only kin. She didn’t know if she feared him, his curse, or the news he might bring with him from the Tower. To her knowledge, he’d never once left London. She was hard-pressed to believe he’d traveled all this way in such treacherous weather to pay visit.

Completely lost in her worries, she stared at the fire, unblinking.

“Lizzy.”

She spun around, her heart beating out of cadence, and looked at her father. A heavy fur speckled white with flurries made him look even bigger than she remembered him. His hands balled at his sides, one fist larger than the other, and his red nose shone above a full dark beard crusted with white chunks of snow.

Father never wore a beard.
Her head tilted as she studied him. He looked cold, but his amber eyes were warm, glassy … sane. The silence became unnerving as he waited for her greeting.

Broc leaned a little to the side behind her father and mouthed the words, “Say something.”

“You look cold.”

“’Tis cold in Scotland.” Father nodded once and mayhap even smiled behind his beard. His eyes lowered. “You look well.”

Her hands immediately went to protect her unborn child. “We are.” Her chin rose and she curled her hair behind her ear. “Lord Maxwell’s aunt is forever fattening me. She warmed mutton mawmenny boiled in red wine for you.” She gestured toward a trestle table where a trencher piled high with food sat alongside a goblet of wine and a flask of whisky. “’Tis sprinkled with almonds. You like almonds, do you not?”

“I do.” Father didn’t move, nor did he take his gaze from her. “Your husband most graciously invited me. but I will not stay if I distress you in any way. I only wanted to bring you news.”

“Could you not have sent a missive?” she blurted out, wishing she could quit staring at him. He was the man she remembered from her childhood. The father who carved things and held Mother’s hand when she was dying. He was not the executioner this day, but a man who looked as frightened as she to speak. A knot swelled in her throat. “I wanted to see you.” Father’s hand flexed around the object he held.

A too familiar pang erupted in her chest. She swallowed and blinked the tear from her eye. “Please, warm yourself and eat,” she said, her voice soft, but not afraid. Father raised bushy brows and turned his head slightly, giving her his better ear. Broc slipped out from behind Father and into his vision. “She said, ‘Warm yourself and eat/” Her husband splayed a hand toward the hearth.

Father nodded finally, removed his fur, and shuffled through the floor rushes to her side. He held his hands to the fire’s warmth, the one still fisted now piquing her curiosity. Father was never a man of many words, nor was she. Of course, a hundred questions whirled through her mind, but not one formed on her tongue. Instead, the two of them stood arm to arm in silence.

Heat melted the snow in Father’s beard before Broc finally pulled up behind her and wrapped his arm around her waist. She held on to his hand and blew air so forcefully the flame tips ruffled. He would save her from this awkward silence with his chatter.

“While my wife forms her words, mayhap ye can tell me how Gloucester is faring?”

“King Richard is causing quite a stir along the countryside. He finally had Buckingham executed in Wiltshire a fortnight ago.”

The skin around her eyes stretched wide. “You jest.”

“I do not jest child.”

Broc kissed her hair and squeezed her, giving her strength to ask the question that had her most troubled. “And what of Lord Hollister?”

“I arranged to have him moved to Newgate Prison to await a trial. I confess I held on to your document longer than I should have, but I wanted Hollister to agonize over his fate. I gave him time to remember all those he’d condemned without

a trial, and then I assured him I would show him no

mercy.” Father’s hands fell to his sides, and he looked up at the broadsword hanging over the hearth. “Even after I gave King Richard the document, he wanted a full confession. I was most willing to provide it.”

Father’s pause lasted longer than her patience. “Lord Hollister confessed to poisoning King Edward?”

“Nay, but he confessed to being involved in a conspiracy to expose the princes’

illegitimacy. He was quick to name Buckingham as the leader of the rebellion.” Father turned slowly toward her. “King Richard sentenced Hollister to a private execution, and I hope the bastard is carrying his head in Hell as we speak.”

Lizzy lessened the grip she held on Broc’s hand and stared at the tiny arcs her fingernails left behind in his skin. She inhaled deeply and freed the last bit of fear Lord Hollister would ever hold over her. “Tis done then.”

“Tis done.” Father raised his hand to her cheek and caught the tear she didn’t even know was there. She wanted Father here with her at Skonoir Castle. She wanted to see him at peace, but Muira would have difficulties with such an arrangement. Regardless of how badly beaten Broc’s brother had been when he’d entered the Tower, the truth was Father delivered the final lashes that took Aiden’s life.

“If ye’ve naught pressing, Lord Ives, mayhap ye could spend Christmastide with us,”

Broc suggested and then leaned low to her ear. “He is your father, and ye have the right to see him. I will help Mam see the right of it” he whispered as if reading her thoughts.

“All will be well, Lizzy angel.” All
would
be well, and for the first time she actually believed him. She near turned in his arms to hug him; instead, she looked up and mouthed, “Thank you.”

“I s’pose I can return to Lincolnshire after the season.”

“Lincolnshire?” she asked.

“Aye. My loyalty to England has brought me recent rewards. The sheriff of Lincolnshire offered me a position as constable.” An odd look she’d never seen before lifted the hair above his lip. Pride.

“Will your services no longer be needed in the Tower?” “King Richard will undoubtedly need a henchman, but ‘twill not be I. He has only begun what I suspect will be a long and bloody battle to protect his position on the throne. There are nobles awaiting trial in the Tower even now.”

“Including the princes,” Broc stated matter-of-factly.

“Mayhap ye could settle a dispute between my wife and I. ‘Tis rumored your noble king had his nephews murdered in the Tower.”

‘”Tis hearsay, and you well know it.” She scowled up at Broc for even broaching the subject. “Gloucester was sworn to protect his nephews.”

“Protect them, aye. ‘Tis why he declared the princes bastards to parliament and claimed the throne for himself,” Broc pointed out, as he’d done repeatedly over the past months.

“Things are not always as they seem.” Father cocked a brow and drew his beard into a point. “Rumors can evolve out of the simplest interpretation.”

“Can you explain?” she asked in a tone that demanded more information.

“As a servant to King Richard, I am not at liberty to discuss the happenings within the Tower walls. I can, howbeit, tell you that a maidservant stumbled upon Madoc and I whilst we collected Eli and Martin’s bodies for burial. ‘Twasn’t long before the minstrels started singing woeful tunes about tragic death throughout the streets of London.”

Glad to be the victor over their quarrel, she swiveled and looked up at Broc. ‘”Tis hearsay. The makings of one woman’s imaginative mind.”

“Then ye have seen the princes in the Tower?” Broc asked Father, obviously still not willing to dispel the rumors. “The last two boys I saw in the Tower were ghosts. I am sworn to secrecy to say anything further.”

“Ghosts?” Broc questioned, and she was prepared to stomp his toe should he mock her father.

“Aye.” Father inhaled and stared at his fisted hand. “I am a deeply disturbed man haunted by so very many souls.” ‘
Tis to be expected,
she thought, but kept her comment silent.

“Do you know why I carve the birds?”

Lizzy thought Father’s question odd and out of context, but she would listen to him. “I suspect to ease your mind.” “’Tis one reason, but also ‘twas my way of setting the souls free of those lives I took. Your grandfather planted a tree after every execution to symbolize the life after. I carved two birds for Eli and Martin to see them on their journey, though I fear they have not yet left. I saw them playing behind the Garden Tower just before I departed for Lincolnshire.” Father’s eyes became distant again. Broc leaned into her hair. “He is wowf.”

Her elbow found his ribs. Fortunately, Father’s poor hearing saved him from Broc’s insult. Father may not possess all his wits, but she had never seen him so at ease, so calm and free. Nor had he ever spoken so openly about his profession or his grandsons.

“I know I do not deserve your love or your prayers,” Father continued. “But I want you to know Lord Hollister was the last.” Father opened his fisted hand before her. A carved bird sat in the middle of his palm.

She pushed back into Broc’s embrace. “If that is Lord Hollister’s soul, I do not want it.”

“Nay, Lizzy. This one is mine, and I want you to have it because you set me free.”

Emotions surged through her once again and thickened in her mouth. Father fought his demons and broke his curse. She didn’t know if her prayers would save him; nonetheless, she would reserve him a place on her rosary. She wrapped her hand around his gift and held it tight against her breast.

“I will protect your soul in this life and the next.” She looked up at her husband and found his dimples curved around his smile.

Father released air through his nose and said nothing more.

“Please, eat, Lord Ives.” Broc stepped to Lizzy’s side and gestured toward the trestle table.

Father sat heavily upon the bench and engulfed the full goblet of wine, then poured himself a quaff of whisky. Broc spun her around in his arms and kissed her forehead.

“Tis a big duty ye have accepted… to protect your father’s soul. I trust ye will not falter on the obligation I have entrusted to ye.”