Elizabet

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “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 so 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 fancied, 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.

  Minx.

  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 heart racing out of his chest. No simple longing was this. Nay. The more he tried to deny it, the more she flooded his thoughts. He was glad for the darkness that hid the deep flush of his cheeks. Had he a blanket, he would have hid beneath it for good measure.

  Her teeth continued to chatter.

  “Are ye cold, lass?” His voice faltered, 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 pillaged his village—in his mother’s arms—cut down by the murderous scoundrels. 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.

  Except that he already had.

  Her brother was dead.

  “We will discover who the bowman is, lass. Dinna fear. I willna allow him to harm ye.”

  This time her silence was fraught with worry. He could hear it in her voice when she spoke again. “I hope my brother isn’t in danger.”

  The lie weighed heavily upon him. “I’m certain he will be fine.” Heaven help him for not telling her the truth. It would haunt him later, he knew, but it couldn’t be helped.

  For the longest time neither of them spoke. Night sounds filled his ears. The scent of her drifted to where he lay shivering—sweet and warm.

  “You must be cold,” she said after a time.

  His heart beat a little faster. “A bit.”

  “Would you... like the blanket?” she surprised him by asking. “I have the pallet, after all. ’Tis only fair you should have it.”

  Broc was speechless at her gesture.

  Not since his mother had anyone cared whether he’d eaten, whether he was cold, or whether he had a soft place to lay his head. Since he’d been a wee child, he’d fended for himself. That this Englishwoman would concern herself over his comfort—and more, that she would offer to ease his misery at her own expense—moved him more than he liked to admit.

  His throat grew thicker yet. “Nay.” His intentions weren’t entirely noble when he suggested, “We could share it?”

  He grimaced, waiting for her to become incensed by the proposition, but she surprised him by saying, “It is cold...”

  Broc’s heart jolted.

  Mayhap, for her sake, he should have refused, but she promised to warm him in a way he hadn’t ever been warmed before and he could not deny himself the sweet pleasure of her warm body at his side.

  Chapter 10

  Elizabet heard him rise and squeezed her eyes shut, listening to his footsteps as he approached. He stopped abruptly at her side, peering down at her and her heart beat wildly against her ribs. Her breath came labored as she waited for him to speak.

  In truth, she’d hoped he would lie down with her, comfort her with his presence, but she hadn’t really expected him to acquiesce. Not since his return from Montgomerie’s had he made the slightest advance toward her, and he’d planted himself to sleep as far from her as he possibly could without putting himself out the door.

  His actions confused her.

  One minute he was telling her she was beautiful, kissing her passionately, the next he seemed loath even to look at her. And now he was standing before her in the darkness, waiting… for what?

  “Are ye certain, lass?”

  She wasn’t certain of anything at all anymore.

  Only now that he was standing before her, she couldn’t turn him away. Some little voice deep inside her sounded an alarm, but she strangled it. She swallowed and said, “Aye.”

  She lifted the blanket, and her throat became suddenly too thick to speak. Her heart pounding fiercely as he settled beside her, she remained silent. He took the covers from her, drawing them high about the both of them, and the shock of his touch was physical. She had never lain with any man, not even to ease the chill.

  He seemed so big, so solid, lying there. His heat permeated her entire body at once, and the chill of the night was forgotten as she lay shivering beside him.

  Without a word, he drew her close, enfolding her in his arms. “You’re trembling,” he said.

  Elizabet nodded in response. “C-Cold,” she lied.

  He nestled himself more snugly against her, lifting a hand to her nape in an attempt to weave his fingers into her hair. The tightness of her plait prevented it.

  “Och, lass, how can ye sleep wi’ your hair bound like that?”

  “I-I’m a-accustomed to it.”

  “I’d wager you would sleep more soundly, with your hair set free.”

  He didn’t ask permission to undo her plait, but his fingers skimmed the length of her hair and began to work the ribbons loose. Elizabet couldn’t find her voice to protest as his fingers worked deftly to remove the bindings. When the ribbons were free at las
t, his fingers began to undo her plait.

  Elizabet closed her eyes, trying to still the erratic beating of her heart. She could feel his heart pounding against her cheek, as fierce as her own.

  “So soft,” he whispered against her forehead, and the warmth of his lips increased her shivers. The memory of his kiss suffused her with heat.

  Heaven help her, she wanted him to kiss her again. She wanted it more than anything she had ever desired.

  Elizabet buried her face against his chest, her cheeks burning as his fingers combed through her hair, smoothing through the curls.

  He enfolded her within his arms again, squeezing gently. No one had ever touched her so tenderly. No man had ever embraced her so intimately. The warmth of his body made her flesh burn, and the gentleness of his touch sent prickles of pleasure down her spine.

  Kiss me, she silently begged.

  It was all Broc could do not to kiss her where she lay. He wanted to—Och, he wanted to. She was pressed so tightly against his body and she was trembling.

  Was she afeared?

  Was she merely cold?

  He wanted to kiss her, craved her mouth. From the moment he’d kissed her this afternoon, the taste of her had clung to his senses.

  Like a drunkard seeking ale, he bent to kiss her, fevered for the taste of her. His fingers closed about her nape, and he lowered his mouth to her lips, praying she would welcome him.

  The instant his mouth lit upon hers, he was filled with incredible bliss. His hands combed her silken hair.

  God himself couldn’t have lifted him from her in that instant, so intoxicated was he by the presence of her.

  She was playing a dangerous game, she knew, but she could scarce think to stop it.

  Her body betrayed her.

  Was she no different from her mother?

  Nay, she was not.

  No longer was she cold, but feverishly hot.

  And then, when she thought her heart could beat no faster, he kissed her deeper. It was a contentment the likes of which she’d never known before. If she could stay in this moment for an eternity she thought she might.

  And then suddenly his hands made their way to her waist, squeezing her gently and then pulling her in closer. She felt his heart thunder against her breast, but the haze of pleasure began to clear just enough for her to comprehend just where she found herself now.

  It wasn’t until that instant she found the will to resist.

  In panic, she pushed him away. She tore herself out of his arms, scrambling away.

  He didn’t stir, merely lay there in stony silence, staring up at her in the darkness.

  She wasn’t certain who she was angrier with, Broc or herself. He was a man, after all, and she should have expected no less from him, but she should have known better than to invite him under her covers.

  What was wrong with her? She was, in truth, no better than her mother! What had she done?

  “You’re no different from the rest!” she said in anger and shame.

  When he still made no advance toward her, she backed herself into a corner and sat there, tears clouding her eyes. He had the blanket and the pallet now, but she didn’t care. It served her right for being such a silly fool. She swallowed convulsively, shame washing over her.

  He said nothing more, nor did he move. And he must have fallen asleep shortly thereafter, because she heard his smooth, even breath from where she sat. But sleep eluded her until deep into the night.

  Broc listened to her weeping and cursed himself.

  Somehow, she managed to sleep, despite the cold, despite her sorrow, and Broc returned the blanket to her, tucking it gently about her slender body. She slept on, oblivious to his ministrations. And in spite of his guilt, he managed to fall asleep too.

  In the morning, he left her slumbering and hurried to Chreagach Mhor. Iain would wonder where he’d been.

  Some part of him felt obliged to tell his laird everything. Iain had always stood behind him. But thereabouts lay the dilemma. How could he live with himself if he involved anyone else in this deception? He had no idea how to resolve this.

  He didn’t know what to do.

  The village below Chreagach Mhor’s soaring keep was just now awaking. He could hear his little cousin’s giggles somewhere in the distance and a dog barking, as well. The familiar sounds left him wistful, because he knew it wasn’t Merry that Constance was harassing this morn.

  “Where ha’e ye been?” his cousin Cameron asked, rushing up to greet him. Cameron skipped backwards, facing Broc, and judging by the eager look upon his face, he was excited by something he was about to share.

  “I slept at Colin’s,” Broc lied, and his face warmed. He wasn’t a very good liar, but he didn’t seem to have a choice these days. He still hadn’t decided whether or not he would tell Iain, but Cameron was not the sort to keep confidences, and his cousin was the last person Broc would confide in.

  “At Colin’s! Och, man! On his wedding night, Broc?” He stopped for an instant, staring at Broc as though he thought him mad.

  Broc kept walking, eyeing his cousin with annoyance. “I didna say I slept in their bed, Cameron!”

  His rebuke didn’t begin to dampen Cameron’s good humor. He caught up to Broc once more and thrust a callow grin into Broc’s face. “Aye, well, then who kept ye warm?” He wiggled his brows.

  Broc arched a brow at his cousin. “That,” he said, “is none of your concern.”

  “Hold on, Broc! Dinna speak to me as though I were a wee bairn! I’m old enough to have my own woman, don’t ye know.”

  “So ye are.”

  “Anyway,” Cameron continued, “I’m glad to see you turn your attentions elsewhere because I ha’e seen the way ye look at Page FitzSimon.”

  Broc halted abruptly, leveling his young cousin a warning look. The very thought of bedding Iain’s wife made Broc’s stomach roil. “Dinna ever speak like that again about your laird’s wife! I will cut out your tongue myself if Iain doesna beat me to it!”

  Cameron’s smile wilted. “By the stone,,” he said. “Ye’re a sour-tempered oaf!”

  Broc started toward the storage house, intending to gather supplies and go. Elizabet would likely be waking soon, and he didn’t want to frighten her with his absence.

  Then again she might wish never to see him after last night.

  Cameron threw up his hands and followed. “What bug crawled up your backside and died? I ha’e never seen ye so surly!”

  Broc gave his cousin a withering glance. “If my temper is sour, ’tis because my whereabouts are my own concern, Cameron, not yours. Dinna ever forget that.”

  “Och, mon! Forget it! I dinna ken what’s gotten into ye this morn, but ye’re as cantankerous as a drunk without his whiskey!”

  “I didn’t sleep well,” Broc explained. And it was true. His conscience had gotten the best of him.

  Cameron opened his mouth to speak again, but after taking one look at Broc’s expression, he obviously thought better of it. He closed it again.

  Broc had hoped to gather his supplies and be gone before anyone noticed him. It seemed that was not going to be the case. Constance spotted him suddenly and came barreling toward him, calling out his name.

  For her, he managed a bright smile. His youngest cousin was a joyful child who never went five minutes without laughter spilling from her lips.

  “Broc! Broc!” she screamed, and threw her arms open wide.

  Broc stooped to catch her. “Brat!” he exclaimed as she hurled herself into his arms. She giggled, and he tousled her hair, lifting her up into the air.

  “Ha’e ye heard the news?” Cameron asked.

  “What news?”

  “Two Englishmen were slain in the woods near Chreagach Mhor.”

  Broc’s stomach turned, but he pretended aloofness. “Serves them right for being where they dinna belong.”

  Constance strangled his neck and then suddenly let him go. “Down!” she demanded.

  “One of th
em was Montgomerie’s kin,” Cameron added. “Montgomerie is furious. He cam through this morn.”

  Broc feigned a smile for Constance’s sake. “I want down!” she shrieked, and he set her down at once, patting her on the head. She ran away to play. “Be good,” he called after her.

  “We’re going to have to lock her up someday, I think,” Broc remarked.

  “Apparently a woman has gone missing, too,” Cameron persisted. “Montgomerie and Meghan’s brothers have gotten together a search party. Piers will not rest until he sees the villain brought to justice.”

  Broc started to walk, pretending only a casual interest. “Do they know who killed them?”

  “Nay. No one knows,” his cousin revealed. “But they claim it was a giant.”

  Broc rolled his eyes.

  “Aye! They say he had arms as big as his thighs and a neck as big as a tree.”

  Broc glanced down at his arms and then back at his cousin, screwing his face. He was a big man, but not that big. He cast his cousin a dubious glance. “And does he blow smoke from his nostrils and are his teeth as long and sharp as daggers?”

  “’Tis what they are saying,” Cameron assured him.

  Broc shook his head. “Idiot Sassenachs.”

  Cameron laughed. “’Tis the truth,” he agreed. “At any rate, they’ve every clan within ten leagues up in arms over it all.”

  Broc gritted his teeth. “And what has Iain to say over it all?”

  “He will back Montgomerie, he says—willna allow any man to endanger the alliances formed these past few months. ’Tis too precious, he says.”

  It was indeed. It had taken Iain’s entire lifetime to achieve it. Broc would never ask him to risk it. It wouldn’t be right. “I canna blame him,” he said, and sighed.

  “Nor I,” Cameron agreed, sounding more like a man in that instant than Broc had ever witnessed. “Sassenach or nay, Montgomerie is here to stay, it seems, and Iain says it would behoove us to back him.”

  Broc stopped and turned to his cousin, taking his measure. The lad was maturing, Broc was pleased to see. He reached out, smacking him on the shoulder.