Her One Desire (6 page)

She flashed him an all-knowing smile and popped a piece of cheese in his mouth.

“Edlynn was the larderer before she lost her sight. She taught me how to mix herbs, and I showed her how to make fragrances from flowers.” Mother and her flowers were never far from Lizzy’s thoughts, nor was the grief she suffered the day God took her.

“Tis why ye smell so good. Like sweet sauce poured over a bowl of flower petals.”

Her gaze dropped. She doubted anything could have prevented the smile from peeling her lips over her teeth. “I s’pose.”

When she took up the second bowl of broth his questions ceased, and his lips slammed shut. She touched his bottom lip with the edge of the spoon, but for reasons unbeknownst to her, he refused to open. How could he offer her the sweetest compliment she’d ever heard then behave like such a mule? “Lord Maxwell, you cannot possibly have taken your fill.” She returned the spoon to the bowl when he did naught and said naught. “I cannot begin to imagine why you would choose now to flaunt your stubbornness. You need to eat.” “As do ye.”

“I’ve already eaten.” She didn’t completely lie.

“When?”

“Father dried meat on Good Friday.”

“Two days ago?” He rolled his eyes. “’Tis likely the reason ye have less flesh on your skin than your pet chicken.”

Had it really been two days since she’d eaten? She focused on the broth trying to recall her last meal. Her stomach clenched, telling her it had been far too long. “If ye are going to be my charge, you will eat,” Lord Maxwell demanded in a tone she thought pompous.

“I am not your charge.”

“Eat.”

She snatched a round of black bread from the tray and tore off a chunk between her teeth. A moan nearly escaped her. It was warm and soft on her tongue and surprisingly sweet. Another bite found its way into her mouth, then another. Cheeks filled, she returned the bread to the tray, ignoring Lord Maxwell’s smug expression. While she chewed and swallowed, she filled the spoon with broth, and then held it in front of his lips. He shook his head.

“You are a cud-chewing urchin,” she ground out, frustrated to the point she wanted to strangle him. “Open your mouth.” She waited, spoon in hand, wanting to slap the arrogance from him. “Are all Scots as pigheaded as you?” He didn’t dare open his mouth to respond else she would win this petty battle. She guessed he wouldn’t accept defeat with grace. “Tis a foolish game you play. One, I can assure you, I will win. You provoke me, Lord Maxwell, and force me to take measures you will not find to your liking. Now, open your mouth, or I will open it for you.” She grinned, satisfied with her threat, and set the bowl aside.

He raised his brows and blew an exaggerated breath, indicating he had no intention of complying.

She leaned over him, pinched his nose closed, and waited. He held his breath for an impressive period of time before his mouth finally opened. She poured the spoonful of broth down his gullet the same time he sucked in air. He choked. His upper body convulsed. She tossed the spoon aside and pulled him upright, careful not to touch his back. Why was he making this task so difficult, and whatever possessed her to gain authority over him? Mercy Mary. The man had been tortured by her father’s hand and needed care. She held him close, an embrace far too intimate for their association. Guilt pecked at her, adding to the onslaught of feelings she’d discovered since meeting Lord Maxwell. Did she feel indebted to him because her father took his brother’s life? Or was her desperation to find protection the reason she felt she could trust him?

Once he regained his breath, she lowered him back to the bed. Her weight followed; her hands pinned beneath his shoulders. She was close enough to kiss him. Why she measured the distance between them by a kiss she did not know, but his eyes and his lips made her throat go dry and her heart quicken.

He licked his lips. “For every bite I take, you will take one as well, or I will drown in the broth.”

“Aye, m’lord.” Lizzy held no desire to argue the point further. She ate bits of cheese between the spoonfuls she fed him from the second bowl of broth. Although he didn’t banter with her further, the slight lift of his lips told her he was pleased with his victory. She gave him water, set the tray aside, and then proceeded to gather her things from the bench where the boy had dumped them. On the trestle table she set out eight small satchels of herbs, her pestle and mortar, a curved needle, and silk threads.

“Have ye the provisions to make more poison?” Lord Maxwell asked from behind her. The man truly didn’t know when to quit. She had half a mind to add a pinch of aconite to numb his tongue. She studied her measurements and mulled over his insult. Once she began grinding the herbs against the mortar, she devised her own quip. “Mayhap this time my poison will succeed in killing you. ‘Twill be one less Scot for my king to battle.” “Ye jest.”

“Do I?” If he intended to keep referring to her medicines as poison, then she wouldn’t trouble herself to correct him. She added water to her powder to form a warm mash that she would apply to his wounds later and then pulled a small knife from its leather sheath. She stepped back into his view, offered him a devious grin, and angled the blade in front of her for effect. Most of London thought her insane. She’d mastered the role and used it to her advantage more than once. “Mayhap I will fail to balance your humors properly, and you will bleed to death. Then I will already have a poison prepared for the next stubborn, arrogant, thistle-tongued Scot who insults my generosity and talents for healing.” His eyes widened. “Lady Ives, forgive me. ‘Twas not my intention to insult ye.”

She played the part a bit longer simply to be mulish, then offered him a small smile that didn’t nearly reflect the amount of humor she received from the look of horror pinching his brows together. “Take your ease, m’lord. I am jesting. I have no plans to gut you or poison you.” Taking hold of his shirt, she made a small slit in the seam with the tip of her knife. “I assume John can provide you with other garments?” “Aye.” His eyes closed, and a breath of relief cooled her neck.

Lizzy cut through the material until his shirt fell open. She bit the inside of her lip at the sight his muscular chest presented. Even with the hint of a bruise wrapped around his ribs, he was a fine specimen of pure male. She wanted to weave her fingers through the smattering of hair drawing a line down a stomach rippled with tight muscles. Her gaze followed the path that thinned beneath his navel and disappeared into his trews. Her breasts tightened.

Curse it!
She made a pathetic healer.

She cut the sleeves off then set the knife beside the kettle of water, hoping he couldn’t see the slight tremble of her hand. After wringing the water from the cloth, she began to bath him again. Her hand moved over his shoulder and down his muscular arm. She studied the ancient design marking his skin with blue ink. Upon closer inspection, she made out the letters
g, r, a,
repeating uninterrupted around his arm. She might have asked him what it meant if the sight of him hadn’t stolen her ability to speak. Holding the cloth in one hand, she set her fingers free to search for broken bones, but secretly reveled in the feel of his skin. She’d never tended a man so blessed with looks. An unfamiliar flash of heat surged through her body and settled between her legs. Her pulse flittered in the most private place of her body, frightening her. A tremor of panic took hold. Her fingers curled around his ribs and made indentations in his skin. “Ach!”

He sucked in air.

Her hand jerked back. “You felt that?”

“Nay.” He chuckled. “I cannae bear the silence or this curse of immobility.”

She slapped his arm lightly, thankful for his ill-timed humor, and tried to regain some semblance of dignity. “Your ribs are slightly bruised, but seem to be whole. I might require Smitt’s help to wrap them after I finish mending your back.”

“I might require Smitt’s help as well, unless ye wish to aid me with my privy needs.” He snapped her a quick wink. “M’lord, please.” Her cheeks heated, and she questioned how she could possibly get any hotter. She wiped the back of her hand over her forehead. Sweat rolled off her wrist. In addition, she felt it between her breasts and down her back. She had to get out of her gown before she melted. She fanned herself. Twas as hot as the devil’s own kitchen in the chamber.
Lizzy
moved behind the bed and detached the false sleeves of her gown. In addition, she peeled away the top layer of her skirts and removed her boots. While rolling the sleeves of her overtunic to her elbows, she returned to his side. “I’m going to turn you now.”

“Much luck to ye,” he said simply, causing a nervous giggle to slip past her lips. He said the oddest things.

She positioned his arms at his side and pushed on his shoulder and hip. Moving London Bridge might have been easier. After two attempts and a loud grunt, she managed to roll him over to one side of the bed. His shirt clung to his skin where the marks had bled through in bold splashes of red. She stood, stared, and damned her father’s deed. “I’m truly sorry for what he did to you.”

“Tis not of your doing. Dinnae fash. I cannae feel a thing. But make haste before this miracle potion of yours wears off.”

“Aye, m’lord. Find your rest. You will need all your energies come the morrow.” She cut away the remainder of his shirt and inspected the lashes. Some were pink whelps while others broke the skin in fine lines, but at least three gashes split his flesh like a sword wound.

Tending to him should have been a mundane and tedious task, but working on Lord Maxwell was anything but monotonous. One of his lashes had sliced his skin below his waist. The rip in his trews was easily extended, but now exposed half his backside. She touched him, knowing he wouldn’t feel her “inspection.” A fine mist of hair tickled the pads of three fingers. Curse it if the man’s rump wasn’t as fine as the rest of him. With a shake, she broke free of her thoughts and readied the needle. The task would be easiest performed atop him. She wouldn’t twist her back in knots or stitch him crooked because of propriety. She hiked her skirts to her knees, and then crawled atop him, straddling his thighs. He moaned.

“Is my weight too much to bear?” she asked and rose up on her knees, wishing he would sleep and leave her to work.

“Nay. I’d wager a mite weighs more than ye. Nonetheless, ye should count your blessings that I cannae turn over.” Another torrent of heat shot straight up her core. Cursing her body’s reaction to his comment, she clenched and forced herself not to wiggle. “I like to count. Mayhap I will heed your suggestion.” She settled back atop him and punctured his skin with the needle, closing a whelp one stitch at a time. Instead of counting blessings, she counted stitches, determined to mend Lord Maxwell to the best of her ability. Wind rustled outside, immersing the chamber in peaceful tranquility while Beatrice warbled in the corner in her cage. “Have ye family in London, other than your father?” he asked, disturbing her concentration. Did the man never indulge in the simplicity of silence?

“Any sisters? Brothers mayhap? Bairns?” he clarified when she didn’t answer immediately.

His questions reminded her how truly alone she was in this world. She considered not responding, but Lord Maxwell seemed uncomfortable with the lack of noise. The man talked more than Edlynn. Lizzy would appease his curiosity into her personal affairs, then demand he rest. “I’ve no other family besides Father and Edlynn.”

“Are ye widowed? Ye seem a wee bit long in the tooth to have never married. The blind woman had mentioned a man who once protected—“ “Lord Maxwell.” Lizzy clenched her jaw. “You really need to find your rest, and I work with more diligence in silence. If there is something you are wont to ask, please say it.”

“Who is Kamden?”

Tears blurred her vision instantly. She closed her eyes and saw Kamden and his sons wrestling in the mud outside Edlynn’s cottage, their laughter contagious to the point it made her smile even now. She swallowed and rubbed the heels of her palms over her eyes. “I am twenty-three summers and accepted long ago that I would never marry, nor bear children. My father s profession belonged to my grandfather, and his father before him. The blood of the executed has cursed the Ives’s name for decades. Tis an occupation that steals a man’s sanity and condemns his soul simultaneously. I cannot bring a child into this world knowing he will one day wield the executioner’s ax.

“Kamden was my brother and was next in line to carry my family’s curse. Now. if I have satisfied all your curiosities, I would ask you to r e s t … in silence.”

“How did he die?”

Lizzy ground her teeth and held tight to the needle, wanting to stab him with it repeatedly. “Lord Maxwell, I really do not wish—“ ‘”Tis my last question, lass. I vow it.”

Her heart punched her from the inside, her sorrow as raw as it had been six months ago when her brother left her behind in this world without him. “Kamden was executed.”

Lord Maxwell held true to his vow of silence, though Lizzy guessed he wanted to know more. Most people did. Death intrigued the human mind. What person wouldn’t be curious about a man whose grotesque occupation forced him to take his own son’s life?

She could still feel Lord Hollister’s hand grasping her chin forcing her to watch the atrocity. Still smell the rotten vegetables embedded in her hair. The scene branded in her memory always became more colorful behind her closed eyes.

“I am truly sorry for your loss,” Lord Maxwell finally said in a quiet voice laded with his own pain.

His sympathies meant more to her than he could possibly fathom. This man had witnessed his own brother’s death this very day, yet offered her condolences for a death months old. Her hand covered her mouth, demanding her sorrow to remain inside. The need to cry made her throat ache, but she stifled her pain and buried it deep within. With her composure intact, Lizzy hoped Lord Maxwell would cease any further questions. “Will you please rest now?” “Aye.” He closed his eyes. Silence followed.

She began pulling the needle through his skin again, losing herself in the simplicity of her numbers. After ten stitches, Lord Maxwell’s slow and steady breathing turned into a roaring snore, each one louder than the last. The man truly didn’t like the quiet. Lizzy pulled the fifty-seventh stitch through Lord Maxwell’s back and crawled on stiff legs from the bed. Her fingers cramped and her back ached from the hours she’d spent bent over him. She moved to the basin to wash, then searched her belongings for the earthenware jar of leeches. It was nowhere to be found. Standing beside the window, she stared at the stable. The boy must have left one of her satchels behind. A partial moon cast blue light over the dewy grass, turning the ground into a sparkling sea. Trees loomed in black silhouettes like a curtain wall around the tippling house. Lizzy strained her eyes in search of a rider, all the while knowing not enough time had passed for John to return with Edlynn. She crossed herself and offered a silent prayer for her friend’s safety.