Her One Desire (38 page)

He swallowed. Untrusting of her weaponry skills, he held his cock with both hands, protecting it from the game she played with her dirk. “Think ye it might be simpler if ye just told me?”

“Mayhap. But I’m not going to.” She tossed the blade on the bed, not nearly far enough away given her state of mind, and set a bowl of honey flowers atop a cuttie stool beside them. She placed a purple and yellow petal over a small blue vein on the inside of her wrist and held it to his mouth. “A woman wants to be touched in all the places her pulse beats.” He studied her expression and searched for a hint of playfulness, but this was no game to her. Broc licked the petal from her wrist and recognized the same tangy syrup that had coated the pine nuts.

She pulled his hand from his cock and placed a petal on his wrist as well, then mimicked his action. “I have put my life in your hands, and I trust you to always protect my body and soul.” She uncurled his fist to kiss his palm. She was trying to tell him something, he suspected. He focused, determined to not let his craving for her hinder his wit. “When you look at me, my heart beats in my neck, and I hear it inside my ears.” She gathered her hair to one side and stuck a petal to her neck.

Reaching up, he wove his fingers through her tresses and pulled her closer. His eyes closed in an attempt to control himself while he suckled the petal from her velvety skin. His nose brushed over her neck, inhaling her essence. Did she want more?

She pressed a cool petal beneath his ear, then held his nape as she kissed the petal away. She placed tiny kisses along his jawline and then blew in the whorl of his ear. “You are my champion. You are my king of kings, my savior, my husband.” Why hadn’t he said something like that? Something meaningful, creative? Before he could contrive sweet words for her, she set a petal on his lip.

“Of course, a woman wants to be kissed. Sometimes gently…” She suckled his bottom lip and slid the tip of her tongue between the seams of his lips. “. .. and sometimes hard.”

She slanted his head, then kissed him with a passion he felt in his heart. A passion he would never find with another.

Pulling back, she set a petal on her own lips and waited.

He mimicked her kiss and the taste of her drugged him. The cool silk of her gown beneath his hands did little to temper the fever engulfing his body. He fought the burning of his arousal, certain he would die from the physical pain of it. His calves hardened, as did his cullions. “I cannae bear this.” “You must.” She removed her robe, which left her in the tiny gown. With a languor that made him whimper, she pushed the straps from her shoulders and exposed her breasts. After setting a petal atop each nipple, she held his head between her hands and forced him to look up at her. “When I’m in your presence, I feel desirable. You do not even have to touch me for my breasts to ache.” A tiny burst of his seed spilled out of his erection when she guided his head to one breast. How could he think under such duress? His hands slipped beneath her miniature gown and cupped the backs of her thighs as he drew on her nipple. She cried out and quickly set him on her other breast, but not nearly long enough for him to feast. She pulled him off her with a breathy grunt. Her knees rubbed together, and he could smell the musky scent of arousal wafting out from beneath her skirt.

This was madness. She was torturing both of them. “I need ye.”

“Not yet—“ Her words caught. She cleared her throat, returned her straps to her shoulders, and knelt in front of him. She then placed the petals on his flat nipples and drew the flowers inside her mouth along with his nipples. She bit one, then the other, and tickled his stomach below his navel, sending a bolt of white-hot rapture through his body. He would never make it inside her. “Oh God, Lizbeth.

What number are we on?”

“Four,” she squeaked and rose back up on her feet. “We are nearly there. I vow it. Howbeit, number five will undoubtedly be a test for both of us. Think of shearing sheep or some such.” She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, held her bottom lip between her teeth, and retrieved another petal.

He wanted to laugh aloud and tell her she was wowf, but he would not insult her. He was certain he should be learning something, but she’d robbed him of reasoning. He snapped his head side to side, gaining six cracks total, preparing for the next lesson. Feet braced slightly wider than before, her hand disappeared beneath her skirt for a brief moment before she raised the silk, showing him her glistening curls. “A woman wants to be tasted …”

Eager to oblige, he wrapped his fingers around her hips and spread her swollen lips with his thumbs, then leaned forward and feathered his tongue over her loins. He found the flower the same time he located the spot he knew would send her screaming. Her hands shook, causing her garment to ripple. “Oh, Broc.” She jerked. Her knees bent and snapped back. A flutter tickled his tongue the same time she yanked him back by his hair.

Again she knelt in front of him. The dots in her eyes grew, pushing her irises into gold rings. “ … and she wants to taste in return.”

She placed a petal on the head of his cock and stared at it. He held his breath. When she flattened her hands beside his knees, he was certain he would either explode or be rendered unconscious. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and shook his head, knowing what she intended to do. No woman had ever pleasured him with her mouth. “Nay. I can no longer control it.”

Fighting the vise he held on her hair, she angled her face up to him. “I’ve yet to see you lose control, husband. You are a warrior. The prime of your clan.” Dragging his hand down with her, she lapped up the flower and then dipped the tip of her tongue into his tiny hole, swirling, teasing, tormenting him until she wrapped her lips around his cock and sucked. “Ach!” He opened his mouth so he could breathe and distanced his mind from the scene before him. He thought of Brother Mel, of battle, of anything to keep himself from spilling his seed inside her delicate mouth. Her breasts bobbed against his thighs. The movement caused the gold silk of her gown to inch away from the creamy curves of her backside. What the devil was he supposed to be learning from this?

The muscles in his arms burned as he fought the desire to control her downward thrusts. He felt the scrape of her teeth, the twirl of her tongue. When the tip touched the back of her throat, a growl vibrated through his gullet as fire crawled through his erection. He grasped her hair and ripped her off him. “Tell me where to touch ye.”

She stood, straddled his thighs, and placed her trembling hands on his shoulders. He steadied her around the waist as she lowered herself overtop him until her eyes met his. Only then did he see her sorrow, her yearning.

Her arms curled around his neck. “’Tis not a place ye can touch with your hands.”

“I dinnae understand.”

“I want ye to touch my heart,” she whispered against his cheek and filled her womb with his manhood. She moved in one long draw up and down the length of him and cried out. He couldn’t take it. Pearls of sweat dripped down his temple. The muscles in his thighs cramped. “God’s hooks!” he bellowed, settled back on his heels, and wrapped his arms around her, stilling her movements. His release whipped through his body like an inferno in an ice storm. He came instantly, as did she, again and again. Long moments passed before the intensity subsided. Still, he cherished the feel of being one with her. Though confident he’d satisfied her physically, he knew he failed her test. He kissed her hair and held her trembling body against him. There was no doubt he would die for this woman in this life and the next, but he still struggled with the right words that would bring the smile back to her face. “Lizzy, angel, I love ye, but I have no idea how to touch your heart.”

Trembles turned to tremors as she cried against his shoulder and hugged him tighter.

“You just did.”

He stared at nothingness, picking over his words. How could she have doubted his love for her? He pulled her head out of the crook of his neck and held her chin between his thumb and finger. Pure bliss shone bright in her damp eyes. He stroked one gold wing on the pendant he gave her. “Ye are my angel. The guardian of my heart. Ye know I love you.” “I do. I just needed to hear you say it.”

His breath of relief ruffled her hair. “Then I will say it every day.” He could spend a hundred lifetimes kissing her smile. He pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek, her nose, her fluttering wet lashes. “I love ye, Lady Lizbeth Maxwell, now and forever.”

Her fingers slid into the hair at his nape. “I love you, too.” She pulled him into her mouth and kissed him slowly, binding their souls together for eternity. Salty tears and sweet sauce from the petals made an elixir in her mouth that could never be imitated; her unique scent would never be duplicated. Even if he died tomorrow, he would never be this close to Heaven. In her embrace, he was transported into a world built only for them—a divine providence, Eden’s garden. He pulled back…

“Paradise … “ they said in unison.

Her smile parted, and he felt a shiver sweep through her. She twitched and rotated her hips beneath his grasp. Pink flushed through her cheeks as her eyelids slid shut. “I know

‘tis too soon, but I fear I need you again.” She chewed on the side of her lip and mewed.

“Ach, ye are a lusty woman,” he teased and pressed his fingers into her soft backside. Even as he doubted his own virility, he felt himself growing inside her. The blood inflated him to a pulsating heat that filled her hollows. Her eyes snapped open. “Can you do it again so quickly?” He never had. His skin prickled, turning each hair follicle into a sensitive pulse point, the same as it had before he’d entered the chamber, the same as it had when he’d been in the tunnel. Something’s amiss. Bewildered, he glanced at the bowl beside his leg. “Where did ye get the flower petals?” “Aunt Radella made them. Why?”

She rocked her hips, slicking her damp breasts over his chest.

“I think mayhap we have been poisoned.”

She swiped a fingerful of sweet sauce and stuck it between her lips. Her gaze drew up to the ceiling as she studied the taste. “Saffron. Aunt Radella added saffron to the honey.

‘Tis a passion flower, used to stimulate the senses.” “Damned meddling women! Oh, they will be punished. I’m going to hang them up by their toes. All of them. As if I needed a poison to battle this nigh, too.”

Her giggle turned into a purr as she shifted her hips and began the slow lunges again. “Tis not a poison, but a product of mercy.”

He felt the raw stamina of desire ignite, but the urgency was gone, allowing him to frolic in the sensual feel of her. “I have no intention of being merciful, m’lady.” “Nor do I, Lord Maxwell. Nor do I.” She swiveled her hips in a circular motion, adding her own spice of creativity to this ancient dance.

He held her arms above her head and watched her perform atop him. Now that he knew the secret to her smile, he had every intention of keeping her lips curved upright. “Ye are indeed one of God’s finest creations.” He trailed a finger around the swell of her breast.

“Ye should be draped in the finest silks and decorated with gemstones. Mayhap I’ll commission one of the great Italian artists to capture your beauty. I intend to spoil ye and give ye anything your heart desires.”

“I have only one desire. Tis you.”

Skonoir Castle, Late Fall, 1483

Hesitant to even shift her weight, Lizzy stood firmly in place on the third step and narrowed one eye on her husband. “I do not like you at the moment.”

“Come now, angel. Ye’ve been in water to your waist for the past fortnight. Tis time you take the last step,” Broc pleaded from across the large stone bath. Of course, it helped that he was naked. Fire glowed from three hearths and glistened off his wet skin. He looked tastier than a slice of blaeberry pie.

That thought made her stomach growl, as she’d missed the midmorning meal. She crossed her arms. “I have no idea why you and your kinsmen built this bathhouse.” “My brethren agreed the women would like it.” “Then let them enjoy it. Tis selfish for us to horde such a luxury.”

“Not til ye go under.”

She humphed. Stubborn mule. She scooped a handful of tepid water into her palm, then poured it down the front of her tunic. The bathhouse was hotter than Hades. Bursts of snowflakes floated in through the tiny windows up high, but vanished into the heat of the room.

His determination to eliminate her fear of water had been the ultimate test of her love for him. She wanted to find the courage to step down and make him proud, but there was still the slightest hesitation. He couldn’t possibly know how difficult this was for her. “If I take the step, what would you reward me with this day?”

He considered his answer while he leisurely pushed water back and forth around his waist. “I’ll have Aunt Radella fix ye some raspberries and whipped milk poured over a sweet bannock.”

Tempting. She’d been craving that dish since the Sabbath.

“Have you anything new, Scotsman?”

Broc splayed his arms wide and beamed his most devilish grin. “I’ll let ye have your way with me.”

Tempting, again. She laughed at him. She always laughed at him. He made her smile with his wit and his crooked grins. “I’ve already had my way with you this day.” He clasped his hands behind his neck and flexed the bulging muscles in his arms and chest, purposely making a show of his physique. “What woman wouldnae want this twice in one day?” He gave her a sidelong glance, no doubt testing the effects of his offer. “I’ll let ye use the feather.” Giggling, she shook her head and splashed him. “You’ll not use the feather to bargain. ‘Tis my toy and I will use it whenever I like.”

“Ach! What then?”

“Will you let me go visit Grandmum?”

“Nay.” He frowned and dropped his arms back into the water with a plop. “Ye know I cannae let ye leave the stronghold. Ye are carrying my son.”

“Or mayhap your daughter.” Her toe tapped beneath the water.

“Tis not safe yet. ‘Twas only August that King James sent your Gloucester a proposal for peace.”

“He is not
my
Gloucester. He is England’s new king, and he will see the right in signing this peace treaty your James has offered.”