Her One Desire Page 4

  John frowned at her.

  “Works best if one o’ ye is on your back.” The handsome man named Smitt flashed a wicked grin and a wink. Fire exploded in her cheeks. She opened her mouth but no words came out, so she snapped her jaw shut. “Mayhap Celeste should have a talk with her, aye?” John offered to Lord Maxwell, his tone sincere.

  “She is not my wife,” Lord Maxwell said quickly. Surprised, she questioned who the ruse had been for. Why would he feel it necessary for her to pose as his wife if not for the innkeeper?

  “Nay?” Smitt perked up. “Is the lass any mon’s wife?” He swaggered in her direction, his speech slipping into the slightest burr.

  Surely he wasn’t a Scot, too. He was far too pretty for a man, much less a Scot. One thing was for certain, he eyed her like fresh-cooked meat in the hands of a starving man. She found her voice, along with her courage. “Nay. I have no husband.” Smitt raised her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Are ye lookin’ for one?” Rich brown eyes the color of warm molasses sparkled in the candlelight. He blinked with lashes black as ink and smiled a smile that could steal a girl’s senses. Regardless of the warnings going off in her head, her heart did a little pitter-patter. Aside from the prisoners, men didn’t normally pay her interest, especially those so well favored. “Move away from her, Smitt. She is not looking for a husband,” Lord Maxwell supplied from the bed. She peeked around Smitt’s broad shoulders. Lord Maxwell’s frown was anything but pleasant: slashed brows, lips pressed tight together. And how did he know whether or not she was looking for a husband? This man, Smitt, was certainly big enough to protect her. Mayhap she had other options besides Fountains Abbey in Yorkshire.

  “Why would ye say she is your wife then?”

  “Tis highly probable the king’s guard is looking for us, since we stole a steed belonging to the crown.” John scratched his wiry red beard and waited for more explanation. “I also thought it best for propriety’s sake to hide beneath the pretense of a married couple. I need the lass to keep quarters with me for the night without your wife’s meddling.” Lord Maxwell winced and licked his lips.

  “My wife does not meddle.”

  Lord Maxwell rolled his eyes. “Celeste is a fine woman, but when your wife sets her sights to the matchmakin’, I dinnae want to be the subject of her plotting. I’d wager my da’s land she is spouting her mouth to the tavern wenches as we speak.”

  John linked his fingers behind his neck and pulled his elbows forward. “Smitt, mayhap you should see if Celeste needs help in the kitchen? I have need to talk with Maxwell.”

  “Can I bring ye anything, lass?” Smitt curled her hair over her ear. She snapped out of her trance. Men like Smitt were the reason fathers locked their daughters in the chastity belt. She combed her hair back in front of her ear and set her mind to her task. “Clean linens, a kettle for heating water, some broth if there is any available, and be certain the boy brings all my things posthaste, including my chicken.”

  “As you wish.” Smitt didn’t appear pleased with her list; nonetheless, he kissed her knuckles farewell before taking his leave.

  She poured a cup of water from the pitcher and brought it bedside. She bent over Lord Maxwell, raised the back of his head, and pressed the pewter to his lips. He needed no coaxing. Water streamed into the black stubble covering his chin in his efforts to get fluid into his body.

  He drained the cup. “More” was all he said. “Wait for the broth. As soon as the boy comes, I will feed you.”

  “What is wrong with him?” John asked. “I see men too far in the cups most every nigh’, but they can always lift a mug to their mouths.”

  “He is not drunk. His body is reacting to an herb. Twill be out of his blood by morning.”

  She didn’t have to press her hand to his skin to feel the heat coming from him. He had probably been feeling the effects of the monkshood for hours, though he never once complained. The herb would attack his stomach in a most unpleasant way when it began to wear off.

  “He’s been poisoned?” John’s question sounded like a direct accusation in her head, and the smile Lord Maxwell didn’t even try to hide did little to lessen a rising anger building inside her.

  “Tis not poison,” she defended and then changed the subject. “M’lord, mayhap you could discuss the errand you have for John.” She remained hopeful he would uphold his vow to send someone for Edlynn.

  His nod, be it ever so slight, was all she needed She moved to ready the fire for the kettle and listened to every word that passed between the two men. By the ease of their conversation, she gathered they’d known each other for quite some time. “What of your brother?” John asked.

  She twisted her head to peer over her shoulder. Lord Maxwell met her eyes. She prayed he wouldn’t tell John who she was. She’d lived with many secrets, and if possible, she never intended to tell another soul she was the executioner’s daughter. “Aiden dinnae survive the Tower.” His voice was soft, and his words pained her to the very center of her heart. “I’m sorry. Aiden was a good mon.” A long pause settled over the room. John cursed beneath his breath then lowered a chandelier and lit the tallows, bringing the room to light. “I suspect you’ll be returning to the borderlands?” “Aye.”

  “And the lass?” John studied her intently now.

  “She travels north as well.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “I am not yet privy to that information.” Lord Maxwell looked at her, as did John. Both men obviously awaited an explanation regarding her travel plans. An explanation she was not yet fully prepared to provide. She’d already divulged the conspiracy to kill King Edward, but she knew so much more. Did she dare trust these men with that information? Would she endanger the lives of the princes further if the Scots knew they were bastards? There was only one man she could trust—England’s protector. She stood and turned toward the bed. “I travel to Yorkshire.”

  Neither man spoke.

  “I have need to gain audience with the king’s brother,” she continued.

  “Damn,” Broc said almost silently from the bed. “The Duke of Gloucester? Are ye wowf

  ?” John shrieked in a high-pitched tone.

  She didn’t know what “wowf” was, but she guessed he accused her of madness. She’d heard the whispered accusations regarding Richard of Gloucester’s desire to steal the crown, but she’d met and known his compassion personally. Gloucester would see her safely into sanctuary and relieve Father of his duty when she provided him proof of a conspiracy. “London’s nobles talk of Gloucester’s wickedness, and ‘tis all hearsay. King Edward has entrusted his sons and daughters to his brother’s care. The king named the Duke of Gloucester the Protector of the Realm.”

  John’s odd expression swayed between her and Lord Maxwell. “Will you be escorting her?”

  She awaited Lord Maxwell’s answer with tightly stretched nerves. His eyes closed slowly. He inhaled, then exhaled. “Aye.” She didn’t know how desperately she wanted that answer until he provided it. Her heart rapped against her breastbone at a quickening speed. She never intended to make such a journey alone, but she hadn’t planned for Father’s untimely incapacitation either. She smiled at Lord Maxwell and released the breath she’d been holding.

  “I’m going with ye,” John said. “After I fetch up the blind woman, we will head for home.”

  “Home?” she asked, puzzled. “Yorkshire is your home?”

  “Nay. Scotland is.” John puffed up his chest.

  “You are a Scot, too?”

  “Aye, and ‘tis high time my wife knew it.”

  “Knew what?” Celeste asked as she and the boy entered the room. She carried a tray heaped with bread, cheese, drink, and two bowls of steaming broth, which she set on the table. The boy dropped Lizzy’s belongings on the bench, including Beatrice in her little cage, then spun out of the room, no doubt escaping further instruction. Smitt ducked beneath the door frame carrying a pail of water in each hand. After carelessly droppi
ng the containers by the fire, he reached for a chunk of cheese from the tray. Celeste slapped his hand and pointed toward the door.

  “Out!”

  Smitt offered the woman a pout that would have gained him favor with Lizzy, but Celeste merely drummed her fingers on her crossed arms and waited for the man to comply. Lizzy held on to her humor until Celeste winked at her. A giggle escaped Lizzy’s lips. She covered her mouth in an attempt to hide her inappropriate behavior and moved to pour water into the kettle suspended over the fire. “Come, Celeste. We need to talk. Let Julian and his new wife have some privy time.” John took his wife by the elbow. Celeste jerked her arm from her husband’s grip. “But I’ve yet to converse with her or ask her name.”

  Lizzy rounded the foot of the bed and took Celeste’s hand in hers. “Tis Lizbeth, but you may call me Lizzy if you like.” Celeste smiled and her cheeks nearly pushed her dark eyes closed.

  “Very well, Lizzy. We will see you and Sir Julian in the morn to break your fast.”

  “Thank you for your generosity.” Lizzy’s gratitude was lost on their backs as John ushered his wife out of the chamber.

  John turned in the doorway. “Can ye manage, lass?” “Aye,” she responded quickly, but was skeptical of her own confidence. She closed the door and turned toward Lord Maxwell. He was easily the biggest man she’d ever cared for. Though his size intimidated her, she assured herself he was no different from the other men she’d tended. Of course, those men didn’t make her toes tingle.

  She stared at him—long, lean, and sprawled out on the bed like an awaiting lover. The tingle in her toes shot up her body and went straight into her nipples. She felt her eyes widen and crossed her arms over her breasts to hide them.

  Mercy Mary! Control yourself! she scolded herself. He is just another man. She repeated this lie in her head as she walked toward the bed, her heart setting a pace too fast to count.

  Chapter 4

  Lizzy positioned a second pillow behind Lord Maxwell’s head to set him forward enough to eat. “Are you hungry, m’lord?”

  “Aye.” His eyes blinked opened.

  She had never seen a more beautiful shade of blue than the color of Lord Maxwell’s eyes. Not quite as blue as the sky, but paler with flecks of silver, reminding her of the beads on Mother’s rosary.

  She retrieved the kettle from the fire and set it on a bedside table, then wrung out a cloth in the water and lowered herself onto the bed’s edge. Starting with his neck, she washed the filth of the dungeon from him. With every ounce of skin revealed, he became increasingly more handsome. Only the slightest hint of gaunt darkened the skin beneath his eyes, but food would remedy that problem soon enough. She pushed a shock of black hair from his brow to wash the remnants of dried blood from his forehead. Her pale skin stood out in harsh contrast against his dark coloring, as if announcing their differences. The cut of his features was sharp—a straight nose, strong cheekbones, square jaw—the epitome of an ancient warrior. It seemed unfair God had blessed a man with such beauty. Edlynn had once told her Scotland bred only trolls with tufts of red hair growing from their ears. The ugliest lots of humans to walk the earth. Lord Maxwell defied her fable. She smoothed the cloth over his temple and then his ears.

  The man even had a fine set of ears.

  “Lady Ives, as much as I am enjoying your coddling, I wonder if ye might fetch up some of that broth?” “Pray forgive me.” Lizzy stood and tucked her chin to her chest, her face flaming from embarrassment. What had she been thinking? Ogling him like a slice of sweet pie. She hurried to the trestle table, wiping her forehead on her sleeve, and then retrieved the food. After setting the tray on a cuttie stool, she positioned herself, once again, beside him on the bed. She raised the wooden spoon to his lips. His mouth opened, but his eyes never left her face. She should talk to him.

  “The broth will give you something to expel.” Brilliant,

  Lizzy. Of all the topics to discuss with the man, you choose vomit. She really had no business conversing with people. “Lookin’ forward to it.” He smiled at her, branching the corners of his eyes with tiny lines and freeing her of unwanted tension.

  She fed him another spoonful, then another. The silence alone set the numbers rushing through her head, but the way he looked at her stole her ability to count them in order.

  “Why do you stare at me?”

  “My eyes have never been blessed to look upon an angel.

  I intend to take my fill.”

  She laughed outright. The Scot’s attempt to be smooth of tongue only raised the walls guarding her naivete. “Your flattery is wasted, m’lord. The name was falsely earned. I am no angel.”

  “Someone thought ye earned the name.”

  “His name was Bartholomew.” She hadn’t thought of him in years. “He wept at night for the angels to come for him.

  Leprosy ate his flesh whilst he awaited execution. I prepared a poultice for him to ease his pain, but death followed me to his cell. I found him facedown in the rushes, sunlight shining on him from his tiny window. I believed him dead and entered his cell to cross him with blessed water.” “A saint and an angel. God has truly blessed me.” Lizzy stuffed the spoon in Lord Maxwell’s mouth to still his tongue. “You mock me.”

  He swallowed and sputtered. “Forgive me.” His eyes slid shut. “Do go on.”

  “Bartholomew was not dead. He wrapped his arms around my waist and begged me to end his life. When I refused him, he snatched the torch from my hand and set the rushes on fire. Six prisoners died that eve in the dungeon, all of them screaming for Bartholomew’s angel to save them.” She set the empty bowl aside and left the bed to pour Lord Maxwell a cup of water. Remembering the punishment she’d endured made her hands shake.

  “How old were ye?”

  “Fourteen summers.”

  “How did ye escape?”

  “Through the tunnels.” She held his head up while he drank, trying not to relive the ending. “After Lord Hollister’s men contained the fire, he questioned the surviving prisoners about the incident, demanding to know who started it. They all responded in like.”

  “An angel of fire?” Lord Maxwell guessed.

  She nodded and hoped he would cease ridiculing her now. “Have ye cared for many others?” he asked, genuine interest touching his voice.

  “I have. After my mother’s death, Father and I moved from the cot-house into the Tower. I was fostered by the chief warder and his wife. Lord Hollister would have imprisoned me in my quarters, but fortunately his wife was very kind and very young, only five years my senior. She took pity on me and gave me duties in the larder. I had access to a great deal of food and provisions, as well as the ability to open any lock with my father’s keys. Before I reached thirteen summers I was sneaking food to the prisoners.”

  “Ye could have been charged with thievery had your keeper discovered you.” He frowned; his concern, though unnecessary, touched her.

  She flashed him an all-knowing smile and popped a piece of cheese in his mouth.

  “Edlynn was the larderer before she lost her sight. She taught me how to mix herbs, and I showed her how to make fragrances from flowers.” Mother and her flowers were never far from Lizzy’s thoughts, nor was the grief she suffered the day God took her.

  “Tis why ye smell so good. Like sweet sauce poured over a bowl of flower petals.”

  Her gaze dropped. She doubted anything could have prevented the smile from peeling her lips over her teeth. “I s’pose.”

  When she took up the second bowl of broth his questions ceased, and his lips slammed shut. She touched his bottom lip with the edge of the spoon, but for reasons unbeknownst to her, he refused to open. How could he offer her the sweetest compliment she’d ever heard then behave like such a mule? “Lord Maxwell, you cannot possibly have taken your fill.” She returned the spoon to the bowl when he did naught and said naught. “I cannot begin to imagine why you would choose now to flaunt your stubbornness. You need to eat.” “As do ye.”


  “I’ve already eaten.” She didn’t completely lie.

  “When?”

  “Father dried meat on Good Friday.”

  “Two days ago?” He rolled his eyes. “’Tis likely the reason ye have less flesh on your skin than your pet chicken.”

  Had it really been two days since she’d eaten? She focused on the broth trying to recall her last meal. Her stomach clenched, telling her it had been far too long. “If ye are going to be my charge, you will eat,” Lord Maxwell demanded in a tone she thought pompous.

  “I am not your charge.”

  “Eat.”

  She snatched a round of black bread from the tray and tore off a chunk between her teeth. A moan nearly escaped her. It was warm and soft on her tongue and surprisingly sweet. Another bite found its way into her mouth, then another. Cheeks filled, she returned the bread to the tray, ignoring Lord Maxwell’s smug expression. While she chewed and swallowed, she filled the spoon with broth, and then held it in front of his lips. He shook his head.

  “You are a cud-chewing urchin,” she ground out, frustrated to the point she wanted to strangle him. “Open your mouth.” She waited, spoon in hand, wanting to slap the arrogance from him. “Are all Scots as pigheaded as you?” He didn’t dare open his mouth to respond else she would win this petty battle. She guessed he wouldn’t accept defeat with grace. “Tis a foolish game you play. One, I can assure you, I will win. You provoke me, Lord Maxwell, and force me to take measures you will not find to your liking. Now, open your mouth, or I will open it for you.” She grinned, satisfied with her threat, and set the bowl aside.

  He raised his brows and blew an exaggerated breath, indicating he had no intention of complying.

  She leaned over him, pinched his nose closed, and waited. He held his breath for an impressive period of time before his mouth finally opened. She poured the spoonful of broth down his gullet the same time he sucked in air. He choked. His upper body convulsed. She tossed the spoon aside and pulled him upright, careful not to touch his back. Why was he making this task so difficult, and whatever possessed her to gain authority over him? Mercy Mary. The man had been tortured by her father’s hand and needed care. She held him close, an embrace far too intimate for their association. Guilt pecked at her, adding to the onslaught of feelings she’d discovered since meeting Lord Maxwell. Did she feel indebted to him because her father took his brother’s life? Or was her desperation to find protection the reason she felt she could trust him?