Her One Desire Read online

  Broc wanted to hang his angel up by her wings. How could a woman so seemingly caring and innocent know how to unleash a war inside a man’s gut? Not even the ripest blend of Uncle Ogilvy’s whisky had caused him as much havoc as Lady Ives’s poison. He rinsed his mouth for the fourth time and spit into the privy pot he’d hugged for nearly an hour. Though grateful to have regained control of his limbs, he now felt every cut, every bruise, every ache from the top of his skull to the pads of his toes. His flesh tingled and itched like a thousand insects had taken up residence on his back. He stood, then paused, waiting for his head to catch up to the action before walking to the open window. Braced against the sill, he drew a cool breath of air. Dawn held a mist so thick he felt its dampness on his face. Aiden would revel in a day such as this. The promise of rain would have given his brother reason to languish in bed with some beauty without care or thought for consequence.

  Broc tried to elicit some feeling of grief, but the familiar talons of jealousy picked at him. Aiden had been privy to everything—Da’s title and constant praise, Mam’s affection and approval, and the hand of Lady Juliana. The most desired woman on the border, and Aiden didn’t even want her. Her image filled his memory, though that memory was nigh three years old. Pale yellow hair adorned with gold and gemstones, sad green eyes surrounded by alabaster skin. She stood next to her father, her hand placed on his forearm, and suffered the attention of every man in the Great Hall of Skonoir Castle. Even his younger brother was smitten with her beauty. Broc smiled inwardly recalling how Ian had catered to her every whim during the fortnight of festivities, holding a tray of sweet cakes beneath her nose and tripping over his gangly limbs to refill her goblet of watered wine. But she had eyes for none of them.

  Broc’s chin fell to his chest, his fingers dug into the rotten window frame, remembering the contracts signed that day binding Lady Juliana to the future chieftain of Clan Maxwell. Envy was a sin. One Broc knew well. He craved his brother’s life, coveted Aiden’s position, desired his betrothed. Now, Laird Scott’s daughter belonged to Broc. He would marry her upon his return, gaining Da’s approval. Their union would strengthen the border clans, and Broc would never again witness the death of another family member. He dared the English to breach their defenses when the Maxwell Clan held the support of Clan Scott.

  His goals invigorated him, made him feel he could survive Mam’s sorrow when he brought news of Aiden’s death.

  Determined to return as quickly as possible, Broc found toiletries in a basket and tended to his morning ablutions. A whimper came from across the bed chamber as he finished shaving the last trace of stubble from his jaw. He turned toward Lady Ives. Curled into a ball, she looked as dangerous as a cherub. He coaxed his heavy legs toward the bench seat and then bent down on one knee. The exotic scent he now associated with his angel didn’t catch him unguarded this day. ‘Twas good he was able to build an immunity to her fragrance.

  Another pitiful sound came from her throat. Her grip tightened around the rosary laced through her fingers. A dark red curl draped over her eyes. He brushed the tendril behind her ear, then allowed his finger to trace the soft curve of her lobe. His inspection led him to a thin scar beside her ear nearly hidden in her hairline. Her winged brows drew together and a tear fell down the side of her nose. He caught it with the back of his index finger and placed the drop between his lips.

  What demons haunted her?

  Broc wanted to get inside her head and fight her enemies, protect her the way he’d failed to protect his sisters and Aiden. The distress on her face called to his heart. “All will be well, angel,” he cooed, and before he could stop himself, he leaned forward and kissed the backs of her eyes. The salt of her tears clung to his lips and made him achingly aware of how she complicated his goals. She sought protection from the same man whose life’s purpose was to bring down Broc’s country. The Duke of Gloucester would not offer her aid. Broc knew this, but Lady Ives’s ignorance of warfare prevented her from seeing England’s defender as anything but noble.

  Her golden eyes opened and Broc saw a glimpse of her pain. She lay unmoving, as if she no longer possessed the strength to fight the battle warring inside her. She touched his freshly shaven jaw with warm fingertips. Her lips separated. “You are feeling well?”

  “Nay. I fear death is inside me and awaits my body’s surrender.” He nuzzled his cheek farther into her hand, a part of him seeking her affection.

  She smiled and blinked her eyes languidly. Another tear escaped the corner of her eye.

  “Why do ye cry in your sleep?”

  Her eyes sealed shut, hiding her secrets. “The same reason you laugh in yours, I s’pose. Tis the difference between the lives we have lived.”

  He took offense. “I dinnae laugh in my sleep.” “You do. I daresay you dreamed of someone who makes you happy. Who makes you laugh. Mayhap your wife?” Broc watched full pink lips move around her words, noting every curve, every crevice. She danced around his question the same as she had the night before, conniving her way out of answering by asking a pointed question of her own. “I have nay wife, ‘cept ye,” he jested, wanting to hear her bell-like laughter.

  Her eyes fluttered open. Did she have any idea how her feline languor turned her actions into a seduction? Her hair spilled over a small yellow pillow in glossy dark waves, and her lips pouted in a way that made his blood race through his veins. Her pink tongue darted out to lick those lips. “’Twas a ruse. I am no man’s wife.”

  “Mayhap ye were my wife in my dream.” He didn’t know why he teased her, why he flirted with a temptation he had no business wanting.

  The pulse in her temple kicked up a visible notch. Her fingers pressed lightly against his neck. “Dreams are for fools.” Broc inhaled.

  ‘Twas a mistake.

  Her scent intoxicated him—her lips, a baw hair from his, were too close to resist. He leaned in and brushed his bottom lip against her cheek. “Then I am a fool, for dreams are all I have.” She sucked air between her teeth. Her fingers curved a little farther around his neck.

  Why couldn’t he pull away? He damned himself for giving in to his desires. He cupped her cheek, brushed his thumb over her parted lips.

  The hand clasping her rosary flattened against her breast.

  God’s hooks! Everything inside him warned him to resist. He leaned lower still until the side of his nose touched hers. Their breath became one.

  A final glimpse into her flushed face told him she wouldn’t resist if he kissed her. Her rapid breathing ceased. She closed her eyes.

  Three quick knocks rapped against the door. “Maxwell?” Reality slapped his face like a February ice storm. He ripped himself away from Lady Ives.

  She sprang into a sitting position, her cheeks stained with color, her gaze looking at anything but him. “Maxwell? I have need to speak with ye.”

  Broc recognized John’s voice. “Enter.”

  John stepped in, but his gaze remained steadfast to the floor. His hand slicked wetness off his bald head and hooked around his neck. He glanced up at Lady Ives, yet said naught. She jumped to her feet, obviously as aware as Broc of John’s hesitation. “Where is Edlynn?” Panic already took hold of her voice.

  “Might I have a word with ye in private, m’lord?”

  “Nay!” Lady Ives yelled. “Where is she?”

  “I’m sorry, m’lady,” John said.

  She rushed to the window, her head shaking in denial of words not yet spoken.

  “What happened?” Broc asked.

  “The cot-house was burned to the ground. The barn, too.”

  Lady Ives cried out and caught herself on the window ledge.

  Broc’s hands formed fists in front of him. He selfishly left the auld woman behind, ignoring Lady Ives’s pleas to take her. He didn’t know what manner of enemy she attracted, but he had to find out if he had any chance of protecting her. “Ready the horses. We leave at once.” Broc gave John a nod of dismissal and then waited for the door to lat
ch before going to her. He reached out to offer her comfort, but never found the courage to actually touch her. “I’m sorry. I should have—“ “Nay.” She pivoted on her heel and tried to rush past him. He grabbed her arm and pulled her into his chest, fully prepared for any words she might spit at him. “Forgive me.” She looked up at him, eyes overflowing with angry tears. “You vowed it upon your soul. You promised she would be safe. You lied” She had no idea how deeply her words cut him. “I’m sorry.”

  Her fists made a pathetic attempt to hit him, but lost their might when she collapsed in his arms. She sobbed openmouthed against his chest. “Curse him! Curse him to Hades!” she screamed against his skin. “She was a blind, defenseless old woman.”

  Broc could do little more than hold her and prevent her from falling until the last of her tears dried themselves. He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head, shushing her with empty words of comfort. The same words he’d used to console Mam when Lilian and Mattie died. He’d lived this scene before—the day he returned from Dumfriesshire. Lady Ives sucked in a shaky breath, wiped her face, and then pulled away from him. Her transformation happened so quickly, he nearly missed it. Her trembling ceased, and her face smoothed. He could only imagine how much pain she caged behind her mask of indifference. ‘Twas the same pain that made her cry in her sleep. She hastened around the room gathering her things. “I thank you for your aid thus far, Lord Maxwell, but I feel it best if I continue to York alone. I do not wish to bring misfortune to you or your friends.”

  “Nay. I have promised ye protection. I will see you safely to York, with or without your permission.”

  She turned on her heel, her eyes golden flames of fury. “You have delivered me safely out of London. I have mended your wounds. Our association ends here.”

  “Nay.” He denied her selfless request, angered by her rejection. He stepped toward her.

  She stepped back, guarding her person with her satchels. Her bottom lip quivered. She bit it and snapped her shoulders back. “I will not endanger your life.”

  “But you will endanger yours. For the crown?” Her loyalty to her king, while admirable, was foolish. “What has your crown done for ye, Lizbeth? Why do ye risk so much?”

  “You cannot understand. Tis complicated.”

  “Tell me, and I will protect ye.” He cursed her obstinacy.

  “Ye have no one else.”

  “I have my father.” Her chin tilted to a presumptuous angle.

  “And where is he?” He splayed his hands wide and made a show of searching the chamber. “Where was he when Edlynn needed him?”

  Her eyes narrowed; her nostrils flared. Her blind faith in her father infuriated him to the point of madness. “My father is a servant to the king and is bound by the demands of the chief warder. ‘Tis his duty to punish those who threaten the crown.”

  He backed her up against the wall. “And did Edlynn threaten the crown? Was it her punishment to die in that fire for poisoning your king?” He knew the answers, but wanted to goad her into telling him what she knew.

  “Nay!”

  He braced his hands on either side of her head, his toes touching the tips of her boots.

  “Then who threatens the crown, Lizbeth?” Her golden eyes revealed her fear, but damned if he would take ease with her now. “I will protect ye, but I must know who I am protecting ye from.” Her eyes twitched, searching his face.

  Trust me, he begged her silently.

  Her breaths escalated, yet her lips never opened.

  God save him, but the woman was as stubborn as he.

  “Give me the name of the man who seeks the crown. Now!”

  He shouted so loud, birds took flight out the window.

  She jumped and slammed her eyes shut. “Henry Stafford.” He pushed off the wall away from her. a little surprised she’d provided him a name. “The Duke of Buckingham?” He inhaled, unaware he’d been holding his breath. Of all the names he expected to roll off her tongue, Buckingham was not one of them. Not only did the man have his hand in half the lands in England; he held favor with King Edward. Broc had met Buckingham in Wales and he displayed a charisma that charmed the highest of aristocrats. Broc’s mind filled with questions he was certain she couldn’t answer. “Tis not a name ye should be tossing around with words like treason, lest you have proof.” “I do.” She dashed across the room and retrieved a document from one of her many satchels. The corners were already mangled, but bits of red wax still clung to the outer edges. She gripped the parchment in her hand so tight, he feared it might crumble.

  ‘”Tis Buckingham’s signet and his signature.” She shook the document at him. “And I must deliver it to King Edward’s brother before ‘tis too late.”

  His eyes flicked briefly toward the signature, then just as quickly returned to her. “Too late. Ye intend to save your king?” “I fear King Edward will meet his maker before I can help him, but his sons will be in danger the moment their father breathes his last. Buckingham intends to name the king’s sons bastards.”

  In nigh six months, Broc hadn’t managed to gather half this much information against the English. And now here she stood holding the very evidence he needed to persuade his king to align with France. He guarded his emotions. “How?” She growled between clenched teeth and stepped toward him. “King Edward entered into a secret marriage to a woman who was still alive when he wed the queen.” She paused, obviously frustrated by his lack of response. “My king is a bigamist!” she yelled. “Which makes his marriage invalid, hence making the princes illegitimate.”

  God’s hooks! He rubbed his eyes in an effort to ease the piercing pain stabbing the back of his eyeballs. There could only be one reason Buckingham would name the princes bastards. He was the leader of the rebellion. “Buckingham intends to seize the crown.”

  Lady Ives blew a gust of air that smelled oddly of mint leaves and dropped her arms to her sides. “Someone put poison in those vials, and ‘twasn’t me, nor Edlynn.” From beneath her lashes she looked up at him, her eyes pleading her innocence. Did she have any idea how much danger she was in? He tucked a loose tendril behind her ear and cupped her cheek. His desire to protect her felt achingly familiar. “Your knowledge alone places your life in danger. Why do ye risk so much?”

  She stepped forward; her skirt brushed against his shins. Her soft hand slid over his as if to bind him to her. “In exchange for the information, I intend to plead with the king’s brother to relieve my father of his duties.”

  He held her head while his thumb moved over her scar, already accusing her father of the deed. “Is a man of his ilk worth saving?”

  “I believe everyone is worth saving.”

  “And who will save ye?”

  Wet spiked lashes lay against her cheek. “Mayhap I am not worth saving.”

  Chapter 6

  Lizzy pulled her mantle around her and followed Lord Maxwell to the stable through a curtain of rainfall. Sleep deprived and fraught with anxiety, she felt certain her sanity was slipping behind the deluge of emotions in her head. Grief was no stranger to her, nor was hatred. Lord Hollister took Edlynn from her, as he had her other loved ones. She felt more determined than ever to see the man brought to heel and her father released from his charge.

  The cloak John provided Lord Maxwell poured over his broad form like black oil, grimly reminding her of the executioner. Her steps slowed as Father’s likeness flashed through her head, his bloody ax clutched in one gloved hand. Angst seized her. She stopped. The rain quickly separated her and her vision.

  He pivoted and took two strides back toward her. Her gaze shifted to Lord Maxwell’s ungloved hands, which held no weapons of death. One arm carried her satchels, while the other held Beatrice in her cage, covered with a scrap of wool. Raindrops dripped from his spiked black lashes and ran in rivulets down his thick, corded throat. Her father and the man standing before her had no similarities. Lord Maxwell’s determination to protect her confused her as much as it comforted her.


  “Come, Lizbeth,” he ordered and continued in the direction of the stable. She greedily followed. Of all the people God could have sent to deliver her into sanctuary, He chose a Scot. Lord Maxwell could have ended her life with one hand, taken the document she’d stolen from Lord Hollister’s chamber, and used it to benefit his own cause. Instead, he remained surprisingly quiet while she tended his stitches and wrapped his ribs, then calmly collected her things and escorted her from the chamber like a proper Englishman.

  He never even looked at the document.

  She pulled the neck of her mantle together and sloshed through the mud in his wake. He led her into the stable, where she was greeted by an entourage of people on horseback. Celeste straddled a mare beside John, who sat atop a chestnut stallion. A yellowish mare with a black mane was weighted down with a mirage of leather satchels and was easily the ugliest horse Lizzy had ever seen. The nag only stood half the size of the all-white beast Smitt sat astride. They were their own army, a mixture of Scotland and England, and their association with her placed each of their lives in peril. She pulled back her hood. “What is this?”