Highland Brides 04 - Lion Heart (14 page)

Piers stared after her. “What do you mean? What chapel have we been building for Gavin?”

She wouldn’t turn around, continuing up the stairs.

“Meghan!” he thundered, and started up after her. “We haven’t been building any chapel for Gavin!”

She tossed her hair from her face as she reached the top of the stairs and looked down at him, smiling. “Oh, but we have! It was going to be a surprise!”

God’s teeth, he really didn’t want to have to listen to her brother’s sermons every time he turned around!

“Just think how much joy it will give him,” she entreated. “He has nobody, Piers. He must be so lonely now that Colin and Leith are both wed!”

Piers rolled his eyes.

“Are you angry, my love? I have been waiting to tell you, but what better time. Now it will be perfect for John’s service, don’t you think so?”

He stood there, shaking his head, thinking of all the lies he would have to tell in order to miss her brother’s sermons. If his past deeds hadn’t earned him a cozy place in hell, his future ones surely would!

She was looking at him so dejectedly.

How could he possibly be angry with her?

“Damn, woman!” he exclaimed and started up the stairs after her. “I’m going to paddle that delightful arse of yours!”

She shrieked in alarm and ran in the direction of their room, and Piers smiled to himself as he heard her giggle and slam the door behind her.

He would never touch her in anger, she knew, and the door would never be locked against him. No man worthy of the name would ever harm a woman. But truth to tell, he couldn’t wait to get his hands on his wife’s lovely arse.

It would be the one bright spot of this dark day.

Damn Tomas and Geoffrey, both.

E
lizabet had given him grief from the first moment she’d spied him, she realized. Of course he would regret helping her. She was behaving no better than those petulant ladies at court who expected everything simply because someone had slapped their bare infant bottoms.

“I’m sorry,” Elizabet offered as they reached the hovel, realizing he was still following and that he truly didn’t have to help her, but there he was.

“For what?”

“For all that you’ve done for me.”

“Och, lass, I’ve done nothing more than any man would.”

Mayhap it was true, but Elizabet had never known that sort of man. Not even her father had really had any use for her. He was kind, to be sure, but he’d certainly never sacrificed anything for her sake. And when she’d become a burden, he’d sent her away.

Uncomfortable with the feelings she was experiencing, she averted her gaze, peering down at his hands. Big hands. Gentle hands. The sight of them made her breath quicken. Those hands had touched her so intimately. They had caressed her where no man had ever dared… and he had stopped when she’d asked him to.

“What is it, Elizabet?”

She shook her head, her throat thickening.

“Naught… it’s simply that no one has ever championed me before—except for my brother John,” she amended. “Despite that it caused him grief from my other siblings.”

Broc furrowed his brow. “I dinna understand. Why should it cause him grief?”

“Well… I did not know them until I was grown, you see.” She cast him an anxious glance. “My mother was a leman—a mistress. She raised me alone and in fact, I did not know my father until a few years ago. He took me in after she died.”

He was quiet a long moment and then disclosed, “I understand what it’s like to be alone.”

And somehow, as she peered into his eyes, she understood that he did.

Kindred spirits.

Broc had never spoken to anyone of his circumstances, not to Colin, who was his best friend, or even to Iain, who was like his brother.

She glanced up at him, her heart in her eyes, and he wanted suddenly to take her into his arms and hold her, comfort her.

He recognized something in her, something that spoke to him instinctively, something that told him they were very much alike. It wasn’t anything he could put his finger on, but there was something there, nonetheless.

“You have no brothers or sisters?”

Broc shook his head. “Nor mother nor father. They were all murdered.” By your people, he nearly added. “When I was but a lad.” His anger resurfaced just in the telling, but he reminded himself that she was not responsible for their death. And the look she gave him tempered his rage, so deep was the compassion he spied in her eyes.

Still he could not speak of this, not even with her. “It was a long time ago,” he said. “And I’ve a good family and many friends.” He was fortunate, he told himself. Many had not even that.

Auld Alma’s voice whispered in his ear:
Find ye a good woman to cherish and give her strong bairns. Let your father’s blood live long in your veins and those of your children! You are the last of the MacEanraig clan, lad.

He stared at Elizabet, his heart hammering.

She looked away. “Have you… a wife?” she asked, sounding dejected at the mere possibility.

Broc blinked at the question. “Nay.”

She lifted her gaze, a sudden smile hidden in her eyes, and somehow her hopeful expression lifted his mood.

“But as long as I had my dog I never suffered a cold bed.”

“Dog!”

“Aye, well, who needs a bluidy wife when ye can have a hound, right?” He winked at her.

She laughed softly and the sound of it sent an unexpected shiver through him. Christ, but she was lovely—more so every instant he knew her.

She arched a perfectly formed brow and lifted a hand to her thick plait, toying with it nervously, her smile brilliant. He wished she would undo it again so he could see it in the light of day. Last night it had felt so soft in his hands. Her mouth had tasted so sweet. He found himself thirsting for another drink of her mouth.

“But you must have a woman?”

“No,” he assured her. “And no hound either, but you have one, he suggested, lifting his brows.

“
Now
I know what you want from me,” she said and laughed softly, glancing down at the crucifix she wore, her expression suddenly wistful.

“What is it, lass?”

Her smile turned melancholy. “It feels good to laugh—it has been a long, long time,” she confessed. “I’ve sorely missed it.”

Who else had she shared that beauteous smile with? Broc wondered. His gut turned over the possibilities. He didn’t want her heart to belong to anyone else.

She touched her plait and stared, transfixed, as though lost in a memory and he wanted that look to be for him.

Aye, he wanted his woman to desire his body, but he hadn’t realized how much he craved that gentle, loving look until he spied it in Elizabet’s eyes.

She began to fiddle with the bindings of her plait, pulling at the golden ribbon, and the shimmering material was a reminder that she was not for him. She had been born to a world of riches and luxuries, while he had been raised in the dirt.

What did he have to give her?

Nothing.

His father had been chieftain of their clan, but his true kinsmen were all dead and buried now. He had no coffers of his own to share, nor, in truth, even the right to offer sanctuary. He was risking much to help her—much that wasn’t his own.

Guilt pricked at him.

Still, he wasn’t about to walk away.

Before he could stop himself, he reached out and seized her crucifix, pulling her nearer.

Elizabet gasped in surprise.

“Whose memory do I see in your eyes?” he demanded to know.

For an instant, she didn’t answer, and he thought she would refuse him an answer. He tugged on the crucifix.

“M-my mother,” she said at last.

Her hand gripped the cross more firmly, but she didn’t resist him. “This was hers. She wore it always.”

Relief washed over him.

He wanted to kiss her, craving her mouth, but the memory of what happened between them last evening—the way she had reacted to his advances—kept him at bay.

Elizabet’s heart fluttered at the intensity of his gaze. He made no further advances, merely stared, tugging gently at the crucifix.

Some part of her prayed he would kiss her now. Some other part of her screamed in fear.

Fear of losing her freedom.

Fear of losing her heart.

She remembered the way her mother had wept so bitterly when she was alone, broken-hearted, while her lovers were at home with their wives. Her chastity, her mother had, claimed, was the one thing that stood between Elizabet and the very same fate.

He glanced at the crucifix and then back up into her eyes.

“It was a gift to my mother… she gave it to me before she died.”

He continued to stare at her, his eyes gleaming strangely. “Beautiful,” he said softly.

Elizabet felt her legs go weak. She swallowed convulsively as he tugged once more on the crucifix, with a little more determination. Sheer will kept her from tumbling into his lap.

She held her breath.

“Did no one ever tell you how beautiful you are?”

Elizabet’s entire body quivered at his words. She shook her head, her heart beating more furiously still, her lips feeling suddenly parched as he continued to stare into her eyes. She wetted her lips with her tongue, watching his expression intently.

His eyes never left hers.

He tugged a little harder on the crucifix, drawing her to him, and Elizabet found she hadn’t the will to resist. If he kissed her, she would not deny him.

She swallowed convulsively.

God forgive her for her wicked thoughts… in truth, she was worse than her. mother, because she was a wanton without a cause. Her mother, at least, had been able to claim her daughter’s best interests.

Her hand fell upon his thigh, and she was keenly aware of his nakedness beneath the blanket.

He lifted a hand to her nape, tangling his fingers gently into her hair and shivers raced down her spine.

“We should go in now,” she proposed, trying to find some measure of reason amidst the insanity of her thoughts.

“Should we?” he asked her, his voice husky.

Elizabet shuddered softly.

Jesu, he was tall and strong and his skin seemed so soft and yet so hard. She wanted more than anything to reach out and touch his face. She wanted to kiss him again, wanted to feel the delicious weight of him bearing down against her.

He watched her, his eyes slitting with desire, and Elizabet wasn’t so naive she didn’t understand the turn of his thoughts.

Hers had gone there as well.

“’Tis a lovely crucifix,” he murmured, and bent nearer, closing the distance between their mouths. It seemed to Elizabet that he hovered so near… so blissfully near… but so very, very far.

She would never have the nerve to crane her neck upward, to touch her lips to his. She could never be so bold as to kiss a man. But, sweet Mary, she wanted to.

In that instant, there was nothing she had ever yearned for more.

Again she swallowed.

“My m-mother never made any apologies for who she was,” she said, trying to find suitable conversation, though her throat was almost too thick to speak. She was rambling, she realized, but couldn’t help it. “She did what she pleased and chose to live frugally so that she could leave everything to me. I never realized at the time how much she gave up for me. I miss her desperately.”

She could feel the warmth of his breath on her face; his lips hovered so near. “She left you her coffers?”

“Aye,” Elizabet said, and smiled as she added, “Though ’tis hardly enough to compensate a man for having to bear with my wayward tongue.”

His eyes seemed to twinkle at her self-deprecating jest. “You’re a contrary wench,” he agreed and bent a little closer.

Elizabet shut her eyes, praying for the touch of his lips.

God, she wanted this so desperately.

And then suddenly her eyes flew open with a sudden realization. She understood what Tomas would have to gain with her death. “My dowry!”

He blinked at her, confused by her outburst. “What?”

“Jesu! Why did I not realize sooner! My dowry!” she declared. “That’s what he’s after!”

He narrowed his eyes at her.

“You see, my father insisted I take it with me to give to Piers so that Piers might use it to make me a better match. Only Tomas, John and I knew of it—but ’tis hardly enough to kill a man over,” she added quickly.

“Some men would kill for a morsel of food, lass. How much were ye carrying and where is it now?”

“A tiny pouch full of jewels and coins,” Elizabet revealed. “John held it for me.”

He seemed to consider her disclosure, and his brows knit as he asked her. “You say John held it?”

Something like dread crept through her at his tone, at his look. She nodded. What if Tomas intended to be rid of them both? What if he had already killed John? “Oh, God… Broc… are you certain my brother is unharmed?”

He didn’t answer.

Elizabet’s heart skidded to a halt.

He averted his eyes for the briefest instant, then said to her with absolute certainty. “When last I saw your brother, Elizabet, he was in danger of suffering no more than a headache. I tell you, he was fine.”