Her One Desire Read online

  “This way.” A tug on his arm pulled him left.

  Several more blind steps brought them to another barricade. He heard her pat the wall searching for what he hoped might be the exit. Her numbers were replaced with whimpers, moans, and heavy breathing. All of which made his body tighten. Then the sound of grating stone filled his vision with speckled light. Tiny rays of gold filtered through a web of vines covering the opening, making him squint. Lady Ives punched a fist through the greenery. Merriment exploded into their silence. Broc caught her arm before she dove through to the other side. “Wait. The city celebrates Eastertide. We will not go unnoticed. Lend me your mantle.” He twisted her around to face him.

  Her enchanting eyes studied him from beneath the ermine fir-trimmed hood. “You place my life in danger by asking for my assistance.”

  “I suspect your life is already in danger. Lady Ives. And I am not asking for your assistance, simply for an article of your clothing.” He couldn’t blend into the celebration half naked and beaten. He and Aiden had mingled with the aristocrats and the drunkards. Recognition was inevitable.

  Lady Ives’s head tilted, fine thin brows pinched together in thought. “If I am to aid you, I would know your crime first.”

  He could hardly tell her he was a spy seeking information to convince the King of Scotland to align with France. She waited for his answer, no doubt expecting a heinous crime, and no crime was more heinous than being a Scot in England. “I am Broderick Maxwell, heir of Lord Magnus Maxwell, Warden of the West Marches.”

  “You are a son of Scotland?”

  “Aye.” This information didn’t seem to alarm her. “Do you hold me responsible in any way for your brother’s death?”

  How many held her da’s profession against her? Broc certainly couldn’t hold Lady Ives responsible for Aiden’s illtimed desire to philander with an English skirt. Broc stepped forward. Instead of backing down, Lady Ives raised herself up to her full height, which was relatively tall for a woman. Her gold eyes demanded his honesty. “The executioner is guided by your country’s nobles. His hand is not your own.” Her flawless skin smoothed over high cheekbones, and the force of the breath she blew cooled his chest. Her fingers released the ties at her neck. The black mantle slipped from her head. Light from behind cast fire-red highlights through glossy sable hair, cascading in soft waves to her waist. The quality and daring cut of her fawn-colored gown bespoke of wealth, nobility—temptation. His hands fisted, pulling tight the chain binding his wrists. The woman was indeed one of God’s finest creations. The monks at Dryburgh would be sorely disappointed in the wayward direction of his thoughts. They’d trained him well, yet he could not draw his eyes from this angel of fire.

  “If I aid your escape out of the city,” she began, pulling his attention from her bodice to her face, “and see to the mending of your wounds, would you offer me escort in return?”

  “Escort?” he asked, unable to hide the mocking question in his tone. “You mean you seek my protection.” He must be wowf for even considering a pact with this woman. Damn the devil himself for placing her in his path. Her wide eyes reeked of desperation and he couldn’t help but wonder whom she ran from. What was he supposed to do? Leave her?

  Whoever hunted her would most likely turn her over to her da for punishment. She lowered her lids, releasing him from the imprisonment of her eyes, and pulled the tails of her sleeves into her hands. “I seek sanctuary.”

  “Whom do ye need protecting from, Lady Ives? What crime have you committed?”

  Her eyes opened to him, glistening with unshed tears. “I have had the misfortune of being bora to the Reaper of the Realm.”

  She probably could have confessed to killing her king, and he still would have given her aid. He would undoubtedly regret his next words. “I will escort ye.”

  Her lips curved slightly at the corners, and a little flutter tickled his gut. Why did he suddenly feel like he was betraying the fair Lady Juliana?

  Chapter 2

  Through multiple rays of light, Lizzy watched Lord Maxwell drape her mantle around his back and fumble with the ties at his neck. The tincture already overtook his fingers.

  “Allow me.” She leaned in and relieved him of his task. The hairs at the hollow of his neck tickled the backs of her fingers.

  Her gaze went from the knot bobbing in his throat to his eyes to see if he’d seen her shudder. He closed his eyes, drew a sharp breath, and then snapped his head side to side. He pushed past her without a word of gratitude and stepped toward the exit. The man behaved like a … well… a Scot. She must have experienced a moment of madness to ask a man of his breeding to offer her aid. “Keep your head bowed. We’ll go north up Watling Street toward the Skinners. With any luck, the majority of London will already be at the cathedral.” He ripped through the laced vines in two passes and crawled through the opening. Mayhap she shouldn’t follow. Father could still save her. She looked back into the black tunnel. Her stomach fell to her toes.

  “Lady Ives?”

  She whipped back around to find Lord Maxwell’s shackled hands awaiting her acceptance.

  “We must make haste.”

  Nodding, she took his hands. His grip was strong, his palms calloused, hot. Her fingers naturally curled over his as she inched her way through the greenery. Tucking her chin to her chest as he’d ordered, she flanked herself to him and matched his stride. His size reminded her of Kamden—tall, and thickly built, a semblance of protection. ‘Twas good to feel safe again, regardless of the false illusion by which she came to feel that way. Her downward gaze shifted slightly from her steps to his. Mercy Mary! The man wore no boots. They were certain to attract attention. She twisted, checking for any pursuers. No guards followed. The numbers began in her head as she counted her steps, calming, soothing, easing her angst as she kept his pace over the cobbled stones of Watling Street. Staying close to the empty merchants’ stalls, she peeked through her lashes at a few finely arrayed courtiers making their way toward St. Paul’s church for High Mass. A matron craned her neck; her steeple headdress fluttered in white wisps in her haste. Her children stared—an occurrence Lizzy had built an immunity to long ago. Lord Maxwell led her to a black stallion ensconced in crimson velvet and braids of gold outside the priory. He released the reins, stroked the beast’s neck, then mounted with a grunt and a grimace. Freeing his foot from the stirrup, he extended his hands.

  “Is this your mount?” She realized the foolishness of her question as soon as the words left her mouth. “Aye. I left the auld lad tethered whilst I took a sabbatical in your dungeon.” As if the mockery in his tone wasn’t enough to ridicule her, he raised an allknowing black brow.

  “I will not be part of stealing another man’s horse. Especially one belonging to the royal guard.” She pointed at the gold crest embroidered on the blanket.

  “Think ye your father will cut off your hand before or after he is ordered to remove your head?”

  She left his sarcastic question unanswered and scanned the street for the horse’s owner. She would repent her sin when she reached Fountains Abbey in Yorkshire. She accepted Lord Maxwell’s assistance and mounted in front of him. When he encircled her with his shackled hands, the heat surrounding her burned her like an open hearth. The man was afire with fever.

  “Halt, by order of the king’s guard!” An enraged voice came from the entrance to the priory.

  Lizzy turned in time to see one of the king’s guards drop a bundle of religious vestments and unsheathe his sword. “Hold tight, Lady Ives.” Lord Maxwell kicked the stallion into motion, slamming her against his chest. The guard’s bellows dissipated behind them as every pummel of hooves brought them closer to escape.

  A single raven followed overhead, reminding her of Father s wooden birds. Rows of gabled houses darkened the street with their height. Bells rang out, calling the city to its many churches. She crossed herself. Fare thee well, Father. She would do everything within her power to return and free Father from Lord
Hollister’s clutches. Now that Kamden and the boys were gone, London only promised a future laden with more nightmares.

  They passed through the city’s gates. The road split. The path to the right led to Edlynn’s cottage and was thick with mire from recent rainfall. They could be hidden from view within seconds of entering the thicket.

  She grabbed the reins. “I have need to make a stop before we set out of London.”

  “Nay. ‘Tis no time.” Lord Maxwell batted her hands away and redirected the stallion to the left, the road leading around London and back to the river Thames. The rumble of horses escalated behind them. Both turned to check the gated entrance to the city. She didn’t know if Lord Hollister’s men were upon them or the king’s guard. She held no desire to be captured by either. “They will expect us to travel alongside the river. We cannot outrun them.” “Our odds would increase if ye would release the reins.”

  His hands closed over hers. Their battle over the leather straps jerked the bit in the steed s mouth side to side, sending him into a nervous prance.

  She fought to gain control of the horse, but even in Lord Maxwells weakened state, his strength surpassed hers. She ripped her hands out from beneath his and twisted around to face him.

  Foolish Scot.

  She had enough men dictating her life. The last thing she needed was some Scottish lord trying to dominate her. His determined scowl didn’t sway her, and time didn’t allow her the luxury of argument. “You will go where I ask, or I will return of my own volition once you are immobilized.” Her voice didn’t even sound like her own. She had never made a demand in her life. She crossed her arms and inhaled a breath of liberation. Lord Maxwell’s lips tightened; his nostrils flared. “Where is it ye wish to go?”

  “That way.” She pointed to the right. “If I am to mend you properly, I need my herbs and supplies.”

  He jerked his head side to side, snapping his neck in two places; then a burst of hot air shot down over her cheeks.

  “Enjoy this victory, for I will not grant ye another.” He kicked the steed northeast. “And rest assured, ye will regret threatening me, angel.”

  She clenched her teeth and spun forward. He made a mockery of the only name she’d ever been proud of. “You would do well to never call me that again.”

  The Scots were a miserable lot; rude, foul, heathens to be certain. Everyone in England knew it. Why, then, was she not repulsed? Agitated, yes. The Scot had already proven himself arrogant, domineering, overbearing, but the last thought flitting through her head when the man curled one hand possessively around her waist bore no similarity to repulsion at all.

  As they entered the forest, she honed in on the lessening sounds of the guards, desperately trying to rid herself of the unusual heat pooling low in her belly. She’d lived a life of scorn and ridicule and developed a skill for burying her emotions and hiding her desires. She could fight this unwanted attraction.

  Broc leaned heavily against the angel’s back and guided the stallion through the glen. Her enticing scent and the feel of her silken hair against his cheek were enough to drive a man half wowf. His hand slipped from her petite waist to rest atop her thigh. Twas a nicely shaped thigh or at least he visualized a nicely shaped thigh beneath all her skirts. He couldn’t escape the vision of two soft, slightly muscular thighs wrapped around his waist, hooked at the ankles. It was a fantasy he’d had often enough, but the thighs had always belonged to Lady Juliana.

  His hand flexed.

  Lady Ives flinched and straightened,

  Regardless of impropriety, he couldn’t bring himself to remove his hand from her person. Truth was, he felt… giddy, his body light, his head even lighter. As if he’d spent an eve with his brethren sipping Uncle Ogilvy’s whisky. He was fairly certain his tongue would turn to ash at any moment. When her poison wore away from his body, he was determined to give Lady Ives a sound thrashing for misdirecting their flight from the city. His mind’s eye teased him with the scene. The executioner’s daughter bent over his knee, her rounded arse poised for punishment. Of course, she was naked. His palms itched.

  ‘Twas only by the grace of God he’d lasted two years at the monastery. Fortunately, English women were loose with their favors, else he would be a walking erection. The one or two women he’d bedded on occasion had eased his needs, but there would be no more. He would return to the mindset Brother Mel had taught him in the monastery and be faithful to Lady Juliana.

  So why was practicing celibacy the furthest thing from his mind?

  Thankfully, a cottage came into view, giving him reprieve from his lewd thoughts. A three-legged dog ran circles around a single sheep grazing the barren ground. Gray smoke wafted from a thatched roof in desperate need of repair. Lady Ives dressed and spoke with the same tongue as England’s nobility. This humble abode couldn’t possibly be her place of residence. With a great deal of effort, he yanked on the reins. Their stolen steed stopped in front of the cottage, throwing him impossibly closer to her softness. She raised his shackled hands over her head and slipped from the horse. Broc shivered from the loss of her warmth and nearly fell off behind her, but managed to hold himself upright. He despised weakness, and at the moment he felt as frail as a newborn kitten. Lady Ives dipped a tin cup into a barrel of water and handed it to him. With his hands gripped around the cup, he swallowed the contents in one gulp. It wasn’t near enough. She hesitated in front of the horse and stroked the beast’s muzzle. Her big eyes, filled with distrust, stared at Broc. “You will wait?”

  “Aye.” His answer came quicker than he intended. If he had any wit at all, he would leave and return to the borderland posthaste. A new life awaited him in Scotland. He would honor his brother’s death by accepting Aiden’s responsibilities. The chieftainship of Clan Maxwell would belong to Broc, as would his brother’s betrothed—Lady Juliana.

  “I will only be a moment.” Lady Ives interrupted his thoughts and bent to kiss a blackfaced sheep atop its nose. Broc scanned the area for the remaining herd, but found only broken fence covered in brush. “Is this your home?” “Of sorts.” She disappeared into the cottage leaving the small door open behind her.

  An invitation? Mayhap. One his curiosity didn’t decline. Dismounting, he landed hard on his feet. The ground cooled his toes, and his shoulders suddenly felt burdened by ten stones. He refilled the cup three more times in the reservoir and drank until his gut swished. Certain he would be sick, he managed to draw enough saliva to spit the coppery taste from his mouth before he walked through the door. “Lizzy, is that ye?”

  “Aye, Edlynn,” Lady Ives called out to an auld woman sitting at a trestle table. Her misshapen fingers worked a pestle grinding herbs into a mortar. A mantel filled with useless carvings of round, fat birds sat over a fire heating a cauldron of stew. The smell of cooked meat made his stomach gurgle. How long had it been since he’d eaten?

  “What ‘ave ye brought me? I smell blood.” The woman turned, and only then did Broc notice the emptiness in her light gray eyes. She stood, holding close to the table’s edge.

  ‘”Tis another rabbit?” She sniffed. “Are we eating it or mending it?”

  Lady Ives’s head popped up from the satchel she was stuffing. The brilliant pink coloring her cheeks drew a bit of welcomed humor from him. The angel saved animals from certain death as well. The executioner’s daughter certainly contradicted her breeding.

  “’Tis not a rabbit exactly.” Lady Ives returned his smile with a fiery glare. “It more resembles a pig. I am tending to this one myself.”

  “Think yerself all grown up, do ye? Give me the count, child.”

  “Two around the table. Five straightaway to the door.”

  The auld woman Lady Ives called Edlynn mapped out the given steps until her fingers connected to his chest. Ach! She had bony fingers like Grandmum. “Good den, matron,”

  Broc offered in what sounded loud even in his ears. She jumped. “Merciful Moses! Ye brought me a man. Oh, bless ye, Lizzy:’ Edlynn raise
d her chin to him and smiled. Surprisingly, the auld woman still carried all her teeth. Her white hair cloaked her shoulders and the lines at her temples bespoke of a woman who often found laughter. The woman’s hands were suddenly everywhere; over his shoulders, his arms, his stomach. “Built like a bred stallion, is he? Where did ye find him?”

  “Beneath Father’s whip. He is a Scot” Lady Ives commented nonchalantly while searching the contents of a wooden bowl.

  “No? A Scot in London?”

  “From the West Marches on the border,” Broc provided, feeling a bit uncomfortable with her inspection. The woman’s fingers ran south and curved over his groin. Her empty gray eyes widened.

  Heat blazed through his face when his cock responded to the gesture. “God’s hooks, matron!”

  “Tis good your father allowed him to keep his pillicock.

  He’s hung like an Englishman.”

  Aghast, he pushed the woman’s hands aside and scowled at Lady Ives. She brought her hand out of the bowl with a grin and practically bounced toward him.

  “Edlynn, remove yourself from Lord Maxwell’s person. You are being rude.” With the turn of a key she must have found while the auld woman groped him, Lady Ives unlocked his shackles and released his bruised wrists from the iron. “Thank ye,” he said, grateful he wouldn’t have to seek out a blacksmith.

  Lady Ives smiled, lowered a fan of long dark lashes, then pivoted on her heel, leaving a trail of her exotic scent behind.

  “What are we going to do with him?” The auld woman clung to his forearm.

  “He is escorting us north. We haven’t much time. I will explain on the way.”

  “Us?” The snared response came from both Broc and the auld woman.

  “Nay!” Broc argued. “We haven’t even a second horse to carry ye, let alone a blind woman.”

  “There is a horse out back. Edlynn is going with us. I cannot leave her here.” Lady Ives plucked through the garments of a standing wardrobe as if the conversation was over.