Her One Desire (31 page)

One, two, three, four.

He resurfaced slowly, silently, easing his breathing in controlled draws, and scanned the river’s edge. The area was dark and vacant behind the tents, but an orange haze refleeted firelight glowing on the opposite side. The melody of a minstrel plucking out a ballad to pay homage to his dead king spiraled into a sky filled with living stars and muted Broc’s climb out of the river. His garments clung to him, wet and heavy, as he crawled on his belly up the muddy bank to the back of the tent.

A man cackled in a high-pitched laugh on the opposite side of Lizbeth’s tent. “I treated him right fine, I did. The man had a set of cullions that filled my hand.” “Ffaith! A virgin lad, was he?”

“Aye. His tewel was too tense to be anything but.” With the heel of his hand, Broc freed his ears of water. If he understood correctly, he suspected Lizbeth was at least safe from the attentions of one of her guards. Ignoring their continued conversation, Broc nuzzled close to the canvas and listened. Though quiet, he heard steady draws of air. If there was another person in the tent, then they were dead, for no one slept quieter than his angel. She whimpered and Broc yearned to cradle her in his arms and stand guard at the gates of her slumber. He controlled his wants and focused on retrieving her. He prayed she wouldn’t fight the water. Twas the only way to get her back to safety. Back in his arms, where she belonged.

He pulled a freshly sharpened
sgian dubh
from the top of his boot and cut a slit in the canvas. Her scent hit him like a rush of pleasure. Sweet, heady, his. Broc’s erection was instantaneous. He rolled his eyes beneath their lids, knowing the last thing he needed was to be aroused at such an inappropriate moment. But damned if he could control it. Pulling the canvas back, Broc’s eyes adjusted to the dim glow of Lizbeth’s candlebox. She lay in a straight line directly in front of him on her back atop a pallet close enough for him to touch her hair. A tray of food sat at her feet by the tent’s entrance. He slunk beneath the canvas and basked only a moment in the warm air of her tent and then cupped his wet hand over her mouth.

She jerked and knocked the candlebox on its side. Total blackness enveloped them.

“Shh. ‘Tis I, angel. All will be well now,” he whispered and kissed her hair beside her ear, dripping overtop her. Her arms reached behind her and wrapped around his head, embracing him, filling him with much-needed life. Tremors attacked her, followed by a fit of silent sobs. She kissed his face through her tears while his heart punched the ground beneath him. Everything inside him rejoiced. This woman was his mate, chosen by God. He would do anything to protect her.

Unable to deny himself this small moment, he kissed the beating pulse below her earlobe at the same time his hand slid beneath her arm and pulled.

The rattle of metal sounded like the raising of a portcullis in his ear. ‘

She stuck in place.

The guards hushed outside the entrance.

God’s hooks and blood and teeth and bones!
She was chained.
Chained!
He was so close to having her back. He ached to the marrow in his bones for wanting to free her. He cupped her chin and caressed her silken lips with his thumb while he waited for the guards to resume their discussion; then he pressed his unshaven cheek against hers. “Tell me ye have a key.”

She shook her head and turned into his ear. “You must go, else they’ll kill you. Too many have already died because of me. I will not let him take you, too.”

He could only imagine the turmoil she’d been in, fashing over everyone but herself.

“John survived the attack, as did Duffy and Reynold. I ride with thirty men, Smitt included, and we are here to collect ye and take ye home.”

She blew an audible breath and whispered her thanks to God. “You must go to the Tower.” “I will not leave ye here. I cannae.”

She hugged him tighter, her actions contradicting her brave words. “I cannot help my nephews, but you can. Did you bring the document?”

“Aye.”

“Lord Hollister intends to kill Eli and Martin upon his return. He despises them and has no use for them now that he has me. As long as he knows the document is in your possession, he will keep me alive.”

“Nay. I’ll take ye now. We will both go to the Tower and to the devil with the damned document.” He had to get her out, but now worried over the boys’ fates. She wouldn’t be able to prevent Hollister from killing them the second he arrived back in London. The minstrels song ended, forcing them into silence. At the request of one of Lizbeth’s guards a more jovial tune soon followed.

“I will not let Lord Hollister win. He must be punished.”

“I’ll kill him.” Broc intended to do so anyway. “Then Buckingham wins.” She combed her fingers through his slick hair, pushing water down his neck and easing his tension.

“Go to the Tower. Find the boys and get them out. Lord Hollister once confined me to an antechamber in the Wardrobe Tower. He may have done the same with the boys. Gloucester plans to enter London on the Sabbath. Get the document to him. You have the chance to make peace between our countries. Is it not worth the risk?” “Nay,” he answered slightly louder than their whispered words. Damn her! She played on his weaknesses. The guards’ conversation cut short. Broc held his breath. The silence was interrupted only by the beat of Lizbeth’s heart. A shuffling of feet stirred. A yellow slit drew a line at the tent’s entrance.

“Have ye need for anything, Lady Ives?” The nasally voice came from outside.

“Thank you, Manfred. I will need the privy pot dumped in a moment. Prunes,” she replied quickly.

“Very well, m’lady. Let me know when ye are finished.”

Only moments later, the guards settled back into their chattering. “I am safe. Lord Hollister spends all his time worming his way into Buckingham’s good graces, and Buckingham does the same with Gloucester.”

“Then why are ye chained?” Broc sensed her desperation, but would she lie to gain his agreement?

“I’ve escaped Lord Hollister many times in the past, which mocks the very essence of his profession as chief warder. He thrives on authority, but his true love lies in degrading a person mentally. I am immune to his threats. No harm will come to me en route to London.”

Broc pulled her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. She couldn’t possibly know the torment he’d suffered the past few days. “Then ye have not been hurt?”

Her pause made him question her honesty. “Nay,” she finally said. “Manfred has been assigned to me for the duration, and I can assure you, I am not his sexual preference.”

Broc allowed his forehead to fall against hers, thankful she hadn’t been violated, yet still in turmoil over what she asked of him. “How can ye ask me to leave ye here?” “Please, go. Please. You must get the boys out. I will meet you where the tunnel splits into a tee in two days. Midnight. Do you remember the count?”

“I remember.” Broc must be touched by madness for even considering this plan, as well thought out as it might be. “Please.” She cupped her hands over the sides of his face and drew him over top of her.

His nose touched her chin as he suckled her bottom lip.

There was so much he wanted to tell her, but he was no good to her dead. “I will place men in the Tower. They will be dressed as Yorkists and have a blade of grass woven into the laces of their left boot. Go with them. They will bring ye to me.” He kissed the backs of her eyes. “I will not fail ye.” “I know. Save Eli and Martin and then save me.” Broc pulled her hand with him as he slithered out from beneath the canvas, not letting go until the last possible second. If anything happened to her, he would never forgive himself. The guilt he carried for the deaths of his kin left everlasting marks on his conscience, but if he failed Lizbeth and her nephews, he would be left with a scar on his soul.
Godspeed.
Terror stricken, she clamped her hands over her mouth and closed her eyes as a flood of tears washed over her temples. She was not so brave. Had she shown any signs of weakness, Broc wouldn’t have left her.

If caught together, neither of them would have been able to save her nephews. She pulled herself into a sitting position, hugged her knees, and stared into the darkness. Lord Hollister had tortured her mind with threats against Eli and Martin, promising to end their lives quickly upon his return. ‘Twas his sick-minded way of offering her a gift. Mercy. An end without the agony of torture.

She, however, would not be granted such mercy.

Lord Hollister had been giddy this morn when he informed her of her sentence:
peine
forte et dure
—pressing to death. No doubt he would drag the process out until Broc delivered the document; then Lord Hollister would order the iron weights added to her chest until she was dead. She didn’t know if she could bear the punishment, but the process would give her time to plead with Father to free her. The boys would be safe, and that was all that mattered. Gloucester would see to Lord Hoi lister’s punishment and Buckingham
as well. All will be well.

She reached for Mother’s rosary beneath the wool skirts Buckingham’s maid had dressed her in, but her pocket was empty. She clasped her hands together.
Protect my husband.
He taught her strength and endurance, gave her courage, but mostly he’d shown her what it felt like to love. A field of orange poppies blossomed in her mind. Eli and Martin were there running with her own sons and daughters; her father watched from afar, finally at peace with his own demons. Broc held her in front of him and kissed her hair. He whispered sweet words in her ear—words she heard only in her dreams. Words of love. In the shadows of the glen, Broc chose ten warriors to accompany him to London, leaving twenty behind to follow Lizbeth’s progress. With Smitt at his side, they rode south by the light of the moon to Stony Stratford, where Gloucester had barricaded the main road with his sentinels. There was no reason to lurk in the wood. Dressed as Yorkists, they claimed to be securing the route to London for Gloucester’s cavalcade. They traveled throughout the small hours of the night, the ground vibrating beneath the hooves of their horses. While England slept, Broc purged his steed forward at a bloodrushing pace, regret pooling in his gut until he feared the hurricane inside him might swallow him whole. Villages, tippling houses, forests passed in a dark blur. London Bridge appeared, looming on dawn’s horizon. Broc slapped the flanks of his steed and forged ahead like a raving lunatic being chased by his own black soul. Smitt pulled out ahead and turned a half circle, causing Broc to halt his steed. The squeal of its neigh preceded the rise of its front hooves.

“Halt!” Smitt held up two hands.

“God’s hooks, man!” The stillness of Broc’s steed emphasized the tremors attacking his limbs. He felt crazed by a fever. His sweat-drenched skin tingled; his breathing was erratic, his wits unstable.

“Think ye to fly over London’s gates?” Smitt scowled, wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, and panted. Smitt never scowled, nor did he pant. Broc twisted to find the others stripped of stamina as well. Without a doubt these men would follow him into Hell, which was exactly where he led them.

“I need to piss.” Smitt trotted past Broc in a huff toward a small brook. “Think ye we’ve the time?”

“Aye.” Broc dipped his head toward his men, granting them reprieve. When he dismounted, the weight of his body nearly buckled his knees. He needed rest, as did the other Maxwell warriors. They were worthless to Lizbeth’s nephews in their current physical state.

Broc led his horse to water, then sidled up next to Smitt.

“Mayhap we should rest a wee bit. Aye?”

“Mayhap.” Smitt’s tone lost its bite. “Forgive my disrespect, m’lord.”

Broc forced his mouth to retain its grim line, though he wanted to smile. ‘Twas the first time Smitt paid homage to his title. “No harm, cousin. I needed to be stopped. We close our eyes a few hours, then we will set forth a plan. Have ye ideas on how we might enter the Tower?”

“Oh, aye.” Smitt nodded, his smile returning with a wicked twist. “And it involves a great deal of bloodshed.”

Broc backed his steed up to face Watling Street and motioned

for his warriors to do the same. Crowds filled the

narrow streets, preparing for their young sovereign to arrive with his uncle. Merchants filled their stalls with wares—

pitch, wax, rope, and other goods—while the city’s aldermen sent criers racing throughout London to announce the coming of their king.

The Maxwell warriors blended into the bedlam of colored brocades with their scarlet surcoats and decorated horses. Two Yorkists atop speckled steeds carried flags bearing Gloucester’s crest. They trotted by and offered Broc a regal greeting. He returned the gesture, all the while thinking of how much he loathed the English. He motioned Smitt and another of his cousins toward a vine-covered door. Gregor tethered their two steeds outside the haberdashers, not far from the same location Broc and Lizbeth had stolen the king’s horse sennights before. Once the secret passageway into the dungeon sealed his J men inside, Broc guided the remainder of his small force down Tower Street. Pride and guilt consumed his conscience as the rattle of harnesses clattered behind him. His kinsmen had ridden hard throughout the night without complaint. They’d obeyed his every demand, and Broc owed them his life for their loyalty.

The caw of a raven greeted them at the gates of the Tower. Its black wings spread wide overhead as the bird circled them, warning them. An eerie feeling curled around Broc’s spine. Was his plan flawless? Had he considered every possible option for a successful mission? Of course he’d considered sending all his men in through the tunnel, but they needed free reign over the stronghold to search every tower and every nook for Eli and Martin’s location without having | to skulk about in dark corridors. He would see them safely to Scotland and they would know the love of a family, his family, but time was not a commodity he had much of. , “Halt! Declare yourself and your intent,” the yeoman waiter bellowed from behind the iron gate.

Startled out of his apprehension, Broc immediately delved ., into his guise. “I am Sir Julian Ascott. I come with instruction to secure the Tower for the Duke of Gloucester.”