Her One Desire (7 page)

The guards had not found their trail, else they would have been upon them by now.
All
will be well,
she assured herself, using Lord Maxwell’s words, and wrapped her mantle around her. She pulled the hood over her head, and then moved quietly from the chamber. The sour smell of ale and unwashed bodies led her down the stairwell and into the barroom, which now harbored only a few men, lost to sleep from the drink. She retrieved a lantern from the wall beside the door and made her way toward the stable. Mating insects squealed in crackling pitches, and sweet hay sharpened in her nose as she entered the covered stalls. She found the stallion and whispered honeyed words against his muzzle and stroked the underside of his chin. After rummaging through the single satchel the boy had tossed to the ground, she found her leeches. Unexpected laughter broke behind her, followed by a moan and a grunt. Embarrassment raced beneath her skin. The last thing she needed was to be caught spying on two lovers. She snatched up her satchel and lantern, then stepped into the moonlight. The sharp point of a dagger in her face stilled her steps.

“You’re his daughter, aren’t ye?”

Chapter 5

Outside the stable’s entrance, the man from the barroom stepped into her sight, the glow of her lantern highlighting the harsh planes of his face, the crooked bend of his nose. Lizzy inhaled sharply, drawing in the stagnant smell of ale. He moved her head side to side with the tip of his blade, inspecting her, tormenting her with wicked gray eyes. She stepped backward. “I do not know to whom you refer, sir.” Her voice cracked over her lie; her pulse beat in her ears. As fast as a whiplash, he spun around her and pressed the sharp point against her neck. She dropped her satchel and lantern and dug her nails into his forearm. The flame doused, casting them instantly beneath a veil of moonshine. He leaned close to her ear. “I know yer face. Lady Ives.” He ran the tip of his blade from her temple to her earlobe, the same path as the old scar. “I seen ye on the scaffold, holdin’ the executioner’s basket. Collectin’ silver for mercy. A blood lot of good it did to toss me wages in.” The man held up his sleeve and pushed the stub of his arm through. Your father’s hand is not your own. She repeated Lord

Maxwell’s words and tried to believe they were true. She knew not what the man intended, but curse it, she didn’t deserve his hatred. Her fingers curled into a tight fist, her arm reared forward, and then she jammed her elbow into his ribs. He yelped. The blade slipped, nicking the skin below her ear. She spun around, fully intending to deliver a blow to his bollocks, when Smitt popped out of a stall wearing unlaced trews. Moonlight glistened offhis sweat-covered chest and straw dappled his mussed hair. Smitt grasped the man by his neck and drove a fist into his gut.

“Are ye botherin’ the lady?” Smitt punched the man in the face before he could answer. He fell to his hands and knees, spitting blood and teeth into the dirt. Smitt straddled the man’s back and cradled his head between flexing fingertips. “Want me to kill him?”

“Nay,” Lizzy quickly responded. Regardless of her desperation to keep her identity a secret, she would have no part in killing a man over it. “Release him.”

Smitt relaxed his hold, giving him freedom. The man scurried to his feet and ran to a saddled steed, mounted, then disappeared down the path without a backward glance.

“Ye hurt, lass?” Smitt raised her chin and wiped a droplet of blood from her neck with the pad of his thumb. The serving maid from the bar appeared at his back, wrestling with her garments and brushing straw from her pale hair. Her swollen lips and flushed face only heightened Lizzy’s humiliation.

“Pray forgive the interruption.” Lizzy pulled away from Smitt and collected her satchel from the ground. “Nothin” to interrupt. We were finished.” Smitt raised dark brows and grinned.

“Speak fer yerself,” the maiden hissed and crossed her arms over her well-endowed chest.

Smitt gave the woman a look of dismissal, which she ignored.

Lizzy’s opinion of her changed instantly.

“Thank you for your assistance. I should get back before—“ Lizzy paused. “—Julian notices my absence.” She left the couple glaring at each other and raced back to the entrance of the tippling house. With her skirts raised, she flew up the stairwell two steps at a time, holding her breath until the solid wood of the chamber door flushed against her back. Her head fell back, her eyes pinched tight. Would there ever be a place she could reside without fear of recognition, fear of scorn and ridicule? Was she foolish to believe Fountains Abbey would provide her not only protection from Lord Hollister, but peace from her father’s enemies?

A deep baritone hum vibrated through her ears. Her eyes opened, and a sleeping giant filled her vision. A dark muscled arm draped over the bed’s edge. Hair, black as night, fell in short waves against the contrasting pale pillow. His parted lips sang a tune that made Lizzy smile.

She walked to the bed and brushed hair from his brow. His mouth closed, the corners of his lips kicked up. ‘Oh, aye,” he said in his sleep, then chuckled. Though she hadn’t the slightest idea why he laughed, Lizzy shared his humor. What did a man like him dream of? Family? Battle? Women? Mayhap only one woman danced behind Lord Maxwell’s eyes. A wife? A lover? Lizzy imagined herself inside his head twirling in a field of wildflowers. Her face tilted toward Heaven, her spirit at peace. In her vision, Lord Maxwell wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck. She wasn’t the executioner’s daughter or Lord Hoi lister’s prisoner. She was a woman who laughed, and loved, and desired.

Lizzy wiped a tear from the side of her nose, sniffled, and then swallowed her foolishness. Whatever dreams she held on to as a girl were now gone. She would be no man’s wife, no babe’s mother. After she met with Gloucester, she would deliver herself into the hands of the church.

She pulled the jar from her satchel and set five leeches to work on Lord Maxwell’s back, then stirred the poultice she mixed earlier. She pulled Mother’s rosary from inside the folds of her skirt, knelt in front of the window where He might see her from the Heavens, and brought the first bead to her lips. She prayed for Mother and Edlynn; for Kamden and her nephews, Eli and Martin; then she begged God to save her father’s soul. The last decade of her rosary she typically reserved for herself, but this night when she began the final ten prayers, she prayed for Lord Maxwell and his brother. She kissed the crucifix, crossed herself, then stood to collect the blood-filled leeches into their jar. After patting his wounds with a mixture that might speed his recovery and keep him from pain, she doused the chamber’s many candles, and curled up atop the bench seat with a small pillow. Her body was exhausted, her heart a heavy weight she could hardly bear. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and focused on the single candle she left burning beside the bed. Her eyes begged for relief. She blinked once, twice, but her baser fear kept them open. Weariness soon lost the battle over her will. Her eyes slid shut, and the monsters of her past emerged out of the darkest recesses of her mind.

Broc wanted to hang his angel up by her wings. How could a woman so seemingly caring and innocent know how to unleash a war inside a man’s gut? Not even the ripest blend of Uncle Ogilvy’s whisky had caused him as much havoc as Lady Ives’s poison. He rinsed his mouth for the fourth time and spit into the privy pot he’d hugged for nearly an hour. Though grateful to have regained control of his limbs, he now felt every cut, every bruise, every ache from the top of his skull to the pads of his toes. His flesh tingled and itched like a thousand insects had taken up residence on his back. He stood, then paused, waiting for his head to catch up to the action before walking to the open window. Braced against the sill, he drew a cool breath of air. Dawn held a mist so thick he felt its dampness on his face. Aiden would revel in a day such as this. The promise of rain would have given his brother reason to languish in bed with some beauty without care or thought for consequence.

Broc tried to elicit some feeling of grief, but the familiar talons of jealousy picked at him. Aiden had been privy to everything—Da’s title and constant praise, Mam’s affection and approval, and the hand of Lady Juliana. The most desired woman on the border, and Aiden didn’t even want her. Her image filled his memory, though that memory was nigh three years old. Pale yellow hair adorned with gold and gemstones, sad green eyes surrounded by alabaster skin. She stood next to her father, her hand placed on his forearm, and suffered the attention of every man in the Great Hall of Skonoir Castle. Even his younger brother was smitten with her beauty. Broc smiled inwardly recalling how Ian had catered to her every whim during the fortnight of festivities, holding a tray of sweet cakes beneath her nose and tripping over his gangly limbs to refill her goblet of watered wine. But she had eyes for none of them.

Broc’s chin fell to his chest, his fingers dug into the rotten window frame, remembering the contracts signed that day binding Lady Juliana to the future chieftain of Clan Maxwell. Envy was a sin. One Broc knew well. He craved his brother’s life, coveted Aiden’s position, desired his betrothed. Now, Laird Scott’s daughter belonged to Broc. He would marry her upon his return, gaining Da’s approval. Their union would strengthen the border clans, and Broc would never again witness the death of another family member. He dared the English to breach their defenses when the Maxwell Clan held the support of Clan Scott.

His goals invigorated him, made him feel he could survive Mam’s sorrow when he brought news of Aiden’s death.

Determined to return as quickly as possible, Broc found toiletries in a basket and tended to his morning ablutions. A whimper came from across the bed chamber as he finished shaving the last trace of stubble from his jaw. He turned toward Lady Ives. Curled into a ball, she looked as dangerous as a cherub. He coaxed his heavy legs toward the bench seat and then bent down on one knee. The exotic scent he now associated with his angel didn’t catch him unguarded this day. ‘Twas good he was able to build an immunity to her fragrance.

Another pitiful sound came from her throat. Her grip tightened around the rosary laced through her fingers. A dark red curl draped over her eyes. He brushed the tendril behind her ear, then allowed his finger to trace the soft curve of her lobe. His inspection led him to a thin scar beside her ear nearly hidden in her hairline. Her winged brows drew together and a tear fell down the side of her nose. He caught it with the back of his index finger and placed the drop between his lips.

What demons haunted her?

Broc wanted to get inside her head and fight her enemies, protect her the way he’d failed to protect his sisters and Aiden. The distress on her face called to his heart. “All will be well, angel,” he cooed, and before he could stop himself, he leaned forward and kissed the backs of her eyes. The salt of her tears clung to his lips and made him achingly aware of how she complicated his goals. She sought protection from the same man whose life’s purpose was to bring down Broc’s country. The Duke of Gloucester would not offer her aid. Broc knew this, but Lady Ives’s ignorance of warfare prevented her from seeing England’s defender as anything but noble.

Her golden eyes opened and Broc saw a glimpse of her pain. She lay unmoving, as if she no longer possessed the strength to fight the battle warring inside her. She touched his freshly shaven jaw with warm fingertips. Her lips separated. “You are feeling well?”

“Nay. I fear death is inside me and awaits my body’s surrender.” He nuzzled his cheek farther into her hand, a part of him seeking her affection.

She smiled and blinked her eyes languidly. Another tear escaped the corner of her eye.

“Why do ye cry in your sleep?”

Her eyes sealed shut, hiding her secrets. “The same reason you laugh in yours, I s’pose. Tis the difference between the lives we have lived.”

He took offense. “I dinnae laugh in my sleep.” “You do. I daresay you dreamed of someone who makes you happy. Who makes you laugh. Mayhap your wife?” Broc watched full pink lips move around her words, noting every curve, every crevice. She danced around his question the same as she had the night before, conniving her way out of answering by asking a pointed question of her own. “I have nay wife, ‘cept ye,” he jested, wanting to hear her bell-like laughter.

Her eyes fluttered open. Did she have any idea how her feline languor turned her actions into a seduction? Her hair spilled over a small yellow pillow in glossy dark waves, and her lips pouted in a way that made his blood race through his veins. Her pink tongue darted out to lick those lips. “’Twas a ruse. I am no man’s wife.”

“Mayhap ye were my wife in my dream.” He didn’t know why he teased her, why he flirted with a temptation he had no business wanting.

The pulse in her temple kicked up a visible notch. Her fingers pressed lightly against his neck. “Dreams are for fools.” Broc inhaled.

‘Twas a mistake.

Her scent intoxicated him—her lips, a baw hair from his, were too close to resist. He leaned in and brushed his bottom lip against her cheek. “Then I am a fool, for dreams are all I have.” She sucked air between her teeth. Her fingers curved a little farther around his neck.

Why couldn’t he pull away? He damned himself for giving in to his desires. He cupped her cheek, brushed his thumb over her parted lips.

The hand clasping her rosary flattened against her breast.

God’s hooks!
Everything inside him warned him to resist. He leaned lower still until the side of his nose touched hers. Their breath became one.

A final glimpse into her flushed face told him she wouldn’t resist if he kissed her. Her rapid breathing ceased. She closed her eyes.

Three quick knocks rapped against the door. “Maxwell?” Reality slapped his face like a February ice storm. He ripped himself away from Lady Ives.

She sprang into a sitting position, her cheeks stained with color, her gaze looking at anything but him. “Maxwell? I have need to speak with ye.”

Broc recognized John’s voice. “Enter.”