He gave her a beleaguered look and once more tried to shrug free of her. “I dinna wish ye to take it off. We people dinna run about showing our arses to strange lasses.”
Elizabet’s cheeks warmed. “We are no longer quite strangers after last night,” she reminded him.
“I beg to differ,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “I’ve never met any woman stranger than you. One minute you like me, trust me, the next you loathe me and want to break my arm!”
Elizabet’s brows collided. “I never said I trusted you.”
“Nay,” he agreed. “Ye didn’t.” And he returned her wounded glance.
“I only wanted to be sure you weren’t injured.”
He stared at her. And then suddenly his lips curved into a slow grin. “Verra well, then…” He stood with purpose, watching her intently, the muscles in his arms tensing. With merely a few tugs in the right places, the folds of cloth fell away, exposing him completely.
For an instant, Elizabet merely stood, eyes wide.
Good Christ, every part of him was large.
His shoulders were massive and beautifully carved—like some majestic Roman statue. His chest seemed as solid as stone. His hips were lean and his legs so muscular that she could only stare in awe. Thin white scars covered his body—the most prominent a diagonal line across his breast. He was a man made for war, there was no doubt.
Her gaze fell to his male parts, conspicuous as they were.
Gasping softly at her own brazenness, she spun about, impatiently waving a hand, her face as hot as Hades must be. “You’re fine! You can get dressed now!”
He chuckled at her back. “But you haven’t even looked at my arm yet,” he protested.
God’s truth, she had looked at more than enough!
She could hear the note of amusement in his voice, and she hardly appreciated it. “I’ll look at it later!” she swore.
Another chuckle.
Sweet Mary, she tried to eradicate the image of his manhood from her memory, but it teased her, returning in glimpses to make her heart beat faster.
“Next time, respect my privacy!” she said, without turning. “You scared the—”
“Piss out o’ ye?”
Elizabet gasped in outrage, turning to face him, her eyes wide with shock at his crudeness. “You have no manners at all!”
“I never claimed to,” he answered, throwing her own words back at her. “I’m a Scots barbarian, remember? We people are uncouth.”
Guilt pricked at her.
“This all could have been avoided had you simply answered me,” he rebuked her.
“I would have answered just as soon as I was finished—”
“Pissing?”
Elizabet tossed her hands upward. “Argh! I don’t have to listen to this!”
He continued to rebuke her as she walked away, “For all I knew you could have been in danger and couldna call to me. I was merely trying to help.”
“Well, I wasn’t in danger, as you can see!” Except of wetting her shoes! She wiggled her toes, horrified by the discovery that she had indeed wet her slippers.
“Not this time.”
The dampness on her feet renewed her ire.
She heard him chuckle softly at her back. “I do not find this the least amusing, I assure you!” she said without turning.
“What can I say?” he reasoned. “I’m a man. I’m easily amused.”
Elizabet had no reply to that.
How could he remain so blithe when she was in a fit of temper? If she had not witnessed firsthand his fury yesterday afternoon, she’d never have believed him capable of anger. It was that everlasting mirth in his eyes that made him appear so harmless. She didn’t have to look to know he was watching her.
She started back in the direction from whence she’d come, contemplating her strange reaction to this man. Why did her heart beat so fast when he stared at her? And why was she so angry at him, despite the fact that he was only trying to help? So what if he’d kissed her, in truth. He’d left her alone last night when she’d asked him to, and she could hardly blame him for assuming she was willing when she’d blatantly invited him into her arms.
He was a threat to her somehow; he left her feeling vulnerable. Because something about him made her yearn for more than the lonely life of a spinster.
She decided it was best to ignore the feelings he evoked in her. She wanted her freedom. She didn’t need a man to tell her how and when to live her life.
“You’re going the wrong way,” he declared, and the sound of his voice made her heart leap.
Elizabet turned to look at him, growing flustered.
He was doing it again—making her dizzy, muddling her mind with a simple glance. She was completely turned around. She studied the woods then turned again to meet his amused gaze.
“Are you certain?”
He nodded. “I know these woods well, Elizabet.”
The intimate sound of her name upon his lips made her breath catch.
Jesu, 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’s spun away from him and walked faster, keenly aware that he followed, cursing him softly beneath her breath.
Chapter Twelve
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 that deliciously pert little rear, 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 when he kept imagining her stopping and bending to pick something up. What a beautiful sight that would be.
God’s truth, he’d always had a weakness for women’s arses, and this one was likely the sweetest arse he had ever beheld. His hands ached to ever so gently squeeze those firm cheeks. What he wouldn’t give to have them fill his hands whilst she rode him.
Despite his initial impression of her, it had been clear enough to Broc that she hadn’t ever seen a man unclothed before. He was well endowed, to be certain, but not so much so as to deserve that look of absolute wonder on her face. And he might be flattered, in truth, but his pride was tempered by the knowledge that she was naught but an innocent, which made him feel all the more responsible for her.
In fact, if he were any sort of gentleman at all, and not a barbarian as she claimed, he probably wouldn’t be looking at that delightful bottom, but he couldn’t seem to look away.
Och, but she had the most lovely little birthmark on her left cheek, perfectly formed, like a little half moon. It was nearly covered by her gown, but it kept peeking out at him from beneath and his loins tightened 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 sweet little bottom was causing him extreme discomfort.
His throat was growing parched. His lips felt as dry as baked mud.
His blood sang with longing.
Was the hair on her mons as dark as the hair on her head? Och, if she would merely bend over, he would know. The very thought of her doing so made him dizzy.
He was only a man, he reasoned, and her backside was tempting him beyond reason.
He tried to keep silent, not wanting to embarrass her, but his loins began to burn. Her firm little cheeks teased him to the point of torment, and his breath quickened with every step she took until it was nigh painful to breathe.
Self-preservation made him finally speak up, because he was going to go mad with desire if she didn’t cover that delightful bottom.
“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 on your left cheek.”
She gasped aloud, her hands instinctively going to her bottom. 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 beneath his plaid, 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 bloody preoccupied with her thoughts and her anger that she hadn’t even noticed!
“I have a small mark on my right breast, too,” she disclosed, pretending an indifference she didn’t feel. “Care to see that, as well?”
When she dared to look up, he was smiling.
The rogue!
“I’d be willing to suffer it,” he replied, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners.
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. I will show you my arse, if it will make you feel better?”
He was teasing, she knew. He cared about her feelings, she realized. And it was clear by the blush in his cheeks that the notion of showing her his arse discomfited him.
Her ire faded at his expression, though she didn’t allow herself to smile. She didn’t want to smile, though in truth, how could she remain angry when he had done no more than fill his eyes? Another man might have filled his hands, as well. 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,” she challenged. “Show me, then.”
He gave her a lopsided smile and scratched his head. “Ye wish to see my arse?”
Elizabet thought mayhap he now regretted his offer. Too bad. She nodded anyway.
He chuckled. “Verra well,” he said, and turned his back to her. He stood there a moment, looking awkward, and then with his good hand he reached back and lifted up his garment, showing her his bare arse.
Elizabet couldn’t help herself. She began to giggle, though that didn’t prompt him to cover himself. He waited patiently for her to finish.
“D’ye feel better yet?” he asked after a moment.
He flexed his cheeks and then released them, and Elizabet giggled harder. Her hand covered her mouth in absolute horror, though she didn’t turn away.
Jesu, but it was a very fine arse.
Elizabet laughed outright.
“Och, it sounds as though you feel better!”
“Aye,” she replied, when she could. “I feel better!”
He dropped his plaid at last and turned around, his cheeks flaming, though his eyes revealed only mirth.
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.
Christ, 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!”
God’s truth, 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 in bloody damnation had he been embroiled in this situation without warning?
“Why the hell 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 coul
d have at least met them at the border and given them safe passage—if only he had known they were on their way.
God’s teeth, 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.”
Highland Brides 04 - Lion Heart Page 9