Elizabet Page 9

  The intimate sound of her name upon his lips made her breath catch.

  What did it matter if he spoke her name so gently it made her think of a lover’s whisper? Don’t think about him that way anymore, she commanded herself.

  But how could she help it in his presence?

  It was like closing one’s eyes to the daylight and pretending the sun didn’t shine though it beat down upon your head.

  She heard his footfalls stop, so she stopped too and turned to face him.

  His face was screwed as though in pain. She resisted the urge to run to him. It served him right if his arm hurt. Mayhap next time he would think twice before he leaped over bushes to catch her unawares. She set her hands upon her hips. “What’s wrong now?”

  “’Tis only that... well...” He shook his head. “Naught,” he said. “Naught at all.”

  Elizabet spun away from him and walked faster, keenly aware that he followed, cursing him softly beneath her breath.

  Chapter 12

  Broc was having a difficult time bringing himself to tell her that the back of her skirt was caught in the chain of her girdle. She was having such a fit of temper he wasn’t certain how she would take it if he told her outright. So he kept his mouth shut.

  For her sake, he kept hoping her skirt would fall and cover those luscious and muscular little calves of hers, but it didn’t, and he wondered after a time that she didn’t feel the draft on her backside. He kept pace behind her, trying to keep his ardor cooled, but it wasn’t easy.

  Truthfully he’d always had a weakness for women’s legs, and these were likely the sweetest he had ever beheld. His hands ached to ever so gently caress them were she to find herself with an injury that needed inspecting. If he were any sort of gentleman at all, and not a barbarian as she claimed, he probably wouldn’t be looking, but he couldn’t seem to look away.

  Och, but she had the loveliest little birthmark behind her left knee, perfectly formed, like a little half-moon. It was nearly covered by her gown, but it kept peeking out at him from beneath as he watched the delicate swing of her hips.

  She was no frail miss, either. He admired the way she had handled him so easily, tossing him to the ground with very little effort. Had he thought her puny simply because she was English?

  That had been his first mistake.

  His second was not telling her sooner that her legs were distracting him so.

  His throat was growing parched. His lips felt as dry as baked mud. His blood sang.

  He was only a man, he reasoned.

  He tried to keep silent, not wanting to embarrass her, but self-preservation made him finally speak up.

  “Dinna worry,” he said. “I promise never to tell anyone about that cute little mole ye have.”

  She spun to face him. “What mole?”

  He winked at her. “That adorable half-moon behind your left knee.”

  She gasped aloud, her hands instinctively going to her calf. When she realized she was exposed, she shrieked in alarm and scrambled to release the gown from her girdle. Her cheeks flamed, but she said nothing.

  Broc couldn’t suppress his grin. Despite the fire raging within his gut, his good humor was more than restored. His shoulders shook with repressed laughter. Her pretty cheeks were so red they appeared painted.

  She wouldn’t look at him now, but merely worked fiercely to undo the skirt. “Why did you not tell me?” she said after a moment.

  “I did tell you.”

  * * *

  “Hmph,” she said, still working feverishly to untangle her hem. She must have caught it when she’d lifted her gown, and then, when he’d interrupted her, she just hadn’t noticed. He’d made her so angry.

  Elizabet cursed softly beneath her breath.

  Frustrated, she unfastened the girdle, jerking it away from her dress, letting the hem fall free. She replaced the girdle at once and tried to refasten it, her cheeks burning.

  She had been so preoccupied with her thoughts and her anger that she hadn’t even noticed.

  Elizabet stood staring at him, at a loss for what to say next. Her eyes stung for an instant. This was all too much to bear. Her brother, then Tomas—and where was Harpy?

  He must have sensed her distress. “Dinna fret, lass. If it will make you feel better, I have a little cousin that runs as naked as the day she was born whenever she’s able, so I’m no stranger to bare legs, even if hers are those of a babe’s.”

  Her ire faded at his expression, though she didn’t allow herself to smile. She didn’t want to smile, though in truth, she found it hard to remain angry with him. Elizabet had truly never met a man like him. He confused her more each moment she spent with him. Still, she didn’t particularly care to let him off quite so easily.

  She smirked a little. “Aye?”

  “Aye.” He gave her a lopsided smile.

  “Thanks,” she replied, when she could. “I feel better.”

  His gesture warmed her.

  She screwed her face at him, confused. “Why are you so nice to me when I’ve given ye nothing but grief?”

  He just looked at her.

  “Is it your habit to play knight in shining armor for every woman you meet?”

  Broc continued to stare at her, considering her question. In truth, it wasn’t. But it was his habit to protect those he loved.

  Even with Page, though her father had rebuffed her, he hadn’t felt the least compelled to champion her—not in the beginning. In fact, he had felt driven to protect Iain from her. Page had had to prove herself before he’d accepted her. Until then, he’d been more than willing to simply set her free so that she could find her way to wherever she cared to go—it hadn’t mattered to him, so long as she wasn’t a threat to his kinsmen.

  So why, in truth, did he feel so obligated to protect Elizabet when she had the potential to devastate not merely his own clan, but the peace of many.

  He had no answer to that question.

  “Nay,” he said at last.

  “So why are you helping me?”

  He gave her a pointed look. “I couldn’t verra well just let the man shoot ye, lass.” He wanted suddenly to take her into his arms and gently hold her. He wanted to tell her everything would be fine.

  He wanted to kiss her.

  Was he truly jeopardizing his entire clan for his base desires? Would he have done the same had Elizabet been a man—an Englishman at that?

  He didn’t think so. Unsettled by his own questions, he frowned at her, and said, “Next time maybe I will.”

  She blinked, and her brows drew together into a frown—obviously not what she wished to hear.

  It wasn’t really what he wanted to say, either, but it was too late to recall his stupid words.

  “Well, I don’t need your help,” she assured him and spun to leave.

  Without another word, she hurried along the path ahead of him, and he started after her, muttering to himself, “Cursed woman!”

  It was so much easier to have a hound.

  * * *

  Piers’ mood was sour, to say the least.

  They’d searched the entire perimeter of his property and had found no sign of his cousin’s daughter. He was done for the afternoon, but her well-being weighed heavily upon his mind. How had he been embroiled in this situation without warning?

  “Why did Geoffrey send his children without asking me first?” he snapped at Tomas.

  Tomas shrugged as he dismounted from his horse and handed his reins to a stable boy. “He is hardly the brightest man,” Tomas remarked.

  That much was true, Piers accepted, though it annoyed him that Tomas would say so. Geoffrey had, in fact, had ample opportunity to advance himself, but had chosen to rely on his wives’ dowries to support him. And now he was wedding someone else. Who was this woman anyway? Piers had a sense that it was her fault these young people were endangered. Geoffrey might have been shiftless, but he certainly wasn’t so cold as to throw his own children out of his home. Piers didn�
��t like this new bride already— nor did he particularly like her emissary brother.

  He eyed the man speculatively as they made their way toward the hall. There was something about the lad that set his teeth on edge—his mannerisms, perhaps. His arrogance was offensive, and furthermore, his lack of emotion over John’s death was suspicious—not to mention that his anger over Elizabet’s disappearance seemed somehow contrived and empty.

  Elizabet. Poor girl. Though he hadn’t asked to be her guardian, Piers would feel responsible if she came to harm. As it was, he felt no small amount of guilt over John’s death. He could have at least met them at the border and given them safe passage—if only he had known they were on their way.

  Hadn’t his cousin realized these lands were full of strife still? These were perilous times even for native clans but particularly so for an outlander. Hadn’t Geoffrey realized that was why Piers had been sent here in the first place? It had been his objective to penetrate these people, to befriend them if possible, and to unite them with England by force if need be—a duty to which he no longer felt entirely committed.

  These Highlanders had earned his highest respect. They were a fiercely loyal people, who protected their clansmen without reservation. That he’d accomplished some manner of peace between them was less a tribute to his fighting skills, for which he’d been chosen initially, and more a matter of God’s intervention. He’d fallen in love with the most beautiful woman in all of Scotia. She just happened to have a very influential family.

  “If Elizabet is not found, Geoffrey will not rest until her death is avenged,” Tomas declared pompously.

  They entered the hall, and Meghan ran toward them, her expression full of concern. When she reached Piers, he embraced her and bent to kiss her upon the cheek. “We found nothing at all,” he told her, ignoring Tomas’s bluster.

  With his arm about Meghan’s shoulder, he turned to address Tomas. “What makes you think Elizabet is dead?”

  He seemed startled by the question, nonplussed. “John is dead,” he replied, as though that were portent.

  Piers nodded soberly. John was, indeed, dead—poor little fellow. The slit in his throat was wider than the English Channel. Whoever had sliced it hadn’t intended him to survive.

  Meghan’s voice was fretful. “I cannot fathom anyone in these parts would murder a helpless woman.”

  It seemed to Piers that Tomas sneered in response. “You are such an innocent, demoiselle. There are men out here who would slice Elizabet’s throat just as readily as they would any man’s.”

  Meghan cast Piers a considering glance.

  “As a matter of fact,” Tomas persisted, “just before I left England, a young girl was discovered in the forest near Geoffrey’s keep, her body broken and desecrated, discarded after being ruthlessly used.”

  “How dreadful,” Meghan exclaimed.

  “Her tongue had been snipped out so that she could not call out for help.”

  Meghan gasped.

  “Aye, ‘tis true!” Tomas declared, watching her far too keenly.

  He was distressing her, and Piers thought he might be enjoying it.

  “That’s quite enough,” Piers said, hugging his wife. He smiled tolerantly at the man. If not for Geoffrey’s sake, he might have made him sleep in the barn. He was growing to like him less with every passing instant.

  Despite that he knew these parts not at all, Tomas had dominated the search efforts. Piers had humored him, but the day had taken its toll, and he was ready for a tankard of ale and his lovely wife’s attentions.

  “If you will excuse us,” Piers said.

  “Of course,” Tomas yielded, and without another word Piers ushered his wife away from their unwanted visitor.

  “You are squeezing my arm,” Meghan complained beneath her breath.

  Piers released her, unaware that he was hurting her. “I’m sorry, my darling.”

  “What is wrong?”

  Piers twined his hand into her hair as they walked, loving the silky feel of it. “Naught, my love. It’s just been a harrowing day.”

  She nodded, understanding, and reached out to hold his hand, casting a glance back as she did so. “I dinna think I like that man verra much,” she confessed in a whisper when they were far enough away.

  He pulled her toward the stairs that led to their chamber, wanting a little privacy before the evening meal.

  “Och, you look weary,” she said, turning to embrace him at the foot of the stairs.

  Piers held her. “I am,” he admitted. “Weary and confused.” She squeezed him, comforting him. “Did Geoffrey truly think I would deny him? Did he think I would turn away his children? I don’t understand why he did not send word so that I could give them safe passage.”

  She laid her head upon his chest, hugging him. “I dinna know, my darling.”

  Their deaths would weigh heavily upon his shoulders. He had to find Elizabet, no matter if he had to search for her clear to Edinburgh and beyond. How could he tell Geoffrey that both his youngest children had perished even before they had reached safe harbor?

  Piers recalled the boy John from his youth. That face hadn’t changed very much, and to see it in death had wrenched at his heart. The little boy John had been had followed Piers about, admiration writ upon his face, awe in his voice, and desire to earn his father’s approval so strong that it was plain even to Piers, who visited scarce at all.

  He sighed heavily. “Did you arrange the funeral for tonight?”

  Meghan looked up at him, her eyes full of compassion. “Tomorrow. My brother Gavin will come to give a short sermon.”

  Piers nodded. He didn’t really care personally whether the grave was blessed or not, but Geoffrey would.

  He reached down to touch his wife’s cheek and couldn’t help himself. He took her face into his hands and then bent to kiss her. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “What for?”

  He smiled softly at her, wanting her to realize how grateful he was for her love. “For coming into my life.”

  She returned the smile and reached up to touch his lips. “Och, husband, tonight you will be cursing me for the same when you see what I have done with the chapel.”

  Piers slanted her a look. “What chapel?”

  She grinned up at him and then turned to climb the stairs. “The one we have been building for Gavin,” she disclosed, but didn’t turn. She hurried up before him.

  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.”

  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?

  “By the stone, woman,” he exclaimed and started up the stairs after her. “I’m going to paddle that delightful bottom 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 wrap his arms around his lovely wife.

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

  Curse Tomas and Geoffrey, both.

  Chapter 13

  Elizabet 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.

  “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.