Her One Desire (26 page)

“What woman in possession of her wits wouldnae want me?” he asked in a deep breathy whisper oozing with vanity. “You forget that I’m not a woman in possession of all her wits. I am. as you say, ‘wowf.’”

“Aye. Ye are wowf.” He chuckled and drew the back of his finger over the seam of her robe. “Wowf about me. Ye willnae deny me. I make ye burn.” He kissed the curve of her ear. “I make ye laugh.” He lightly bit the lobe, then rose back above her, paralyzing her with eyes the color of Heaven. “I am the light in your darkness.”

How did he biow that?
She stared at him, her feet pinned in place between his.

“Are ye ready then?” He held her chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“Aye.”

He turned toward the table. “Aunt Radella helped me with the flowers. She said yellow flowers represent hope and happiness. They are supposed to instill courage when given as a gift.” He placed the coronet of yellow flowers atop her head. She needed no courage to accept him as her husband. He set the larger of the two rings in her hand and then picked up the other. “With God as my witness, I pledge ye my troth, Lizbeth Ives. I vow to protect ye, honor ye, and be a faithful husband to ye.” He kissed the ring and slid it over her finger. He held his hand flat in front of her—his trembling hand—and then dipped his head.

It seemed her big, strong warrior needed a little courage as well. The fact he was nervous warmed her inside. She steadied his hand in hers. “I pledge my troth to you, Broderick Maxwell. I vow to support you and honor you as a faithful wife.” She kissed the ring and slipped it over his finger.

A hand to the small of her back pulled her closer. He raised her chin, closed his eyes, and pressed his lips to hers, sealing their union with his kiss. A kiss that was heat and passion combined. A kiss that was gentle, yet commanding. A kiss she returned with equal assertiveness. His manhood grew against her thigh. ‘”Tis done,” he breathed into her mouth.

“Done? Shall I retire then?” she teased and ran her fingers over the silky edge of his robe.

“Nay. We have to consummate the marriage. Ye must give your body to me as well.” His hands ran over her hips. She leaned in. “We’ve already done that.”

“We are going to do
that
again,” he whispered in her ear and released the ties of her robe. His hands slipped in around her waist and hoisted her up on the table. “Dinnae move.”

She couldn’t move. She felt chained to the table. He seemed to have mastered his control while she was certain all her emotions had suddenly gathered together inside her and shot straight to her womb. This dominant side of him aroused her to a level she’d not yet experienced. He hadn’t even touched her and already moisture gathered at the heart of her femininity. She held the seams of her robe closed and pinched her knees together. Broc pivoted and collected two small wooden bowls, a cloth, and a glass vial from a table beside the kiln. He set the bowls at the edge of the table beside her thigh, filled one with water, and in the other, he poured a golden oil from the vial. He moistened the cloth in the water and bent to one knee to wash her hanging feet, after which he raised her leg and pressed his lips to the inside of her ankle, then her calf.

A gentle tug pulled her a little closer to the edge of the table. He looked up at her through dark lashes and spread her knees. Cool air blew over her mons, but didn’t temper the fire burning below the surface. Her fingers curled around the edge of the table when the heat of his mouth suckled the flesh of her thighs.

Tingles rippled through her body. With her bottom lip held firmly between her teeth, she squirmed beneath his touch and became shamelessly aroused. His ritual made her feel like a queen, but also made her want to yank him up by his hair and make love to him. He stood and pushed her robe off her shoulders, exposing her completely to him. “Ye belong to me now.” He dipped two fingers in the oil and made a path from her jaw to her collarbone.

She flinched, not expecting the oil to be hot. “What are ye doing?”

His lips turned up at the corners as he bent to kiss her neck where her pulse beat wildly.

“Your flesh is mine. I’m marking the places I intend to claim. The ancient warriors performed this ritual with blood.”

She made a sour face and regretted asking. He held out her arm and splashed oil over the blue vein on her wrist. His lips claimed that spot as well. “Your pulse signifies life. As long as ye live, ye belong to me.”

She frowned. She didn’t need another man taking possession of her. Lord Hollister obsessed over controlling her, dominating her, torturing her. She wanted to be Broc’s partner, not his property. She dipped two fingers in his oil and ran them over his throat.

“And as long as you live, you belong to me.”

She altered his ritual, seeking a balance. The dip of his dark brows told her he hadn’t expected such boldness. She untied his robe and sent it flowing to the floor in a pool of scarlet. He was stealth and beauty beneath bronze steel and he was hers. She lathed oil over her fingertips and marked his chest above his heart. She wanted more than his flesh. She wanted respect, love, devotion. She skimmed her lips over the oil and then flattened her palm over his heart. “I want this.”

His eyes darkened to blue-black, his chest rose and fell beneath her hand, and then he gripped the sides of her face and kissed her. A hard, demanding kiss that left her breathless. She clenched when he pushed her back on the table and raised her feet to prop themselves on the edge. He trailed his oil around her breasts and down her quivering stomach. Her knees gripped his sides as his tongue followed his fingertips, sparking a fevered ache that ebbed her on like a low tide. He rose up off her and slid oil up and down the inside of her thighs—featherlight fingertips driving her mad. Her eyes flickered behind her lids while he toyed with her skin, creeping closer to her ailment each time. She moaned and grasped wool into her clenched fingers, desperate to end the pressure building at such a painful pace inside her. She jerked when he grazed her silken frills. A whimper escaped her throat. Her back arched. Her toes looped over the edge of the table.

“Broc, please. You are going to kill me.”

He dipped his fingers in the oil, then parted her folds. “Mine,” he breathed, then slipped his warm tongue inside her.

“Mercy Mary” she sputtered in disoriented shock, but that disappeared and delight replaced her misgivings. Brazen with the need for more, she tightened against him as he delved his mouth deeper.

He was devouring her. His hands slid to her breasts to tweak her nipples between his thumb and forefinger. By all reasoning, that harsh act should have hurt, but strangely enough, she grew more aroused. Her fingers wove into his hair as the tension became unbearable. She cried out and felt the muscles inside her flex and throb. When he drew the most sensitive part of her between his teeth, the embodiment of her soul exploded around his mouth, her core—they were one and the same. Broc savored her climax. Her exotic taste intoxicated him. He drew the tip of his tongue over her velvet skin, lapping up her honeyed elixir. He claimed her with his mouth and felt powerful for having done so. He’d never tasted a woman like this before. He’d never wanted to. But Lizbeth’s scent enticed him beyond the limits of his restraint.

Making love to her was like experiencing everything in life for the first time. He would never take another breath without wanting it to be filled with her fragrance, never take another bite without thinking of her taste. His cock stretched to a bursting point, and he feared the beast inside him, fighting for release, was about to take control. He stood at the edge of the table, his erection poised outside her glistening flesh. A droplet of semen pooled on the tip, and he was more than eager to plant his seed inside her. He looked down at his wife, still reveling in her own world of ecstasy, and suspected Lady Ives hid somewhere inside her—the submissive woman who’d been controlled by men her entire life—but the woman before him now was his Lizbeth. She’d stood her ground when he foolishly tried to dominate her. He felt a sense of pride for having found the woman inside her, but worried that he might have drawn her out too far. He latched onto her wrist and pulled her into a sitting position. The plaid slid when he gripped her hips and eased her to the table’s edge once more. She leaned back on one hand panting and licking the oils from her pink lips. Her eyes hid behind blinking lids.

“Lizbeth, keep your eyes open. I want ye to watch us become one.”

She did. Her gaze fell between their bodies as the head of his cock disappeared inside her. She fit him perfectly, like they’d been created to be mates. She hooked her ankles around his backside and cried out as he slid in and out of her silky flesh. He wished he could spend hours in this act, but she felt too good, too hot, too tight. Her canal gripped him in pulsing waves. “Oh, Broc!” she screamed out and worked herself against him as best she could.

He thrust himself inside her over and over until he was certain his legs would no longer hold him. His lids became heavy, but he couldn’t draw his eyes away from where they connected. Then a deafening boom hollowed his ears. Thrust.

Overpowering rapture crawled from his cull ions and through his erection, but he wanted her to share this pleasure with him. He pinched her swollen nub and watched her head snap back.

She cried out, again and again, as a flood of liquid warmth flowed over him. Her head rose to him. A sheen of sweat coated the skin above her lip, and her eyes were the color of molten gold. She clutched his backside with rigid fingers and held him inside her as he filled her with life. Her lips parted. “Mine.”

Chapter 17

“Broderick Maxwell!”

Instinctively, Broc swung an arm over his little brother. His eyes snapped open, but a bright blinding light forced him to squint. Panic settled when he realized he was twentynine summers, not twelve, and Ian didn’t lie beside him, but his sweet wife. Twas a silly boyhood dream. He eased back into the softness of the feather tick he’d hauled into the apothecary from the barn loft after he and Lizbeth ended their loveplay. He exhaled, ruffling a dark red tendril hanging over Lizbeth’s closed eyes. His wee wife had loved him into quite a slumber. He rubbed his bare leg between her thighs and filled one palm with her soft backside, the other with her breast. His groin tightened and his cock grew up the side of her belly. If he could awake like this every morn, he would die a happy man.

A squall sounded outside the door. Actually, it sounded more like grunting, growling, almost animalistic. “Broderick Maxwell, I ken ye are in there. Come out this moment!”

“God’s hooks!” Broc shot upright, flinging Lizbeth to the edge of the feather tick. She scrambled, arms and legs flailing to get back under their blanket. “Who is that?”

Flattening his hands over his face, he rolled his eyes beneath his lids and wished the grating sound of her voice didn’t instantly fill him with guilt. How the devil did she find him here? “ Tis my mam.”

“She sounds angry.” Lizbeth’s wide eyes fixed on the door while she pulled the wool to her chin.

He stumbled to his feet and ripped his tunic over his head. “Maxwell women dinnae get angry. They fight.” Inept fingers struggled with the pleats of his plaid. “Get dressed, angel.” He pointed at a stack of garments he’d collected from Grandmum yester eve.

“And tie the laces of your boots tight.”

Without hesitation, Lizbeth slipped into a tunic and punched her arms through a crossbarred kirtle, then fastened an
arisaid
at the neck with a broach. Her fingers clawed through her tousled hair, pulling it forward over the small scar she always tried to hide.
Damn!
The worried look wrinkling her brow filled him with regrets. He shouldn’t have married her in secrecy. He should have posted the banns, spent three sennights dealing with Mam, fighting the elders, arguing with his kinsmen … and then married her. Sheathing his sword at his hip, Broc popped a quick kiss on her nose to give her strength, then crossed the apothecary to pull a fur back from a small window. Garbed in a dark green velvet gown trimmed in gold, Mam displayed her status to perfection. Her stance, however, presented an altogether different threat—one hand on her hip, the other holding a sword, and a deranged look of malice narrowing her eyes. “Damn, she looks a wee bit piqued.”

Smitt leaned against the trunk of a tree behind her, arms and ankles crossed, awaiting the entertainment. Broc had given Smitt orders to meet him here at dawn. Not only was his cousin late, but he brought Hell with him. Broc snapped his neck in two jerks.

“Is she meaner than Grandmum?” Lizbeth slid in front of him and stood on her toes to peek at his mam. “Oh, aye. Dinnae cower to her. She’ll eat ye alive.”

“She has a sword?” Lizbeth’s shoulders fell a little. “Aye. I know ye dislike the weapons, lass, but ye need to at least learn how to handle a dirk. Tis necessary if ye live on the border. Come.” Broc curled his hand around her waist and tugged. “Ye cannae hide from her.”

“I am not going out there.” Lizbeth spun away. “She’s your mother. She’s screaming your name. You go talk to her.” “But ye are who she came to see. We cannae stay in here, angel. Smitt is here for the document, and I need to assemble my men and set out for Edinburgh.”

“And where am I supposed to go?”

“To Skonoir Castle. ‘Tis your home.”

“With her?” Lizbeth shook her head and waved her hands in front of her, but he managed to back her up against the door. “Nay. I will stay here with your grandmum.” “You are my wife and must stay inside the stronghold.” Broc reached between her arm and side for the lever and flanked her against the length of him at the same time. He leaned down and crushed her open mouth with a kiss, swallowing her refusal and hoping to give her courage at the same time. Her growl vibrated over his tongue, but she quickly eased and curled her arms around his neck. He flicked his tongue in her mouth and enjoyed her longer than he intended. “If ye plan to live, ye best come out wielding a weapon,” Mam threatened on the other side of the door. Lizbeth’s hands flattened against his chest, and she pushed him. “I do not like you at the moment.” She swiped her mouth on her sleeve, erasing the evidence that she’d been thoroughly kissed.