Her One Desire (36 page)

Broc cringed. Dinnae poke her.

“Are ye weel, child? Ye look a wee bit peaked.” Grandmum brushed Lizbeth’s hair with bony fingers.

Lizbeth didn’t answer. Instead, she rearranged Grandmums dolls with a fierce frown.

“She is well,” Broc answered for her and gathered he shouldn’t have when she glared at him over her shoulder and her toe started tapping, again.

“Then ye are breeding her?” The skin raised above Grandmum s eyes.

“Oh, aye,” Broc said with pride. He regarded the sweet shade of pink coloring Lizbeth’s cheeks as a compliment until one winged brow arched over a narrowed eye. “Oh. aye?

Oh, aye? Is that what you’ve been doing.
Lord Maxwelll
Breeding your woman?” Lizbeth puffed air through her nose. A heartbeat later, her chin started to quiver. A ray of sunlight flickered in her watery eyes just before she lowered her lids.

“Lizbeth, I dinnae—“

“I’m going to the barn.” She started for the door. “If’n ye’ve the time, the goats are in need of milking,” Grandmum said.

Lizbeth disappeared in a flash of purple velvet.

The moment she was out of earshot, Ian laughed outright.

“That one’s got a wee bit of a temper, dear brother.” “Aye.” Broc took full responsibility for sharpening Lizbeth’s tongue, and he liked her that way. She wasn’t the skittish doe he’d met in the runnel who twisted her sleeves and pinned her chin to her chest. Howbeit, something definitely troubled her. Mayhap she was carrying and the moods had already taken over her senses. The thought of seeing her round with his child made his cullions harden. “Lady Juliana would never spout off in such a way.” Ian’s comment jarred Broc out of his musings.

“Lady Juliana is nay longer my concern.” He cared little for the comparison. Grandmum grinned with all four of her teeth. “Mayhap she should be.”

“Explain.” Broc waited for Grandmum to fill them each a quaff of whisky while Ian feigned great interest in the edge
of his sgian dubh.

“Tis my understanding Laird Scott has been eagerly awaiting your return for little more than a sennight. He and a dozen of his kinsmen have taken up quarters at Skonoir with his daughter in tow and is demanding a wedding. Says Lady Juliana has been soiled by a Maxwell.” Broc instantly sensed Grandmum’s accusation. “I dinnae steal the woman’s virtue. I’ve not been in her presence in three years. If the mon thinks to accuse me of such, then he will have a war on his hands.”

Grandmum slipped whisky between her smirk. “Ye are not the mon in question, laddie.”

“Smitt?” Broc asked. The drabber had been home only three days before Broc had sent him back into England. Damn! ‘Twould take a team of oxen to get his cousin before a priest.

“Nay.” Ian tossed a quaff of whisky down his gullet ‘”Tis I.” “Ye jest.” Broc straddled the trestle bench and tipped his own bit of whisky. The spirits stung his throat and coated his belly with fire. Ian didn’t look at him. His brother hung his head like the boy who once stole Aiden’s sword. But Ian was apparently a boy no longer. “She must be five years your senior.”

“One, brother. One year. Lady Juliana was eighteen when Laird Scott and Da betrothed her to Aiden.” Broc tried to draw up Lady Juliana’s memory, but couldn’t even recall the shape of her face. The only woman in his mind’s eye was his Lizbeth. Grandmum poured them each another quaff. Another soon followed. No words passed as they each engulfed three hearty doses of Uncle Ogilvy’s whisky.

“What are your intentions?” Broc asked.

“I wish to take her to wife.”

“Then why are ye hiding at Grandmum’s?”

“Lady Juliana once belonged to Aiden. Whilst he did not want her, I know ye did.”

“And when ye found out I took a wife, ye rushed out and stole the lass’s virtue?”

Disappointment leaked into his voice without warning.

“Nay.” Ian stood and splayed his palms on the table. “I’ve been meeting Lady Juliana where our soil meets Clan Scott for nigh a year in secrecy. ‘Twas only after I heard ye took a wife did I act on my desires for her.”

Broc waited for anger to take over or even a bit of jealousy, but Lady Juliana had never been the woman for him. Lizbeth had always been inside him, waiting for him to save her. “Ye should have married her first. Ian.”

“I wanted your permission.”

Awe could only describe the feeling slipping through Broc s chest. ‘Twas either that or the whisky. He’d gained his brother’s respect as he would undoubtedly gain the respect of Clan Maxwell. ‘Twas good to be the leader. He poured another round of whisky and studied the warrior woman depicted in Grandmum’s stained-glass window. He read the words inscribed over her head:
Neart, Grd agus Onoir.
“Strength, love, and honor, brother. May ye achieve happiness and strength through love and honor the same as I have.” Broc held up the small cup and waited for Ian to join him. “Then I have your permission?” Ian raised his cup along with his dark brows.

“I will set the banns on the morrow. Ye will wed Lady Juliana in three sennights.”

Upon entering the barn, Broc kept his distance as Lizbeth’s fingers were wrapped around the goat’s teat. He had no desire to bath in goat’s milk before returning to Skonoir. Quite a mood had settled over his wife. Albeit, she cried in her sleep less and less, she certainly carried a burden with her, and he wanted to lighten her load. He settled against the barn frame, feeling the effects of

Uncle Ogilvy’s whisky. The longer he watched her, the broader his smile became. She was ranting to the goat. He couldn’t hear her words, but her sharp gestures were made of definite scorn. God, he loved this woman. He didn’t know when he’d come to realize it. Mayhap when Hollister took her from him, but with each passing day, he felt her love strengthen him, empower him, make him the dominant leader he needed to be. She suited him well. She stood after milking the fourth goat and wiped her hands down the front of the expensive velvet gown he’d bought her.

‘”Milking goats is hardly work for a lady.”

Lizbeth lifted two pails and started past him out of the barn, making no reply to his statement.

God’s hooks.
What the devil was wrong with his wee wife? “Put the pails down.”

She stopped abruptly, slopping creamy yellowed milk over the edge of one pail. He studied her profile, searching for her mood, but a veil of indifference hid her emotions. The longer she stood in silence, the more frustrated he became. “Ye will tell me what has you acting out of sorts.”

She turned toward him. A glimpse of fury ignited her eyes into fiery suns. “Because you order it? Because you are the leader of your clan and hold power over me as your wife? I have spent the whole of my existence pacifying men of power. I have a mind. I know what plants ease stomach cramps and what plants keep the insects from biting the skin. I’ve eased women’s labor pains whilst they brought their bairns into this world. I may not brandish a sword like the women in your clan, but I can improve the quality of life for your kinsfolk, but I cannot do this behind you.” “Ye are not behind me.” He looked over his shoulder to prove his point.

“I am in their eyes. Did you not see the dolls?”

“The dolls?” Completely perplexed, he concentrated on her words.

“Grandmum made me a doll. She put me
behind
you on the sill.”

Broc stared at her wishing she were less complicated.

“This is not about the dolls.”

“You are the leader of your clan, and I am your wife, not your woman. I must be at your side.”

“Ye are at my side.” The woman was wowf. “Nay, I am not. I take a step forward, ye take two.” Lizbeth set the pails down and started out of the barn. Broc stepped in front of her. “Dinnae walk away.” “Do you see? You did not stop me from behind. You always have to be on top looking down on me with your strength and prowess.”

“I am taller than ye.” His hands flew out from his sides. The lass may as well be speaking in a foreign tongue for all the more sense she was making. The whisky must be clouding his ability to grasp what she wasn’t saying. Did she expect him to read her mind? “Tell me what ye want, and I will provide it.”

“’Tis not so simple.” Her bottom lip trembled only a second before she bit it. Her downward gaze bespoke of a woman who hurt inside.

What could she possibly want? He’d protected her. Married her. Taught her how to overcome her fears. She’d always been forthright with him until this moment. He missed her smile and the way she bantered with him in play. He bent down and plucked two clover flowers from a thick bush of greenery and then handed them to her. “If you pinch the purple petals from the stem, there is a sweet milk hidden in their ends.”

Instead of smiling, she frowned. “I told you this.” “I know. ‘Twas a jest. I want to hear ye laugh. I want ye to be happy. If ye want to lead, then I will walk behind ye.”

She nodded, swiped her eyes, and took his offering, but those were not the words she searched for. Once they were settled, he would try again. “Come, Lizbeth. We’ve a wedding to prepare for. The aunts will have ye drying flowers for the next three sennights.”

“Who is getting married?” She looked up at him. Tears she tried to hide still sat in her eyes and made his heart ache. “Ian and Lady Juliana.”

“Your
Lady Juliana?”

Broc rolled his eyes. “She is not
my
Lady Juliana.”

“But you once wanted her, did ye not?”

“Mayhap. But now I realize I wanted the dream that came with her. Not the woman herself. Ye showed me that.” He kissed her sad smile and waited for her to take the first step forward. If she wanted to be in front, he would oblige. He wanted to hear her laugh again. “After ye, m’lady.” With one arm wrapped around his waist, and the other pointing toward Grandmum’s steps, he bowed deeply, trying to solicit any form of merriment—a giggle, a snort—he’d settle for one of her humphs.

Not even an exasperated sigh left her. “Thank you, m’lord.”

He picked up the pails of milk and watched her bounce up the stone steps, her skirts balled in her fists. “I can assemble a mass attack on my enemy, but I havenae the wit to understand the workings of my wife’s mind,” he grumbled to himself.

Chapter 24

“I love this woman!”

A roar of approval prefaced the beat of drums and the whimsical twirl of the viols as a swarm of gay attendants formed a circle for the next dance in the Great Hall. Lizzy sat at the high table—alone—and stuffed a third oatcake smothered with gooseberry jam into her mouth. She watched the scene with a jealousy that made her temples ache, or mayhap the braids pulling her hair into a regal crown were too tight. She looked for her husband to see if he’d heard his younger brother profess his love for his new wife, but found him completely preoccupied.

Laird Scott monopolized her husband’s attention, but Broc appeared to be enjoying the neighboring chieftain’s wit. They laughed like men who’d bathed in ten-year-old wine and were the center of entertainment for their surrounding kinsmen. Broc played the role of leader to perfection in his crossbar plaid draped over his shoulder and pleated around his waist. A crisp white hair shirt contrasted against his tanned skin and the huge sword hanging from his hip only emphasized his status in the clan. He clamped a hand on Laird Scott’s shoulder, leaned in to say something, then bellowed with laughter. His brethren roared with merriment.

She humphed. If her husband would pay her no notice, then she would be content to appease Aunt Radella by eating until her belly popped.

She fiddled with the pendant Broc had given her only days before—golden wings encrusted with amber and garnet gemstones. It felt wrong to be so angry. Of course Broc loved her. He was her husband. He kept her safe. He brought her flowers every day and worked feverishly alongside his kinsmen to build her a bathhouse so he could teach her to swim. He held her at night and never found sleep before her, and he always kept a candlebox burning bedside. They danced in their solar, made love every eve and every morn, and sometimes he would sneak away from the training field for a quick moment with her at noontide. His every action said that he loved her. So why had the fool never said the words? He had “love” inked on his arm. All he had to do was look down and read it. Lucy skipped up to the trestle table with a small bowl of purple and yellow flowers swimming in honey. “Grandmum Rae said ye should try these.”

“Did she now.” Lizzy plucked one of the petals from the bowl and dripped honey on the bodice of her red-gold velvet kirtle before getting it to her mouth. The pansy slid over her tongue in a burst of tangy sweetness that made her jaw pinch and her saliva thicken. She’d never tasted anything so divine. “Tell your Grandmum Rae she is brilliant.”

“Would ye like another bowl?” Lucy asked while Lizzy dipped in for another sweet treat and tried to name the unique ingredient Aunt Radella had used.

“Oh, aye. That would be splendid.” If her husband wouldn’t let her dine on him, then she would satisfy her cravings elsewhere. Three more flowers melted on her tongue. She felt like a glutton, but in truth, she couldn’t satisfy her taste for sweets as of late. “Mayhap you should bring two more bowls.”

“Aye, m’lady.” Lucy bobbed away, and Celeste slid in beside Lizzy on the trestle bench.

“Why are ye not dancing with your husband?” Celeste asked and ogled Lizzy’s tray of food.

“He is busy playing prime to his kinsmen.” Lizzy suckled the honey from her middle finger and glanced at Broc in time to catch him staring at her. The tiny hairs on her arms stood straight up. She waited for her nipples to harden as they always did when he looked at her with his hungry eyes. Her breasts swelled, and, as predicted, her nipples sharpened to hard little stones. He winked, and she looked away. Why couldn’t she stir him the way he did her?

“He looks as if he’s ready to eat ye.” Celeste’s laughter turned quickly to hiccoughs.

“He most likely will. ‘Tis what some animals do after they breed.”

“Mayhap ye should eat him,” Celeste suggested with a naughty glint in her eye and helped herself to Lizzy’s tray of oatcakes.

“Mayhap I should.” She’d tried to dominate more than once in the bedchamber, but her husband was not one to play the submissive role. She glanced back at Broc to find him squatting in front of Lucy. She handed him a wooden bowl piled high with what looked like nuts. He popped one in his mouth, licked his lips, after which his face puckered then dimpled.