Her One Desire Page 12

  “I’m preparing my words in my head.” In truth, she thought of all the people she would meet—his mother and brother, his aunts and sisters, and his grandmum. Lizzy would like her most of all. She doubted the woman was quite the old crone he claimed her to be. She squeezed his hand, near bursting with anticipation.

  “Save your argument. My mind is made up.” He released her hand and scratched his forearms. “Now mayhap ye can find this gypsyweed and relieve my itch.”

  “Aye, m’lord.” She smiled, not certain how to thank him.

  “Do you think I will be happy there?”

  “As happy as one can be in a cloister. Dryburgh will not be much different from Fountains Abbey. I know and trust the clergy. Mayhap after a time I will take ye to court in Edinburgh to find a husband. Until then, ye will be safe with Brother Mel. Ye will like him. He is always jesting and playing games. And there is a garden….” He droned on, but she no longer heard his words.

  Her chin lowered; her eyes watched the movement of her feet. Her assumptions embarrassed her. Beneath the stars he might see her as a woman, but society only knew her as one person—the executioner’s daughter. ‘Twould be no different in Scotland. This curse she carried would always prevent her from being accepted. While Lord Maxwell’s decision to take her to Scotland proved him honorable, his intentions to tuck her away in a monastery made him just like everyone else.

  Chapter 11

  A sharp point poked Broc in the hollow of his neck. His lids snapped open. Three scrawny Englishmen stood over him in the silver light of dawn, garbed in black skullcaps and doublets of crimson satin. He reached for Lizbeth.

  The wool beside him was empty. His fist clenched. “Ye will find it in your best interests not to hurt the girl.” Or I will kill each one of ye slowly. The one holding the sword cocked his head and glanced at Broc’s fist, then looked at the ancient symbol marking his arm. “And ye hold what rank to threaten the guards of Yorkshire?”

  God’s hooks! They were Gloucester’s men. “I serve

  Gloucester’s brother. Mayhap ye have heard of him. He answers to the name ‘His Majesty.’ Now, remove your weapon from my person, else you’ll know the lack of mercy with which he reigns.”

  His words inspired instant wide-eyed fear. The Yorkist removed his sword. “Forgive us. Ye display no colors and the mark on your arm is not one I’ve seen before.” Broc shot to his feet, mindful to hide his back, and offered thanks for the idiocy of the English mind. While sharpening his wit to the situation, he scanned the area around the loch. His eye caught Lizbeth’s slender figure and a cool wave washed through him. Her steps were high over the grasses as she approached, her eyes focused on her footing around the heap of flowers filling her skirt.

  “My colors are on the bank, and the mark is symbolic of my Christian faith.” Broc decided it best to befriend the Yorkists, but mentally prepared to strike them down should they question his lies. “I am Sir Julian Ascott, guard and noble knight of our country’s great sovereign leader. I am one of three guards escorting a woman and her maid to Middleham Castle on orders of our dying king.” He tightened the clip of his speech, delivering his words with eloquence. “Dying? His Majesty is ill?” The obvious leader of the threesome scratched the back of his neck and spit With no respect for his weapon, the Yorkist stuck his sword in the marshy ground and supported himself on the hilt. He displayed the judgment of a nit.

  “Aye. Tis rumored King Edward contracted the fever on a fishing expedition.” Broc considered gutting them where they stood with the sgian dubh now hidden in his palm, but if Lizbeth happened to glance up, he suspected she would severely disapprove. He looked over the Yorkist’s shoulder to find her frozen and staring at him. Recognizing the panic in her stance, he gestured her toward him.

  All three men foolishly turned their heads. Instead of killing them, Broc snatched the opportunity to locate the others. Celeste and John no longer occupied their wool, but Smitt lay on his stomach, arms and legs spread wide, and his white arse beaming. When his cousin slept, he slept hard. “Is the woman your charge?” The man rubbed his cullions, revealing the true nature of his thoughts.

  Broc wanted to gut the pig. The hilt of his sgian dubh slid against his palm. “She is Lady Lizbeth Ives and has within her possession a missive sealed by the Duke of Buckingham. Tis my duty to see her safely to Middleham to deliver this missive to the king’s brother.”

  “Is she of royal blood?”

  “Has she caught your eye, sir?” Broc played his game. The louse grinned through a mouth full of crooked yellow teeth and nudged the man to his right. “I wouldn’t kick ‘er from my bed.”

  “Nay? Her father might, howbeit. She is daughter to the Lord High Executioner.” Broc was quite pleased with the look of repugnance on all three of their faces. The bulges in their hose shrank with astounding speed. “A bit of advice, good sirs. Lady Ives is touched in the head.” He tapped his temple.

  “She is mad?”

  On closer inspection, Broc noticed the hilt of his broadsword over her shoulder and his dirks pinched beneath her underarms. The garments he’d left on the bank were draped over her shoulders. He laughed inwardly, then used her appearance to further his efforts.

  “Aye. ‘Tis a difficult duty to protect a woman who keeps company with so many weapons. I am forever removing them from her person.”

  All three Yorkists took a cautionary step back when Lizbeth entered their circle. She was a contradiction to herself in so many ways. Femininity at its finest in bare toes, pursed lips, and exotic scents, yet she shielded her secrets and desires inside walls of iron. He reached through her silky tresses and then withdrew, revealing the sgian dubh he’d already been holding to the gawking trio. He tucked the black knife into his trews and removed the dirks from beneath her arms. “Lady Ives, we have discussed repeatedly that it is not necessary for you to be armed.”

  Her brow gathered in the middle as she studied his words and his company. “Aye, sir.”

  The lass was smart and kept to her tongue. He snatched his tunic and crimson doublet from her shoulder. “Lady Ives, these fine gents are guards of Yorkshire,” he introduced and slipped into his garments. “Forgive me”—he looked at their leader—“I do not believe you gave me your name.” While the men stumbled over introductions, Broc spun Lizbeth around and removed his sword from her back. “Run along, m’lady. Find Beatrice and make preparations to leave.” “As ye wish, sir.” She rushed into an open patch in the woodland.

  “Is Beatrice her maid?” The guard who’d introduced himself as Oliver watched her with keen interest.

  “Nay. Beatrice is her pet chicken.” He ignored their sidelong glances and decided they might serve a purpose. Gaining entrance inside the guarded walls of Middleham Castle would be greatly simplified with their aid. “Mayhap you gents would escort us the remainder of our journey?” “I s’pose we might be persuaded.” Oliver sheathed his sword and crossed his arms over his chest. “How does fifteen ducats of His Majesty’s fine coin sound?” Oliver gained a nod from the other two Yorkists. “Happy to be at your service, fine sir. Might we ready your horses?” “Aye.” Broc readily agreed, hoping to keep them occupied while he informed the others of his plans.

  Lizbeth awaited him, her flowers dumped at her feet. The speed of her pacing gave away her angst. She turned toward him, one eye narrower than the other. “You converse with them like you battle for the same king. They are English.” “As are ye. Odd that ye should fear them more than I.” “I’ve no patience for your wit this morn.” She popped her fists on her hips, making him want to laugh at her.

  Mayhap she was a wee bit mad. The woman was filled with fire. Her temper lay on the surface untamed. She must have left the “aye, m’lords” and “nay, m’lords” in the patch of flowers yester eve. Submission served her well as a front, but every day she revealed more of what she kept buried inside her. At the moment, anger crawled to the surface.

  “Do ye not trust me by now?”

>   “Nay. Your vow to protect me has gone far beyond seeing me safely from London. What do you gain by escorting me to York?”

  He grabbed the front of her bodice and yanked her to him.

  “Mayhap what I seek to gain is ye.”

  She wiggled free of him. “Tis a lie. You could have had your way with me, be it with my permission or by force. But you refused me.”

  The lass had certainly been thinking. She spoke like a woman scorned. “I refused ye because I am honorable.” “To Hades with your honor. If you had any honor, you would have already returned home.”

  Broc backed away from her and rotated his neck until it popped on both sides. His fists tightened into iron balls. He escorted her halfway across England, stood by a vow to protect her, offered to take her to his homelands, and she insults his honor. Her words cut deeper than a battle wound. Brother Mel had taught him to respect the sacraments. He refused her because he wouldn’t take her innocence without marriage and a marriage to her didn’t protect his clan or his country.

  Lizbeth’s gaze shifted; then she leaned to see around him. He glanced over his shoulder. The Englishmen gawked at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted wings and a tail. “Why are they looking at me like that?”

  “Because they think ye are mad.”

  “Why would they think that?”

  “Because I told them ye were. Sharpen your wit, lass. We are about to enter the realm of the defender of England, and they are taking us there.”

  To a man she trusted… and a man he despised.

  * * *

  Lizzy followed Lord Maxwell, or rather Sir Julian Ascott, through the crowded byways of the city of York. Another day astride should have had her aching, but her body seemed to be taking the ride better this day. The sounds of the city reminded her of London: the clang of church bells, the gaiety of courtiers layered in rich colors of fine silks and brocades, the trill voice of the merchant haggling his wares, be it carpets and tapestries or gold and silver cups.

  She admitted to a certain measure of excitement, but as the stone towers of Middleham Castle grew before her, the greater her foreboding became. In London, the Duke of Gloucester had been a man who’d offered her aid with a gentle hand. He’d wiped the rotted fruit from her face with his own cloth the day of Kamden’s execution. But in the north, he was a king among his people, guarded and honored as heavily as King Edward himself.

  For reasons she did not yet know, Lord Maxwell disliked the man immensely. Of course, her Scottish protector held no love for any English. He, however, had gained the trust of three Englishmen who were presently making preparations for them to enter the stronghold.

  As they crossed the northern drawbridge and passed beneath the iron portcullis, Lord Maxwell narrowed his eyes on the castle, and a slow smile spread across his lips. He snuck her a wink. A chill of unease made her draw back on the reins a bit. She brought a Scotsman into a city whose leader prided himself on breaking their northern neighbors. Lord Maxwell could have easily sent her into Middleham Castle with the Englishmen and been on his way to the border. Instead he seemed determined to be at her side, as if he relished the moment she would inform Gloucester of Buckingham’s treachery. They met with the city’s aldermen and were assigned quarters within the castle. Lord Maxwell conferred with a scheduler and secured an audience with the duke for the following morn. She had been a fool to believe she could walk into Gloucester’s home and make demands for the information she provided.

  Lord Maxwell, John, and Smitt accepted an invitation to gallivant among the noble knights of Yorkshire, while she and Celeste were offered resting quarters for the eve. Though the attendants treated them with reverence, she was wary of being separated from her protector.

  A maidservant escorted them up a tower stairwell and through a carpeted hallway alight with rushlights spewing smoke and flame. The lanky woman opened a door. “If you’ve need for anything, send your maid to the servant’s quarters at ground level outside the kitchens. I will order a bath be brought to you straightaway.” The maidservant bowed, backed away, and then paused.

  Lizzy stared at her, then realized the woman waited for dismissal. “Thank you. That will be all.”

  The maid scurried away without making eye contact. Though well spoken, the attendants reminded Lizzy of abused animals—compliant to a fault.

  “’Ods toes, m’lady. ‘Ave ye ever seen a more extravagant room?” Celeste spun a circle atop a carpet designed with fruit, while Lizzy hid the single satchel she’d brought with her beneath a bed big enough to sleep three, mayhap four people. The bed was only one of many pieces of furniture decorating the guest quarters. Gold rope tied back scarlet drapes on the bed and windows. A wooden tray filled with red and green grapes sat atop a bedside table. Wall sconces and two candelabrums filled the chamber with comforting light, and the smell was divine—a hint of mint sweetened with what she guessed to be clover. ‘Twas indeed a magnificent room, more suited for a princess than someone of her position in society.

  “Come, let me prepare ye for your bath, m’lady.” Celeste grabbed Lizzy’s hips and spun her toward the bed.

  “Celeste, you really need not attend me. You are only acting as my maid.” Lizzy held on to a mahogany bedpost carved with delicate flowers while Celeste untied her laces. ‘”Tis nay trouble, m’lady.”

  “You most certainly do not need to address me with such reverence.” Lizzy hated her title. She didn’t feel she deserved to be prefaced the same as a wife of an earl or a marquess. ‘”Tis a bit overwhelming to me.”

  “To me as well,” Lizzy admitted and pulled her bodice from her arms with the false sleeves still attached. Celeste worked the ties at her waist until Lizzy was able to step from her skirts and free her of the heavy burden she’d carried for days. The weightlessness made her lightheaded. She set Mother’s rosary on a bedside table as Celeste located a robe from a standing wardrobe.

  ‘”Tis as soft as a spun web.” Celeste held the sheer wrapper up by the shoulders and awaited the removal of Lizzy’s tunic.

  She turned, a hint of modesty causing her skin to warm, and pulled her underclothes over her head. Celeste gasped.

  Curse it! Lizzy stiffened. She should have taken care to hide the scars. She slipped her arms through the sleeves and wrapped the thin robe tightly around her, pulling the tie at her waist to an uncomfortable crunch. Celeste held her tongue, though Lizzy suspected a multitude of questions were on the forefront.

  A knock at the door saved her from Celeste’s curiosity. Three maidservants carried two buckets each into the chamber and filled a wooden tub halfway with steaming water. Feeling naked in the flimsy wrapper, Lizzy kept her eyes fixed out a window overlooking a river. The wet smell of steam filled the chamber, and then came the soothing scent of primrose. She waited for the quiet click of the door before turning.

  “Your bath awaits ye, m’lady.” Celeste giggled, snatched up a small branch of grapes, and bounced onto the bed. “’Tis the right amount of spring.” She wiggled her brows and ran her fingers over the silk bedding just before she plopped onto her back. Lizzy ignored her wicked comment, removed the wrapper while Celeste was occupied, and stepped into the tub. Hot water seeped around her body and eased her muscles. Her head fell back against the rim. and she moaned. Heaven. No other word could describe it.

  “How old are ye?”

  Lizzy rolled her eyes beneath her lids. Why did everyone seem to want to converse with her as of late? ‘Twould be rude to ignore Celeste, regardless of how much Lizzy wanted to. “Three and twenty.”

  “I wonder why a woman of your age and beauty isn’t being escorted by her husband.”

  Lizzy was trapped in a room with a woman who was certain to badger her with questions.

  “The less you know about me, the better chance we have of remaining friends.” “Friends do not keep secrets.”

  A burst of air expelled from Lizzy’s nose. Her secrets would undoubtedly end their friendship. A small cake of soap along with
creams for her hair sat on a cuttie stool beside the tub. Lizzy pulled herself upright and tended to her bath, hoping Celeste would not pursue the conversation. “I am not one to judge a woman based on her discrepancies,” Celeste said.

  A laugh escaped Lizzy at the likelihood of any man wanting her in his bed. “You think I’m a courtesan? Mayhap a mistress to some noble in London?”

  “Your secrets will not lessen my opinion of ye. We all have them.”

  “Mayhap you should tell me one of your secrets then.”

  Lizzy had mastered the skill of redirecting conversations. “My mum was unfaithful to her husband a fortnight after they spoke their marriage vows. Ye will never guess what breed of man she laid with.”

  Lizzy gave her a sideways glance. “A Scot?” Celeste nodded and popped another grape between her grin. “Ironic, aye?”

  “Your father was a Scot?”

  “Mayhap.” Celeste shrugged. “I know not who he was, nor did Mum, I suspect. She was a drab. She contracted cupid’s disease and died when I was young. ‘Tis what’s going to happen to Smitt if he doesn’t keep his twanger in his trews.” “Oh, aye,” Lizzy agreed wholeheartedly and ran the scented soap around her toes.

  Celeste positioned herself at the bed’s edge and fidgeted with the hem of her threadbare kirtle. “I’ve another secret. ‘Tis a big one. Not even John knows.”

  “Do tell,” Lizzy prompted, though she doubted it was necessary. Celeste looked ready to burst with excitement. “I am carrying.”

  “A child?”

  Celeste nodded so hard the bed shook. “John and I feared I was barren. We’ve been married two years and last month was the first time I’ve ever missed my menses.” “’Tis wonderful news.” Worry had Lizzy frowning. Celeste had to take care. The travel alone could cause complications. “You must tell John.”

  “I had intended to tell him; then ye and Lord Maxwell arrived. John and I are still bickering, and I’d rather wait til happier times.”