Her One Desire

by Kimberly Killion

  Two white scars paralleled her shoulder blades—one straight, the other curved and kicked into her spine. “God’s hooks, Lizbeth!” His voice cracked, raw with emotion.

  “Were ye whipped?” His breathing spiraled. Bloodlust soured his tongue. His eyes fixed on the marks ripped through her flawless skin. The tip of his index finger traced the path. She flinched.

  “Who did this to ye?” he asked, already condemning her father. The downward tilt of her head preceded her silence. Devil be damned if he would allow her to sink inside herself before he obtained a name.

  “Answer me,” he demanded and shook her. “Lord Hollister.” Lizbeth freed herself from his grip and ran into the mouth of the cavern.

  He didn’t go after her. Instead, he stared at his shaking hands, imagining all the ways he could use them to kill the bastard. Broc finally understood why she’d been so desperate to escape the Tower. She might have believed she was saving her father’s soul, but, in fact, she was saving her own. The rain turned to a drizzle before he calmed enough to enter the cavern. Dressed in her undertunic with her hair plaited in a thick rope, Lizbeth fumbled with the ties of her stockings. He pulled on his trews and stared at her. The desire to vindicate her intensified with every passing breath. “It happened a long time ago. After the fire in the Tower, Lord Hollister eventually discovered I’d been involved in the incident that took the lives of six men. Then he connected me to the prisoner’s savior.”

  “The angel of fire?”

  She swiped her eyes with her knuckles and sifted through her wrinkled garments. “He thought having me marked was a clever punishment. ‘Twas symbolic of cutting off my wings.” Clever, indeed. Broc could be clever, too. “And the scar by your ear?”

  “An accident.” Eyes downcast, she turned her back to him a little more, and then pulled on the overtunic. “After Mother died Lord Hollister made me hold the basket on the gallows to collect the mercy coin. One day the guards brought a woman accused of adultery onto the scaffold. She was wide with child and the crowd pitied her and filled the basket so Father would show her mercy.” Lizbeth stuffed her toes in her boots. “Her husband, I suspect, snatched the basket from my hand and tossed the crowd’s coin back at them. Lord Hollister decided I was to blame and positioned me on the scaffold directly behind Father’s whip. The woman received ten lashes for her crime. I caught the tail of the eighth one.” She finished tying the laces, but her stare never left her toes. “ ‘Twas the only time I ever saw Father sweat.”

  “When I return for your nephews, I’m going to kill Lord Hollister.”

  She pivoted on her heel; her gaze finally found him. “Some men are worth saving. Lord Hollister is not one of them.”

  Though arguing would have done her no good, he was nonetheless thankful she didn’t spar with him. ‘”Tis done. Once you are safe in Scotland, I will make arrangements for the journey back.”

  She nodded and picked up the contraption that nearly suffocated her the day before. She held the stiff material against her chest, backed up to him, and waited for him to oblige her. “You’re wowf if ye think I’m going to help ye with that. Leave it. And leave one of the skirts. I’ll not have ye swooning before we get to the border this eve.”

  “Agreed.” She tossed the garment aside and let him assist her with the laces on her bodice.

  “I daresay I prefer undressing ye to dressing ye,” he teased, but she kept her lids lowered. He suspected her head was full of regret. He’d made her no promises other than to return for her nephews. He shook a skirt loose from the pile on the cavern floor. Her rosary fell from the masses along with the crushed document. Broc unfolded the parchment and stared at Buckingham’s signature. “Ye dinnae give this to Gloucester?” “Nay. I did not trust him, but he knows. ‘Tis enough.”

  And the document will be enough for King James as well,

  Broc thought.

  Chapter 15

  The steed’s hooves slowed and then stopped at the top of a ridge. Lizzy’s head eased forward when Broc gathered air into his lungs.

  “Tis Skonoir,” he announced, his voice laden with pride. Pushing away from the heat of his body, she followed the direction of his gaze. Her heart did a little pitter-patter. The crenellated top of a tower rose above a landscape of valleys and groves tinted blue beneath the moon. They’d reached his homeland.

  Broc dismounted, and assisted her to the ground. “Think ye can stand?”

  A smile pulled her lips upward. “My body has grown accustomed to being astride for days at a time.” As well, her body had grown to enjoy being held by this strong warrior. The connection between their eyes broke the same time he released her waist; then he bent to kiss the ground. He crossed himself, bowed his head, and prayed in Latin for long minutes. Unwilling to interrupt his litany, she watched him in wonder while tranquility filled her soul.

  He sat back on his heels and crystal blue eyes glowing with moonshine looked up at her.

  “All will be well now, angel. Ye are safe.”

  “Thank you.” A wave of relief made her eyes slide shut. She felt light, dizzy… free. God bestowed unto her a champion to see her to safety, and while she thanked Him for putting Broderick Maxwell in her path, she selfishly wished to prolong their time together. An ache pressed against her heart.

  “Ye can almost hear the stars twinkle, they are so close.” She knelt beside him and gathered his hand in hers. “Scotland is as beautiful as you described it.”

  “Wait til ye see the flowers. Ye will be forever picking them to make your scents.” His thumb caressed her palm in circles. “Aunt Radella and Aunt Jean will be eager to learn your secrets.”

  Tears pooled behind her eyes. She looked down trying to hold them at bay. He couldn’t know how desperately she wanted to be a part of his life, a part of his family. “Do you still intend to take me to Dryburgh?”

  “Nay.” He sounded appalled. “I’m taking ye to Grandmum.” While that wasn’t the answer she expected, she nodded and followed him back astride the steed. The final leg of their journey was short—very short. In fact, the horse hadn’t even reached a trot before Broc pulled back the reins at the base of the knoll and dismounted.

  “Why are you stopping again?”

  ‘”Tis Grandmum’s estate.” He gestured toward a clearing encircled by forest on three sides.

  Lizzy squinted at the oddity that could only be described as a small castle. A walkway led to a square two-story tower with three windows, only one alight. Behind the little fortress was a barn with a sagging roof, a cart shed, and two other outbuildings.

  “She lives this far away from your stronghold?” ‘Twas an atrocity of disrespect to tuck away their elders.

  “I told ye she was mean.” He pulled her from the horse. “Da moved her out of the keep when he married Mam. Claims she meddled too much in his affairs.” Broc unsheathed a dagger and guided her up stone steps to a side entrance. “You enter your grandmum s house armed?” Lizzy doubted she wanted to meet a woman whose grandson felt the need to protect himself upon his arrival.

  “I enter everywhere armed. Ye are in Scotland now.” “But you said I was safe here.” Her footing stuck, and his hold on her hand grew tight.

  “Safe from your enemies. Not mine.” A swift yank slammed her against his chest. He winked, popped a quick kiss on her lips, and gave her a not-so-gentle pat on the backside. The man’s moods were a mystery.

  The hinges of a heavy wooden door whined upon their entry, raising the small hairs at her nape. This was not a place she wanted to stay. A cobweb brushed her face in the dark entranceway. Hysteria seized her. She jerked back and swiped her face. Broc swiveled. “Tell me ye dinnae fear the little creatures as well.”

  “I do not fear them. I’m just not particularly fond of them.” She checked her garments for silky threads. “Grandmum!” he shouted.

  Lizzy jumped.

  “Sorry, angel. I dinnae mean to startle ye.” He returned his weapon to his waist and swiveled toward he
r.

  “Broc, I—“

  “Who’s there?” A candle flame rounded the corner and with it came Broc’s grandmum. She brought an ill-furnished great room to light via two wall sconces, then turned toward them.

  She was easily the oldest woman Lizzy had ever seen. Wrinkles covered every bit of exposed skin, and her hair, white as a full moon, only added to her eerie countenance. She wore a crossbarred wool tunic and shuffled with the aid of a walking stick through the floor rushes. On closer inspection, Lizzy realized her walking stick was actually a sword. “Tis Broderick.” With an arm bent behind his back, he pulled Lizzy closer.

  “I used to ‘ave a grandson by that name, but the liverbellied jack quit visitin’ long ago.”

  The woman reached out a crooked finger and poked him in the breastbone. “Ow!” He rubbed his chest and then bent to kiss her cheek. “Forgive me, I’ve been in London.”

  “Aye, I thought I smelled English on ye.” She leaned a bit to get a better view of Lizzy.

  “Who ye got with ye?” Broc drew a breath and switched places with Lizzy, bringing her in front of him. “Grandmum, this is Lizbeth.” Lizzy bobbed her head once and demanded her fidgeting to cease. “ ‘Tis good to meet you.”

  The woman extended a gnarled hand toward Lizzy’s face, causing Lizzy to blink rapidly, then curled a tendril of Lizzy’s dark red hair around her finger. “She’s a Scot?” “Nay,”

  Broc answered.

  “English?” Her face puckered, deepening her wrinkles.

  “Aye, but she is learning to dislike them.”

  Grandmum inspected Lizzy’s dark gown, making her feel like an object and not a person.

  “Is she in mourning?” “Nay.” Lizzy beat Broc this time. She didn’t travel all this way to be treated with the same abuse as she’d endured in the Tower. She didn’t need someone speaking for her, telling her how to act and what to do.

  “Are ye breedin’ her?”

  “Mayhap.”

  Mayhap? What kind of answer was “mayhap”? Did he intend to take her to wife or not?

  Of course, she didn’t voice this question. Instead, she squeezed his pinkie finger with all her might.

  “If’n you’re plannin’ to birth Maxwell bairns, then we best get some meat on your bones.” She poked Lizzy in the arm.

  “Come, I’ve stew in the hearth.”

  Rubbing her tender skin, Lizzy stepped to follow and felt the release of her hand. She turned.

  Broc took a step backward. “I need to return to Skonoir.”

  “You’re leaving me here?”

  “Nay, lass,” Grandmum answered behind her. “He’s hiding ye here.”

  Lizzy noticed the woman held the same stiff pose as she. Fists punched into her hips and one eye squinted near shut on Broc.

  “The council will be awaiting my arrival and I need to see to preparations for my return to London. Be nice to her, Grandmum. She frightens easily. I will return on the morrow.”

  The moment his words ended, he left.

  Infuriated by his abrupt departure, Lizzy humphed. Why would he not take her with him?

  Was he embarrassed of her? “Come along, lass,” Broc’s grandmum said from behind. Lizzy humphed again, but conceded to follow her through an archway. “Have you a name?” she asked, not certain how to address the woman.

  She shrugged. “Grandmum. ‘Tis what the kin have always called me.” Then she added,

  “Or witch,” and cackled all the way through a narrow passageway. She jested. Like Broc, Grandmum probably found her own wit far more humorous than anyone else did. A salty scent danced beneath Lizzy’s nose when they entered the next open room. Grandmum filled two troughs and waddled her way onto a bench seat. Lizzy wouldn’t dare insult her, so she squirmed into the seat across from her and picked a bite of meat from her stew. ‘Twas good. Salty, but better than oatcakes.

  “Ye are English, aye. A peasant?”

  “Nay.”

  “Then ye are titled? The daughter of an earl mayhap?”

  Lizzy sighed and stopped herself from rolling her eyes. Parentage. ‘Twas always the first question. Another bite filled her mouth so she wouldn’t have to answer, but Grandmum waited. She slurped three spoonfuls of stew through the handful of teeth still remaining in her mouth, staring at Lizzy between each bite.

  “The stew is good. What’s in it?”

  “Mutton and turnips. Is your father a baron?” Curse it! “Did you know if you add primrose petals to your stew, it takes the bitterness out of the turnip?” “A duke?”

  There would be no sidestepping with this woman. “I am labeled a lady among the courtiers in London because my father is the Lord High Executioner.”

  “Ah chac.r Grandmum’s skin rose where there should have been eyebrows. “Weel, that should make for interesting chatter. Tell me o’ your da.”

  Lizzy sighed. “He is responsible for upholding England’s law by punishing its criminals.”

  “How does he punish them?”

  The woman was obviously senile if she wanted to talk about Father’s profession over sup. “The same way executioners have punished criminals for centuries: beheadings, hangings, the rack.”

  “Do they still draw and quarter a mon, like they did our great Wallace?”

  “Fortunately, that ‘tis one punishment I’ve never witnessed.” To be hung, drawn, and quartered was a penalty reserved for the most heinous of crimes. Mayhap Buckingham would see that fate with Lord Hollister at his side. “I once saw a mon confined in the stocks in the Highlands.

  Do they have those in your London?”

  “Oh, aye.” Lizzy took another bite. “I’d rather my wrists

  and head be bound in the pillory then have the bottoms of my

  feet exposed to the mob and their feathers. Some of us in the Tower call the stocks ‘the tickle bench.’” Emma had made that one up. Grandmum chuckled and slurped her stew. The topic became sterile for Lizzy, but Grandmum displayed no revulsion throughout the remainder of their meal. The old woman stood and rocked a few times before she gained control of her right leg, then finally took a step forward. “My Ogilvy’s whisky is in the larder.” She pointed at an ante-chamber with her sword. “We’ll have a few quaffs before retiring.”

  More than eager to find a bed, Lizzy didn’t argue. She located the flagon and trailed behind Broc’s grandmum to a sitting area in front of a hearth. The moon speckled colored light through a stained-glass window set into the stone. Though night saturated the outer edges, Lizzy could make out the image of a woman brandishing a sword, small hands grasped at her skirts. Neart, Grd agus Onoir arched in bold black letters above the rendering. “Strength, love, and honor,” Lizzy said aloud, remembering the blue mark on Broc’s arm. Grandmum fell into the only chair in the room. “My husband had the window commissioned for me years ago from Spain.”

  “Ye are the woman?” Lizzy asked, intrigued by the details.

  “Aye. The hands tryin’ to stop me belong to my bairns.

  ‘Twas my husband’s way of telling me to lay down my sword.” Grandmum tossed back a quaff of whisky, her sword now propped against her leg.

  “Ye went to war?”

  “Aye. More than once.”

  Lizzy’s gaze dropped to the windowsill. What she previously thought to be scraps of material and dried kindling was actually an assortment of dolls made of folded grasses. Twine held them together and distinguished the girls from the boys, but all were dressed in a red and green crossbarred cloth. Oddly enough, the dolls drew up an old memory she had long forgotten. “My father used to carve things. Mostly birds, but he made me a doll once.”

  “My dolls represent my offspring. Eighty-four of them. I bred half the kin living inside the bailey wall of Skonoir Castle.”

  And Broc’s father tucks her away like a leper. Lizzy decided to dislike the man regardless of his status as their chieftain. Grandmum started plucking off names and the status of said bairn, be they dead or alive, which determined the p
lacement of the doll. Those still living stood in an upright position on the sill; those deceased lay in a pile. Half her kin were dead.

  “Which one is Broc?”

  “Aiden, Broderick, and Ian are those three.” Though the tip of her finger curved into the corridor when she pointed, Lizzy managed to follow her direction to three dolls leaning against the wall, each boy taller than the next. Lizzy blew dust from the middle one.

  “Nay, the big one is my Broderick. I made him stronger than Aiden. Taught the lad to wield a sword myself, I did. Same as I did wee Ian.”

  Lizzy smiled inwardly, picturing a young Broc in swordplay with this woman. A sense of admiration touched her heart as she reached for Broc’s doll.

  Grandmum poured herself another quaff of whisky. “He is more honorable than Aiden. Am I wrong?”

  “I was not privileged to know Aiden before he passed.”

  “Passed?”

  Immediately regretting her words, Lizzy explained. “I’m sorry to be the one to bring you such news, but Aiden died in London only days ago.”

  Grandmum pushed herself out of the chair and waddled to

  the window beside Lizzy. “Bluidy English.” She snatched up

  Aiden’s doll and laid it on its back atop the pile representing her deceased kin. The woman was obviously accustomed to death, for she shed no tears. Instead, she spun, swayed, and then gestured for Lizzy to follow. “’Tis late. There is a guest chamber at the top o’ the steps. Best get ye some rest. We work before the cock crows.”

  “When did he die?” Elbows resting on his knees, Broc bowed his head and stared at the stone floor of the council chamber.

  “Magnus passed in March of an apoplexy.” Mam’s voice caught.

  Broc looked up, wanting to comfort the woman who’d given birth to him, but she held her back to him and gazed out the window, letting the slightest breeze push her silverstreaked hair around her neck. Rigid fingers gripped his scalp. “I should have been here during your grieving period.” “I would have sent word of your da’s death had I known where to locate ye. Mayhap then ye could have brought Aiden home to me.” Her words turned cold, accusing. Did she blame herself or him? “Ye cannae punish yourself for Aiden’s death.”