Highland Brides 04 - Lion Heart

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “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 wench!”

  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. Never in her life had she been more beguiled by a man’s body.

  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.

  God’s teeth, she had no idea what he was in danger of revealing. Her mere presence tempted him beyond reason, and now she was asking him to undress and remove the one barrier that kept him civilized. Beneath his plaid, his body was rigid and ready.

  He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anyone or anything in his life.

  Until now, denying his physical needs had been a simple enough endeavor, but what he wanted from her was far more than simple relief. His soul cried out to possess her, his body longed to be touched by her. He wanted to be inside her—to pleasure her—to hear her whisper his name as he spilled his seed into her womb. He wanted her to bear his babes, wanted to share his bed with her, wanted to bring her gifts and see her smile with joy, as she had only moments before.

  No one else could satisfy him. He knew that instinctively as he stared at her.

  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. He said what he meant and meant what he said. “If ye wish to see me in this tunic, lass, you will have to undress me yourself.”

  He issued the challenge without apology and held out the tunic for her to take.

  He was a warm-blooded man, not some cold, unfeeling stone, and he’d already used up what little restraint he possessed. If she removed from him his only defense against her, his clothing, he wasn’t going to be held responsible for what happened after.

  Her eyes widened slightly, but she said nothing to refuse him, merely stood there staring. When she didn’t reach out to accept the tunic, he thought she might be offended, but then she dared to step forward. She took the tunic from his hands, nodding.

  A shudder of anticipation passed through him.

  Christ, he hoped she understood what she was getting herself into. If she touched him, if she peeled his feeble armor from his body, he wasn’t going to walk away.

  She reached out to touch his plaid, and he seized her wrist, holding it away from him. His loins tightened. “Are ye certain, lass?”

  The question held far more meaning than the simple words implied.

  Her hand felt so small in his, soft and delicate. It was a testament to her birth. It was certain these hands had never seen a day’s hard labor while his mother had toiled over the good earth for every morsel of food she had placed in her mouth and those of her husband and children. It was just another reminder that Elizabet wasn’t of his ilk… and yet, he couldn’t resist.

  “Aye,” she said, and seemed to choke on her reply.

  A smile turned one corner of his mouth. He pulled her closer, wanting nothing more than to kiss her in that instant.

  Chapter Nineteen

  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…”

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

  And then he kissed her, his lips soft and persistent… full of hunger….

  Sweet Mary, it was like nothing she’d ever dreamed of.

  She had seen lovers embrace this way and then steal away to some secret place where no one could spy them. And she had secretly envied them, wondering what it must feel like to belong to someone—to know that the arms that held her cherished her. She had watched men use and discard her mother so easily and sworn to God she would never fall prey to soft words whispered against her ear.

  And yet here she was, willing to take whatever he would give her. Her legs trembled beneath her, threatening to make her sink at his feet.

  “Broc,” she pleaded, clinging to him desperately, but he only kissed her more insistently.

  She was afraid to open her heart.

  Afraid to want.

  Afraid to hope.

  Men said whatever served them best—used up what was inside and without another thought tossed away the shell that remained. Her mother had died a
lone, abandoned and empty. Only Elizabet had been at her side.

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

  Elizabet’s heart jolted nearly out of her breast 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 like 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.”

  Her father had once said that to her mother, as well, but it hadn’t meant it. He’d abandoned them both, returning to his wife and the children she’d borne him—as was his duty.

  And yet… despite her resolve not to feel it, a tiny ember of hope flared up within her.

  He held her close, looking into her eyes, as he said with feeling, “I never had such purpose to my life until I met you, Elizabet.”

  Elizabet’s heart flowered at his words.

  She wanted to believe him.

  When she wasn’t with him, she only wanted to see him. With every stitch she had sewn this afternoon, she’d yearned for his return.

  He brushed her lips with another kiss and her head fell back, wanting more, but he withdrew again. “I know I have no right to ask, but if ye will allow me to… I will care for ye always, Elizabet. No harm will ever come to ye.

  “As God is my witness, I will never fail you,” he swore. “And ye will live as best I can provide and die an old woman asleep in your bed.”

  A wistful smile crept into his eyes. “Can ye fancy yourself wed to a Scots barbarian?”

  Tears welled in her eyes. She shook her head to deny them. “You are not a barbarian, silly man! You are more a gentle man than any I’ve ever known.”

  He gave her a playful wink. “Aye, but you said so yourself,” he reminded her, and kissed her high upon the cheek, then unexpectedly lapped the teardrop from her skin.

  Elizabet’s breath caught over the intimacy of the gesture.

  “I believe every word that comes from that beautiful mouth,” he swore, as he bent to brush his lips over hers once more.

  Elizabet could do nothing but cling to him.

  She wanted his kisses, needed his embrace more than anything she’d ever needed in her life.

  He combed his fingers through her hair, his expression full of ardor. “I wish you would wear it this way always,” he entreated.

  Jesu, in that instant, Elizabet would have done anything he asked if only he continued to kiss her.

  Dare she hope?

  Sometimes the most beautiful things came from the most hideous circumstances, her mother had once said.

  Could it be true?

  He gazed at her adoringly, brushing her hair with his fingers, and she melted into his arms. “It shimmers by candlelight,” he told her.

  “Hush,” she demanded, and like a wanton, reached up on tiptoes, letting her head fall back in supplication. She didn’t care. She wanted his kisses. “Kiss me again,” she beseeched him.

  She didn’t have to ask twice.

  Broc took her mouth with a helpless groan.

  It didn’t escape him that she hadn’t answered his question as yet, but it didn’t matter right now. Like a drunkard drawn to his drink, he bent to taste her once more, reveling in the sweet softness of her lips. If she would refuse his offer of marriage, so be it, but he wasn’t strong enough to walk away from whatever she was willing to give.

  Before her, he was like a beggar with his hand outstretched. He wanted her heart but would settle for her body. He wanted her love but would settle for her passion. He wanted her forever but he would cherish the moment.

  “Open your mouth,” he whispered.

  He wanted inside.

  She parted her lips, and his body shuddered in response. She had no notion what it was she was doing to him or how fevered he was becoming. She couldn’t possibly know. Years of abstinence had left him weak for her. Her hands gripped his shoulders in supplication, and he understood better than she what it was she yearned for. He wanted it, too. His body hardened fully.

  It had been far too long.

  He wanted her far too much.

  Thirsting for the taste of her, he thrust his tongue between her lips, savoring the silky depths of her mouth. She moaned softly, and he deepened the kiss, embracing her covetously, lest she end the kiss too soon. The scent of her was driving him mad. The taste of her mouth left him intoxicated.

  Without a word, he lifted her into his arms, never breaking the kiss, and carried her to the pallet in the corner of the room. He didn’t want to give her the chance to refuse him, but he didn’t want to ravage her, either. If she would deny him, so be it, but he felt a desperation to join with her unlike anything he’d ever felt in his life.

  Tomorrow might be too late.

  He didn’t want to think about the consequences right now, nor the threat that hovered over them both. Nor did he want to think about what she would do when she discovered that her brother was dead. It mattered not that his death wasn’t at Broc’s hands. He was afraid she would blame him once she discovered the truth.

  But he wasn’t going to think about that right now. He wanted only to feel her from the inside. He wanted to bury himself deep within her, spill his seed into her womb.

  He laid her gently down, kissing her still.

  Elizabet held on to him, afraid he would leave her. Her hands went about his neck, holding him fast. She was drowning in his ardor but afraid to breathe, lest the moment be lost. Never had she felt so hungry for a man’s embrace. It was as though his kiss had awakened some dormant yearning and if he dared to stop, she would be left unfulfilled.

  Only after he pulled himself away from her, peering down into her face, did she become fully aware of where she lay. He hovered over her, watching her intently, his eyes glittering with some unnamed emotion.

  Swallowing convulsively, her hand slid from his neck to his bare chest, her heart beating so fiercely that she thought it would burst. Like warm silk, his muscles danced beneath her palm. Reveling in the feel of his skin, her hand slid beneath the sash that fell across his chest only to discover a soft patch of fine hair that made her yearn to tangle her fingers within it.

  He was a feast for her eyes… and hands… her senses…

  He clasped his hand over hers and moved it to cover the sash. “Finish what you started,” he whispered.

  For an instant, she didn’t understand what he meant, but then he squeezed her hand, forcing her to take a firm grasp of his dress.

  Elizabet stared into his eyes, her heart hammering insistently now. She understood what he wanted from her, and she wanted to give it to him—she truly did. But she was afraid. And she hadn’t the first notion of how to remove the garment he was wrapped in. She tugged on it, then hesitated, and he smiled at her in approval.

  “That’s it,” he said, as his hand moved down to his belt, and he began to unfasten it, watching her, the look in his eyes intense.

  His gaze alone left her quivering.

  He unfastened the belt and tossed it aside.

  As she lay there, anticipating him, her breasts began to ache, and her body warmed.

  “Do you know what I want, lass?”

  Elizabet nodded jerkily, her body trembling slightly.

 
He hesitated and then asked, “Do ye wish me to stop?”

  She shook her head, absolutely certain that was not what she wanted. Jesu, but if he left her now, she thought she would die.

  She wanted him to mean everything he said to her, wanted him to want her, wanted him to love her. No man had ever reached past her defenses and made her feel the things he made her feel.

  Her fingers trembled as she gripped his sash, but her heart pounded like a drumbeat in her ears.

  Elizabet tugged at his garment, but she couldn’t do it, didn’t know how to undress him.

  But she knew how to undress herself.

  Taking a deep breath for courage, she let her hand fall from the sash to her bosom. Without the undertunic beneath, all she needed to do was pull the surcoat aside and reveal herself to him.

  That brazen gesture was sure to tell him all he needed to know. His gaze followed her hand down, and his expression fell with disappointment for the briefest instant until she caught hold of her dress. She clasped it firmly, her fingernails digging into the velvety garment until she could feel them like claws against her palm. He swallowed. She could see the knob in his throat rise, then fall, and she reveled in the power she seemed suddenly to have over him.

  Her breasts arched toward him of their own accord, her body responding in some instinctive way. He never even blinked but seemed to be waiting eagerly to see what she would do. With a soft gasp, she drew the gown aside, watching his expression closely.

  He sucked in a breath at what she revealed to him, and she smiled timidly.

  As though to compose himself, he closed his eyes and swallowed hard. When he opened them again, his face was flushed and his desire was writ plainly in his features. But he didn’t move to touch her.

  Emboldened by the look on his face, she dared to take her breast fully into her hand, and she began to caress it slowly while he watched, tempting him to touch her, pleading without words.

  “Och, lass,” he said, and growled softly then, reaching out to cover her hand with his own, joining the erotic caress of her flesh. His touch further emboldened her, and she smiled up at him, moaning softly as their hands jointly stroked her body. He pushed her hand away suddenly, exposing her to his eyes once more.