Her One Desire Page 10

  Lizzy crossed her eyes and made a funny face at him, enjoying his company more than his seduction. “I am. And you would be half mad, too, if there was an old woman in your head telling you to—“ “Telling ye to what, Lizbeth?” He leaned closer, and his fingers finally touched her cheek.

  The tingle that teased her when he was near shot up her spine. She reached up to take his hand. He met her halfway and pinned it above her shoulder, bringing his weight along with him. Positioned over her, he propped his knee between her thighs. She gasped and curled her fingers in his, waiting, wanting, desiring anything he might give her.

  He bent to her ear. “Does Edlynn tell ye to laugh, and to feel, and to want? Or is the voice in your head your own? The same voice that yelled out my name in your dream.” He brushed his lips over hers. “The same voice that wants to ask me to kiss ye, but is afraid, as she is afraid of everything.” Lizzy took offense. Her eyes snapped open and met his. “I am not afraid of you.”

  “Care to wager, angel? If you’re not afraid, tell me what the voice inside your head wants me to do.” He was goading her. She didn’t care. She would win either way. “I want you to kiss me, and touch me, and tell me I’m desirable.”

  He descended on her mouth in one bold action. His tongue swept over hers and demanded she play with him. She did.

  She mimicked his actions, chasing his tongue, twirling in an erotic dance inside her mouth. When he sucked her top lip, she latched onto his bottom, nipping, biting, tasting. She was afraid to move, to breathe, terrified he would draw back and leave her wanting. Trapped within her was a caged desire demanding to be unleashed. Demanding more. Her hand curled around his neck. Her fingertips pulled him closer. Then as fiercely as he had descended, he pulled away.

  “Ach!” He jumped off her like a man escaping a fire, and being on fire was exactly how she felt.

  A hot, carnal inferno.

  “I think it best if we keep Edlynn out of your head. She does not play fair.”

  Play fair? It may have started as a game, one she admitted to instigating, but certainly

  ‘twas not how it ended. “How can you jest about what just happened?”

  “I kissed ye. This is all. And ye kissed me back.” He sat up, wiping a fine mist of sweat from his thick neck, then scowled at her. “Dinnae look at me as if I stole your virtue. Tis hardly the matter at all.”

  Lizzy closed her mouth, wondering how long she’d sat there with it gaping open, and crawled to her feet. She ignored the pain shooting up her back, determined to distance herself from his rejection. Humiliation was no stranger to her, but never had it felt more like a poison than it did right now. She stuffed her stockings in her boots, then picked them up and stomped through the grasses toward her mount. “I thought ye were going to pick flowers!” he yelled from behind her.

  “I changed my mind,” she spit back.

  “Would that be your mind or Edlynn’s?”

  “Arrogant, toad-sucking Scot,” she grumbled one of Edlynn’s favored insults, not really caring if he heard her. The woman was no angel.

  If her kiss didn’t prove it, the fire of Hell and damnation burning in her eyes did. Rage was one of many emotions Broc suspected Lizbeth kept hidden. Desire slipped past her guarded walls, and he’d been fool enough to mock her for setting it free. He scratched the travel dust on his forearms and watched her thrash through the kneehigh grasses toward her mount. She lifted the reins and led the stallion by the nose alongside the loch’s edge, not noticing that his horse followed her lead. Her movements were sharp, angry, her hand waving this way and that, slicing the air as she spoke to the horse and shook her head. She ranted continually until he could no longer make out her features.

  Poor beast. Broc intended to reward the horse for taking his punishment. He rubbed the back of his neck, still aware of the soft press of her fingers. A tickle blew across his skin. He was an ass with no skill for wooing like Smitt. Charm hadn’t been part of Brother Mel’s lessons, but discipline had. Two years he’d spent learning how to overcome his desires, how to suppress the want for Da’s title and Aiden’s betrothed. He should be rejoicing, drinking Uncle Ogilvy’s whisky, and telling lies with his brethren. Honoring Aiden’s life by celebrating a new beginning. ‘Twas the way of his clan. Too many died, and far too often for the kinsfolk to mourn day and night. He hoped Da would trust him to reign in Aiden’s stead. To lead and preserve the clan—to protect. But protecting Lizbeth had become a duty to him as well. Her goals were foolish, but he suspected they were all she had. She considered herself responsible for her father’s sins and the sins of her country. On the morrow he would deliver her into sanctuary, where she would practice celibacy, learn to be submissive, and hide her tongue behind her teeth. The fire inside her would die, along with her passion, her desire. A desire he touched, and then rejected like a fool. Broc scratched his neck. The woman had him fidgeting, itching, tingling beneath his skin. He scratched his palms, his forearms. Then he held his hands out in front of him. Splotches. Red splotches dotted his arms and the backs of his hands. He checked the ground and recognized the light green plants.

  Damned itching weed!

  He jumped to his feet and stripped to his skin, leaving a trail of garments and weapons toward the loch. He gave no thought to the temperature before he dove headlong into cool, soothing water.

  “Ye look a mite bit piqued, lass.”

  Lizzy pulled her gaze away from her bare toes and greeted John with a frown he didn’t deserve. “This is how I look, sir. But I thank you for noticing.”

  “My wife has the same look.” He graciously took the reins of Lizzy’s horse and stroked its neck.

  “I fear your wife is a little more than a wee bit piqued.” She played with their burr, gaining a chuckle from John. She knew better than most not to hold one man’s sins against another. The anger and hurt clutching her chest was no fault of John’s.

  “Mayhap ye could talk to her. Soften her up a wee bit, aye?” His eye’s pleaded “save me.”

  Lizzy could save a man from bleeding to death, but she had no experience in softening wives, especially wives as angry as Celeste. Nonetheless, Lizzy welcomed the challenge and the distraction. Anything to keep her from thinking of him. “A wee bit might be all I can promise. Where is she?” John bobbed his head toward an opening in the woodland while he removed Beatrice’s cage from the horse and handed it to Lizzy. “I would be indebted to ye.”

  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 conceiv
e 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 sc
reamed 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.