Elizabet

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  * * *

  “I saw the arrow fly,” Baldwin informed Piers. “With my own eyes!”

  Piers knew Baldwin wouldn’t lie. The man had been with him far too long.

  Ordering his wife to remain inside, he turned and slammed open the doors, flying into the night’s chaos.

  Who had cause to burn his stables? And someone had—there was no mistaking it. A burning arrow shot into the air was certainly no accident.

  “Who was left within?” Piers asked Baldwin.

  “No one, Piers. No one, though young David and his wench were inside when it happened. The girl made it out fine. David remained to open the stalls and suffered severe burns because of it, but he’s out, at least, albeit in pain.”

  Piers scowled. “Brave lad.”

  “Aye, we owe him our gratitude.”

  “I’ll see he is rewarded for his efforts.”

  Baldwin nodded. “He saved at least five mounts. Two were not so fortunate...” He hesitated. “Yours being one of them.”

  An explosion of curses erupted from Piers’ tongue. “If I discover the culprit, I swear I will hang him from the nearest tree to feed the vultures!”

  Baldwin winced.

  Piers came to a halt before the stable and stood, arms akimbo, glaring at the burning building. His men scurried about, trying in vain to put out the flames. They weren’t equipped to battle fires. The well was too far, the water supply insufficient. Their best course was to let it extinguish itself. He thanked God the stables had been constructed apart from the manor house and far from the forest. As it was, he was in danger of losing the barracks behind it, but thankfully no more than that. He’d fully intended to build a new one in time, but he couldn’t afford to do so at the moment. And yet there was no help for it. He couldn’t do without housing for his men. The horses would have to be put out in the field, and the fences would have to be secured, but the weather was mild as yet, and he wasn’t so concerned about the beasts.

  Curse whoever was responsible!

  “By the stone!” a voice shouted from a distance. “What happened here?”

  It was Tomas. His arrival couldn’t have been more ill timed.

  Or more perfect, as the case might be.

  Piers cast the man a rancorous glance, wondering where he had been riding so late. Lucky for him that he had his horse—or well-timed.

  “I thought you were going to retire for the night,” he said to the man with barely restrained animosity. There was something nefarious about his guest, something he had sensed from the first instant their eyes had met. If there hadn’t been two witnesses to corroborate his story, Piers might have called him a liar to his face.

  “I wasn’t tired, so I thought to take another look about for Elizabet.”

  “How convenient,” Piers replied acidly, clenching his teeth. He formed a fist without realizing it and released it, trying to remain calm. He silently urged the man to keep his distance, because he was about to rip his tongue from his throat.

  “A little too convenient if ye ask me,” Baldwin said low beside him.

  Tomas seemed to ignore the barb. “I feel responsible,” he said with feigned sorrow.

  Piers turned to look at him, wondering if it were a confession for the fire.

  But as he dismounted beside them, he added, “Her father placed her in my care and I feel as though I’ve failed him.”

  Piers was still glaring at him. The man turned to face the burning stables, averting his gaze. “What happened here? Did someone drop a lantern into the hay? Careless buggers!” He spat upon the ground.

  “Nay,” Piers corrected him, somehow certain Tomas knew far more about the blaze than he was willing to admit. “It seems someone torched it apurpose.”

  Tomas turned to face Piers, his expression marked with the same lack of emotion he had displayed in the case of John’s death.

  No conscience.

  No concern.

  Naught but an empty expression.

  “So you were worried about Elizabet?” Piers asked.

  Liar!

  “Aye,” Tomas replied, and turned again to gaze at the inferno. “What about the dog?” he asked without turning again to regard Piers. His voice was toneless.

  Piers merely stared at the man, a seed of suspicion beginning to take root.

  Baldwin burst forth with a string of blasphemies. “The dog!” he said, swiping at the air in anger. “We forgot about the mangy dog!”

  “What a pity,” Tomas replied and continued to stare into the flames.

  Piers blinked at his response.

  He peered back in the direction the man had come from, trying to gauge the distance an arrow could fly. He turned then to Baldwin and asked him, “From which direction did the arrow come?”

  Baldwin was still cursing over the loss of the hound. “That way,” he said, indicating the direction Tomas had come from.

  Piers flicked Tomas another glance. The man was still staring into the flames, but Piers was well aware that Tomas’s attention was directed at him.

  In that instant, he knew without a doubt, Tomas was responsible, and Piers was going to prove it.

  Without another word, he spun on his heel and left Baldwin to deal with the fire, because if he had to remain in Tomas’s presence even an instant longer, he was going to seize the man by the throat and rip out his lying, conniving tongue.

  Chapter 18

  Broc was out of breath by the time he reached the hovel. Guilt tore at him for leaving the scene of the fire. The images and sounds tormented him still. Screams and shouts filled his senses. Roaring flames stung his eyes.

  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 flaxen 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 strang
ely 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 like wheat, 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?”

  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 grim.

  “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 lass!"

  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.

  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.

  She had no idea what he was in danger of revealing; mustn’t remember their talk the other day.

  “Aye, lass, I’ll try it on, but not with you standing there.”

  Her mouth formed a little “o” and she glanced around as though looking for a place to hide.

  “Tis but a one roomed cave, Elizabet,” he said kindly, answering her question without her having to speak it.

  “I’ll just stand over here in this corner then,” she said quickly as she shuffled across the room.

  He smiled at her then, loving how flustered she appeared to be. It endeared her to him even more. Then, looking at her straight in the eyes, he lifted his index fingers and motioned that she turn around. She gasped, catching herself staring, and hastily turned about, flushing a deep shade of pink.

  Och, he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anyone or anything in his life. His soul cried out for her, cried out to bring her gifts and make her smile as she had only moments ago, cried out to hold her in his arms and keep her safe every day for the rest of her life, cried out to marry her and give her the sense of family they’d both yearned for, he could tell, for far too long.

  No one else could satisfy him. He knew that instinctively.

  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. Broc said what he meant and meant what he said. Until now. He hoped she could see past that when this was all over; see he was doing what he had to do to keep her safe.

  * * *

  As if for good measure, Elizabet buried her face in her hands, mortified by her actions. Whether she was being brazen or just oblivious, she couldn’t be sure herself. She could only hope it mattered not to Broc.

  Behind her, she could hear the shuffle of fabric and the soft clinking of his belt. Her cheeks burned as she could hear him shrugging into the tunic she’d made and she waited with bated breath, letting out a sigh as she heard the belt fasten once again.

  “Alright, lass. How does it look?”

  Taking this as her cue to turn around, Elizabet swung about excitedly.

  At the sight of Broc, fitted snuggly in the garment she’d imbued with all of the love and devotion she hoped to give him one day, she almost tripped over her own feet. She found herself steadied once again by the warm and rugged arms that now enfolded her.

  Following her own neat seam up the bright red sleeve and over the
shoulder, she met Broc’s cool blue gaze. He was smiling a smile she’d yet to see grace his lips: a heady mixture of gratitude, pride, and, dare she hope, affection.

  A smile turned one corner of his mouth. He pulled her closer and she wanted nothing more than to kiss him in that moment.

  Chapter 19

  Elizabet’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...all of you.”

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

  And then he kissed her, his lips soft and persistent...

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

  Elizabet’s heart jolted nearly out of her chest 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 likely 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…In truth, I think I’ve been yours since the moment that mutt of yours brought us together in the woods…”