Highland Brides 04 - Lion Heart (19 page)

Those were friends he’d abandoned. He should have pitched in to help put out the fire.

He should have but he hadn’t dared.

He pushed the door to the hovel open. “Elizabet?”

The room was dark save for the light of a single taper that sat on the table. She was asleep, her head resting upon the table, her hair flowing down her back like a river of copper silk. Smiling at the sight of her, for he could scarce help himself, he knelt to untie Harpy’s leash. The dog wagged its tail anxiously, peering up at him in what Broc sensed to be appreciation. He patted the animal affectionately, grateful he had gotten to the stable before the fire.

He still could not fathom how the fire had begun. The lantern had been placed far too high for careless lovers to have tipped it. It was possible it had simply dropped from its hook, but the handle had appeared secure enough.

He was reluctant to let Harpy go to her. He didn’t want to wake her.

In sleep she looked like an angel, her skin translucent by the light of the flame. He studied her while he could, taking pleasure in the moment. Her pert nose was delicate and refined, her cheeks high and gently chiseled. Her brows were dark and sharply arched. Her look was exotic and lovely.

More lovely than anything he’d ever seen in his life.

And that hair—how he would love to tangle his fingers in that glorious mane!

With a sigh and a last rub behind the animal’s ears, he let the dog go. Harpy bounded at once toward Elizabet, tail wagging happily and Broc couldn’t suppress his laughter as Elizabet woke in alarm.

His shoulders shook with mirth.

She shrieked and nearly tumbled from the chair, stumbling to her feet. It took her a befuddled moment to realize what had awakened her.

“Harpy!” she exclaimed when she realized it was her dog, and she threw out her arms in welcome.

Broc chuckled, momentarily distracted from the evening’s hideousness. How could he not smile watching the two of them together?

Away went the haughty maiden; on her knees went a little girl filled with glee over the return of her cherished pet. She hugged the animal fiercely, letting it lap her on the forehead. She giggled with joy and buried her face against its fine coat, trying to avoid the tongue.

Broc sat transfixed, feeling an overwhelming sense of closeness to her. He watched her, his heart feeling strangely elevated by the sight of them together.

Her dress seemed different somehow, the color faded beneath a layer of dust. Her hair was loose and far messier than he’d ever seen it—och, but it was lovely anyway. Its color was brilliant even in the shadows of the room. Burnished with streaks of copper, it gleamed wherever the candle’s light touched it. Her smile was radiant, illuminating the room more brilliantly than any torch could have done.

He fell in love with her in that instant.

“You found her!” she said, peering up at last.

Broc swallowed his words, speechless for a moment. He nodded.

She turned that smile upon him, and his knees threatened to topple him. “Where was she?”

“They tied her to a post in Montgomerie’s barn.”

Her tone was excited now. “You saw my brother!”

God’s truth, he didn’t want to lie, but he felt compelled to continue the farce. He forced a nod, feeling lower than he’d ever felt in all his life. He told himself it wasn’t entirely a lie. After all, he had seen John’s body.

“What did he say?”

He couldn’t take the lie quite that far.

He shook his head. “I know I promised, but I didna speak to him, lass.” He tempered the lie with a bit of truth. “There was a fire. It was all I could do to take the dog and go.”

“A fire?”

“Aye.” He averted his gaze for an instant to recover his composure. “It appears someone burned down the stables,” he said, his gut twisting with self-disgust.

“Piers must be furious!”

Broc nodded agreement.

He hoped no one had spied him. The circumstances were building against him. Everything he had worked for, everything he had achieved, the trust he had built, the friends he had earned, all of it was crumbling before his eyes. In the span of just a few days, everything seemed suddenly grimmer than hell.

“What did you do while I was gone?” he asked, feeling suddenly fatigued.

Elizabet stroked her dog, smiling sweetly up at him. “I kept my promise.”

“Promise?”

Her smile curved into a sheepish grin. “I stayed out of trouble.”

He was glad one of them had, at least. Broc smiled back at her, watching her with her hound.

“Lucky dog,” he said low.

She lifted her head. “What did you say?”

He smiled back at her. “I said Harpy’s a verra good dog.”

Elizabet was certain he hadn’t said that.

She tilted him a curious look.

Truth to tell, she was almost relieved he hadn’t spoken to John as yet. The truth was… she wasn’t ready to leave Broc. She averted her gaze, afraid he would read her thoughts. “So,” she asked, trying to determine how much time they had left alone, “did you learn when Piers would be returning?”

“Soon,” he assured her.

There was something about his demeanor when he spoke of John and Piers that disturbed her, but she couldn’t quite place her finger on what it was.

“Is something wrong?”

He shook his head. “Nay, lass, I’m only weary, is all.”

Their gazes held, locked, his blue eyes regarding her with an expression that quickened her breath.

“I did something else while you were gone,” she disclosed, giving him a coy smile. She stood and walked over to the table.

He watched her curiously.

She lifted up the square of neatly folded bright red cloth and held it in her hands. “’Tis a gift for you,” she revealed.

“A gift?” His bewilderment was apparent in his eyes. “For me?”

Elizabet smiled. “Aye.” She walked forward, handing him the garment.

He accepted it, albeit a bit uncertainly, giving her a questioning look. He didn’t even look at it, merely stared at her as though in shock, his arms outstretched with the garment in hand.

She pushed it toward him, afraid he would refuse it. “Try it on.”

He swallowed and Elizabet could see the bob in his throat. “No one has ever given me a gift before,” he said, looking dazed.

Elizabet arched a brow at him. “Try it on,” she demanded again.

He nodded dumbly, giving his attention for the first time to the tunic in his hands. He shook it out, examining it, admiring her handiwork.

Elizabet warmed with pride.

He set it on the table to better inspect it and ran his fingers reverently over the precise stitches. His gaze snapped up suddenly, as though only realizing from whence the material had come.

“Och, lass, ye didna have to ruin your gown for me.”

Elizabet grinned. “I will surely be insulted if you think my gown ruined!” Her mother’s tone crept into her voice. “Now put it on!”

He smiled and said, “You’re a haughty wench!”

She winked. “I come by it honestly.”

A strange smile came into his eyes as he regarded her.

Her heart began to beat a little faster at the expression on his face.

His eyes twinkled by the light of the candle. “So ye wish me to try it on?” His lips curved slightly at the corners, and Elizabet nodded.

She swallowed convulsively. Aye, she wanted to see how the tunic fitted his body, wanted to see how his muscles strained against the cloth, and she wanted that without apology. Never in her life had she been more beguiled by a man’s body.

He watched her as though trying to read her thoughts, and she straightened her shoulders, lifting her chin, challenging him. “Go on,” she said.

Broc watched her expression.

God’s teeth, she had no idea what he was in danger of revealing. Her mere presence tempted him beyond reason, and now she was asking him to undress and remove the one barrier that kept him civilized. Beneath his plaid, his body was rigid and ready.

He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anyone or anything in his life.

Until now, denying his physical needs had been a simple enough endeavor, but what he wanted from her was far more than simple relief. His soul cried out to possess her, his body longed to be touched by her. He wanted to be inside her—to pleasure her—to hear her whisper his name as he spilled his seed into her womb. He wanted her to bear his babes, wanted to share his bed with her, wanted to bring her gifts and see her smile with joy, as she had only moments before.

No one else could satisfy him. He knew that instinctively as he stared at her.

But he wanted her willing.

If she came to him, he would love her till his dying breath.

He wasn’t blessed with a smooth tongue, as Colin was. He said what he meant and meant what he said. “If ye wish to see me in this tunic, lass, you will have to undress me yourself.”

He issued the challenge without apology and held out the tunic for her to take.

He was a warm-blooded man, not some cold, unfeeling stone, and he’d already used up what little restraint he possessed. If she removed from him his only defense against her, his clothing, he wasn’t going to be held responsible for what happened after.

Her eyes widened slightly, but she said nothing to refuse him, merely stood there staring. When she didn’t reach out to accept the tunic, he thought she might be offended, but then she dared to step forward. She took the tunic from his hands, nodding.

A shudder of anticipation passed through him.

Christ, he hoped she understood what she was getting herself into. If she touched him, if she peeled his feeble armor from his body, he wasn’t going to walk away.

She reached out to touch his plaid, and he seized her wrist, holding it away from him. His loins tightened. “Are ye certain, lass?”

The question held far more meaning than the simple words implied.

Her hand felt so small in his, soft and delicate. It was a testament to her birth. It was certain these hands had never seen a day’s hard labor while his mother had toiled over the good earth for every morsel of food she had placed in her mouth and those of her husband and children. It was just another reminder that Elizabet wasn’t of his ilk… and yet, he couldn’t resist.

“Aye,” she said, and seemed to choke on her reply.

A smile turned one corner of his mouth. He pulled her closer, wanting nothing more than to kiss her in that instant.

E
lizabet’s breath caught at the strength of his ardor.

He bent to kiss her—she didn’t resist, didn’t want to.

Her heart beat faster as he took her into his arms, tangling his fingers in her hair. “You are so lovely,” he whispered. “So verra lovely…”

She went limp in his embrace.

“I want you, Elizabet…”

No one had ever said such a thing to her. The shock of hearing his husky plea left her momentarily dumb. She clung to him brazenly, her heart pounding ruthlessly against her breast.

And then he kissed her, his lips soft and persistent… full of hunger….

Sweet Mary, it was like nothing she’d ever dreamed of.

She had seen lovers embrace this way and then steal away to some secret place where no one could spy them. And she had secretly envied them, wondering what it must feel like to belong to someone—to know that the arms that held her cherished her. She had watched men use and discard her mother so easily and sworn to God she would never fall prey to soft words whispered against her ear.

And yet here she was, willing to take whatever he would give her. Her legs trembled beneath her, threatening to make her sink at his feet.

“Broc,” she pleaded, clinging to him desperately, but he only kissed her more insistently.

She was afraid to open her heart.

Afraid to want.

Afraid to hope.

Men said whatever served them best—used up what was inside and without another thought tossed away the shell that remained. Her mother had died alone, abandoned and empty. Only Elizabet had been at her side.

“Be my wife,” he murmured against her lips.

Elizabet’s heart jolted nearly out of her breast at the unexpected behest.

“Nay!” she replied at once, turning her face from his fiery kisses. His lips singed her, his words burned deep into her heart. The possibility that he might not mean them daunted her more than she could have anticipated.

Her mother had left her alone, no matter that it hadn’t been her choice to do so. Her father had sent her away with little more thought than he would have given to washing his hands. Piers, was like to deny her, too. Why should this man want her when her own father did not?

“You cannot wish to wed me?”

Every time she had ever dared to hope she might have a place to call her own, a family to embrace her, she was left disheartened.

“Aye, lass, I do,” he swore. When she tried to turn away, his hands cupped her face, forcing her gently to look into his eyes. “Look at me!”

She could face his desire and match it with her own, but she could not allow herself to hope!

“I want to make you mine, Elizabet.”