Her One Desire (4 page)

Poison me? Think ye there is a threat you can hang over my head?” “Cool your temper, Scotsman.” Lady Ives clucked her tongue, which set the steed into motion. Jilted backward with the action, Broc dropped the reins and curled his hands around her small waist, which was hardly enough to hold on to. He reached for the reins only to have his hand slapped away. His fondness for angels was beginning to dissipate.

“You should hold on, Lord Maxwell. I do not possess the strength to set you atop this horse if you should fall off.” “Had you not poisoned me, I would not be in danger of falling off.”

Lady Ives sat erect and stopped the horse. “Use my mantle to tie yourself to me.”

Though he didn’t like the bite in her tone, her order did appeal to him. After wrapping the long material around his back, he fumbled with the ends around her waist while she braided her long hair. He couldn’t feel what he was doing, nor could he see his task either.

Lady Ives sucked in a loud breath. Her shoulders snapped straight, catching him in the jaw. “Lord Maxwell! You will refrain from touching me with such intimacy.” He thought she might have growled. Face flaming, he immediately released his hold on the mantle, wishing he knew exactly where he’d touched her. Damn the poison for stealing that from him. “Forgive me. I can no longer feel my hands.” She made quick work of binding them together, then kicked the stallion into a fevered run, making conversation impossible. A glance over his shoulder brought some sense of relief.

The king’s guards must have taken the road along the Thames, else they’d be upon them by now. Broc silently admitted Lady Ives had been correct in her assumptions. She was a smart angel—stubborn to be certain, but the lass didn’t lack a brain beneath her thick skull by any means. He couldn’t help but wonder what other secrets Lady Ives might have safely tucked away in her pretty head. Was it possible she knew who was poisoning the king? And if so, what would it take to convince her to divulge a name? With any luck, the name would belong to the same man he and Aiden had come to England to destroy. King Edward’s brother, the Duke of Gloucester, would certainly have motive to kill the king.

Broc closed his eyes. He placed too much hope in accusations, uncertainties. He needed proof. Once they reached Hertfordshire, he would focus on getting Lady Ives to trust him. A task he admitted appealed to him.

He settled against her back as the numbness slowly eased through him. Unfortunately, his sense of smell did not desert him. Her essence tormented him the better part of the afternoon. What was worse, her dark red braid had fallen over her shoulder to reveal the sweetest patch of creamy skin. He desperately wanted to taste her. How the devil was it possible for his entire body to go numb except his cock?

God’s hooks, I need a woman

Chapter 3

Dusk settled around them like a dying flame. Timberland grew tall and thick on the sides of the road, surrounding her in a suffocating blanket of gray haze. Yellow, glowing eyes peered at her from either side, testing her fear, mocking the numbers accumulating in her head until she felt certain she would quit breathing.

She pulled on the reins. The stallion nickered and trotted backward. “Lord Maxwell, we must stop. ‘Twill be dark soon.”

“Nay. Stay mounted, lass. Guide us through the wood.” The Scot made no movement, but his breath fell over her neck in slow, even ribbons.

She could taste her heart in her throat. She swallowed and searched the black limbs overhead. For what, she did not know, but was certain it would attack her at any moment. Her sweaty palms slid over the leather straps.

“Come now, angel. Dinnae let the dark steal your courage.” Lord Maxwell whispered his softly spoken words close to her ear. The rich timbre of his voice only added to the gooseflesh sprouting over her forearms.

“The dark stole my courage years ago.”

“You escaped your enemies today in the dark.”

She knew this game well. After Mother’s death, Edlynn had spent many nights trying to tell Lizzy she was brave, trying to convince her there were no monsters in the dark. She knew otherwise.

Lord Hollister’s evil, dark eyes entered her mind, intensifying her angst. “I fear your efforts are wasted, Lord Maxwell. I am not physically capable of moving forward.”

Leaves rustled to her right. Her head snapped. Her nose brushed against his whiskered jaw. She wanted to scream, to cry, to bury her face in his neck and hide.

“What if I told ye the inn was on the other side of the forest?”

He lied. She was certain of it. But if perchance he spoke the truth, she could be free of the night. “Vow it upon your soul.”

He laughed at her. Not aloud, but his chest bounced against her back. “I vow it. As God is my witness, no harm shall come to you as you pass through this wood.” She stroked the stallion’s damp neck and nudged him forward. Why she found any comfort at all in the Scot’s promise was ludicrous. He could no more protect her right now than Beatrice.

“When we reach the inn, you will refer to me as Julian.

The innkeeper’s name is John. He is—“

“The one who will go back for Edlynn?” she finished for him and searched the trees for movement.

“Aye.”

“Do go on.” She tried to focus on Lord Maxwell’s instructions, but her entire world turned black beneath the cloak of trees. An owl hooted; a flock of birds took flight. “My condition will arouse suspicion, as will the horse. A squire will most likely come to tend the stallion. Have him send for John.”

“And your condition?”

“Tell them I drowned myself in the cups at our wedding celebration.”

“Our wedding? You want me to pose as your wife?”
His wife?
The Scot was mad. She drew back on the steed. The horse must have sensed her anxiety for its head bobbed, fighting the pull on the reins.

Lord Maxwell’s lips brushed the rim of her ear. “Aye. Ye make a bonnie fine bride, Lizbeth.”

An unfamiliar tickle teased her neck.

Did he just kiss her neck?

Mercy Mary!
He just kissed her neck. She quit breathing. The fear twisting her gut into knots shot up her spine and then washed over her skin like hot wax. Her legs tightened around the stallion’s belly. The beast bolted through the wood like a stone from a catapult.

She held tight to the reins.
Twenty-seven, twenty-eight,

twenty-nine…

Why would he kiss her? No man had ever attempted to kiss her. Father’s profession made guarding her virtue remarkably simple. Of course, the chastity belt aided those efforts.

“Slow down, angel, else you’ll run us through John’s kitchens.”

Her eyes opened. How long had they been closed? The road widened and the forest spilled into a valley of spring grass. Twilight sparkled off the early evening dew. She saw the inn tucked away at the bottom of the hill alongside a brook. She exhaled her trepidation in a single breath, but even as her pulse began to slow, she could still feel the lingering tingle alongside the curve of her neck. Her fingers caressed the place where Lord Maxwell’s lips had touched her skin. “Why did you kiss me?”

‘”Twas hardly a kiss.”

“But it was a kiss just the same. Why?”

“I needed to get ye through the forest. It worked. All will be well now.”

She twisted to look at him. Blue eyes shone with mischief in the moonlight, and she didn’t much care for his arrogant smile. He was certainly proud of himself. Instead of bantering with him, she left his vanity high on his shoulder and led the stallion down the hillside to the inn.

A branch hung over the doorway. The smell of ale sharpened in the breeze. Empty barrels stacked on their sides indicated this establishment was no inn at all, but a tippling house. No doubt filled to its third level with besotted drunkards! ‘Twas no surprise the Scotsman was familiar with its location.

“Julian!” a robust woman squealed from the entranceway. Her breasts jiggled out of the top of her laced bodice as she bobbed down the steps toward them. A thin boy, no more than seven or eight summers, followed close behind and took the reins of their horse.

“Celeste, ye’re lookin’ healthy as ever. I’d like ye to meet my wife,” Lord Maxwell slurred, playing the role of a wastrel with expertise.

“Your wife?” the woman gasped, her dark eyes rounded in a sea of white. Lizzy smiled sweetly while grinding her opinion between her teeth. The woman looked shocked, appalled, mayhap even disappointed. Lizzy hardly considered herself past her years. Why was it so impossible to believe she might be the man’s wife?

“When did ye go an’ get yerself a wife?” The woman planted her fists on full hips, raised a thin eyebrow—which was the only thing thin about her—and continued her inspection of Lizzy’s attire.

“Julian and I were married this afternoon,” Lizzy lied with a surprising lack of effort.

“After which, he drowned himself in the cups until the wine colored his eyes purple.”

Eager to free herself from the horse and the Scot she’d carried on her back for the past few hours, she untied the mantle binding them together and tossed a leg over the steed’s ears. The moment her feet hit the ground, sharp pain shot up her thighs and stabbed her like a dagger in her lower back. Her gown clung to her skin, drenched with the Scotsman’s sweat. His fever must have peaked hours earlier.

She turned around in time to watch Lord Maxwell slide sideways off the horse and land with a grunt on his backside. “Lord Ma—ave mercy!” She caught herself.

“’Ods toes! Milo, fetch up John and Smitt.”

The boy darted back into the tippling house as the overly dramatic woman dropped to her knees in a pool of dark green skirts at Lord Maxwell’s side. Lizzy stilled at his feet. She twisted her sleeves and studied the shadows beneath his weary blue eyes. His lips were dry, his skin a reddish bronze and coated with perspiration. Curse her thoughtlessness. She should have taken more care.

Two men jogged out of the tavern, one husky, dark, and handsome as the devil, the other tall, lean, and bald. “Piss ‘n’ nettles! What ‘appened, Celeste?” the tall one asked.

“I daresay Julian pickled himself in the spirits,” Celeste said in a scolding tone.

“Good den, John.” Lord Maxwell swallowed hard and offered a strained grin to the man standing over him. “Think ye can put us up in a room? Tis my weddin’ night.” John cocked his bald head and looked down his rather large nose at Lord Maxwell. “Ye got yourself married?” He shot a curious glance at Lizzy.

She bobbed her head and decided it was less of a sin to nod a lie than to actually speak it. John pointed at the steed. “Milo, tend the horse. Celeste, go to the kitchens and find Sir Julian an’ his new wife some sup. Take up his shoulders, Smitt.”

The man issued his orders with authority—all of which were obeyed without question—

then lifted Lord Maxwell’s legs off the ground. Lizzy trailed behind but with growing panic watched the boy lead their horse away. Everything she valued was strapped to that horse: her gold, her herbs, Beatrice, the document she’d stolen from Lord Hollister’s chamber. “Julian, what of our things?”

“John, have the boy bring the satchels to our chamber.”

“Aye, sir. Milo, ye heard the man.”

“And Beatrice?” Lizzy asked.

“Bring the chicken as well!” Lord Maxwell hollered as they stepped into a barroom, then coughed. “The chicken has a name?” John questioned.

“Tis something of a pet.”

“Your new wife has a pet chicken? Wherever did ye find her?”

“Get me to a bed, and I’ll tell ye all about it.” Lizzy stayed close to John while they carried Lord Maxwell through a room filled to its rafters with merriment. The hum of men’s voices rumbled around female giggles. A serving girl, whose vest laced tight beneath her breasts, cast a flirtatious smile to a group of men gathered round a table. Her blousy undertunic fell off her shoulders, revealing far more skin than Lizzy was accustomed to seeing in public. The serving girl held every man’s attention except one. A gent with brown hair tied back in a queue turned away from the fair-haired beauty and ran his gaze over Lizzy.

The merriment fell away from him in a flash. She wormed her way tighter to John’s back and searched her memory for the man’s face. So many had passed through the dungeon. Did she know him? Had she tended him? London would never be far enough behind her. The events in her past would forever haunt her, but she would never have to speak of them again. Kamden’s face appeared behind her eyes, so alive and full of laughter. Her chest tightened.

“Maiden, ye walk any closer, an’ you’re going to be inside me,” John tossed the comment over his shoulder. Lizzy shrunk back. “Pray forgive me.” Pulling her braid alongside her cheek, she began fingering through the wavy tresses to hide her scar while she followed the men up a stairwell and into a dimly lit room. The furnishings were simple, yet more inviting than her chamber in the Tower. A pitcher and two pewter mugs sat atop a small table beside a bed. A low-burning fire reflected onto a bench seat that looked in danger of falling apart. Perfume hid beneath the smell of wood chips and smoke and made her question the length of time the chamber sat vacant between occupants. She pushed open the wooden shutters and inhaled the cool evening air, reveling in a view uninterrupted by iron bars. The boy caught her eye below, weighted down with her satchels. God give her strength to mend Lord Maxwell before her body collapsed into exhaustion. She pivoted on her heel to find him sprawled atop the bed on his back. “Would you sirs be so kind as to flip Julian onto his stomach before you take your leave?”

John frowned at her.

“Works best if one o’ ye is on your back.” The handsome man named Smitt flashed a wicked grin and a wink. Fire exploded in her cheeks. She opened her mouth but no words came out, so she snapped her jaw shut. “Mayhap Celeste should have a talk with her, aye?” John offered to Lord Maxwell, his tone sincere.

“She is not my wife,” Lord Maxwell said quickly. Surprised, she questioned who the ruse had been for. Why would he feel it necessary for her to pose as his wife if not for the innkeeper?

“Nay?” Smitt perked up. “Is the lass any mon’s wife?” He swaggered in her direction, his speech slipping into the slightest burr.