Her One Desire (2 page)

“Eight steps forward, twenty-six to the right, seventeen around the—“ “Where does it lead?”

“To a door hidden behind the goldsmith, north of Cheapside,” she whispered against his palm, sending a frisson of heat up his arm. His body hummed. What was wrong with him? Though confident Lady Ives was no angel, Broc remained neutral to the possibility of her being a sorceress. “Lead the way.” He gave her a nudge of encouragement, but her feet seemed fixed to the floor.

“I cannot. I must go back.”

“I cannae allow ye to do that.” He gave her another shove, after which she spun around in his arms, knocking his elbows against the sides of the tunnel. Her icy palms flattened against his bare chest. Another unusual tingle raised gooseflesh over his skin. She was definitely a witch. “We must wait until they leave and then retrieve the torch.”

Paying no heed to her suggestion, Broc moved forward. She stepped up on his toes and clung even tighter to his bruised ribs. “Ach, lassie! Think ye could ease your grip?” Only then did it occur to him that her fear didn’t lie with him.

She’d been as eager as he to rid herself from the chamber.

Yet, now she seemed afflicted with a greater problem. “I cannot make it through the tunnel,” she insisted. Obvious panic altered her words in high and low pitches. The woman pressed so tight against his chest he was certain she intended to walk through him to get back into the
chamber. He raised his gaze over her head, but the abyss was as black as the devil’s heart. “Are ye afraid of the dark?” She nodded beneath his chin, and her alluring scent again assaulted him.
God’s hooks!
As if he had the time to play protector to a cowering angel who smelled like a valley of flowers dipped in honey. A moment of weariness sent him swaying. A trickle of sweat rolled down his neck. He shivered. She stilled in his arms, then inched back. A small hand pressed against his neck, then his jaw, his cheek. “You have little time. You must go before your body fails you.” Broc worried over her swift change in demeanor, and even more so over his body’s reaction to her simple caress. “Explain.” “The whip was coated with a numbing tonic, so your flesh can bear the elements of torture.”

“Tis poison?”

“Nay. A product of mercy.”

Broc snorted. “The executioner delivered twenty lashes upon my brother’s back, then burned the flesh from his hands and feet without any regard for mercy. Think me a fool to believe he cares a nit about those he persecutes?” “My father did not coat the whip. I did.” Her head fell beneath his chin. “You will not feel the pain of your lashes until the moon is high, but within an hour’s time your legs will struggle to carry your weight.”

Broc had not spent the last six months befriending the damned English only to die and rot in the veins of London. “Then we have less time than I predicted.” Raising his shackled hands over her head, he turned Lady Ives around and attempted to push her into the tunnel. Her velvet skirts brushed against his knees, and another wisp of her troublesome fragrance tickled his nose. She crawled between the space of his arm and side, and then clung sweetly to his backside.

He might not be able to feel his fingertips or the gashes in his back, but he definitely felt the executioner’s daughter curved around his arse. He’d yearned for only one woman in all his twenty-nine years, but this English angel seemed to heat his blood with her scent alone.

It must be the poison.

Clearing the unwanted lust from his head with a shake, Broc began counting the initial eight steps. His toe jammed against a stone wall when he reached four. “Ach! I thought ye said eight steps forward.”

“Eight small steps. I was a child when last I tallied.” A scuffling of claws plucked out to his right. He followed, stumbling through the pitch. He was certain to have more success following the vermin than placing trust in Lady Ives’s directions.

“Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…” Numbers rolled off her lips in whispered chaos. “Eight, nine, ten … “ They came in sets of three, and no longer followed the count of her steps. Broc wondered briefly if she even knew how to count. The tunnel came to a tee. The floor disappeared under his toe. “Which way?”

“To the right and down. You must walk through seepage before you go back up the other side. We are beneath the moat.”

He started down slick steps and stopped. She was there. He could hear her breathing, but she was no longer attached to him. “Lady Ives, you are either going to lead or follow. Choose.”

Soft footsteps walked slowly toward him. Her fingertips touched his elbow; then her arms curled around his with formidable strength. He dragged her into calf-deep water, her face buried in his shoulder. He continued forward, not knowing if her feet even aided her cause, and fumbled over the wet stone cautiously, searching for the way.

“’Tis a straightaway. At least thirty more steps. Make haste before I am ill.”

He rolled his eyes in the darkness. That comment ruined the image of a naked angel he’d been forming in his head. ‘Twas for the best. He had no business picturing her naked anyway.

With one hand extended in front of him and one arm wrapped around her waist, Broc trudged through the seepage until he met an incline. Three steps led him out of the water. Lady Ives seemed to gather enough courage to stand, but didn’t release his arm as they purged onward. He lost count of his steps, focused as he was on the sound of her erratic breathing. The lass was certain to swoon before they reached an exit. He might have offered her an encouraging word, if he thought it would have helped. Another damned wall stopped him. A muffled drumming beat in his ear. Mayhap his pulse? Mayhap hers?

Then came a lute and viols. The sounds of festival broke through the hollowed silence.

“This way.” A tug on his arm pulled him left.

Several more blind steps brought them to another barricade. He heard her pat the wall searching for what he hoped might be the exit. Her numbers were replaced with whimpers, moans, and heavy breathing. All of which made his body tighten. Then the sound of grating stone filled his vision with speckled light. Tiny rays of gold filtered through a web of vines covering the opening, making him squint. Lady Ives punched a fist through the greenery. Merriment exploded into their silence. Broc caught her arm before she dove through to the other side. “Wait. The city celebrates Eastertide. We will not go unnoticed. Lend me your mantle.” He twisted her around to face him.

Her enchanting eyes studied him from beneath the ermine fir-trimmed hood. “You place my life in danger by asking for my assistance.”

“I suspect your life is already in danger. Lady Ives. And I am not asking for your assistance, simply for an article of your clothing.” He couldn’t blend into the celebration half naked and beaten. He and Aiden had mingled with the aristocrats and the drunkards. Recognition was inevitable.

Lady Ives’s head tilted, fine thin brows pinched together in thought. “If I am to aid you, I would know your crime first.”

He could hardly tell her he was a spy seeking information to convince the King of Scotland to align with France. She waited for his answer, no doubt expecting a heinous crime, and no crime was more heinous than being a Scot in England. “I am Broderick Maxwell, heir of Lord Magnus Maxwell, Warden of the West Marches.”

“You are a son of Scotland?”

“Aye.” This information didn’t seem to alarm her. “Do you hold me responsible in any way for your brother’s death?”

How many held her da’s profession against her? Broc certainly couldn’t hold Lady Ives responsible for Aiden’s illtimed desire to philander with an English skirt. Broc stepped forward. Instead of backing down, Lady Ives raised herself up to her full height, which was relatively tall for a woman. Her gold eyes demanded his honesty. “The executioner is guided by your country’s nobles. His hand is not your own.” Her flawless skin smoothed over high cheekbones, and the force of the breath she blew cooled his chest. Her fingers released the ties at her neck. The black mantle slipped from her head. Light from behind cast fire-red highlights through glossy sable hair, cascading in soft waves to her waist. The quality and daring cut of her fawn-colored gown bespoke of wealth, nobility—temptation. His hands fisted, pulling tight the chain binding his wrists. The woman was indeed one of God’s finest creations. The monks at Dryburgh would be sorely disappointed in the wayward direction of his thoughts. They’d trained him well, yet he could not draw his eyes from this angel of fire.

“If I aid your escape out of the city,” she began, pulling his attention from her bodice to her face, “and see to the mending of your wounds, would you offer me escort in return?”

“Escort?” he asked, unable to hide the mocking question in his tone. “You mean you seek my protection.” He must be wowf for even considering a pact with this woman. Damn the devil himself for placing her in his path. Her wide eyes reeked of desperation and he couldn’t help but wonder whom she ran from. What was he supposed to do? Leave her?

Whoever hunted her would most likely turn her over to her da for punishment. She lowered her lids, releasing him from the imprisonment of her eyes, and pulled the tails of her sleeves into her hands. “I seek sanctuary.”

“Whom do ye need protecting from, Lady Ives? What crime have
you
committed?”

Her eyes opened to him, glistening with unshed tears. “I have had the misfortune of being bora to the Reaper of the Realm.”

She probably could have confessed to killing her king, and he still would have given her aid. He would undoubtedly regret his next words. “I will escort ye.”

Her lips curved slightly at the corners, and a little flutter tickled his gut. Why did he suddenly feel like he was betraying the fair Lady Juliana?

Chapter
2

Through
multiple
rays
of
light,
Lizzy
watched
Lord
Maxwell
drape
her
mantle around
his
back
and
fumble
with
the
ties
at
his
neck.
The
tincture
already
overtook his
fingers.

“Allow
me.”
She
leaned
in
and
relieved
him
of
his
task.
The
hairs
at
the hollow
of
his
neck
tickled
the
backs
of
her
fingers.

Her
gaze
went
from
the
knot bobbing
in
his
throat
to
his
eyes
to
see
if
he’d
seen
her
shudder. He closed his eyes, drew a sharp breath, and then snapped his head side to side. He pushed past her without a word of gratitude and stepped toward the exit. The man behaved like a … well… a Scot. She must have experienced a moment of madness to ask a man of his breeding to offer her aid. “Keep your head bowed. We’ll go north up Watling Street toward the Skinners. With any luck, the majority of London will already be at the cathedral.” He ripped through the laced vines in two passes and crawled through the opening. Mayhap she shouldn’t follow. Father could still save her. She looked back into the black tunnel. Her stomach fell to her toes.

“Lady Ives?”

She whipped back around to find Lord Maxwell’s shackled hands awaiting her acceptance.

“We must make haste.”

Nodding, she took his hands. His grip was strong, his palms calloused, hot. Her fingers naturally curled over his as she inched her way through the greenery. Tucking her chin to her chest as he’d ordered, she flanked herself to him and matched his stride. His size reminded her of Kamden—tall, and thickly built, a semblance of protection. ‘Twas good to feel safe again, regardless of the false illusion by which she came to feel that way. Her downward gaze shifted slightly from her steps to his.
Mercy Mary!
The man wore no boots. They were certain to attract attention. She twisted, checking for any pursuers. No guards followed. The numbers began in her head as she counted her steps, calming, soothing, easing her angst as she kept his pace over the cobbled stones of Watling Street. Staying close to the empty merchants’ stalls, she peeked through her lashes at a few finely arrayed courtiers making their way toward St. Paul’s church for High Mass. A matron craned her neck; her steeple headdress fluttered in white wisps in her haste. Her children stared—an occurrence Lizzy had built an immunity to long ago. Lord Maxwell led her to a black stallion ensconced in crimson velvet and braids of gold outside the priory. He released the reins, stroked the beast’s neck, then mounted with a grunt and a grimace. Freeing his foot from the stirrup, he extended his hands.

“Is this your mount?” She realized the foolishness of her question as soon as the words left her mouth. “Aye. I left the auld lad tethered whilst I took a sabbatical in your dungeon.” As if the mockery in his tone wasn’t enough to ridicule her, he raised an allknowing black brow.

“I will not be part of stealing another man’s horse. Especially one belonging to the royal guard.” She pointed at the gold crest embroidered on the blanket.

“Think ye your father will cut off your hand before or after he is ordered to remove your head?”

She left his sarcastic question unanswered and scanned the street for the horse’s owner. She would repent her sin when she reached Fountains Abbey in Yorkshire. She accepted Lord Maxwell’s assistance and mounted in front of him. When he encircled her with his shackled hands, the heat surrounding her burned her like an open hearth. The man was afire with fever.

“Halt, by order of the king’s guard!” An enraged voice came from the entrance to the priory.

Lizzy turned in time to see one of the king’s guards drop a bundle of religious vestments and unsheathe his sword. “Hold tight, Lady Ives.” Lord Maxwell kicked the stallion into motion, slamming her against his chest. The guard’s bellows dissipated behind them as every pummel of hooves brought them closer to escape.

A single raven followed overhead, reminding her of Father s wooden birds. Rows of gabled houses darkened the street with their height. Bells rang out, calling the city to its many churches. She crossed herself.
Fare thee well, Father.
She would do everything within her power to return and free Father from Lord Hollister’s clutches. Now that Kamden and the boys were gone, London only promised a future laden with more nightmares.

They passed through the city’s gates. The road split. The path to the right led to Edlynn’s cottage and was thick with mire from recent rainfall. They could be hidden from view within seconds of entering the thicket.