Ella's Desire (Borderland Ladies Book 3)

by Madeline Martin

  Catriona.

  Ella snapped her gaze to the army, only yards in front of them now. The moon glowed down, illuminating tunics with the fierce black hawk standing out against the green tincture field, and a stripe of yellow running down its center. She cried out.

  The Werrick livery.

  These were her soldiers.

  Cat rode at the head of them in full armor, another arrow nocked, then flying, then nocked again. The wave of soldiers rushed forward and fell around them in a curtain of protection.

  “Lady Ella.” Drake leapt from his horse and ran to her.

  “Bronson,” Ella said raggedly. “Lord Calville. He’s been struck. I fear I cannot hold him much longer.”

  Drake was at her side in a moment, helping to pull Bronson from Kipper’s back. She relinquished her hold on him, allowing Drake to take his weight from where she’d clutched him to her. Immediately, the heat from his body against her skin cooled, and her arms ached with heavy stiffness.

  Drake set to work, summoning soldiers with the fastest horses to see Bronson to the castle, while Ella, Lark and Leila were escorted back with the protection of an army. Werrick Castle came into view just as the sky began to lighten with the promise of a new day.

  Cat pulled her horse alongside Ella’s. “You had us all worried.”

  “Do you think Papa will forgive me?” Ella asked.

  Cat glanced to Bronson’s horse with Leila and Lark on the back, and her mouth curled up into the optimistic smile Ella knew so well. “Aye. But I don’t know that I’ll ever forgive you for going without me. I’m glad we were scouring the lands through the night trying to find you. We were about to return to the keep when we caught sight of you.”

  Ella would ordinarily have had a quick reply for her sister, but this time any quip she might have uttered was rendered silent by the weight of her concern. They’d made it to England, to Werrick Castle and Lark and Leila were now safe.

  But what of Bronson? He hadn’t even grunted as he was hefted into the saddle in front of Drake. She glanced up and found Leila watching her with a solemn expression.

  Ella’s youngest sister dropped her head in apology, as though it had been her fault. It was not. Ella knew this.

  Ella’s throat grew tight.

  Bronson was a hero of the truest kind.

  He’d saved Leila’s life by throwing himself in front of that reiver’s blade.

  They stopped at the castle as the portcullis rose. Her father waited on the other side in a hastily donned tunic and trews. Once the gate opening was waist-high, he ducked beneath and ran toward them. It was a sprint of desperation, one born of fear and love brought together in a powerful tangle.

  Leila jumped down from her horse as their father arrived. He pulled her into his arms, and she tucked her dark head to his chest while he murmured the reassurances of a father who cared immeasurably for his daughter. A moment behind him was Brigid, racing toward Lark with her night rail billowing out from beneath a cloak. They fell into one another, weeping, while William regarded the reunion from a distance with a relieved smile.

  The earl released Leila and turned his attention to Ella. His eyes were still glassy with tears, his weathered face lined with tension. She cringed and met his gaze. The sun was just beginning to stain the sky with red and turned the blue of his eyes to an ethereal purple.

  “Ella.” His voice was firm and low with warning. The way he’d spoken when she was a girl and disobeyed him.

  She lowered her head at the gentle chastisement. The toes of her shoes were still dark with the dirt from the hut floor where she and Bronson had waited to rescue Lark and Leila. That had been a lifetime ago. Or so it felt. Certainly, it did not seem to have been mere hours. “Forgive me, Papa.”

  “You could have been taken as well,” he said sternly.

  She nodded and continued to stare at the black dirt embedded in the creases of leather.

  “I could have lost two daughters at once.” Her father’s voice broke off, causing her to lift her gaze.

  His eyes were red-rimmed and glossy. “It was so risky, Ella. Too risky.”

  Several months back, Ella would have run into his arms, as much to allay his tears as her own. She’d blinked them back, unwilling to allow emotion to carry her away.

  “Bronson,” she choked. “I may have lost him.”

  The hard clench of her father’s jaw told her exactly what his assessment of Bronson’s injuries were. “He is with Isla.”

  Ella nodded her gratitude and ran in the direction of the keep.

  “Ella.” Her father’s voice gave her pause. “Do not go.”

  She didn’t turn back. “I wasn’t there for Mother. I will be there for him.” Her voice quavered. She had not been strong enough to face her mother’s death when she had been a girl. But she was strong enough now and made stronger by Bronson.

  Ella wound through the familiar passage to where Isla kept a small room of her goods and curatives. Images of Bronson flitted through her mind unbidden with each step. The way he’d stepped in front of the dagger, saving Leila, how he’d run without complaint until he dropped from the intensity of his wound.

  But him being a hero had always been there. Even in his charm, when he’d caught her as she fell from the tree that first day, the choicest cuts of meat he put on her plate, the little smile he gave when he talked about reading the stories she had written.

  He had been a hero all along and she had been too stubborn to see it, too locked on the idea of a couple falling in love first and then becoming betrothed. Then later, too blinded by lust.

  But now she was in love. Not through desire as before when he’d made her breathless with his kisses and the way he touched her, but true, heart-pounding, soul-clenching, all-the-world consuming love.

  She loved him and she had to tell him.

  Her pace quickened down the hall all the way to Isla’s healing room. The door was closed. Ella didn’t ask if she could enter, for she might be told she could not. She wouldn’t be put off again, not like she had been with her mother. Then she’d been too young, grateful for the barrier of a heavy door, for Cat hugging her and chanting that their mother would be fine.

  Ella pushed into the room and stopped short. Bronson lay on the table, still and pale, blood smeared over his torso. The room was quiet. So quiet, it pressed on her soul and made a deep ache echo within her chest.

  Isla glanced up and the sober expression on her face made Ella’s stomach drop.

  Bronson was so damnably tired. Exhaustion tugged at him, luring him to sleep, but he fought against it.

  Ella. Where was she?

  She had been at his back, holding him in the saddle. Or was it, she had been running at his side in the debatable lands? Or mayhap, she was on the upper level of the tower amid sounds of battle, while he’d been desperately climbing the ladder?

  The harder he tried to concentrate on what had last happened, the more the events pushed away from him. Where was Ella? Lark and Leila. They had rescued them, hadn’t they?

  He groaned and the sound of it resonated with the grinding pain in his head. Why couldn’t he think?

  And where was he, for that matter?

  He dragged his eyes open with great effort. The walls were stone, several shelves laden with various pots and bottles. He needed to sit up, but his body would not comply with the thought, his limbs too heavy. His efforts slipped beneath a wave of fatigue and he succumbed, his eyes closing.

  “Bronson, you needn’t move.” A woman’s voice sounded at his side.

  “Ella.” Her name rasped from his throat.

  This time, it was easier to open his eyes, especially when he knew she would be there. A reward for his efforts.

  And indeed, she was. Her hair was bound back with several loose tendrils falling around her face. She blinked down at him.

  “Bronson?” She leaned over and graced him with the sweet smell of sunshine and freshness.

  He breathed her in with reveren
ce. “Ella.”

  She held his face in her cool hands, her blue eyes wide and desperate as they searched his. “I’ll marry you, Bronson. Even if it means going to court, I will marry you.”

  “I don’t know where I am, or how I got here. But I like the words you’re saying.” His voice was weak, his speech clumsy and difficult to manage. He grinned, regardless, in an attempt to set her at ease. “Are we in the tower?”

  Ella shook her head. “We’re at Werrick Castle.”

  His mind clouded over. The memories of Scotland… Had those been a dream? “Lark,” he said. “Leila.”

  “Safe.” Ella stroked her hand over Bronson’s brow with tenderness.

  His memories jumbled against one another. “We saved them?”

  Concern darkened the brightness of Ella’s gaze. “Aye, we did.” She straightened. “Isla, I think something is amiss.”

  The healer’s puckered face loomed over him. She touched his cheeks where Ella’s hands had been only moments before, her fingers dry and warm. Her amber eyes bored into his. “He’s fine.”

  “But he doesn’t remember,” Ella protested.

  Bronson wanted to argue that he did remember. But he didn’t. At least not all of it. Nothing more than snatches of images fluttering through his brain like birds taking flight on a hunt.

  Isla lifted her shoulder in a shrug and withdrew from his line of sight. “The lad has bled heavily. It can leave them addled.”

  Bronson scoffed. “I assure you, I am not addled.”

  “Where are ye then? Do ye remember?” Isla asked.

  More images flitted in his mind. A reiver lying dead on a floor among the hooves of cows, a blue ribbon on the earth beside him. A drunk man propped against the stone wall of a tower. The stars overhead, bright and blinking down at him. He had known where he was but couldn’t remember.

  “Aye,” Isla confirmed. “Ye’re addled.”

  “For how long?” Ella put her hand to his chest.

  The healer peered down at him, her mouth grim. “May be a day or two. He’ll be weak for several months is my guess, with how near he was to death.”

  Several months? Bronson tried to sit up, but his body would not cooperate. Not when he was so damn tired.

  “But he’ll live?” Ella asked, her voice pitched.

  Isla did not immediately answer. Her prolonged silence jabbed a blade of fear into his heart and shoved aside his exhaustion for one sharp moment. Was it truly so bad that he might die? That he might never get to hold Ella in his arms again? Or tell her…or tell her…

  “I love you, Ella,” he said raggedly.

  She shifted her gaze back to him. Tears swam in her eyes and the muscles of her neck strained against her flushed skin. “Bronson.” His name was a soft whisper on her lips.

  “He may yet make it,” Isla said quietly. “Hope isna lost yet, aye?”

  There was a hesitation to the woman’s words. The tiredness was back, tugging at him like a strong current, threatening to drag him below into the darkness of oblivion.

  “Bronson, please, stay awake.” Ella grasped his hand in hers and held onto him firmly.

  Mayhap that grip could keep him from the desire to sleep. He squeezed her hand as much as was possible, holding on to her as though his life depended on it.

  “You said you would wed me.” His words were a tired groan. “Did I imagine that?”

  “Nay,” she replied. “I promised to marry you. Because I want to. Because you have always been the true hero of my story. I thought you were pretending to be someone you weren’t for so long, but I’ve learned the truth about you. You’re brave and loving and you’ll sacrifice everything for those you care about. I want to marry you for the man you are, and I want to marry you because I love you.”

  A knot lodged itself in the back of his throat and warmth filled his eyes. She loved him. Truly loved him.

  “Ella.” The warmth spilled over the corners of his eyes. He clung onto her hand, determined to ward off the pull of death.

  No matter how long he had to resist the temptation to close his eyes and give in to the pull of oblivion. He would fight, he would win, he would live.

  30

  One month later

  Bronson stood in front of the crowded castle chapel. Bernard, the twitchy little chaplain, was behind him, a bible splayed open in his palm. Not that Bronson paid him much mind.

  Nay, his gaze was fixed on the door Ella would come through.

  His heart pounded in his chest and the lightheadedness left him feeling dizzy. It was not an uncommon feeling these days as he still recovered from his injury—or rather, from the blood lost during his injury. He could swear he’d consumed every animal in all of England with the amount of red meat and bone broth shoved in his face in the last month while he recovered.

  And though he’d done as he was told, and eaten as he was told, his body had been slow in its recovery. Even now, he leaned the bulk of his weight on a cane. But he was not willing to prolong this moment any longer.

  Brigid sat in one of the pews at the front with William at her side. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, her mouth curled in a broad smile. In the last month, she had become the mother he’d been so long without. She and Ella had alternated visiting times to ensure he was never alone. Ella had taught both her and Lark how to read, and all three had relished keeping his countless hours of healing filled with stories and adventure.

  Lark had a mind for stories, as it turned out. In fact, she and Leila had assisted him in completing his wedding present to Ella. It had taken the entire month, most of it written in Bronson’s own hand, but some of it in Leila’s when he grew too weary. It was finally complete, and the book rested against Bronson’s heart beneath his doublet.

  The story was about two unlikely lovers forced into an arranged marriage neither thought would work. After a month, Bronson considered himself an expert on romantic stories and this was one for the ages. If he did say so himself.

  The doors to the chapel rattled and his heart skipped in his chest. It was time.

  They opened and revealed the silhouette of a woman whose shape his hands and heart knew well. Ella stepped into the chapel, a vision in midnight blue with her long blonde tresses unbound. Her cheeks were rosy, and her eyes sparkled. She clutched a bunch of flowers in her hands, but he could not pull his gaze from the joy on her face long enough to even consider what type they might be.

  Anice and Marin had arrived several days prior for the wedding. They were at either side of her, as well as Cat, Leila and Lark who all giggled to one another and rushed to their seats as Ella strode down the aisle toward him. The stained glass windows flickered various colors over her as she walked, casting her in ethereal gold, brilliant green, sensual red, each even more appealing than the last. The lightheadedness returned with a powerful jolt that nearly knocked him to the ground at the beauty of the woman he loved.

  He tightened his grip on his cane and forced his breath to remain even. He would not allow his body’s weakness to ruin the most incredible moment of his life. She kept her eyes locked on his down the entire length of the aisle until she was at his side.

  He breathed her in, her sunshine, her happiness. His heart swelled to the point of bursting in his chest.

  “You look beautiful,” he said reverently. Someone in the nearest pew gave a quiet, wistful sigh.

  Ella put her hand over his on the cane. “And you are as handsome as ever, Bronson Berkley.” She bit her lip.

  “I can scarcely wait to give you my wedding present,” he whispered as they both looked forward.

  “You aren’t alone in that.” She slid him a glance from the corner of her eye.

  Bernard thinned his mouth in obvious disapproval of their long conversation. They both immediately fell silent and the wedding proceeded.

  It was a short ceremony, thanks be to God. Standing for such a long period of time was difficult for Bronson, but it was more than that. He had waited far too long for El
la to become his wife. His lovely Ella, who was intelligent and kind and brave enough to stand behind her own convictions.

  She had given him a second chance when he had not deserved it, and they were all the better for it. He would spend his life devoted to her, to her continued happiness, even if they were pulled to court.

  They had spoken of it, and they would return to Berkley Manor to oversee the land and its repairs. With the king on a military campaign, Bronson’s immediate return was unnecessary.

  All at once, Bernard was uttering the final words of marriage that tied them both together. Ella smiled at him, a beaming, beautiful smile that shot straight into his heart and lit up his soul. Bronson stepped toward her, cupped her face with his free hand and lowered his mouth to hers.

  Cheers erupted all around them.

  “I love you, my dove,” Bronson said against her mouth before releasing her.

  “And I love you.” She gave him a coy look. “I can’t wait any longer to share my wedding present with you.”

  Even as she spoke, their families were rising from their seats to follow them from the chapel.

  He led her down the aisle. “If you can’t wait, then neither can I.” His hand lifted for the breast of his doublet.

  She tugged on his arm, dragging him to a brief stop. Her brilliant blue eyes danced with excitement, her cheeks and lips flushed. She was practically glowing with her joy. “I’m with child.”

  He would be a father. A better father than his own had been.

  A rush of emotions slammed into him. Joy. Immense, overwhelming joy. Eagerness for the future they would all share together. And fear. Cold as ice and gripping. For they had not lain together since their early days of courtship, due to his injuries. Which meant she had been in a delicate way when they went to the debatable lands.

  “I did not know then.” She nudged him forward.

  “Is my face so telling?” He asked. “I used to be so much better at masking my emotions.”

  “I like you better this way.” She nestled closer to him. Her hand brushed his chest and she paused. “What is this?”