Her One Desire (22 page)

Her back arched. She wailed out, the sound echoing throughout the cavern. Her muscles wrapped around his cock, and her fingers dug into his backside as she reached the peak of one orgasm after another.

“Ach!” He was going to swoon. His head lolled. He planted his fists beside her hips and pressed his chest against the back of her leg. He moved in tiny, quick draws; then a flurry of starlight exploded in his vision. He shook violently and pumped his seed inside her, marking her, mating her, making her…

Mine.

Completely sated, he collapsed beside her, sucking air in unison with her. The hollow cavern spun in a black circle all around him, and a feeling of weightlessness made him hold tight to the floor. His other hand found Lizbeth’s and he interlocked his fingers with hers, hoping to gain his bearings. This woman somehow managed to defeat the controlled warrior inside him. He should have kept his lusts in check, been able to fight her erotic scent and the innocence in her touch. A war of conscience battled inside him. She might be carrying his child even now. He’d ruined her, taken what didn’t belong to him.

Da kept mistresses. Everyone in the clan knew it, including Mam. Da’s bastards lived among them as prized warriors. His seneschal was his own flesh and blood, but held no namesake. The kinfolk turned a blind eye to Magnus Maxwell’s transgressions because he held the power of chieftain. He claimed to be building an army to protect all of Scotland. Aiden had set himself on a course to rule in like fashion. Their debauchery had always soured Broc’s tongue, but now he faced a similar situation. While Da would have no qualms with Broc keeping Lizbeth as his mistress, the man would, no doubt, insist Broc honor the agreement with Laird Scott.

How was he supposed to explain this to her? Lizbeth turned on her side and nuzzled her way partially on top of him. She curled a leg around his and set her fingers free to roam over his chest, his thighs, and then her curious little fingers cupped his sac and stroked his soft member until he provided her with something to hold on to. “Ah, Lizbeth. What are ye doing to me?”

He felt her smile against his neck as she released his cock to explore his body. Entwined with one another, hands and legs became an orgy of coddled flesh. The leader scolded him, told him to make ready for his journey home, but the man fought back. He wanted to stay a little longer, feel a little more, and make his time with Lizbeth last an eternity. He was content to lie on his back and let her bath his chest with her soft sensual kisses. She became braver and bolder with each passing second. Her tongue dipped into his navel while her breasts slid over his rigid shaft.

His hands coiled through her hair. He should stop her.
As if he could.
He laughed, but the sound came out more as a moan, inspiring her actions further. She tormented his flesh until the hint of gray slowly speckled his vision. Dawn awoke and brought the pitterpatter of a gentle rain. The pelting of drops shimmered. The low nimble of thunder drummed. The melody reminded him of music.

Broc shot up, forcing her to straddle his thigh. ‘What is it?” Panic touched her voice while her body tensed against him.

“Tis raining.”

She sank. “Thank you for the report.”

“Ye like the rain, do you not?” He jumped up, yanking her to her feet.

“I like the rain just fine, but hardly relish the idea of riding in it all day. Pray forgive me for not sharing your enthusiasm.” Broc’s eyes adjusted to the haze spilling into the cavern. Spiked stone hung down from the ceiling to join their coneshaped counterparts on the floor. He tugged on her arm, pulling her through the damp glittering rock toward the entrance. “Where are you going?” She tried to break free of his hold, obviously thinking him mad.

In truth, he felt a wee bit mad. His mind was certainly not his own this day. He had the oddest compulsion to dance, and he hadn’t danced since Aunt Radella’s third wedding.

“Come, Lizbeth.”

“But I am naked,” she said pointing out the obvious.

“Aye, ye are naked.” He smiled, not at her, but at himself for his creativity. “Twill make this all the more enjoyable.” “Broderick Maxwell! What are you about?”

He spun around and caught her around the waist when she tried to run. “We are going to play.”

“Play?” she yelled at him.

“Tis what Edlynn would have wanted.”

“Edlynn is not here.”

“Mayhap she is.” He laughed aloud as uncontrollable energy brought him closer to insanity. “Mayhap she is in my head this day.” Broc plucked her off her feet and carried her into a small clearing surrounded by pine trees. A slow, steady rain flowed over them, soaking them instantly. He plopped her down and kissed her open mouth, stifling any further protests. Fingers tangled into her silky mane, hanging heavily down her back. He pressed her against his chest and sidestepped her in a circle. “Have ye ever danced in the rain, angel?”

“I’ve never danced, much less naked in the rain.” She blinked up at him and followed his movements—leg over leg, thigh against thigh.

Lacing his fingers into hers, he stretched her arms straight out from her body and began the courtship dance he’d seen at so many weddings. While the press of her breasts excited him, the mental freedom he found in her arms invigorated him. “Dance with me, angel.”

“You are mad,” she insulted him, yet continued the sensual steps around his body.

“I am,” he admitted and spun her in circles until she laughed outright. Most likely, her mirth stemmed from nervousness, but her giggle sounded like viols in his ears. Laughter found her too little—a flaw he wanted to remedy.

Wet grasses wrapped around their calves as he guided her

through the dance. Broc turned and flushed his back to hers,

still holding their hands away from their bodies. His feet stopped. His head fell against hers. The rain hit his face in sharp stinging pinpricks, and though the sun hid behind a sky of gray, he knew the hour of dawn was upon them. This dance was a means of procrastination. They should have left hours before, but he didn’t want to face his kin. Not yet. Not when he finally had Lizbeth on the surface.

He’d challenged himself to find the woman inside her, not realizing until now she’d awoken the man inside him. A man who treasured small moments and memories, such as this one. He wanted to share that person with her, but also he needed to explain why he wasn’t free to choose her. “When I was a lad, I raced my brothers to the loch outside Skonoir Castle every morn before mass. Aiden always won, but one day I beat him in a rain like this.”

He turned and flanked his chest to her back, trying to focus on the point of his story and not the way his erection nestled neatly in the crevice of her backside. He restrained her movements with a hand on each of her hip bones and kissed her shoulder. “I was twelve summers and had finally gained control over my feet. Ian was much younger and always gave up before we reached the gatehouse. But I matched Aiden’s footing that day, not at his heels, but at his side. Then I accelerated forward and beat him.” Broc smiled, reminded of that long ago moment of victory. “Did you drag me into the weather to tell me this story?”

She tilted her head, exposing the slender column of her neck. He kissed the skin where her pulse beat a fast-paced staccato. “I was free then. Aiden was the eldest, the one who would rule, the one who would protect the clan. Da had him trained by the strongest warriors in the
mesnie,
schooled by his stewards. I went to Dryburgh to learn how to control my desires.”

“Desires for what?”

“Everything he had. And now that it is mine, I fear I no longer want his life.”

“How can you say such a thing?” She started to turn, but he pinned her shoulders in place. He couldn’t bear her eyes. Guilt weighed heavy on his conscience enough.

“You have the heart of a leader. You were born to protect.

Why would you not want such a privilege?”

“For the right to choose.” He closed his eyes and waited for her to comprehend his words. He wanted her to understand why he couldn’t take her to wife.

“We do not choose our heritage, nor can we change who we are. I did not
choose
to be sired by the executioner. You are the laird’s son and hold the power to protect your people. You are selfish to wish otherwise.”

“You do. Tell me ye dinnae wish for a different sire.” “I wish for it every day, but my father is a murderer,” she snapped as she stiffened her spine. Twas not his aim to anger her. She completely misdirected his intentions to tell her about Lady Juliana. The courage to do so failed him now.

In an effort to cool her temper, Broc pushed her hair over her shoulder and bent to kiss the back of her neck, but she stepped out of his arms. His gaze followed the curve of her spine and what he saw there ignited a rage in him that made his jaw ache. He clamped his fingers around her arms and held her in place.

Two white scars paralleled her shoulder blades—one straight, the other curved and kicked into her spine. “God’s hooks, Lizbeth!” His voice cracked, raw with emotion.

“Were ye whipped?” His breathing spiraled. Bloodlust soured his tongue. His eyes fixed on the marks ripped through her flawless skin. The tip of his index finger traced the path. She flinched.

“Who did this to ye?” he asked, already condemning her father. The downward tilt of her head preceded her silence. Devil be damned if he would allow her to sink inside herself before he obtained a name.

“Answer me,” he demanded and shook her. “Lord Hollister.” Lizbeth freed herself from his grip and ran into the mouth of the cavern.

He didn’t go after her. Instead, he stared at his shaking hands, imagining all the ways he could use them to kill the bastard. Broc finally understood why she’d been so desperate to escape the Tower. She might have believed she was saving her father’s soul, but, in fact, she was saving her own. The rain turned to a drizzle before he calmed enough to enter the cavern. Dressed in her undertunic with her hair plaited in a thick rope, Lizbeth fumbled with the ties of her stockings. He pulled on his trews and stared at her. The desire to vindicate her intensified with every passing breath. “It happened a long time ago. After the fire in the Tower, Lord Hollister eventually discovered I’d been involved in the incident that took the lives of six men. Then he connected me to the prisoner’s savior.”

“The angel of fire?”

She swiped her eyes with her knuckles and sifted through her wrinkled garments. “He thought having me marked was a clever punishment. ‘Twas symbolic of cutting off my wings.” Clever, indeed. Broc could be clever, too. “And the scar by your ear?”

“An accident.” Eyes downcast, she turned her back to him a little more, and then pulled on the overtunic. “After Mother died Lord Hollister made me hold the basket on the gallows to collect the mercy coin. One day the guards brought a woman accused of adultery onto the scaffold. She was wide with child and the crowd pitied her and filled the basket so Father would show her mercy.” Lizbeth stuffed her toes in her boots. “Her husband, I suspect, snatched the basket from my hand and tossed the crowd’s coin back at them. Lord Hollister decided I was to blame and positioned me on the scaffold directly behind Father’s whip. The woman received ten lashes for her crime. I caught the tail of the eighth one.” She finished tying the laces, but her stare never left her toes. “ ‘Twas the only time I ever saw Father sweat.”

“When I return for your nephews, I’m going to kill Lord Hollister.”

She pivoted on her heel; her gaze finally found him. “Some men are worth saving. Lord Hollister is not one of them.”

Though arguing would have done her no good, he was nonetheless thankful she didn’t spar with him. ‘”Tis done. Once you are safe in Scotland, I will make arrangements for the journey back.”

She nodded and picked up the contraption that nearly suffocated her the day before. She held the stiff material against her chest, backed up to him, and waited for him to oblige her. “You’re wowf if ye think I’m going to help ye with that. Leave it. And leave one of the skirts. I’ll not have ye swooning before we get to the border this eve.”

“Agreed.” She tossed the garment aside and let him assist her with the laces on her bodice.

“I daresay I prefer undressing ye to dressing ye,” he teased, but she kept her lids lowered. He suspected her head was full of regret. He’d made her no promises other than to return for her nephews. He shook a skirt loose from the pile on the cavern floor. Her rosary fell from the masses along with the crushed document. Broc unfolded the parchment and stared at Buckingham’s signature. “Ye dinnae give this to Gloucester?” “Nay. I did not trust him, but he knows. ‘Tis enough.”

And the document will be enough for King James as well,

Broc thought.

Chapter 15

The steed’s hooves slowed and then stopped at the top of a ridge. Lizzy’s head eased forward when Broc gathered air into his lungs.

“Tis Skonoir,” he announced, his voice laden with pride. Pushing away from the heat of his body, she followed the direction of his gaze. Her heart did a little pitter-patter. The crenellated top of a tower rose above a landscape of valleys and groves tinted blue beneath the moon. They’d reached his homeland.

Broc dismounted, and assisted her to the ground. “Think ye can stand?”

A smile pulled her lips upward. “My body has grown accustomed to being astride for days at a time.” As well, her body had grown to enjoy being held by this strong warrior. The connection between their eyes broke the same time he released her waist; then he bent to kiss the ground. He crossed himself, bowed his head, and prayed in Latin for long minutes. Unwilling to interrupt his litany, she watched him in wonder while tranquility filled her soul.

He sat back on his heels and crystal blue eyes glowing with moonshine looked up at her.

“All will be well now, angel. Ye are safe.”

“Thank you.” A wave of relief made her eyes slide shut. She felt light, dizzy… free. God bestowed unto her a champion to see her to safety, and while she thanked Him for putting Broderick Maxwell in her path, she selfishly wished to prolong their time together. An ache pressed against her heart.