Her One Desire (3 page)

She grabbed the reins. “I have need to make a stop before we set out of London.”

“Nay. ‘Tis no time.” Lord Maxwell batted her hands away and redirected the stallion to the left, the road leading around London and back to the river Thames. The rumble of horses escalated behind them. Both turned to check the gated entrance to the city. She didn’t know if Lord Hollister’s men were upon them or the king’s guard. She held no desire to be captured by either. “They will expect us to travel alongside the river. We cannot outrun them.” “Our odds would increase if ye would release the reins.”

His hands closed over hers. Their battle over the leather straps jerked the bit in the steed s mouth side to side, sending him into a nervous prance.

She fought to gain control of the horse, but even in Lord Maxwells weakened state, his strength surpassed hers. She ripped her hands out from beneath his and twisted around to face him.

Foolish Scot.

She had enough men dictating her life. The last thing she needed was some Scottish lord trying to dominate her. His determined scowl didn’t sway her, and time didn’t allow her the luxury of argument. “You will go where I ask, or I will return of my own volition once you are immobilized.” Her voice didn’t even sound like her own. She had never made a demand in her life. She crossed her arms and inhaled a breath of liberation. Lord Maxwell’s lips tightened; his nostrils flared. “Where is it ye wish to go?”

“That way.” She pointed to the right. “If I am to mend you properly, I need my herbs and supplies.”

He jerked his head side to side, snapping his neck in two places; then a burst of hot air shot down over her cheeks.

“Enjoy this victory, for I will not grant ye another.” He kicked the steed northeast. “And rest assured, ye will regret
threatening me, angel.”

She clenched her teeth and spun forward. He made a mockery of the only name she’d ever been proud of. “You would do well to never call me that again.”

The Scots were a miserable lot; rude, foul, heathens to be certain. Everyone in England knew it. Why, then, was she not repulsed? Agitated, yes. The Scot had already proven himself arrogant, domineering, overbearing, but the last thought flitting through her head when the man curled one hand possessively around her waist bore no similarity to repulsion at all.

As they entered the forest, she honed in on the lessening sounds of the guards, desperately trying to rid herself of the unusual heat pooling low in her belly. She’d lived a life of scorn and ridicule and developed a skill for burying her emotions and hiding her desires. She could fight this unwanted attraction.

Broc leaned heavily against the angel’s back and guided the stallion through the glen. Her enticing scent and the feel of her silken hair against his cheek were enough to drive a man half wowf. His hand slipped from her petite waist to rest atop her thigh. Twas a nicely shaped thigh or at least he visualized a nicely shaped thigh beneath all her skirts. He couldn’t escape the vision of two soft, slightly muscular thighs wrapped around his waist, hooked at the ankles. It was a fantasy he’d had often enough, but the thighs had always belonged to Lady Juliana.

His hand flexed.

Lady Ives flinched and straightened,

Regardless of impropriety, he couldn’t bring himself to remove his hand from her person. Truth was, he felt… giddy, his body light, his head even lighter. As if he’d spent an eve with his brethren sipping Uncle Ogilvy’s whisky. He was fairly certain his tongue would turn to ash at any moment. When her poison wore away from his body, he was determined to give Lady Ives a sound thrashing for misdirecting their flight from the city. His mind’s eye teased him with the scene. The executioner’s daughter bent over his knee, her rounded arse poised for punishment. Of course, she was naked. His palms itched.

‘Twas only by the grace of God he’d lasted two years at the monastery. Fortunately, English women were loose with their favors, else he would be a walking erection. The one or two women he’d bedded on occasion had eased his needs, but there would be no more. He would return to the mindset Brother Mel had taught him in the monastery and be faithful to Lady Juliana.

So why was practicing celibacy the furthest thing from his mind?

Thankfully, a cottage came into view, giving him reprieve from his lewd thoughts. A three-legged dog ran circles around a single sheep grazing the barren ground. Gray smoke wafted from a thatched roof in desperate need of repair. Lady Ives dressed and spoke with the same tongue as England’s nobility. This humble abode couldn’t possibly be her place of residence. With a great deal of effort, he yanked on the reins. Their stolen steed stopped in front of the cottage, throwing him impossibly closer to her softness. She raised his shackled hands over her head and slipped from the horse. Broc shivered from the loss of her warmth and nearly fell off behind her, but managed to hold himself upright. He despised weakness, and at the moment he felt as frail as a newborn kitten. Lady Ives dipped a tin cup into a barrel of water and handed it to him. With his hands gripped around the cup, he swallowed the contents in one gulp. It wasn’t near enough. She hesitated in front of the horse and stroked the beast’s muzzle. Her big eyes, filled with distrust, stared at Broc. “You will wait?”

“Aye.” His answer came quicker than he intended. If he had any wit at all, he would leave and return to the borderland posthaste. A new life awaited him in Scotland. He would honor his brother’s death by accepting Aiden’s responsibilities. The chieftainship of Clan Maxwell would belong to Broc, as would his brother’s betrothed—Lady Juliana.

“I will only be a moment.” Lady Ives interrupted his thoughts and bent to kiss a blackfaced sheep atop its nose. Broc scanned the area for the remaining herd, but found only broken fence covered in brush. “Is this your home?” “Of sorts.” She disappeared into the cottage leaving the small door open behind her.

An invitation? Mayhap. One his curiosity didn’t decline. Dismounting, he landed hard on his feet. The ground cooled his toes, and his shoulders suddenly felt burdened by ten stones. He refilled the cup three more times in the reservoir and drank until his gut swished. Certain he would be sick, he managed to draw enough saliva to spit the coppery taste from his mouth before he walked through the door. “Lizzy, is that ye?”

“Aye, Edlynn,” Lady Ives called out to an auld woman sitting at a trestle table. Her misshapen fingers worked a pestle grinding herbs into a mortar. A mantel filled with useless carvings of round, fat birds sat over a fire heating a cauldron of stew. The smell of cooked meat made his stomach gurgle. How long had it been since he’d eaten?

“What ‘ave ye brought me? I smell blood.” The woman turned, and only then did Broc notice the emptiness in her light gray eyes. She stood, holding close to the table’s edge.

‘”Tis another rabbit?” She sniffed. “Are we eating it or mending it?”

Lady Ives’s head popped up from the satchel she was stuffing. The brilliant pink coloring her cheeks drew a bit of welcomed humor from him. The angel saved animals from certain death as well. The executioner’s daughter certainly contradicted her breeding.

“’Tis not a rabbit exactly.” Lady Ives returned his smile with a fiery glare. “It more resembles a pig. I am tending to this one myself.”

“Think yerself all grown up, do ye? Give me the count, child.”

“Two around the table. Five straightaway to the door.”

The auld woman Lady Ives called Edlynn mapped out the given steps until her fingers connected to his chest.
Ach!
She had bony fingers like Grandmum. “Good den, matron,”

Broc offered in what sounded loud even in his ears. She jumped. “Merciful Moses! Ye brought me a man. Oh, bless ye, Lizzy:’ Edlynn raised her chin to him and smiled. Surprisingly, the auld woman still carried all her teeth. Her white hair cloaked her shoulders and the lines at her temples bespoke of a woman who often found laughter. The woman’s hands were suddenly everywhere; over his shoulders, his arms, his stomach. “Built like a bred stallion, is he? Where did ye find him?”

“Beneath Father’s whip. He is a Scot” Lady Ives commented nonchalantly while searching the contents of a wooden bowl.

“No? A Scot in London?”

“From the West Marches on the border,” Broc provided, feeling a bit uncomfortable with her inspection. The woman’s fingers ran south and curved over his groin. Her empty gray eyes widened.

Heat blazed through his face when his cock responded to the gesture. “God’s hooks, matron!”

“Tis good your father allowed him to keep his pillicock.

He’s hung like an Englishman.”

Aghast, he pushed the woman’s hands aside and scowled at Lady Ives. She brought her hand out of the bowl with a grin and practically bounced toward him.

“Edlynn, remove yourself from Lord Maxwell’s person. You are being rude.” With the turn of a key she must have found while the auld woman groped him, Lady Ives unlocked his shackles and released his bruised wrists from the iron. “Thank ye,” he said, grateful he wouldn’t have to seek out a blacksmith.

Lady Ives smiled, lowered a fan of long dark lashes, then pivoted on her heel, leaving a trail of her exotic scent behind.

“What are we going to do with him?” The auld woman clung to his forearm.

“He is escorting us north. We haven’t much time. I will explain on the way.”

“Us?” The snared response came from both Broc and the auld woman.

“Nay!” Broc argued. “We haven’t even a second horse to carry ye, let alone a blind woman.”

“There is a horse out back. Edlynn is going with us. I cannot leave her here.” Lady Ives plucked through the garments of a standing wardrobe as if the conversation was over.

“Lizzy, ye are talking foolishness.” The auld woman voiced the exact words Broc thought. “That old nag is lame and should’ve been put down years ago. What ails you, child?” “Edlynn, please. I’ve no time for your questions or your stubbornness. Gather your things.” Lady Ives showed no sign of conceding.

Standing before him, she untied her mantle from his neck and replaced it with a man’s hair shirt. The material felt like a feather against his tingling skin, reminding him of his own timely demise. He latched onto her wrists with what strength he still possessed. “We will be captured. I agreed to escort
you
out of London. That is all.”

“She is going with us.” She easily broke free of his hold, then walked to a cupboard and sifted through a heap of gold coins that no more belonged in this beggar’s cottage than the noble Lady Ives.

Broc watched her in disbelief. Why was he even arguing with this headstrong English woman? She was obviously touched by madness if she believed she could escape the king’s guard with a blind woman in tow on a lame horse. A stallion awaited his exit. All he had to do was mount and leave. He could be to Bedford by nightfall. He might have to tie himself to the horse to get there, but at least he would be that much farther away from London.

“Take it all, Lizzy.” The auld woman found a place on a cuttie stool by the fire. “I have but to ask, and your father will tend me.”

“Nay. I cannot leave you. You are in as much danger as I.” Broc had already turned in the doorway, but stilled, awaiting a reason to listen to her. He closed his eyes and wished the poison prevented him from feeling her eyes burning his back. Damn the English! “Tell me the truth of your danger.” “I have reason to believe the king’s ill health is not due to a pox. He is being poisoned.”

Broc whirled around. The action set him off balance. Could Lady Ives provide him with the very information he and his brother had failed to discover? “Have ye proof?” “The tinctures Edlynn prepared for His Majesty have been tampered with. I found the empty flasks in Lord Hollister’s chamber. The remnants smelled of wolfsbane. ‘Tis poison. Edlynn will be accused of high treason and executed.” “Let them accuse me.” Edlynn stirred the stew steaming in the kettle. “I’ll sharpen your father’s ax before laying my head upon the block and smile whilst he delivers the blow.” “Edlynn!” Lady Ives stood in the center of the cottage, her sleeves wadded between her hands. She looked up at him, but he gathered enough wit to look away, else he might be convinced to drag the auld woman along. Lady Ives must be desperate to trust him, a Scottish spy. “Is there no one else who can help her?” Her head shook, sending dark red tresses swaying. For a brief moment, Broc saw his sisters, Lilian and Mattie—contrary, innocent, too young to have died such a brutal death. He hadn’t been able to protect them. Mayhap God was giving him the chance to redeem himself. “There is an inn about three hours from here just outside of Hertfordshire. I know the innkeeper. I will send him back to retrieve Edlynn and see to her safety.” Broc dared a glance at Lady Ives to see if his offer might appease her.

“Vow it upon your soul.”

“I vow it. I will send someone.”

Lady Ives nodded, releasing a stream of tears over her cheeks. “I will hold you responsible should any harm come to her.”

“Ye must go, child. Fret not over my well-being. Take care of her, m’lord. She has been in need of a protector since Kamden’s passing.”

Kamden?
Broc’s scowl weighed heavy on his face. Her husband? Her lover? She was certainly old enough to have had both. What did it matter who
Kamden
was? And why did the familiar spikes of jealousy rip through his gut? “He is not protecting me, Edlynn. He has offered me escort is all.” Lady Ives knelt at the auld woman’s feet. Edlynn kissed the top of her head and whispered into her hair. “Lady Ives, we must go.”

“Godspeed!” Edlynn yelled as they passed beneath the doorway. After two attempts, Broc managed to crawl atop the stallion. What felt like a hundred thistles hidden inside his garments tormented his limbs. It was all he could do to steady himself atop the prancing steed. Lady Ives handed him her mantle, tied her satchels to the horse, and then disappeared behind the cottage.

When she reappeared with a speckled chicken in a small cage, he rolled his head on his shoulders and prayed for endurance. “Lady Ives, ye test my patience.”

She tied the bird on as well, then finally mounted in front of him. “Do not even think of telling me I cannot bring her.” “I’ve not eaten in days. The bird is most welcome.” Lady Ives gasped, as he might have suspected. “She is not food; her name is Beatrice. And if you so much as pluck a single one of her feathers, I promise you, I will—“ “Ye will what, Lady Ives?” He leaned in close to her ear to intimidate her. “Torture me? Beat me?