He tilted her a glance, arching a brow. “Riding ahead. Considering that we managed to get ourselves lost last time, I suggested we be certain to travel the right path.”
“Good idea,” Elizabet remarked, trying to sound nonchalant, though she was suddenly anything but.
“Everyone is anxious to be across the border,” he explained, “and I wanted to be certain we traveled expeditiously. This land is filled with dirty savages,” he told her.
Elizabet nodded, willing her heartbeat to slow. She turned her gaze toward the horizon. The land was flatter now, and few trees obstructed the scenery, but there was no sign of the other two. She swallowed convulsively, telling herself to remain calm.
She cast Tomas a veiled glance, trying to determine whether he sensed her apprehension. He wore a placid smile and seemed not to have a single care.
She carried no weapon at all, not even a dirk.
Her gaze fell to the pack that hung over his mount. He kept his crossbow there, which he used to hunt for their meals. Her belly fluttered at the sudden realization. Broc had claimed he’d spied a bowman in the woods. Tomas was, indeed, partial to the bow. He carried no sword but kept one sheathed in the scabbard slung over his horse. His dagger, he kept in his belt; it was the only weapon he carried on his person.
She was beginning to get the most awful feeling in the pit of her belly.
Oh, God… what if Broc was right?
How could she be certain anymore who was telling the truth?
She took a deep breath and dared to ask, “I meant to inquire… but forgot… about the pouch….”
Her heartbeat quickened.
“Pouch?” he said, sounding perplexed. His brow furrowed as he looked at her.
“My dowry,” she reminded him. “Did you remember to take it from John’s body? He was carrying it, as you recall.”
“The pouch!” he exclaimed, as though only just recalling it. “Nay.” He shook his head soberly. “I fear it was stolen by that Scots bastard,” he told her.
Elizabet lifted her brows and turned away, her breath catching painfully.
That was the one thing she knew absolutely for certain. Broc did not steal the pouch. There hadn’t been time. He hadn’t even known about it.
Fear squeezed her heart. It flip-flopped against her ribs. She tried to speak but couldn’t. Her stomach turned violently over his disclosure, and she felt suddenly as though she would be physically and uncontrollably ill. Dizziness threatened to spill her from her mount.
Broc had been telling her the truth all along. She knew that with a sudden certainty that overwhelmed her.
And she was alone with this madman with no weapon to protect herself.
She closed her eyes, trying to compose herself, forcing her thoughts to clear, and repressed the overpowering urge to wheel her mount about and fly back to Broc.
Jesu…
She said a silent prayer, begging God’s aid and Broc’s forgiveness. It was true that he hadn’t told her about her brother, but he had been speaking the truth about everything else.
Piers had tried to keep her from leaving, but she had been stubborn and willful in her anger.
She hadn’t realized how long she’d been silent, until Tomas commented on her reticence.
She shook her head. “I’m just tired,” she lied.
“We’ve quite a way to go,” he replied.
Her stomach roiled.
She had to get away from him somehow. The reins shook in her hands. There was no better time than the present. The longer they rode, the farther they would be from anyone who might help her, the less her chances for survival. She swallowed her fear and said, laughing nervously, “I’m afraid I must beg you to give me respite.” She reined in her horse. “I must have a few moments of privacy.”
He frowned at her. “Is aught wrong?”
“Nay,” she lied. “Naught at all.” He reined in as well, and she cast him a sheepish look and said, “’Tis merely that I must attend to my personal affairs.”
His brow arched. “Can’t it wait?”
She shook her head fervently. “Nay.”
His scowl deepened, and he gave her a harried look. “Very well, then.” He glanced about, as though surveying their surroundings.
There were no trees in the immediate vicinity, nothing to hide behind, which would work to her benefit. He couldn’t possibly expect her to squat before him.
“There is a small hillock in the distance,” he told her. “Why don’t you ride ahead of me and attend to yourself there. I shall bide my time, and by the time I reach you, you should be done.”
She looked about with a sense of growing desperation. She didn’t want to ride ahead, but it seemed that she didn’t have a choice. She didn’t wish to cast suspicion upon herself. If she could get far enough ahead of him, then there was a chance she might be able to turn about and ride back far enough to his flank that he couldn’t spy her.
She nodded, eager to be away from him. “Very well,” she agreed. “I shall.” And she gave him a nod and heeled her mount into a canter. She didn’t dare turn around to look into his face, so afraid was she that he would anticipate her intentions. She rode faster, grateful not to hear hoof beats at her back.
Please, God, she prayed, let me get away from him.
“Broc,” she whispered, and tried to envision his face, drawing her courage from him.
Chapter Twenty Eight
Tomas watched her go, his gut burning.
He had begun to think mayhap he wouldn’t have to kill her after all. He didn’t wish to bring suspicion upon himself. He had the money, and for now that was enough. Who could, after all, prove that Broc hadn’t indeed taken it? But something about her manner had changed. She had been quiet far too long.
Had he said something to rouse her suspicions?
Something about the way she rode away set him ill at ease.
“Elizabet!” he called after her.
She didn’t stop.
“God damned bitch!” he exclaimed, fury surging through him. He slammed the heel of his boot into his mount and flew after her.
Elizabet cast a glance over her shoulder, finding her worst fears realized, and her heart flew into her throat. She urged her mount faster, no longer keeping up any pretense. As soon as she bounded over the hill and Tomas could no longer see her clearly, she began to turn at a wide angle, doubling back around. By the time he realized, she hoped it would be too late.
She bent low over her horse, racing against time, she knew. She didn’t dare turn to look over her shoulder again. Praying to God that she would lose him, she rode with all her might. She closed her eyes and drove the horse to its potential, feeling the wind full in her face and hoping to God the beast wouldn’t tire too quickly.
When she opened her eyes again, she had to blink twice at what she saw. At first, it was merely a dark speck on the horizon that grew with every fierce clip of her horse’s hooves. When she realized what it was, she nearly cried out with joy.
It was Broc.
He rode toward her on a big black steed, looking gloriously leonine with his thick mane of golden hair flowing out behind him. He was unmistakable in the rich red tunic she had sewn for him. The sight of him stole her breath away.
As the thunder of his horse’s mount grew nearer, she began to weep aloud with elation.
Sweet, merciful God!
She slowed her mount as she approached him, unaware that she did. But he didn’t stop.
“I love you!” he shouted as he passed her, his blue eyes alighting on her only for the briefest instant. He thundered past her then toward the approaching rider.
Elizabet wheeled her mount about to see her lion-hearted husband unsheathe his immense sword from his scabbard in a movement so swift and beautiful that it awed her.
Too late, Tomas fumbled with the satchel, trying to free his bow.
“Die, ye rotten bastard!” Broc shouted, as he thundered into battle.
As befor
e, it was over before it began.
Elizabet put her hands over her eyes to shut out the terror of it. But this time, there was no mistaking the death blow. Tomas toppled to the ground, tangled in the reins. His riderless horse reared, screaming in terror, coming to its knees.
With sword still in hand, Broc wheeled his mount about, slowing as he passed Tomas’s limp body. He cast it a single glance and then resheathed his sword as his gaze returned to Elizabet.
Her heart soared.
She dismounted to wait for him, eager to hold him, eager to tell him that she loved him, adored him, wanted to bear his children.
“I’m sorry!” she said as he neared. He leaped from his horse before it came to a halt, taking her breath away as he took her into his arms.
His face and tunic were spattered with blood, but she didn’t care. His was the most beautiful face she had ever seen, and she wanted never to be without him again. She caressed his face, reaching up on tiptoes to kiss his mouth.
“I love you, too!” she declared. “Oh, God… can you ever forgive me?” she asked, tears streaming down her cheeks.
He held her tightly, his heart beating fiercely against her breasts. “Only if ye promise never again to leave me!”
“Never!” she swore. “Never, my love!”
He kissed her then so passionately that it stole her breath away.
She closed her eyes and held his face in her hands, reveling in the strength of his arms.
“My beautiful lion,” she declared, lacing her hands through his golden hair. She sighed contentedly and smiled, her heart bursting with joy. “I cannot believe you came all this way to save me!”
“Nay, lass,” he countered with a crooked smile, “I came only to tell you that ye forgot your bluidy dog.”
Harpy!
Elizabet gasped in shock. “Oh, my God!” Her hand flew to her mouth. She had been so distraught, she hadn’t even remembered her mother’s poor hound. “Where is she?” she demanded at once.
He winked at her. “Just where you left her—chewing up Montgomerie’s boots.”
Elizabet stifled her laughter.
He lifted her up suddenly, gave her a kiss upon the forehead then walked over to her horse, setting her unceremoniously atop it. “Let’s go home, wife,” he said, sounding suddenly irascible.
“Aye, husband,” she agreed, smiling crookedly down at him as she bent to retrieve the reins. “Let’s go home.”
Epilogue
The sound of a dog’s bark outside caught Elizabet’s attention. She knew that bark. It brought a smile to her lips. Heavy with child, she rose awkwardly to her feet. “Constance,” she said, “watch the baby for me, dearling.”
She didn’t have to ask twice.
Thirteen-year-old Constance was enamored with the children, doting on them. Broc’s little cousin was blossoming into a lovely young woman with hair as golden as her husband’s and eyes the same shade of blue as her brother Cameron’s.
“Oh, yea!” Constance exclaimed, and she leapt off the bed where two-year-old Maggie lay, babbling happily at the ceiling. She had been tickling the child’s feet.
Elizabet couldn’t help but laugh at Constance’s enthusiasm.
“Halloo, wee little Griffin!” Constance cooed at the baby. “Halloo!” She approached the child, making faces, and three-year-old Griffin happily stamped his little feet in the tub of water. He giggled when she pulled up her dress and stepped into the tub along with him.
Elizabet laughed and glanced heavenward, marveling at the course her life had taken.
Who would have thought that after growing up alone, without siblings, without even parents to speak of, she would end with two dogs, three children of her own, another on the way and an adopted daughter so sweet that she made their heart swell with joy.
“He so verra loves to be naked,” Constance observed, smiling down at her shameless little dark-haired son.
“So did someone else I know,” Broc assured her, as he came in the door. He stood in the doorway, watching his brood.
“Uncle Broc!” Constance exclaimed.
“Da! da!” Griffin shouted with glee and continued to dance about in the tub, splashing water everywhere.
Elizabet turned to her husband. Her heart still quickened at the sight of him. Even after all these years, the mere sound of his voice still took her breath away.
He lifted a brow, casting Elizabet a nod, and turned back to Constance, assuring her, “’Tis the truth. I held that bare little arse of yours in my arms far too many times, lass. I thought you would grow up nakey.”
“Uncle Broc!” Constance protested, making a face. “That is so verra disgusting!”
“Aye, but ’tis true, Constance. Ask your aunt Elizabet.”
“Or ask Page,” Elizabet suggested, greeting her husband at the door, “she chased you about far more than I did.”
“I dinna believe you!” Constance exclaimed. But she knew it was true, because she couldn’t suppress a guilty grin.
Broc nodded, “Och, lass, I dinna think you wore clothes until you were twenty,” he remarked.
Constance rolled her eyes, giggling at his obvious exaggeration. “I’m only thirteen!” she declared.
Elizabet stifled her laughter and crooked a brow at her husband. “And where is Suisan?” she asked.
He wrapped his arms around her, turning her about so that he could hug her and place his hands upon her belly. “Suisan is outside riding the dog,” he disclosed.
Suisan was their eldest daughter, their firstborn, conceived the day of their vows. She was her father’s joy, and her father clearly was hers. She claimed to want to grow up to be just like her da. And at seven, she much preferred wielding sticks as swords and galloping about upon the backs of tired old dogs to hanging about her mother’s skirts.
Her husband glanced over at Maggie lying upon the bed and whispered into Elizabet’s ear, “Have you any notion how beautiful your children are?”
She cast him a reproachful glance. “Are they not yours, as well?”
He winked at her. “Only when they are laughing,” he told her. “When they are crying, they are yours.”
She rolled her eyes and smacked him upon the thigh. “You are incorrigible!”
He hugged her then, holding her close, kissing her upon the cheek. “Och, woman, mayhap so, but do ye realize how much I love you?”
Elizabet sighed contentedly and leaned back upon her husband’s chest, savoring the quiet strength of his arms. She smiled. “Not as much as I love you!”
He shook her gently, growling low. “I beg to differ, woman!” he said. “Just look at how many children I gave you!”
“I bore them!” she reminded him.
He squeezed her gently. “Aye, well, I watched you bear them!” he countered, vying with her.
“You most certainly did not!” Elizabet argued. “You hid your eyes!”
He had the nerve to look wounded by her accusation. “Och,” he protested, kissing her upon the ear. “Only because I could not bear to see you in pain, wife.”
Elizabet laughed. That much was true. He hadn’t been able to bear her screams, though he’d threatened to kill the midwife if she did not allow him to remain within the house. Despite her protest that it was unseemly, he’d paced the floor of her chamber with his hand upon his eyes. The very memory left her smiling.
“And what will you do this time?” she asked, patting her belly.
“I will not leave your side,” he swore. “Even if you curse me with every breath.”
Elizabet laughed. “I would never!”
He gave her a mock sigh. “Ah, but you did. You told me you’d rather I were a bugger and that if I dared ever touch you again you would wrap me up in my—”
Elizabet shushed him before he could speak it aloud before the children. Constance, for one, was listening with interest to their banter.
He bent to rest his chin upon her shoulder and patted her belly, too. “Any regrets?”
She shook her head with certainty. “Not a one.”
“I’m glad,” he whispered, and the warmth of his breath at her ear sent a shiver down her spine. “I’m a verra, verra happy man,” he declared.
And to think she might never have known how wonderful it was to be part of a family. Elizabet glowed in his affection. Whenever she thought of how close she’d come to losing him, it still saddened her. But as soon as such thoughts dared enter her mind, all she needed to do was look into the faces of her children or consider the gentle warmth of their home, and all melancholy thoughts were instantly banished.
Her dowry had built them a fine little house, and though she wasn’t surrounded by luxuries, her table was always laden with food and her house filled with laughter and friends.
And she was blessed with the greatest gift of all—love.
What greater reward in life was there than that?
The door opened suddenly, and in bounded Harpy along with Suisan. Suisan ran at once to the bed, leaping upon it to tickle her baby sister on the belly.
Harpy trotted over to Elizabet, wagging her tail wearily, no doubt grateful for the respite.
Elizabet patted her lovingly and silently thanked her for leading her to Broc. She sent another prayer of gratitude heavenward.
After all, if her husband hadn’t once attempted to steal her mother’s hound, she wouldn’t be standing here now with his loving arms around her.
Thank God for wayward dogs.
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More Books by Tanya Anne Crosby
The Highland Brides
The MacKinnon’s Bride
Lyon’s Gift
On Bended Knee
Lion Heart
Highland Song
The Medievals
Once Upon a Kiss
Angel Of Fire
Highland Brides 04 - Lion Heart Page 19