Her One Desire Page 8

  Her backside came to mind, but she pushed the wickedness from her tongue in time to respond with propriety. “Nay. I’m feeling quite right.”

  He stood, removed his cloak, and then hung it on one of the four wall pegs, after which he bent and pulled a black blade from each boot, two daggers from his sides, and a massive sword from inside the back of his doublet. He methodically placed the daggers and sword hilt up against the wall, then tucked one of the black knives beneath the pillow; the other remained in his grip. The man was a walking mercenary. Lizzy stood on shaky legs and pressed her back against the wall. She hated weapons. She despised the sight of them and everything they represented. “Why are you so heavily armed?” He turned to face her and wore an expression that called her stupid. “God’s hooks, Lizbeth. We are being hunted. Five of the king’s guards are within these walls. I have a blade for each of them should they discover who we are. How else would ye have me protect you?”

  “Pray forgive my ignorance.” Embarrassment pinned her chin to her chest.

  “I regard your fear of me as an insult. Had I wanted to dispose of ye, I could have left your stubborn arse on mat damned nag and let your precious English have you whilst I pressed toward my homelands,” he spouted in a fierce tone. The timid child in her wanted to beg his forgiveness, but the woman in her demanded more. “Why did you not?” Fists clenched at his sides, his lips formed an indignant straight line. She searched his blue eyes for an answer he seemed unwilling to provide. “Why are you helping me?”

  “Because I vowed it.” He slipped a black blade in his sleeve and stepped toward the door. He obviously had naught more to say on the subject, and she didn’t dare suggest he might have ulterior motives. The document was the reason he kept her safe. No other explanation made sense.

  “I dinnae know what manner of man has taught ye that you are of no worth, but I believe your life has value.” Awestruck by his words, she felt her body sag. Her mouth opened, but she could form no comment.

  “I am going to wash. We depart before the cock crows, so we must find sleep quickly.”

  “In this bed? Together?” A vibration ripped through her body at the very thought of sharing a bed with the man who touched her heart with one statement.

  “I will sleep on the floor.” He checked the corridor and left. The moment the door closed, she rushed to disassemble her wet gown. First came her false sleeves, then both her skirts. Her bodice posed an altogether separate problem. She reached behind her back twisting and turning awkwardly to untie the laces all the while keeping her eyes fixed on the door. If he returned now, she would be mortified. She was panting by the time she hung the heavy damask garments on the wall pegs. Garbed in her threadbare tunic, she wrenched back the coverlet and slipped between remarkably soft sheets. A giggle and a moan escaped her lips at the same time. The bed made up for what the rest of the chamber lacked in size and frivolities. She took a moment to stretch out on her back and rub her legs against the sheets. Edlynn would have taken delight in a bed so fine. In truth, her old friend would have had no qualms about sharing such splendor with Lord Maxwell.

  If Lizzy were being honest with herself, she would admit Lord Maxwell was a man she could share her bed with. Her body reacted to her thoughts like a fever. Her toes curled; her nipples tightened into hard, almost painful peaks; and a pulse beat within her womb. Her palm flattened low over her belly. She’d never known a man’s kiss or the feel of a man’s hand upon her breast, but Edlynn had explained that a woman desires as much as a man. That she yearns in secrecy to be held and caressed and sometimes she wants to be trea-sured. Lizzy had no doubt this is what desire felt like. Footfalls whispered outside the door.

  Rolling to her side, she pulled the wool to her neck and positioned herself as close to the edge as she could without falling off.

  A click announced his entry. The fresh clean scent of juniper and mint flooded her senses, then came the rustle of garments. He groaned, and she thought of his wounds. His body needed rest more than hers. She should be sleeping on the floor. She looked down at the wooden slates dusted with dirt and bits of rushes and cursed her selfishness. Guilt would eat at her the entire night and neither of them would be of worth on the morrow. Mayhap she could bargain with him. He’d proven to be a man of his word. Her stomach churned with nerves as she stared at the small yellow flame flickering atop the candle stub. “M’lord, if you sleep on top of the coverlet, I see no reason we cannot both be well rested come the morrow.”

  Long moments filled with only his breathing followed her offer. She could hear the nettles inside his mind forming a barb.

  “Scotsmen are known to be lusty barbarians. ‘Tis an unwise offer ye make without further stipulations.” His voice towered above her.

  She should have feigned sleep and left him to the floor. If he insisted she actually give him terms, then she would oblige him. “Vow you will not steal my virtue, and I will allow you to share the bed.”

  “Think ye I would have to steal it, do ye?”

  She didn’t have to see his face to know his eyes were alight with mischief. “I see arrogance followed you back from the cistern.”

  He laughed, only once, but ‘twas a chuckle just the same.

  “I suspect ye want my word?”

  “Aye.”

  A moment of silence prefaced his inhale. “I vow I will not take your virtue without your permission.”

  She scowled at the wall. She may not be a titled noble with lands and a hefty dowry, but she had every intention of entering Fountains Abbey a virgin, and she would not need the chastity belt to achieve that goal.

  The mattress fell with his weight. He bounced a little.

  “Tis soft.”

  An air of tension filled the space between them. He sprawled out his limbs, and her heart thumped against her backbone. He moaned, then turned. Not five breaths later, he rolled again. His arm knocked her shoulder. She caught herself before she fell from the bed.

  “Sorry, lass. ‘Tis small. Not half the size of my bed back home.” He twisted again. She wrestled with her lack of patience and controlled the urge to humph. The man liked to chatter. Mayhap if she talked to him he would settle. She turned toward him on her side and tucked her hands beneath her ear. He lay on his back with his thick arms crossed over his bare chest. The small candle flame cast crescent-shaped shadows over his muscles in an artistic design much like the symbol on his arm. “Your brother had a similar mark. Does it mean something?” His head turned toward her on the bolster. ‘”Tis one of three words that holds significance in my clan. Neart, Grd, and Onoir. ‘Tis the old language—Gaelic. My grandmum was born in the Highlands of Scotland and ingrained my kin with these words. Aiden was marked with ‘neart,’ which means strength. My younger brother, Ian, bears the word ‘onoir’ which means honor.”

  She reached out and traced the letters with her finger.

  “And what does ‘gra’ mean?”

  He stared directly at her, took two full breaths, and said, “Love.”

  Her throat clenched. She didn’t know why, but the intensity with which he looked at her and said that word made breathing difficult.

  “My brethren live by these words, protecting their country and their home.”

  “Tell me of your home.”

  He turned back toward the ceiling and closed his eyes as if drawing forth a memory.

  “Picture Heaven and ye will see Scotland. I cannae think of another place I would rather live and die.” He spoke of Scotland like a lover. “Six months have passed since I’ve seen my homelands, but I know spring is bearing her gentle hand. Wildflowers are coming to life around the rivers and lochs.”

  “What kind of flowers?” Lizzy wanted to smell his kingdom, make a scent that would capture the essence of Scotland. She reveled at the thought of making a new soap, a new oil.

  “Purple ones, white ones, some pink.” He shrugged. “Aunt Radella and Aunt Jean dry them and mix them with the floor rushes.”

  She
smiled at the simplicity of his description. “You’ve a big family?”

  “Aye. Everything is bigger in Scotland. The beds, the chambers … the men. Hundreds live within the bailey at Skonoir Castle. We feast in the keep every Sabbath. The men argue and fight, the women cook and yell at their bairns. And chickens,” he added as an afterthought. “The damned chickens are all over the place. The courtyard is riddled with them. They follow ye everywhere.”

  “Beatrice would like that.”

  “Tis hardly a peaceful place, I admit, but one is never at a loss for company.”

  “Tis why you do not like the quiet.”

  “I am simply unaccustomed to it.” His tone softened. She thought of how quiet and alone her life had been and part of her yearned for the life he described. “Have you a healer among your people?”

  “Aye. A right mean auld crone. She hides her herbs and potions and is stingy as the devil.” He gave a dramatic shiver, trying to humor her, no doubt.

  “You jest. She cannot be so bad. Who is she?” He laughed. “My grandmum. The bairns are terrified of her, as am I.”

  Lizzy tried to picture him cowering to his grandmother.

  “Tell me why.”

  “Every time I pay visit, she pokes me with her bony fingers and badgers me about breeding.”

  “Breeding?”

  “Aye. I am the son of a man who sired twelve bairns. Tis expected of me to do the same.”

  Twelve? Lizzy practically drooled. She would have given anything for just one sister.

  “I can say all their names in one breath.”

  The tickle dancing in her throat snuck out between her lips in a sort of hoot. His head turned, popping his neck in two snaps. “Think ye I cannae do it?” He took a deep breath, held it, for extra drama, no doubt, and then… “Magnus—named after Da, but died in infancy; Aiden—named after my grandda; Broderick—that would be me, named after my da’s brother; Muira—named after my mam; then Radella, Jean, Lindsay—

  named after my aunts on my mam’s side; Beth, Deirdre, Lilian, Mattie—named after my aunts on my da’s side: and Ian.” He inhaled and beamed a wide grin. Her giggles turned into outright laughter by the time he’d finished. “You must be proud of your skill.”

  “Oh, aye.”

  “Was Ian named after anyone in your family or did you run out of breath?”

  He chuckled again, creasing his cheeks with dimples. “Da was so elated to get another male heir after eight girls he told Mam to name him whatever she liked.”

  “Your family sounds lovely. I can see why you would want to protect them.”

  His eyes closed. “Tis a duty I fear I have failed.” Lord Maxwell undoubtedly thought of the brother he’d been unable to protect from Father’s whip. “I wish my father hadn’t stolen your brother from you.”

  He looked at her. “Ye should know that Aiden had been beaten nigh to death before we were delivered to the Tower.” “It does not change the fact that he was alive before Father delivered the lashes.”

  Silence followed.

  “Mayhap we should find our rest now,” she suggested.

  “Mayhap.”

  Lizzy turned her back to him and curled her hands beneath her cheek. She anticipated the loud rumble of his snoring, but his breathing was soft and his movements restless. Her eyes fixed on the candle flame sputtering its last bit of life. Only moments later, the light extinguished. Blackness engulfed her.

  She sucked in an audible breath and stared into the darkness, wishing she hadn’t left Mother’s rosary in the pocket of her gown.

  Nine, ten, eleven … She counted her breaths, which came louder and faster with each passing second as if she were drowning. She waited, not knowing who would enter her thoughts. She tried to think of anything but the people she loved, the people she hated—

  flowers, chickens, her boots, a stool Emma.

  Lord Hollister’s wife flashed in brilliant colors inside her head. Black hair, olive skin, rose-colored lips stretched wide in horror as they tied her to the dunking stool by the river.

  Emma gasped for air when they pulled her out.

  Lizzy did the same.

  Lord Maxwell rolled toward her; his arm slid beneath her neck while his other arm wrapped around her shoulders. He held her against his chest in a guarded embrace, his breath warming the back of her head. “Sleep, angel. All will be well. I will be here to protect ye should the demons sneak into your sleep” He kissed her hair and then fell against the pillow.

  He couldn’t know the value of the gift he offered. “Thank you,” she whispered and slowly crept her hand inside his, seeking a little more of his protection. He squeezed her fingers and rhythmically brushed her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. Behind her closed lids she pictured flowers—purple ones, white ones, some pink. A smile eased her tension as her toes stepped into a valley painted with color. A grand castle stood proud and tall in the distance: a symbol of strength, protection. In her vision, Lord Maxwell’s fingers tightened around hers and led her into paradise. His paradise. His home. Scotland.

  Chapter 8

  Broc awoke with a plan.

  After pulling himself away from the warmth of his sleeping angel, he dressed with less pain than the day before. He secured his weapons within his garments and stepped into the empty corridor. Snoring guided him past two chamber doors. Feminine whimpers and the tattoo of a rocking bed led his ear to a third chamber. Deep moans escalated in time with the cadence of slapping flesh.

  Then came a loud smack.

  Silence.

  A long throaty howl of pleasure wailed behind the door. God’s hooks! Broc shook his head and wished those sounds didn’t have him raging hard and sweating like a swine. He had to remind himself why he’d left a soft, warm bed with a soft, warm woman curled in his arms.

  He jerked his head side to side and set his tension free in two pops, then raised his knuckles and tapped the wood. A yellow light brightened beneath the door until it swayed inward. The ripe smell of sex attacked his nose the same time his eyes were greeted by a young naked woman. “What do ye want?” she asked, making no attempt to hide her nudity.

  Though it took him a moment, he tore his stare from her favors and searched the shadows of the room. “I’m looking for Smitt.”

  “He’s occupied at the moment.” The woman pulled the candle back far enough into the chamber to prove her point. “What is it?” Smitt crawled off another woman and strutted toward the door like the proud cock he displayed. He rested his forearm against the door frame and grinned. “Do ye ever sleep?” Broc knew his cousin to be a bit randy, but the man was going to contract diseases if he continued such continual play.

  “I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Are ye ready to go?” “Soon. I was hoping to get a wee bit of assistance from your lady friends before we left.”

  “Your spitfire turn to ice, did she?”

  Instantly piqued by the comment, Broc unsheathed a dirk from his waist and pressed the tip into Smitt’s chin. “She is not my spitfire, and she damned certain is not ice. Reserve your filthy tongue for pleasuring the ladies, else you’ll find it on the tip of my blade.”

  “Easy, cousin. Twas a jest.” Smitt stepped back, raking his fingers through his black hair. What was it about Lizbeth that made Broc so damned protective? He retracted his weapon and tamped his unwarranted anger. “Get dressed and find out where the guards are sleeping. Your lady friends may remain in their skin if they please.”

  Broc slipped out the back entrance and flattened his back against the side of a chicken shelter. If the warbling hens couldn’t detect his presence, then neither could the guard relieving himself by an old oak. Anticipation sped up his heart rate. Perspiration dripped down his back, tickling his wounds. He peeked around the corner. Between the moon’s descent and the blush of dawn, Broc saw the guard stumble. He was blootered. An easy mark. Broc took two deep breaths of cool mist, sheathed his dirk, and bolted into the open. His fist made contact with the back of the man’s
head before he even detected Broc’s intentions. With any luck the man would awaken with a pounding headache and assume he’d dipped too far in the cups. Broc lifted the guard beneath the arms and dragged him through the muck and into the stable.

  The horses pranced. Their tales swished in agitation. He gently lowered the guard into a pile of hay, wanting him to sleep peacefully. He scaled a ladder to the loft, where he found John snoring beneath a wool next to Celeste. He nudged John’s shoulder. “Tis time.”

  John sat up straight, pulling the blanket off Celeste’s bare back with the action, and scratched his chest. His eyes remained closed. “I’m ready.”

  Broc didn’t trust his response. “John, wake up. I need ye, my friend.”

  His eyes popped open. “What do ye want me to do?” “Ready the guards’ horses with England’s colors and tie all our belongings to them. Tether the other mounts and have Celeste help ye walk them to the top of the knoll.” “Ten horses? Are ye wowf ?” John spouted, fully awake now.

  Celeste raised up, tucking the wool beneath her arms.

  “Don’t be such a milksop, Scotsman. What can I do?” Broc pulled a cobweb from her dusty brown hair and offered her a smile for her eagerness. “There’s an unconscious man below. Strip him of his garments and pack his clothes with our things.” Broc started back down the ladder, then popped back up. “Dinnae forget Lizbeth’s chicken.” Celeste bobbed her head, making him proud to call her kin. The timing wasn’t appropriate for an apology, but Celeste seemed to be in reasonable humor. “I lied to ye, Celeste. My name is not Sir Julian Ascott. It’s Broc Maxwell. I am the son of Lord Magnus Maxwell, and I live in the West Marches of Scotland. I would like to welcome ye to my clan and beg your forgiveness.”

  Her head fell bashfully; her dark lashes batted. “Thank ye, m’lord. Ye are forgiven.”

  “Am I?” John asked.

  “Nay,” she returned sharply.

  Broc dropped back down the ladder, leaving her scowling at John, and located Lizbeth’s satchels. Confident his orders would be followed, he returned to the inn and back to the chamber he’d shared with Lizbeth.