Her One Desire Read online

  “The road leading to Yorkshire is the same as the one leading to the borderlands,” John answered. “Tis nay reason we shouldnae travel together. ‘Twill be safer, aye?” “Aye,”

  Lord Maxwell agreed.

  “You mock my intelligence, Sir John. More than one road runs through England.” Her words had no sooner left her mouth when Lord Maxwell wrapped his hands around her waist and hoisted her atop the king’s stallion. She glared down at him. “Have you no concern for your friends and their well-being?”

  “John is my cousin, as is Smitt. They belong to my clan. I protect my brethren and honor their wishes to return to a land less riddled with hypocrisy and turmoil.” He tied her belongings to the stallion and stroked its withers. “Not to mention, John sold the tippling house this morn to a blootered Englishman, which places him favorably high on my list of acquaintances.”

  When he readied himself to mount up behind her, Lizzy stopped him with one hand

  “Wait We will not travel as quickly doubled up. Can you not ride your own horse?” She didn’t want to tell him she couldn’t spend an entire day wrapped in his arms, smelling his spicy scent, wanting naught more than to curl into his embrace and allow him to protect her. “This is my horse. I stole him myself.” Lord Maxwell flashed her a brilliant grin and attempted to mount again. She turned to John. “I have enough coin to purchase a horse. Have you any to sell?”

  “Aye—“

  “Nay,” Lord Maxwell interrupted. “We ride together. I cannae protect ye if someone decides to ambush us.” “And who will protect her?” Lizzy pointed at Celeste. Lord Maxwell rolled his eyes, an action that was beginning to annoy her. “’She is not being sought by men trying to kill her. Besides, Celeste is a bit angry with John for lying to her about his heritage.”

  “Angry?” Celeste repeated the word with an acidic tone. “Angry is when a wife discovers her husband is bedding down with another woman.” Celeste nudged her horse in the loins. “I would more describe my state of mind as bloodthirsty. A man doesn’t keep secrets from his wife for two years and expect to …” Celeste s words became inaudible as she trotted out of the stable.

  “Tis not a wise man who lies to his woman.” Lord Maxwell grinned at John, as did Smitt, obviously finding the poor man s misery entertaining. “At least I told ye I was a Scot.”

  Why did he speak to her as if she were his woman? “You lied to Celeste as well.”

  “Celeste is not my woman.”

  “Nor am I, m’lord.” Lizzy jumped to her feet in front of him, filling the air with a burst of sweet-smelling hay. “And I intend to inform Celeste at the first opportunity that I am not your wife, and then you can bear her anger. Not I.” She shuffled through the hay toward the yellow horse. “Is this mount available for purchase, Sir John?”

  “Ye can have her. Tis the most ill-tempered nag I’ve ever owned.”

  Lizzy brushed noses with the mare and scratched her chin, already contemplating a name for her new friend. “If ye insist on riding alone, then ye will at least ride at my side.”

  Lord Maxwell mounted and waited for her to do the same, then clicked his tongue and the four of them trotted out of the stable. “Tis going to be an unbearable day riding in this weather.”

  “I like the rain.” Lizzy pulled back her hood and felt the drizzle on her cheeks. Rain reminded her of tears, as if someone else in the world cried besides her.

  “Ye will catch an ague and die.”

  “I am afraid of many things, m’lord. Death is not one of them.”

  “Nonetheless. I’ll not have ye catching the fever before I deliver ye to York.” Lord Maxwell pulled her hood back over her head and popped her nose with his fingertip. His gesture made Lizzy smile inside. The Scot’s odd mannerisms were starting to grow on her.

  Broc eased his stallion to a stop for the third time that afternoon, waving the others on over the knoll. The sun had hidden the majority of the day, only peeking out enough to dry them before another bout of rain soaked them again.

  With his elbows raised, he twisted side to side. While Lizbeth’s medicine relieved his pain, his stitches itched like day-old bug bites. Frustrated didn’t begin to explain the state of mind he was in. He looked back at his angel, now fully draped over the mare’s nape, sleeping soundly. Long waves of sable hair painted with red flames decorated the mare’s black mane and hid her face from him. How could the woman sleep in such a position?

  The yellow nag bent low to nibble a bit of spring grass at the base of a young alder tree. Lizbeth sagged forward, but clung to the beast like a tick to a mule. Having been informed by Smitt about yester eve’s incident with the man in the stable, Broc was certain she’d only slept small hours the previous night. He had thought to scold her for going to the stable unattended, but held no desire to banter with her this day. She was dealing with grief, and he doubted she needed reprimanding by the same person she held responsible for the loss of her friend. Twas best he let the matter rest. He needed no more guilt.

  He scanned the foothill behind them covered with the signs of spring. Broc knew the English were amidst the thick green foliage. He wondered how many of the king’s guards were now hunting them, and how many of those same men were loyal to Buckingham. He inventoried the number of weapons on his person: two sgian dubhs in his boots, two dirks at his waist, and a broadsword currently sheathed at his back. He could battle at least a dozen alone. Smitt could probably take twice that many, and John had shown no mercy on the battlefield during the border wars. Still and all, Broc preferred to cross England without having to draw his sword. If he failed in his efforts to return home, Ian would be the only son remaining to reign when Da passed. Neither he nor his younger brother had been trained for leadership. Aiden had been the chosen one. Having lost the prime son, mayhap Da would now see the importance of educating more than one heir. Casting his thoughts aside, he pushed his jaw side to side, popping his neck. He trotted up beside Lizbeth, pulled the reins from her relaxed hands, and tied them to his stallion, after which he grabbed hold of the back of her wet gown and hoisted her off the mare and into his lap.

  She gasped and lurched backward, catching him in the jaw.

  “Be still, woman. Else you’ll spook the horses.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I am trying to get us across England alive.”

  Her head whipped from side to side, searching her surroundings.

  “Where are the others?”

  “Ahead of us.” Broc patted the stallion’s hindquarters, impressed by the beast’s training.

  “A few more hours will put us outside of Lincolnshire.”

  “A few more hours?” she complained and slumped against him. “I cannot ride astride a few more hours. My legs are numb now.”

  “Tis a most unpleasant feeling, aye?” He couldn’t resist. She made a noise that sounded like a humph, then twisted and stretched her spine, which brought her backside in direct contact with his cock. Blood rushed from every outer point of his body straight to his core. He squeezed his legs around the stallion’s belly, setting a pace that moved her body gracefully against his with every powerful stride.

  He’d heard many tales, most from Smitt and Aiden, about odd places they’d made love to women—in the river, over a barrel of mead—but never had either of them mentioned astride a horse. The image in his mind’s eye made it look deliciously wicked. God’s hooks! Why did she have to smell so good? And why the devil was she so damned naked every time he thought about her? He splayed his hand wide around Lizbeth’s waist and pulled her close. His desire to have her felt more like an obsession than a want and made his previous infatuation with Lady Juliana seem adolescent

  Chapter 7

  The sun dipped into a speckled horizon, casting dark shadows over a small inn nestled in the hills. With the flex of two fingers, Broc motioned John to his side and gestured toward the half dozen stallions ensconced in crimson and blue velvets tethered outside the stable. “The king’s guard
,” Broc whispered to avoid waking the sleeping angel snuggled against his chest.

  “We go on?” John’s question sounded more like a strong suggestion even in hushed tones.

  “Celeste looks nigh ready to fall from her horse, and this lass”—he glanced down at Lizbeth—“gave into exhaustion only an hour ago.” He flexed his backside, trying not to squirm. “The horses are depleted, and my arse feels as though I’m sitting on tiny dirks.”

  “I am a wee bit tired myself,” John admitted. Broc snorted. “A wee bit, aye?” John undoubtedly suffered the most, having traveled the entire previous night. Broc looked over his shoulder at Smitt—bright-eyed, straight back, and how had he managed to shave? He resembled a young buck about to play in the spoils. “How the devil can he look so full of piss?”

  “He’s younger. More stamina, I suspect. He’ll be beneath a gaggle o’ wenches afore the eve blackens. If I had different parts, I’d tup the man.” A touch of jealousy made him pull Lizbeth a little closer.

  “What then?” John asked.

  Broc contemplated the situation. Anyone who’d stepped foot on Tower Hill knew the executioner’s daughter. “I suspect the man in the stable might have recognized Lizbeth from London. If he happens upon the English who are undoubtedly pursuing us, I’ve no doubt he would give away our position for less than a ducat.”

  “Then we bunker down in the woodland for the eve,” John suggested. Broc gestured for Smitt to come forth.

  “Want me to kill ‘em?” Smitt curled a devious grin, making Broc thankful his cousin fought on the same side as he. “If they pose a threat, aye. How many weapons do ye have?”

  Smitt’s fingers extended one by one. “Eight.” “Test the air. If ye feel it safe, secure us rooms and care for the horses, then find a back entrance where we can slip Lizbeth in unnoticed.”

  John handed Smitt a satchel. “Make haste, and give a single one o’ my coins to any o’ the drabs, and I’ll tell them ye prefer a pillicock to a nock.”

  “Aye.” Smitt disappeared over the knoll and into the inn. Broc twisted to look at the bundle of beauty against his chest and brought a second arm around her waist. She whimpered and stitched her brows together, her fingers curling into fists beneath her chin. Broc caressed her forearm until her hands relaxed. Was she thinking of Edlynn in her dream? Trying to protect her old friend? He tried to imagine what horrors took place behind her closed eyes. Who tormented her? Was it the same man she was risking her life to save? “Who is she?” John asked.

  “Just a woman who saved me from the Tower.” He traced a finger over her puckered brow, smoothing out her angst. “Ye look at her like she is more than just a woman. Do ye feel indebted to her?”

  He didn’t know what he felt for her. Gratitude? Lust? Or mayhap it was something more deep-seated. Something he’d never felt for Lady Juliana. “Had she not appeared when she did, I suspect Ian would be the one accepting Da’s title one day.” “If ye’ve any honor at all, ye will not repay her by delivering her into the hands of that bastard who nigh ravaged our clan.”

  “She thinks Gloucester a champion, a protector.”

  “Then she is a fool, but a bonnie fine one at that.” Broc pulled the hood of her mantle enough to cover her face, hiding her beauty from his cousin, then glared at John. “Think ye should go talk to your wife?”

  John shook his bald head profusely. “The woman has held her tongue all day. ‘Tis not like Celeste. I fear she may never forgive me.”

  Broc caught Celeste’s eye. She turned away with a jerk and a snort. “She will cool. When she sees Scotland, her opinion will change. ‘Tis a far greater land to live in than this godforsaken spoiled country.”

  “And what of ye? Scotland awaits ye as does your da’s title. ‘Tis something ye used to want.”

  “I still do. Protecting my family and the clan will always be my first priority.”

  “Then ye intend to honor your da’s agreement with Clan Scott?”

  “Aye.” Marriage to Lady Juliana suddenly didn’t hold the same appeal as it had before. Nonetheless, he was bound by a duty to protect his clan and that duty included a marriage to Laird Scott’s daughter. He thought about Lizbeth’s document and how it could aid his cause. If only he could convince her to give it to him. “But mayhap I have a means of protecting the clan along with all of Scotland.” “Does the lass have anything to do with that means?” “Mayhap.” Broc withheld any further information. John could peck at him all he liked, but he would be getting no straight answers.

  “I suspect she knows something or has something you’re wanting. Tis why ye are aiding her?”

  Broc shrugged.

  “Ye are not married to Laird Scott’s daughter yet. Mayhap a tumble with the lass would get ye what you want?” “I dinnae tumble. That was Aiden.” And his appetite for lust gained him a lethal beating, Broc added mentally, not wanting to vilify his brother’s name aloud.

  John’s gaze dipped back to Lizbeth. ‘”Tis a long way to York.”

  “’Tis two days. I controlled myself for two years at Dryburgh. Think ye I cannae keep my cock in my trews for two damned days?”

  John shrugged back. “I trust ye will be meeting with King James upon your return then?”

  Again, John pecked at him. “I hope to send Da while I meet with Laird Scott.” John ceased his interrogation, and they waited in silence until Smitt returned.

  “Come. The guards are being occupied. There’s a maiden awaiting us at the back entrance.”

  “Who is occupying the guards?” Broc worried over the ease of Smitt’s plan, though it was unnecessary when women were involved.

  “A few wenches I promised to please later.”

  Lizzy awoke in a darkened corridor and instantly panicked.

  She squirmed, and the arms holding her tightened. “Shh, Lizbeth. Ye are safe.” Lord Maxwell’s deep, soothing voice cast the biting fear from her body, making her feel weightless; then she realized she was being carried. Knowing her legs wouldn’t hold her if she insisted he put her down, she worked her hands around his neck in a foolish effort to aid him. A single rushlight cast the sharp edges of his face in shadows, making him appear dark, mysterious. Oddly enough, he didn’t frighten her. ‘Twas quite the opposite, she admitted. She hadn’t felt this safe since Kamden died.

  The cadence of sluggish footfalls sounded ahead of them. A rotund woman with a heavy limp led them through the corridor and opened a door.

  “ Tisn’t much, but the bedding is clean, and I added eiderdown to the mattress this morn.” The woman entered and stood on her toes to light the only wall sconce in a room with no window.

  Lizzy calculated immediately how long the tallow would last before examining the confines of the small chamber—the very small chamber—the size of the antechamber Lord Hollister had secured her in after the fire. Brown stained the walls from years of seepage and the furnishings were naught short of grim: a bed and a cuttie stool holding a cracked pitcher and bowl. Lord Maxwell would have to duck beneath the doorjamb to enter.

  “There’s a cistern at the end of the hall, if’n ye’re in need of washin’.” The woman pointed with a flick of her wrist, then shuffled down the hall.

  “Thank ye for the hospitality,” Lord Maxwell said to her back, then squeezed through the entranceway, kicking the door closed behind him.

  Lizzy looked at the bed, then back at Lord Maxwell, whose stunned face matched her sentiments. “Tell me we are not sharing this chamber.”

  “If I told ye that, I’d be lying and I dinnae lie. ‘Twas either the room or the stable with John and Celeste.”

  “And Smitt?” she asked, more out of courtesy than interest.

  His brows slashed. “Dinnae fash over Smitt’s well-being.

  He will have nay difficulty finding a bed, I assure ye.” Lord Maxwell set her on a sinfully soft mattress, then bent down on his knee in front of her. When he started unlacing her boots, she grabbed fistfuls of coarse bedding. “What are you doing?” She s
tared at the top of his head. “Ye lost a great deal of sleep yester eve because of your attentions to me. I am merely returning the favor.”

  “By undressing me?” A vibration curled around the leg he currently held. Shameless was the single word that came to mind.

  He peeled off one boot and stocking and set them aside, then went to work on the other.

  “I hardly call removing your footwear undressing you, but if you’re in need of a maid’s service to assist ye with your wet gown, I’d be happy to oblige.” His head raised only long enough to wink at her. Was the man toying with her again? If he wanted to force himself on her, he wouldn’t need to remove her boots to do so. “I have never been privy to a maid, nor have I ever needed one,” she snapped.

  She formed words to shoo him from the chamber the same time he wrapped his hot hands around her foot and started kneading. He rolled his knuckles over the arch, and all her defenses left her. Her limbs demanded her to remain perfectly still and revel in this moment of divine pleasure. She tucked the side of her lip between her teeth, stifling any sound akin to wanton. His fingers worked the aches from the pads of her foot, including each toe, and then she felt him raise the other to pay it equal attention. Her head fell back, and she closed her eyes.

  Mercy Mary. The man was a deity from Heaven. The palm of his hand cupped her calf, gliding to and fro from the back of her knee to her ankle. She inched her way closer to the edge of the bed.

  Higher. Without a doubt, the devil slipped that word in her head. Warmth crawled from her toes, up her legs, and exploded into a blaze between her thighs. She sucked icy air between her teeth, startled by the unfamiliar sensation. Reality smacked her like nine whips across her face. She had to distance herself from this man and his magic hands, else she find herself spoiled before she reached Fountains Abbey. “Tis enough, m’lord. Thank you.” She scooted back, flushing the backs of her knees to the bed’s edge. “A day astride a horse can make ye feel bruised from the inside out. Have ye other aches in need of attention before I go wash?” He cocked a wicked brow.