Her One Desire Read online

  Once he regained his breath, she lowered him back to the bed. Her weight followed; her hands pinned beneath his shoulders. She was close enough to kiss him. Why she measured the distance between them by a kiss she did not know, but his eyes and his lips made her throat go dry and her heart quicken.

  He licked his lips. “For every bite I take, you will take one as well, or I will drown in the broth.”

  “Aye, m’lord.” Lizzy held no desire to argue the point further. She ate bits of cheese between the spoonfuls she fed him from the second bowl of broth. Although he didn’t banter with her further, the slight lift of his lips told her he was pleased with his victory. She gave him water, set the tray aside, and then proceeded to gather her things from the bench where the boy had dumped them. On the trestle table she set out eight small satchels of herbs, her pestle and mortar, a curved needle, and silk threads.

  “Have ye the provisions to make more poison?” Lord Maxwell asked from behind her. The man truly didn’t know when to quit. She had half a mind to add a pinch of aconite to numb his tongue. She studied her measurements and mulled over his insult. Once she began grinding the herbs against the mortar, she devised her own quip. “Mayhap this time my poison will succeed in killing you. ‘Twill be one less Scot for my king to battle.” “Ye jest.”

  “Do I?” If he intended to keep referring to her medicines as poison, then she wouldn’t trouble herself to correct him. She added water to her powder to form a warm mash that she would apply to his wounds later and then pulled a small knife from its leather sheath. She stepped back into his view, offered him a devious grin, and angled the blade in front of her for effect. Most of London thought her insane. She’d mastered the role and used it to her advantage more than once. “Mayhap I will fail to balance your humors properly, and you will bleed to death. Then I will already have a poison prepared for the next stubborn, arrogant, thistle-tongued Scot who insults my generosity and talents for healing.” His eyes widened. “Lady Ives, forgive me. ‘Twas not my intention to insult ye.”

  She played the part a bit longer simply to be mulish, then offered him a small smile that didn’t nearly reflect the amount of humor she received from the look of horror pinching his brows together. “Take your ease, m’lord. I am jesting. I have no plans to gut you or poison you.” Taking hold of his shirt, she made a small slit in the seam with the tip of her knife. “I assume John can provide you with other garments?” “Aye.” His eyes closed, and a breath of relief cooled her neck.

  Lizzy cut through the material until his shirt fell open. She bit the inside of her lip at the sight his muscular chest presented. Even with the hint of a bruise wrapped around his ribs, he was a fine specimen of pure male. She wanted to weave her fingers through the smattering of hair drawing a line down a stomach rippled with tight muscles. Her gaze followed the path that thinned beneath his navel and disappeared into his trews. Her breasts tightened.

  Curse it! She made a pathetic healer.

  She cut the sleeves off then set the knife beside the kettle of water, hoping he couldn’t see the slight tremble of her hand. After wringing the water from the cloth, she began to bath him again. Her hand moved over his shoulder and down his muscular arm. She studied the ancient design marking his skin with blue ink. Upon closer inspection, she made out the letters g, r, a, repeating uninterrupted around his arm. She might have asked him what it meant if the sight of him hadn’t stolen her ability to speak. Holding the cloth in one hand, she set her fingers free to search for broken bones, but secretly reveled in the feel of his skin. She’d never tended a man so blessed with looks. An unfamiliar flash of heat surged through her body and settled between her legs. Her pulse flittered in the most private place of her body, frightening her. A tremor of panic took hold. Her fingers curled around his ribs and made indentations in his skin. “Ach!”

  He sucked in air.

  Her hand jerked back. “You felt that?”

  “Nay.” He chuckled. “I cannae bear the silence or this curse of immobility.”

  She slapped his arm lightly, thankful for his ill-timed humor, and tried to regain some semblance of dignity. “Your ribs are slightly bruised, but seem to be whole. I might require Smitt’s help to wrap them after I finish mending your back.”

  “I might require Smitt’s help as well, unless ye wish to aid me with my privy needs.” He snapped her a quick wink. “M’lord, please.” Her cheeks heated, and she questioned how she could possibly get any hotter. She wiped the back of her hand over her forehead. Sweat rolled off her wrist. In addition, she felt it between her breasts and down her back. She had to get out of her gown before she melted. She fanned herself. Twas as hot as the devil’s own kitchen in the chamber. Lizzy moved behind the bed and detached the false sleeves of her gown. In addition, she peeled away the top layer of her skirts and removed her boots. While rolling the sleeves of her overtunic to her elbows, she returned to his side. “I’m going to turn you now.”

  “Much luck to ye,” he said simply, causing a nervous giggle to slip past her lips. He said the oddest things.

  She positioned his arms at his side and pushed on his shoulder and hip. Moving London Bridge might have been easier. After two attempts and a loud grunt, she managed to roll him over to one side of the bed. His shirt clung to his skin where the marks had bled through in bold splashes of red. She stood, stared, and damned her father’s deed. “I’m truly sorry for what he did to you.”

  “Tis not of your doing. Dinnae fash. I cannae feel a thing. But make haste before this miracle potion of yours wears off.”

  “Aye, m’lord. Find your rest. You will need all your energies come the morrow.” She cut away the remainder of his shirt and inspected the lashes. Some were pink whelps while others broke the skin in fine lines, but at least three gashes split his flesh like a sword wound.

  Tending to him should have been a mundane and tedious task, but working on Lord Maxwell was anything but monotonous. One of his lashes had sliced his skin below his waist. The rip in his trews was easily extended, but now exposed half his backside. She touched him, knowing he wouldn’t feel her “inspection.” A fine mist of hair tickled the pads of three fingers. Curse it if the man’s rump wasn’t as fine as the rest of him. With a shake, she broke free of her thoughts and readied the needle. The task would be easiest performed atop him. She wouldn’t twist her back in knots or stitch him crooked because of propriety. She hiked her skirts to her knees, and then crawled atop him, straddling his thighs. He moaned.

  “Is my weight too much to bear?” she asked and rose up on her knees, wishing he would sleep and leave her to work.

  “Nay. I’d wager a mite weighs more than ye. Nonetheless, ye should count your blessings that I cannae turn over.” Another torrent of heat shot straight up her core. Cursing her body’s reaction to his comment, she clenched and forced herself not to wiggle. “I like to count. Mayhap I will heed your suggestion.” She settled back atop him and punctured his skin with the needle, closing a whelp one stitch at a time. Instead of counting blessings, she counted stitches, determined to mend Lord Maxwell to the best of her ability. Wind rustled outside, immersing the chamber in peaceful tranquility while Beatrice warbled in the corner in her cage. “Have ye family in London, other than your father?” he asked, disturbing her concentration. Did the man never indulge in the simplicity of silence?

  “Any sisters? Brothers mayhap? Bairns?” he clarified when she didn’t answer immediately.

  His questions reminded her how truly alone she was in this world. She considered not responding, but Lord Maxwell seemed uncomfortable with the lack of noise. The man talked more than Edlynn. Lizzy would appease his curiosity into her personal affairs, then demand he rest. “I’ve no other family besides Father and Edlynn.”

  “Are ye widowed? Ye seem a wee bit long in the tooth to have never married. The blind woman had mentioned a man who once protected—“ “Lord Maxwell.” Lizzy clenched her jaw. “You really need to find your rest, and I work with mor
e diligence in silence. If there is something you are wont to ask, please say it.”

  “Who is Kamden?”

  Tears blurred her vision instantly. She closed her eyes and saw Kamden and his sons wrestling in the mud outside Edlynn’s cottage, their laughter contagious to the point it made her smile even now. She swallowed and rubbed the heels of her palms over her eyes. “I am twenty-three summers and accepted long ago that I would never marry, nor bear children. My father s profession belonged to my grandfather, and his father before him. The blood of the executed has cursed the Ives’s name for decades. Tis an occupation that steals a man’s sanity and condemns his soul simultaneously. I cannot bring a child into this world knowing he will one day wield the executioner’s ax.

  “Kamden was my brother and was next in line to carry my family’s curse. Now. if I have satisfied all your curiosities, I would ask you to r e s t … in silence.”

  “How did he die?”

  Lizzy ground her teeth and held tight to the needle, wanting to stab him with it repeatedly. “Lord Maxwell, I really do not wish—“ ‘”Tis my last question, lass. I vow it.”

  Her heart punched her from the inside, her sorrow as raw as it had been six months ago when her brother left her behind in this world without him. “Kamden was executed.”

  Lord Maxwell held true to his vow of silence, though Lizzy guessed he wanted to know more. Most people did. Death intrigued the human mind. What person wouldn’t be curious about a man whose grotesque occupation forced him to take his own son’s life?

  She could still feel Lord Hollister’s hand grasping her chin forcing her to watch the atrocity. Still smell the rotten vegetables embedded in her hair. The scene branded in her memory always became more colorful behind her closed eyes.

  “I am truly sorry for your loss,” Lord Maxwell finally said in a quiet voice laded with his own pain.

  His sympathies meant more to her than he could possibly fathom. This man had witnessed his own brother’s death this very day, yet offered her condolences for a death months old. Her hand covered her mouth, demanding her sorrow to remain inside. The need to cry made her throat ache, but she stifled her pain and buried it deep within. With her composure intact, Lizzy hoped Lord Maxwell would cease any further questions. “Will you please rest now?” “Aye.” He closed his eyes. Silence followed.

  She began pulling the needle through his skin again, losing herself in the simplicity of her numbers. After ten stitches, Lord Maxwell’s slow and steady breathing turned into a roaring snore, each one louder than the last. The man truly didn’t like the quiet. Lizzy pulled the fifty-seventh stitch through Lord Maxwell’s back and crawled on stiff legs from the bed. Her fingers cramped and her back ached from the hours she’d spent bent over him. She moved to the basin to wash, then searched her belongings for the earthenware jar of leeches. It was nowhere to be found. Standing beside the window, she stared at the stable. The boy must have left one of her satchels behind. A partial moon cast blue light over the dewy grass, turning the ground into a sparkling sea. Trees loomed in black silhouettes like a curtain wall around the tippling house. Lizzy strained her eyes in search of a rider, all the while knowing not enough time had passed for John to return with Edlynn. She crossed herself and offered a silent prayer for her friend’s safety.

  The guards had not found their trail, else they would have been upon them by now. All will be well, she assured herself, using Lord Maxwell’s words, and wrapped her mantle around her. She pulled the hood over her head, and then moved quietly from the chamber. The sour smell of ale and unwashed bodies led her down the stairwell and into the barroom, which now harbored only a few men, lost to sleep from the drink. She retrieved a lantern from the wall beside the door and made her way toward the stable. Mating insects squealed in crackling pitches, and sweet hay sharpened in her nose as she entered the covered stalls. She found the stallion and whispered honeyed words against his muzzle and stroked the underside of his chin. After rummaging through the single satchel the boy had tossed to the ground, she found her leeches. Unexpected laughter broke behind her, followed by a moan and a grunt. Embarrassment raced beneath her skin. The last thing she needed was to be caught spying on two lovers. She snatched up her satchel and lantern, then stepped into the moonlight. The sharp point of a dagger in her face stilled her steps.

  “You’re his daughter, aren’t ye?”

  Chapter 5

  Outside the stable’s entrance, the man from the barroom stepped into her sight, the glow of her lantern highlighting the harsh planes of his face, the crooked bend of his nose. Lizzy inhaled sharply, drawing in the stagnant smell of ale. He moved her head side to side with the tip of his blade, inspecting her, tormenting her with wicked gray eyes. She stepped backward. “I do not know to whom you refer, sir.” Her voice cracked over her lie; her pulse beat in her ears. As fast as a whiplash, he spun around her and pressed the sharp point against her neck. She dropped her satchel and lantern and dug her nails into his forearm. The flame doused, casting them instantly beneath a veil of moonshine. He leaned close to her ear. “I know yer face. Lady Ives.” He ran the tip of his blade from her temple to her earlobe, the same path as the old scar. “I seen ye on the scaffold, holdin’ the executioner’s basket. Collectin’ silver for mercy. A blood lot of good it did to toss me wages in.” The man held up his sleeve and pushed the stub of his arm through. Your father’s hand is not your own. She repeated Lord

  Maxwell’s words and tried to believe they were true. She knew not what the man intended, but curse it, she didn’t deserve his hatred. Her fingers curled into a tight fist, her arm reared forward, and then she jammed her elbow into his ribs. He yelped. The blade slipped, nicking the skin below her ear. She spun around, fully intending to deliver a blow to his bollocks, when Smitt popped out of a stall wearing unlaced trews. Moonlight glistened offhis sweat-covered chest and straw dappled his mussed hair. Smitt grasped the man by his neck and drove a fist into his gut.

  “Are ye botherin’ the lady?” Smitt punched the man in the face before he could answer. He fell to his hands and knees, spitting blood and teeth into the dirt. Smitt straddled the man’s back and cradled his head between flexing fingertips. “Want me to kill him?”

  “Nay,” Lizzy quickly responded. Regardless of her desperation to keep her identity a secret, she would have no part in killing a man over it. “Release him.”

  Smitt relaxed his hold, giving him freedom. The man scurried to his feet and ran to a saddled steed, mounted, then disappeared down the path without a backward glance.

  “Ye hurt, lass?” Smitt raised her chin and wiped a droplet of blood from her neck with the pad of his thumb. The serving maid from the bar appeared at his back, wrestling with her garments and brushing straw from her pale hair. Her swollen lips and flushed face only heightened Lizzy’s humiliation.

  “Pray forgive the interruption.” Lizzy pulled away from Smitt and collected her satchel from the ground. “Nothin” to interrupt. We were finished.” Smitt raised dark brows and grinned.

  “Speak fer yerself,” the maiden hissed and crossed her arms over her well-endowed chest.

  Smitt gave the woman a look of dismissal, which she ignored.

  Lizzy’s opinion of her changed instantly.

  “Thank you for your assistance. I should get back before—“ Lizzy paused. “—Julian notices my absence.” She left the couple glaring at each other and raced back to the entrance of the tippling house. With her skirts raised, she flew up the stairwell two steps at a time, holding her breath until the solid wood of the chamber door flushed against her back. Her head fell back, her eyes pinched tight. Would there ever be a place she could reside without fear of recognition, fear of scorn and ridicule? Was she foolish to believe Fountains Abbey would provide her not only protection from Lord Hollister, but peace from her father’s enemies?

  A deep baritone hum vibrated through her ears. Her eyes opened, and a sleeping giant filled her vision. A dark muscled arm draped over the be
d’s edge. Hair, black as night, fell in short waves against the contrasting pale pillow. His parted lips sang a tune that made Lizzy smile.

  She walked to the bed and brushed hair from his brow. His mouth closed, the corners of his lips kicked up. ‘Oh, aye,” he said in his sleep, then chuckled. Though she hadn’t the slightest idea why he laughed, Lizzy shared his humor. What did a man like him dream of? Family? Battle? Women? Mayhap only one woman danced behind Lord Maxwell’s eyes. A wife? A lover? Lizzy imagined herself inside his head twirling in a field of wildflowers. Her face tilted toward Heaven, her spirit at peace. In her vision, Lord Maxwell wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck. She wasn’t the executioner’s daughter or Lord Hoi lister’s prisoner. She was a woman who laughed, and loved, and desired.

  Lizzy wiped a tear from the side of her nose, sniffled, and then swallowed her foolishness. Whatever dreams she held on to as a girl were now gone. She would be no man’s wife, no babe’s mother. After she met with Gloucester, she would deliver herself into the hands of the church.

  She pulled the jar from her satchel and set five leeches to work on Lord Maxwell’s back, then stirred the poultice she mixed earlier. She pulled Mother’s rosary from inside the folds of her skirt, knelt in front of the window where He might see her from the Heavens, and brought the first bead to her lips. She prayed for Mother and Edlynn; for Kamden and her nephews, Eli and Martin; then she begged God to save her father’s soul. The last decade of her rosary she typically reserved for herself, but this night when she began the final ten prayers, she prayed for Lord Maxwell and his brother. She kissed the crucifix, crossed herself, then stood to collect the blood-filled leeches into their jar. After patting his wounds with a mixture that might speed his recovery and keep him from pain, she doused the chamber’s many candles, and curled up atop the bench seat with a small pillow. Her body was exhausted, her heart a heavy weight she could hardly bear. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and focused on the single candle she left burning beside the bed. Her eyes begged for relief. She blinked once, twice, but her baser fear kept them open. Weariness soon lost the battle over her will. Her eyes slid shut, and the monsters of her past emerged out of the darkest recesses of her mind.