Ella's Desire (Borderland Ladies Book 3)

by Madeline Martin

  “Are you eager to attend court after the wedding?” Lady Calville asked.

  It took a moment for Ella to realize Lady Calville was addressing her. She pursed her brows. “I beg your pardon?”

  Lady Calville darted a glance to Bronson, seeming suddenly uncertain of herself. “Are you eager to attend court after the wedding?” Lady Calville repeated. “Of course, you are always welcome to come to Berkley Manor. We would love the company.”

  The servants laid out two trenchers of steaming meat, venison as well as pheasant, in front of them. Nan had gone through considerable effort to make the new guests feel welcome.

  “That is kind of you, Brigid.” Bronson sliced off a bit of pheasant and deposited it on Ella’s plate. “But we’ll be returning to court as soon as the wedding has completed.”

  Ella stared at him, stunned by this news. Foolish though it might be, in the entire time of their courtship, never once had she considered where they would live. She’d only been focused on Bronson, on how he made her feel.

  He then sliced off a bit of pheasant for himself and did not take any of the venison. Ella’s stomach soured. Clearly, she did not know this man she would wed at all.

  17

  Supper lasted the better part of a lifetime. For truly, there was nothing worse than having to play at being joyful when one felt anything but within.

  Court.

  The word swelled in Ella’s mind until it consumed her. She wanted to turn to Bronson and demand to know why they must go to court. Surely there must be somewhere else they might live.

  “I hear there is a village nearby,” Lady Calville said.

  Ella’s smile was beginning to strain her face and her cheeks trembled with the effort to maintain the pleasant demeanor. “Aye, there is.”

  “I should like to go at some point.” Lady Calville took a bite of her food.

  Her plate had been laden with food two times over and now only several pieces of roasted turnips remained. Strange that a woman as thin as she could eat with such vigor.

  “William goes often,” Bronson offered suddenly. He nodded at Ella as though wanting her to add more.

  “Aye, he does,” Ella continued. “He is well-liked there, as he offers aid to many of the families and always has marzipan for the children.”

  Lady Calville appeared taken aback by this information. “That is exceptionally kind of him.”

  “Aye, and we can go together on market day some time if you wish,” Ella said.

  Lady Calville nodded. “Aye, I would like that very much.”

  The servants came around to clear the plates. Lady Calville gave a regretful stare as her plate with the remaining bits of turnip was taken.

  Ella leaned closer to Lady Calville. “They can leave it if you like.”

  Lady Calville waved her hand with a little laugh. “Nay, ’tis nothing left.”

  With supper having finished, Ella anticipated some indication from Bronson, either an offer to walk her to her chamber, or even a silent nudge to indicate he wanted her to visit him later.

  Berry pastries were served with fluffs of cream, followed by the pouring of more wine, and still Bronson did not offer any sign of wishing to be alone with Ella. The bewilderment and frustration she’d felt earlier compounded into hurt.

  At last, Lady Calville finally declared herself exhausted from the journey and was shown to her room. Once she had left, the remainder of the supper party began to make their departure.

  Bronson caught Ella’s hand as she was beginning to leave and ran a finger down her palm. Pleasant chills prickled over her skin.

  “I’d like to come to your room tonight,” he whispered. “I believe we have unfinished business, as you put it.”

  Her mind shoved into the forefront memories of the pleasure they so often shared. The irritation she’d felt earlier slowly waned as her breath hitched. Before she realized what she was doing, she was nodding in ready agreement to see him.

  As she waited for him later that night, her body warred with her mind, craving physical release as much as it did answers. When at last the latch to her door clicked open, she was met with a rush of bittersweet anticipation.

  Bronson strode in wearing the same tunic and trews he had at supper, his intense gaze locked on her. A shiver of excitement ran through her.

  “I see you left more clothing for me to remove.” He closed the distance between them and gently nudged her back against the wall. His pelvis met hers with an eager flex, his arousal already evident through the layers of clothing. “I’d hoped you’d be naked on the bed, waiting for me with that little smile you give me.”

  He ran his finger over her breast, teasing the nipple hard through the silk.

  Though simple, the caress made her go damp with arousal. “What smile?”

  “The one you give me when you do wicked things.” He tilted her face up and leaned close for a kiss, when Ella put a hand to his chest.

  “Stop.”

  He froze and lifted a brow in question.

  “You never informed me we were going to court,” she said.

  He leaned an arm against the wall, casual and intimate all at once. “I didn’t think it warranted saying. Where else would we go?” His finger toyed free the bow of her sark from beneath her kirtle.

  Ella leaned her head back to see him better in the low light. “To Berkley Manor.”

  He frowned, as if the idea had never occurred to him. “That is Brigid and Lark’s home.”

  “It could be ours too,” Ella said hopefully. “Or we could go to my dower lands.” The last suggestion was more ridiculous than logical, but he did not laugh.

  “My home has always been at court.” He lowered his face once more and bit the ribbon to pull it free. “And it will be your home as well.”

  She put her hand to his chest and again, he stopped. “I don’t enjoy court.”

  He was daft if he had not gathered as much through the many conversations they’d had on the topic. She had languished over the pomp of it all and how terribly uncomfortable the clothes were. How could he not know?

  “You could go to Berkley Manor.” He traced his finger down the side of her jaw and ran the tip over her lips.

  Mayhap he was taking her idea into consideration after all. Ella relaxed somewhat.

  “Although, I would want to visit with you often.” Bronson tilted her face up to his. “I cannot imagine going long without this. Without you.”

  He bent to kiss her neck, but she pushed her hand to his chest a final time.

  “You would be at court without me?” she asked.

  “It’s where I belong, Ella.”

  “I don’t want to go to court.” Tears burned in her eyes and she slid away from beneath his arm, turning her face so he would not see them.

  “It’s your place as my wife to go with me.” Though he spoke gently, the words still struck deep within her. “But I will not force you.” He came behind her and caressed the side of her neck. “Get on the bed. I want to taste you.”

  His words might have swayed her from this conversation moments before, but not now. Not when the hurt of realization echoed through her like something hollow and barren.

  She shook her head, beyond any lustful temptations. “I need time to think.”

  There was a moment of hesitation before he spoke again. “Take all the time you need, my dove.”

  And with that, he was gone. But his tenderness lingered behind. He wanted to be with her. Because he loved her.

  How often had he shown her the depth of his affection for her?

  Enough for her to believe it. Enough for her to feel as though she was in love with him. Only now she was beginning to realize mayhap she did not know him at all. For if a man truly loved a woman, how could he allow himself to be separated from her?

  And if she truly loved him, would she doubt this marriage so much?

  The following day, Bronson did not see Ella when he broke his fast. Eager as Bronson was to hunt with
the Earl of Werrick, he’d wanted the opportunity to speak to Ella before their departure.

  He paused in the sunlit solar and cast a guilty glance at the neat row of books. He had stopped reading Ella’s stories. Based on her reaction to him the prior evening, he had stopped being her hero as well. The thought left an unpleasant sting in his chest.

  She did not wish to go to court, and yet he could not imagine his life without it. The merriment, the brilliance of life, the hope that the king might one day seek his counsel. Bronson was an earl. It was his duty to be at court, to be with his king.

  He stood before the row of books and reached for a red one with no markings to be seen upon its creased leather spine. One Ella had written.

  The sound of laughter trickled up from outside. A glance out the glass window showed Leila and Lark darting about on a stretch of grass with Hardy tearing ahead of them in a gray blur. A smile stretched over Bronson’s lips.

  “Bronson,” Brigid’s familiar voice pulled his attention from the window.

  “Good morrow, Brigid. I trust you slept well.”

  “Aye.” Her eyes swept around the sunny room and flicked up toward the colorfully painted rafters. “How could I not amid such beauty?”

  Her awe struck Bronson in a tender place. This was not how her life should have been. Brigid was a countess, a woman who should not be impressed by a leaded glass window and a bit of paint.

  “My father should have taken you to court,” Bronson said.

  Brigid lowered her gaze from the brightly colored ceiling. “I don’t know that I would have liked it.”

  “You would have had fine clothes, costly furnishings such as these, food to eat.” Bronson glanced at the book in his hand. Mayhap Brigid and Lark might even have learned to read. “He didn’t give you the option to go, did he?”

  “Nay.” Brigid strode toward the shelves of books and her fingers hovered over the neatly lined spines. As if reconsidering, she withdrew her hand.

  “And you never asked him?” Bronson pressed. He drew a book from the row, one with gold leaf layered over the soft leather, and handed it to her.

  Brigid opened her mouth, as if to protest, but she closed her fingers around the book. “I did not.”

  “Why did he leave you there at Berkley Manor, Brigid?” Bronson clenched his jaw in frustration. “We had wealth enough at court, and he always told me we should care for women, but then the way he treated you and Lark…” The whole mess of it was too baffling.

  “I should like not to speak ill of the dead.” Brigid opened the book and ran her finger along a painting of a woman peering through a castle window, the blues and reds vibrant against the parchment.

  Bronson fisted his hand at his side. “I have plenty ill to say of the dead when it comes to my father, and the whole of it centers on you and Lark.”

  “It was my fault.” Brigid kept her gaze fixed on the book, wandering over letters she could not read. “I got with child immediately after we were wed. I was ill through most of it and when Lark came, it was too soon. Your father…” Brigid paused, as though collecting her thoughts. “He did not believe Lark to be his child.”

  “That’s preposterous,” Bronson growled. “One need only look at the child—”

  “He did not.” Brigid closed the book. “He would not.”

  “And so, he left you in the country with nothing.” Bronson’s stomach churned with disgust for the man he had once regarded so highly. The life they led had been a good one, filled with feasts and hunting and carousing. Aye, his father had had his share of mistresses, as did most men at court. While it never sat well with Bronson, he overlooked it. Everyone did.

  It sickened him now to think of the fine lodgings those women had been kept in, the silks they wore, the gems glittering at their throats and fingers.

  All while Brigid and Lark were nearly starving.

  “We had Berkley Manor.” Brigid placed the book back on the shelf. “The land provided. And we’ve had each other, and even wonderful Jane, who has stayed on for so many years.”

  “You will have far more going forward,” Bronson vowed. “With this marriage, I will become a wealthy man. I intend to use that to see your life set to rights, starting with Berkley Manor.”

  It was the first time he’d said the words aloud, that he’d be wealthy once he wed Ella. That he was poor with nothing to his name now. The announcement rang hollow within him.

  “Do not simply marry for fortune.” Brigid turned to him, her face relaxing into a smile. “Though I think you do not. Lady Ella has a way of lighting up the room. And your face.” Brigid reached out and took his hand with a gentle squeeze. “I hope you find happiness with your new bride.”

  The sting in Bronson’s chest was back. He nodded slowly. “As do I.” He glanced out the window to find the topic of their conversation slowly walking through the garden. Her hair was unbound and blowing in a gentle breeze. Moppet darted about behind her like a loyal dog, one with a foul disposition.

  “My lord.” Rafe appeared in the doorway and gave a polite bow. “Your horse is being brought around.”

  Bronson backed away from the window. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  Brigid inclined her head respectfully. “By all means.”

  He exited the room but did not head toward the stables. Nay, he walked in the opposite direction, toward the gardens. “I will be but a moment,” he said to Rafe. “There is something I must do before our departure.”

  Rafe bowed again with acknowledgment. “Aye, my lord. I’ll inform the Earl of Werrick of your slight delay.”

  Bronson nodded his thanks and quickened his pace, away from the solar and Brigid and even hunting, and raced to where he knew Ella to be.

  18

  Ella braced her fingertips on a thick tree branch for balance and tiptoed closer to peer through a crisscrossing of twigs to where a nest lay, snug in a cradle of rough bark and leaves. Fuzzy gray bodies writhed and wriggled against one another; their protestations of hunger sharp in the spring air.

  Ella held her breath, as though that might somehow keep them unaware of her presence and counted the small nest of birds. Three.

  Her heart dipped low into her stomach.

  Only yesterday, there had been five.

  The realization made her feel even more miserable than she already did. Tears welled in her eyes.

  Court.

  And if she chose not to go, she would never see Bronson. What was even worse still, he appeared to be fine with such an arrangement.

  She ground her teeth and returned her stare to the small nest.

  Ella had been tracking the progress of the birds since she first found the eggs, noting how large the nest had become, what materials were gathered to put into it, when the first shells had begun to crack. If only counting had not been part of her inquisitive observation.

  Initially there had been eight eggs, each as small as a thimble and brilliantly blue. After several days, an egg had gone missing. When the birds hatched, one had never opened. Shortly after their birth, she had found another one, cold and still below the shallow nest.

  Ella sighed. Mayhap she ought to close the door on her curiosity regarding the functionality of nature. It was uncaring and cruel.

  Or mayhap one day she would simply stop counting.

  She glanced once more at the nest and found the new threads of color running through the uppermost portion of its walls. Bits of blue in various shades with flecks of gold showed against the natural dun.

  A twig snapped and she jerked her head in that direction, her hand going for her dagger. Her gaze did not search far before landing on the handsome face of Bronson. He stood out like a beacon with his berry red cloak and bright blue doublet.

  He nodded to her. “Good morrow.”

  She returned the gesture and the reply.

  “You shouldn’t be out here alone.” He spoke with a jocular confidence that rankled her.

  Ella turned away from him, putting her attenti
on back to the birds. “I can handle myself.”

  “Aye, I’ve seen that. Which is what gives me cause to worry.”

  Suddenly the openness of the garden felt too small. She did not want to be out here with him, breathing in his warm, expensively spiced scent that reminded her of stolen moments of passion.

  Her nipples tingled at the memory. Those days had been so simple, so perfect. So lacking in reality that she ought to have known better. She looked down upon him with a ready excuse on her tongue, eager to flee, but paused at his expression.

  He stared at the bird’s nest with a frown creasing his brow.

  “What is it?” She glanced anxiously at the birds once more to confirm that they were still safe.

  His confident grin faltered to something sheepish. “You’ll think it’s foolish.”

  If he’d meant to rouse her genuine interest, he had succeeded. She motioned for him to continue.

  “There are only three.” His voice was low with solemnity.

  Her heart gave a little skip. Had he truly noticed? “And yesterday there were five,” she said.

  He started at this, as though he was surprised to learn of her awareness. “Aye.”

  “Mayhap we should stop counting.”

  “Is such a thing possible?” he asked.

  Ella stared up at him, seeing a different side of him. “I think not.”

  “Come, let us go back to the castle.” He offered her his arm.

  She hesitated.

  He lifted his elbow higher in offering. “I wish to speak with you before I go out hunting with your father. About attending court.”

  She slipped her arm into the crook of Bronson’s elbow, which was warm and more comforting than she wanted to admit. He angled himself so his body blocked the cool wind for her.

  Before they strode off, his other hand moved discreetly, drawing something from the pocket of his doublet. As they walked forward, his arm shifted backward. It took only a furtive glance for Ella to realize he carried an unspooled bit of blue thread. His fingers brushed against one another, depositing the lone bit of woven wool into the nest.