Highland Brides 04 - Lion Heart (9 page)

“What are you doing here?”

He stood and turned to face her, narrowing his eyes at her. “Picking flowers,” he answered.

Elizabet narrowed her eyes. He was alone. Something had not gone well by the look on his face. “How long have you been standing there?” she demanded to know.

“Not verra long.”

She pushed the door open wider, allowing him entrance, and he walked past her without looking into her eyes.

Elizabet waited for him to explain.

Sweet Mary, had Piers repudiated her? Panic assailed her. What would she do if he turned her away?

“He wasn’t there.”

Her heart fluttered. “Piers?”

“Aye.” He turned to face her at last, and Elizabet felt her knees go weak at his glance. Never in her life had she met eyes so vivid a blue. “He’s gone to Edinburgh and willna be back for a few days.”

Averting her gaze, Elizabet went to the table and sank into the chair, considering his news.

When she met his gaze again, he was watching her, his blue eyes assessing.

“You cannot expect me to wait here until he returns. My brother will worry.” Though John was the elder, Elizabet felt responsible for him.

He met her declaration with absolute silence.

Broc had decided his best course was to tell her the truth, because he didn’t know how to lie. But facing her now, he didn’t know how to tell her that her brother was dead. He tried to say the words, but they simply wouldn’t come out of his mouth.

“He must know what has happened here. I must tell him,” she insisted, and his guilt escalated. He knew in his heart he hadn’t killed the man, but he knew she would believe that he had. And if she thought he’d murdered her brother, there was no way she would willingly remain with him. Her life was in danger. He couldn’t tell her the truth.

For an instant, he feared he’d spoken his thoughts aloud. She sprang from the chair. “You said my brother was unharmed!”

He shook his head, cursing the lie. “He’s fine, lass, but he was surrounded.” That much was true. “I could not speak with him.”

She stared at him hopefully. “But he’s well?”

Broc swallowed. “Aye, he seems not to be in pain.” It was a half truth, at least.

She sat again, her hand going to her breast as though in relief. Broc tried not to notice the way her fingers lit so gently upon the curve of her bosom.

When was the last time he’d held a woman’s soft breast? When was the last time he had thought to miss it?

He’d made a vow to himself years ago to devote his life to his clan, to forswear his own gratification. Though on a few occasions he had forgotten himself—he was no saint—his loyalty and his life belonged to the MacKinnons. He owed Iain everything. There was nothing left of him to give to anyone else.

Broc took the chair across from her, watching her expressions as she deliberated.

She made him want things he hadn’t ever dared contemplate.

“What now?”

It was a damned good question.

She looked so forlorn, so vulnerable, and he vowed to protect her at all costs. He didn’t know why he felt responsible for her, but from the instant he’d spied Elizabet alone in the forest, he had felt drawn to her somehow. She needed him, and he refused to abandon her.

“Elizabet…” He leaned forward. “I know ye dinna like the idea of staying in this place, but I gi’ ye my word ye will be safe as long as ye remain.” It would give him time to figure out what to do.

Her brows slanted. “I don’t know…”

“If ye wish it, I will stay with you, but ye must trust me!” he pleaded.

She stared at the table, obviously torn.

“Och, lass, if I had meant ye any harm,” he reasoned with her, “would I have let ye remain here alone whilst I went to speak with Montgomerie?”

She seemed to think about it a moment and then shook her head.

“Nay,” he asserted. “I wouldna. And I am tellin’ ye I saw a bowman, and he was dressed in the same livery as the rest of your companions. Someone wants you dead.”

She shook her head, denying his testimony, though he sensed deep down she must believe him. She would never have waited here for him otherwise. “Maybe he was defending me?”

“Was there a need to defend ye when we were only talking?”

Again she shook her head. “I simply cannot fathom why he should wish me dead.”

It seemed to Broc that she knew who the bowman might be.

“I was not the object of his attention,” Broc persisted, trying to make her believe.

Her brows knit. “But he was kind to me and to my brother the entire journey.”

“Aye, well… ’tis said you win more flies with honey.”

Her shoulders slumped. She peered up at him, her eyes full of indecision. “How long before Piers returns?”

Broc needed time, time to expose the bowman. “Three, mayhap four days,” he told her, shrugging.

“Sweet Jesu! That long?”

Every lie seemed to come easier. “’Tis what his wife said.”

She blinked in surprise, then cocked her head at that revelation. “Piers has a wife?”

“Meghan,” he said. “He wed her little more than two months past.”

She peered down at the table and then up again.

He placed his heart in his eyes and willed her to see it. “I willna let you down, Elizabet. Ye have my word.”

“Very well,” she conceded at last, “I will stay. With one condition. You must seek out my brother and tell him where I am. Bring him to me if you can.”

Broc swallowed his guilt, nodding agreement. “I’ll do it first thing on the morrow.”

That gave Broc a single night—not enough time—but he had no choice.

H
er guardian angel stayed with her, giving her the blanket and the pallet and slept on the floor across the room.

Jesu, but she had never been more aware of a man’s presence in her entire life. She could hear every breath he took, knew every time he tossed in his sleep.

Or was he asleep?

They doused the lights over an hour ago, but still she could not close her eyes. Every time she did, she saw her brother lying upon the forest floor.

Since his return, he hadn’t been the least familiar with her, keeping to himself, in fact, as though she were cursed with some terrible disease. She might have thought he was repulsed by her, except that when he looked at her, she didn’t see revulsion at all. She saw that same look he’d given her earlier… before he’d kissed her.

She had been so certain he would expect payment for his troubles. And she had hesitated to remain alone with him for fear of it, yet he had treated her with nothing but respect and kindness.

Aye, she did believe him as he didn’t strike her as a man who would lie. Nor could she perceive one single reason he would lie simply to have her alone when in truth he could have had his way with her when he first encountered her in the woods.

Jesu, but how could he sleep so peacefully when she was wide awake?

Above her, slivers of moonlight stabbed through the roof like fine-edged knives. Tiny flying insects dove into the light and out again. Elizabet watched them with a sense of growing agitation.

He’d promised to seek out her brother first thing in the morn. Likely he was anticipating a quick end to this ordeal. After all, this wasn’t his problem. It was hers.

And she still didn’t know his name.

She wasn’t certain why she hadn’t simply asked, except that somehow it seemed too personal. They were hardly friends.

“Are you sleeping?” she whispered before she could stop herself.

There was no answer.

She said it louder. “Hey… are you sleeping?”

Still no answer.

“Well, of course you are!” she muttered to herself, and couldn’t explain the sudden sense of disappointment she felt at discovering it was so.

“Jesu!”

Why should she care if her presence wasn’t enough to keep him awake. Why did she feel so vexed that he was sleeping so contentedly in his little corner of the room when she could not?

She kicked the too short blanket down over her feet. She just couldn’t sleep, and it was colder than she’d ever remembered it being in her life. And she couldn’t fathom how he could sleep so obliviously! He must be made of stone! Her fingers and toes had long since gone numb. And her teeth were chattering. She pulled the covers up and curled her legs more tightly beneath her, trying to ward off the chill.

“You never troubled yourself to tell me your name!” she hissed into the darkness.

“Ye never bothered to ask,” he replied at once.

Her heart jolted at the sound of his voice. “I… uh… thought you were asleep.”

Broc smiled to himself. That much was obvious. “So it seems.” God’s teeth, how the hell could he sleep when he knew she was lying so near? Without doubt, she was the most lovely woman he had ever set eyes on in his life, Sassenach or nay, and no matter that he tried not to see her as a woman, he could not suppress the images that had come to haunt his waking dreams.

But he didn’t want her to know he was awake, because it was easier to deny his desire if he didn’t have to speak to her and hear her voice—if he didn’t have to look at her face by candlelight and wonder how many other men had gazed into those lovely green eyes. He was becoming obsessed with thoughts about her.

“They call me Broc Ceannfhionn.”

“Broc… Kyonin,” she repeated, and was silent a moment, as though considering his name.

“It means Broc the Blond.”

“Well, that makes sense.”

Broc grimaced into the darkness. Was it a good thing to be fair? He wondered. Did she find him as beautiful as he found her? His face burned at the thought.

“Tell me about yourself, Broc Kyonin.”

Broc was unaccustomed to making idle chatter, particularly with highborn English lassies—and he was even less comfortable talking about himself.

“Well, let’s see… I dinna have fleas anymore,” he told her, and hoped she appreciated that fact. Thanks to Page, he no longer walked about scratching his head like some mangy beast. He had loved his Merry fiercely, but fleas were certainly one thing he didn’t miss about her.

He thought he heard her giggle, but it was so soft a sound he couldn’t be certain. He wouldn’t blame her for laughing. What an idiot he must sound like. Put him face to face with a woman he wanted to bed, and he suddenly became an imbecile.

“Well… I don’t have fleas either,” she countered, her tone slightly amused, and he understood she was mocking him.

He felt his cheeks grow warmer but grinned despite himself.

Wench.

He wanted to know everything about her. Who was her father? Who was her mother? How long was she to remain in Scotia? Was she in love with some fortunate man? Had she come to be wed? Had her father sent her to Piers to be bartered in marriage?

Broc winced at that thought. He hoped not.

Neither of them spoke for the longest time, and the hovel fell silent save for the chattering of the lass’ teeth.

Broc lay there, yearning for the sound of her voice, his body taut with desire. No simple longing was this. Nay. The more he tried to deny it, the more he hungered for the taste of her flesh, the more he thirsted for the sweet nectar of her mouth. He was glad for the darkness that hid the evidence of his desire. Had he a blanket, he would have easily erected himself a tent large enough to fit both of them beneath.

Her teeth continued to chatter.

“Are ye cold, lass?” His voice was thick with lust, he knew, but he hoped she wouldn’t notice.

“I never imagined a summer night could be so wintry!”

He chuckled at her lighthearted complaint. “’Tis the Highland winds.”

“I suppose.”

Once again silence fell between them.

Broc wondered what else to say. He didn’t really want her to go to sleep just yet. He wanted to know more. Where did she grow up? And what was her favorite color?

She saved him the effort of finding suitable conversation. “How well do you know Piers?”

“Not verra well at all.”

“I see.”

She went silent again, and Broc knit his brows, at a loss. Never had his palms sweated this much when Meghan spoke to him, lovely though she was. What was wrong with him? “So… then… have ye come to wed?” he asked far more bluntly than he’d intended.

“Me?” He heard her turn toward him upon her pallet, and he tried to imagine what she looked like lying there in the dark. “Oh, nay!”

He nearly sighed in relief.

“My father thought we would fare better with Piers as my brothers and sisters are many. He couldn’t provide for us all.”

Her disclosure left him feeling envious. He’d always wondered what it would be like to have siblings. In fact, he’d had a baby sister, but he barely remembered her. She’d died when the English had raped his village—in his mother’s arms—cut down by the murderous bastards. Erin had been her name. How old would she be now? It gave him a prickle of guilt that he couldn’t recall. He’d been seven when he’d come to the MacKinnons. His sister had been mayhap two at the time of her death. And it had been nearly twenty-three years since he’d come to Chreagach Mhor. He pushed the memories away and resolved not to let Elizabet down.