Her One Desire Read online

  “Mercy Mary!” Her back arched.

  A surge of liquid heat washed over his hand, shocking him. He’d never had a woman react so quickly. The next time she reached fulfillment, he would be inside her. ‘ He stood above her, rumbling with his trews in a mad rush to free his arousal. He knelt between her parted knees, the smell of her climax driving him insane with need. Sweat rolled down his back as he positioned himself at her entrance. “Pledge your troth to me.”

  Her eyes fluttered open. Confusion and satisfaction combined lowered her delicate brow.

  “What?” she questioned between heaving breaths.

  The tip of his cock slipped between her nether lips. A throaty groan vibrated through his throat. One stroke and he would be finished, but he would make love to her again and again. “I will not take your virtue until we are husband and wife. Pledge your troth and make me your husband.” “Nay. I want no husband.”

  Her words sent him reeling. Fury erupted beneath his skull and stabbed the backs of his eyeballs. In the last four days he’d gained everything he’d ever wanted—the future of Clan Maxwell, Lady Juliana, the chance to protect his clan and his country. He was willing to give it all up for her, and she denied him.

  He bolted off her, raking his hands through his hair. For once, he had no words. He pulled on his trews and collected his garments from the floor.

  “I cannot marry you. Are you mad?” She sat up and jumped from the bed, pulling the wrapper over her flushed skin. He knew her fears, he knew what prevented her from accepting, and she was a fool to doubt his protection. He reached for the door lever. The soft patter of her footsteps stilled behind him. “Broc, please.”

  “I have been true to my vow to protect ye. I wield as much power in ray clan as your precious Gloucester. I protect the borders of an entire country. Think ye I would allow our sons to be cursed with your father’s profession?” He opened the door and walked into the corridor, damning her father for instilling such fear in her.

  Chapter 12

  Women! They would be the death of Scotland. Tis fortunate for Scotland that particular woman denied him. Broc couldn’t marry Lizbeth. ‘Twould be a disgrace to his clan. He was bound to Lady Juliana. Da would disinherit him if he » brought home another bride. Broc paused in the corridor to reposition his weapons, his hands shaking with a rage he should be able to control. How had he become so infatuated with her? Aiden would have never offered a woman marriage. His brother at least had the wit to spend himself inside a woman without promises. Hell, Ian probably knew this by now, and he was barely twenty summers.

  The moment Broc was certain Gloucester had the information Lizbeth provided he was going home. For now, he was determined to scratch his itch the same as any lusty Scotsman. ‘

  Whisky and women.

  The sharp smell of wine and lust led him down the curved stairwell and back to the festivities. John, Celeste, and Smitt ‘ had apparently retired, but the dark-haired seductress still danced for garland in the center of a band of drunkards. She teased them with her movements, bending in all the right positions to allow their imaginations to strip her bare. He swiped two mugs of mead from the tray of a passing maidservant. The liquid amber didn’t even touch his tongue as he poured it down his throat. He scoured his lips with the back of his hand and watched the entertainment. Lizbeth’s face rushed behind his eyes.

  He swilled the second mug of mead. He should be thinking of Lady Juliana, not Lizbeth, and he damned sure shouldn’t be ogling the drab dancing with herself like a woman in the throws of passion. She caught his eye and smiled over her shoulder, flirting with him through half-closed eyes. Her pink tongue darted out to lick her top Up, and her fingers cupped her breasts and squeezed.

  Broc’s teeth clenched until he felt certain they would crumble into bits. His pulse throbbed in his groin. Every muscle in his body wanted to let the beauty play with him. To hell with honor.

  Two flicks of his finger was all the girl needed. She bounced through the crowd on bare toes, then rubbed herself against his side. She was just the itch he needed to scratch. Her long fingers moved over his stomach, then dipped low to stroke the hard length of his cock. “Oh, mon dieu.””” Her eyes lit up, and her smile widened. “Ye want me?” “How much?”

  “Three ducats.”

  He grabbed the girl by the wrist and dragged her from the hall. Music and merriment dissipated behind them, but her grating voice replaced the hollow void of an empty hallway. “Have ye a name ye want me to use?”

  “Julian,” he provided without thought.

  The wench prattled on, some words in English, some in

  French, but he couldn’t decipher any of it over the pounding

  in his chest. She took three steps for every one of his angry strides, desperate to rid himself of the stronghold. He felt more imprisoned here than he had in the Tower. Six archways led them into the castle garden. Rushlights burned around a fishpond alighting alabaster sculptures of naked people. The mixed aromas of fruit trees and plots of herbs called his attention to an abundance of flowers. They were everywhere. Exotic scents slapped him in the face and nearly stopped his footing. Behind his eyes he saw Lizbeth lying in a field of blue flowers.

  God’s hooks! He refused to think about her and tugged the beauty behind him down a series of stone steps. The entrance to a maze presented two options, left or right. He turned right and stalked through two walls of green hedge until darkness surrounded him. He stopped, released the girls hand, and held his aching chest. She panted, bent at the waist, hands on her knees, no longer badgering him with trivial questions. Broc braced his legs. His head fell back. The sky above spun, turning stars into flickering circles. What was he doing? This was not his way. He didn’t pay for pleasure. Village maids served him well in his youth, but after his time in the monastery, he became more selective about the company he shared.

  “Ye want me naked?” The girl reached for the gold clasp on the small garment holding her breasts in place. “Nay.” He didn’t want this. He didn’t want her. He wanted Lizbeth. The girl shrugged one shoulder and dropped to her knees in front of him. She looked up at him, her big doe eyes glittering in the starlight, while one hand massaged his sac and the other reached for the string of his trews. “Ach!” He pulled her to her feet. “Forgive me, maiden.

  I’ve had a change of mind.”

  “Do I displease ye?” Black brows slashed at sharp angles. “Nay.” Broc pulled five ducats from his surcoat and pressed them in her palm, eager to be rid of her. “Go.”

  She ran out of the maze, leaving him with the misery of his thoughts. He closed his eyes, popped his neck, and inhaled through his nose. Touching the tips of his fingers together in front of him, he cleared his mind of unwanted lust as Brother Mel had taught him to do. Two years of meditation and solitude nearly drove him mad, but through Brother Mel’s guidance, he learned how to control his physical state of being. He had to rein in his emotions and come to terms with his position and his responsibilities. He clasped his hands behind his back and started walking. Clan Maxwell needed a leader, a warrior, a defender. A man willing to give up his life to protect his brethren. Not a man willing to give up everything for the protection of one woman. England’s crown would be passed into the hands of a twelve-year-old sovereign. Its government would suffer duress during the transition. Scotland would be wise to take advantage of this time to build defenses throughout the lowlands and form alliances with each other along with France. With any luck, Gloucester would place great importance in his position as Protector of the Realm and leave the north to see to his nephew’s coronation. The boy would need council, guidance, and the nobles would battle for these political positions. If only there was a way to take Lizbeth’s document to his king as evidence of the strife that was sure to fall over England. Without proof, he had only his word, which would hold little merit with King James.

  Da and the council would know what to do.

  He listed the Scottish nobles he and Da wou
ld meet upon his return and deliberated on which tactics they would use to sway their king. Mayhap he should be considering ways to maintain peace with England instead of seeking alliances to battle against them. He paused and looked to his front and then his back. Two walls of shrubbery boxed him in. He backtracked, counting his steps, clipping a small branch from every corner, searching for a way out of the labyrinth. Each twist looked the same as the last until he’d memorized every damned turn. He deserved this punishment for leaving one woman and seeking out another. A crescent moon worked its way over the stars, telling him how much time he’d wasted. He stopped and studied the map in his head. The sound of a twig snapped like a fallen tree in his ears.

  Whispers followed.

  “You trust the source of this information?”

  “Aye. ‘Tis my own brother. He’s fostered by an alderman in the king’s court. Said the bishop delivered the sacraments and King Edward breathed his last on the eve of Wednesday.” Broc strained his ear. The voices were two, mayhap three walls to the east.

  “Have you located the girl?”

  “She’s inside the keep tupping with that filthy Scot she freed from the Tower. Shall I find her and dispose of her, m’lord?”

  Only one woman matched that description: Lizbeth. Broc’s jaw flexed. His muscles tensed. He strangled the hilt of his dirk with a lethal grip.

  “Find her, but I want her alive. Bring her and the document to me before she exposes my association with the leader of the rebellion. Inform her that her charge is here to collect her and take her back to the Tower. When she refuses you, and the little bitch will, tell her if she does not act accordingly, I will train her eldest nephew to wield her father’s ax.” The man lied. Lizbeth said her nephews were dead.

  A man spit. “What of the Scot and his friends?”

  “Feed them to Gloucester. I’ve no use for any of them.” God’s hooks! Broc held his breath until the sound of their footsteps faded beyond the hedge. He had to get Lizbeth and the others and get out. Tonight.

  * * *

  Father has amber eyes—a similar color to hers, only darker. He used to carve things, mostly those foolish birds. And he has large hands. Lizzy punched the bolster beneath her head, attempting to lessen its thickness, while trying to recall Father’s good qualities and the reasons she was trying to save him. After what seemed like hours of thought, all she could summon from her childhood was that the man had carved things with large hands—hands that he sharpened his ax with, hands that he wielded his whip with, and hands that held his pewter cup when he drank himself into a stupor every eve. Broc wanted to marry her, and she denied him, as she denied herself the chance to be a wife, a mother, a lover, all for Father’s hands.

  She growled and tossed and turned until her wrapper completely tied her in knots. The weight of the heavy bedding nearly crushed her. She kicked the coverlet and sheets to the foot of the bed and bucked until the thin wrapper no longer bound her. Air blew over her damp skin, sending a ripple up her spine. The sensation reminded her of what Broc’s touch had done to her. While Edlynn explained many things—all in vivid detail—Lizzy’s old friend failed to mention the intensity, the craving one felt until all at once there was a blinding, almost unbearable moment of pure bliss.

  Mercy Mary! Sleep was never going to find her. Not to mention she was sweating like a woman ill with the death fever. She stared at the mahogany dome of the giant bed, alight with the many candles she left burning, and prayed for piety. She must make wise decisions not only for herself, but for her loved ones—both living and passed. Since arriving at Middleham, her courage seemed to crawl farther inside her. Anticipation of her scheduled meeting with the Duke of Gloucester had her nerves taut like a new bowstring. The people of York believed him a fair and just man. He would see her efforts as noble and reward her accordingly. Then Lord Hollister would walk to where he’d sent so many before him—to the gallows. A touch of insanity tickled her mind, for the image of Lord Hollister’s head atop the chopping block made her feel wickedly happy. Click.

  She sat upright in bed and pulled the coverlet around her neck. “Celeste?”

  The door swung wide. The tip of a blade made her heart kick, but the arm attached to it belonged to the man who quelled her fears with a simple look. A soothing sense of security made her lips turn up at the corners. Then he looked at her. The determined scowl drawing his face into harsh angles made her sag into the bed.

  “Get up. We’re leaving.” Broc closed the door and took a quick scan of the chamber with his warrior eyes. “What do you mean we’re leaving? And why must you always enter with a weapon?”

  “Because there are always people trying to kill us.” He sheathed the dagger and strode to the bed without even looking at her. A sheen of sweat slicked his face and neck, his raven hair was tousled, and the glint in his eye bespoke of fear. He grabbed her upper arm and pulled her from the bed. “We must go.”

  The man had completely lost his wit. She wrenched away, pulling the seams of her wrapper tight with both hands. “Nay. I cannot go anywhere. I have no clothes. What are you about?”

  “’Tis nay time to explain.” Erratic blue eyes shifted from her face and swept over her body. “I have to find the others and leave, and ye are going with me.” He grabbed for her again. “Why? What has happened?” One skill she did possess was the ability to slip from someone’s grip. She bolted in front of the window and passed the empty hearth only to circle back again. The chamber didn’t seem quite as big with him in it.

  “Stop running from me, ye foolish woman!” The muscles flexed in his thighs under his tight black trews. She managed to put the bed between them. When he moved right, so did she, rounding a full circle before they stopped. “Why did you even come here if you are going to leave before I give Gloucester the document?” “I no longer care about the document or Gloucester. I care about getting you out of here alive.”

  “No longer?” She knew he had ulterior motives for coming here. “Tell me why you came? And do not lie to me.” He rubbed his temples. “We seek the same goal, angel. To protect kin and country. I admit what ye hold in your possession once tempted me.”

  “The document?” she asked, trying to keep the hurt from surfacing but failed. She’d been foolish for believing otherwise. Had the document been important enough to him that he would propose marriage? “I was never more than a means to aid your country?”

  “Nay! Ye are more than that, and ye well know.it.”

  But she didn’t know it. She didn’t know who to trust anymore.

  “Tell me how the document benefits you.”

  Broc glanced at the door and then the window. “Your document is the proof I need to convince the King of Scotland to align with France.”

  “Then why did you not take it?”

  “Because it is yours.”

  She shook her head, not wanting to accept his words. “And Gloucester? I trust you only brought me here to give Gloucester the document. Does this benefit you as well?” “The Duke of Gloucester led an army across the border into Dumfriesshire two years past. They burned the village, raped the women, and left naught, save for a black ash of destruction.

  Many of my kin died in that battle, including Lilian and Mattie. My sisters were new brides. ‘Twas my intention to drive your duke out of the north.”

  Her stance softened; her brow smoothed. Regardless of how much his words pained her, she sympathized with him. “I’m sorry for your losses.”

  “Tis an old wound, but not one worth opening if it is going to get me killed. I have to leave. They know I’m a Scot, and they know I travel with John, Celeste, and Smitt. I cannae fight all of York alone.”

  “I cannot just leave. I’ve worked too hard to get here. I’ve lurked in stairwells, hid in cells, played the submissive servant to Lord Hollister’s demands. He stole everyone dear to me and ‘tis time he served his sentence.” She realized the desire to avenge her loved ones was as strong as her determination to save Father. />
  “Lord Hollister is here … at Middleham.”

  Her knees gave way. She clung to the bedpost, staring at the green vine design in the floor covering, certain she would swoon.

  “The chief warder and his men most likely arrived in York before we did.”

  “How do ye know this?”

  “I happened upon them talking.”

  She regained her feet and narrowed her eyes. “Lord Hollister knows your face. How is it he did not summon the English on you?”

  He rolled his eyes heavenward. “I am a spy, Lizbeth. I am capable of lurking without being seen. ‘Tis Hollister’s intention to get the document before ye meet with Gloucester and take ye back to the Tower.”

  Her stomach turned. Fingers wrapped tighter around the bedpost while a suffocating fear clutched her chest. “I cannot go back,” she whispered more to herself than to him.

  “Please, Lizbeth.” Broc held out a strong hand, palm up.

  “Come with me and trust me to keep ye safe.”

  She felt weak for wanting to take his hand. She failed Kamden and Emma, Edlynn and her nephews, her king and country… her father. She looked up at Broc wanting to cry, scream, anything to release the pressure building in her chest. “He wins then. Hollister wins. Gloucester will never know he conspired with Buckingham to assassinate the king.”

  “Your king is dead.” Broc stepped to the window and scanned the courtyard. News of her sovereign’s death didn’t shock her. She knew the man’s days were few.

  “I cannae wait for ye to decide. Trust me or Gloucester, but ye must choose now.”

  Her choice was simple. While Gloucester had shown her compassion, ‘twas only once. Broc had shown her so much more. He’d given her reasons to want to save herself. Now, she needed to save him. She wouldn’t let Lord Hollister take Broc away from her. While Broc was a far more superior warrior. Lord Hollister had strength in numbers. Softly, she walked up behind him and touched the back of his arm. “I trust you.”