“Broc, please. You are going to kill me.”
He dipped his fingers in the oil, then parted her folds. “Mine,” he breathed, then slipped his warm tongue inside her.
“Mercy Mary” she sputtered in disoriented shock, but that disappeared and delight replaced her misgivings. Brazen with the need for more, she tightened against him as he delved his mouth deeper.
He was devouring her. His hands slid to her breasts to tweak her nipples between his thumb and forefinger. By all reasoning, that harsh act should have hurt, but strangely enough, she grew more aroused. Her fingers wove into his hair as the tension became unbearable. She cried out and felt the muscles inside her flex and throb. When he drew the most sensitive part of her between his teeth, the embodiment of her soul exploded around his mouth, her core—they were one and the same. Broc savored her climax. Her exotic taste intoxicated him. He drew the tip of his tongue over her velvet skin, lapping up her honeyed elixir. He claimed her with his mouth and felt powerful for having done so. He’d never tasted a woman like this before. He’d never wanted to. But Lizbeth’s scent enticed him beyond the limits of his restraint.
Making love to her was like experiencing everything in life for the first time. He would never take another breath without wanting it to be filled with her fragrance, never take another bite without thinking of her taste. His cock stretched to a bursting point, and he feared the beast inside him, fighting for release, was about to take control. He stood at the edge of the table, his erection poised outside her glistening flesh. A droplet of semen pooled on the tip, and he was more than eager to plant his seed inside her. He looked down at his wife, still reveling in her own world of ecstasy, and suspected Lady Ives hid somewhere inside her—the submissive woman who’d been controlled by men her entire life—but the woman before him now was his Lizbeth. She’d stood her ground when he foolishly tried to dominate her. He felt a sense of pride for having found the woman inside her, but worried that he might have drawn her out too far. He latched onto her wrist and pulled her into a sitting position. The plaid slid when he gripped her hips and eased her to the table’s edge once more. She leaned back on one hand panting and licking the oils from her pink lips. Her eyes hid behind blinking lids.
“Lizbeth, keep your eyes open. I want ye to watch us become one.”
She did. Her gaze fell between their bodies as the head of his cock disappeared inside her. She fit him perfectly, like they’d been created to be mates. She hooked her ankles around his backside and cried out as he slid in and out of her silky flesh. He wished he could spend hours in this act, but she felt too good, too hot, too tight. Her canal gripped him in pulsing waves. “Oh, Broc!” she screamed out and worked herself against him as best she could.
He thrust himself inside her over and over until he was certain his legs would no longer hold him. His lids became heavy, but he couldn’t draw his eyes away from where they connected. Then a deafening boom hollowed his ears. Thrust.
Overpowering rapture crawled from his cull ions and through his erection, but he wanted her to share this pleasure with him. He pinched her swollen nub and watched her head snap back.
She cried out, again and again, as a flood of liquid warmth flowed over him. Her head rose to him. A sheen of sweat coated the skin above her lip, and her eyes were the color of molten gold. She clutched his backside with rigid fingers and held him inside her as he filled her with life. Her lips parted. “Mine.”
Chapter 17
“Broderick Maxwell!”
Instinctively, Broc swung an arm over his little brother. His eyes snapped open, but a bright blinding light forced him to squint. Panic settled when he realized he was twentynine summers, not twelve, and Ian didn’t lie beside him, but his sweet wife. Twas a silly boyhood dream. He eased back into the softness of the feather tick he’d hauled into the apothecary from the barn loft after he and Lizbeth ended their loveplay. He exhaled, ruffling a dark red tendril hanging over Lizbeth’s closed eyes. His wee wife had loved him into quite a slumber. He rubbed his bare leg between her thighs and filled one palm with her soft backside, the other with her breast. His groin tightened and his cock grew up the side of her belly. If he could awake like this every morn, he would die a happy man.
A squall sounded outside the door. Actually, it sounded more like grunting, growling, almost animalistic. “Broderick Maxwell, I ken ye are in there. Come out this moment!”
“God’s hooks!” Broc shot upright, flinging Lizbeth to the edge of the feather tick. She scrambled, arms and legs flailing to get back under their blanket. “Who is that?”
Flattening his hands over his face, he rolled his eyes beneath his lids and wished the grating sound of her voice didn’t instantly fill him with guilt. How the devil did she find him here? “ Tis my mam.”
“She sounds angry.” Lizbeth’s wide eyes fixed on the door while she pulled the wool to her chin.
He stumbled to his feet and ripped his tunic over his head. “Maxwell women dinnae get angry. They fight.” Inept fingers struggled with the pleats of his plaid. “Get dressed, angel.” He pointed at a stack of garments he’d collected from Grandmum yester eve.
“And tie the laces of your boots tight.”
Without hesitation, Lizbeth slipped into a tunic and punched her arms through a crossbarred kirtle, then fastened an arisaid at the neck with a broach. Her fingers clawed through her tousled hair, pulling it forward over the small scar she always tried to hide. Damn! The worried look wrinkling her brow filled him with regrets. He shouldn’t have married her in secrecy. He should have posted the banns, spent three sennights dealing with Mam, fighting the elders, arguing with his kinsmen … and then married her. Sheathing his sword at his hip, Broc popped a quick kiss on her nose to give her strength, then crossed the apothecary to pull a fur back from a small window. Garbed in a dark green velvet gown trimmed in gold, Mam displayed her status to perfection. Her stance, however, presented an altogether different threat—one hand on her hip, the other holding a sword, and a deranged look of malice narrowing her eyes. “Damn, she looks a wee bit piqued.”
Smitt leaned against the trunk of a tree behind her, arms and ankles crossed, awaiting the entertainment. Broc had given Smitt orders to meet him here at dawn. Not only was his cousin late, but he brought Hell with him. Broc snapped his neck in two jerks.
“Is she meaner than Grandmum?” Lizbeth slid in front of him and stood on her toes to peek at his mam. “Oh, aye. Dinnae cower to her. She’ll eat ye alive.”
“She has a sword?” Lizbeth’s shoulders fell a little. “Aye. I know ye dislike the weapons, lass, but ye need to at least learn how to handle a dirk. Tis necessary if ye live on the border. Come.” Broc curled his hand around her waist and tugged. “Ye cannae hide from her.”
“I am not going out there.” Lizbeth spun away. “She’s your mother. She’s screaming your name. You go talk to her.” “But ye are who she came to see. We cannae stay in here, angel. Smitt is here for the document, and I need to assemble my men and set out for Edinburgh.”
“And where am I supposed to go?”
“To Skonoir Castle. ‘Tis your home.”
“With her?” Lizbeth shook her head and waved her hands in front of her, but he managed to back her up against the door. “Nay. I will stay here with your grandmum.” “You are my wife and must stay inside the stronghold.” Broc reached between her arm and side for the lever and flanked her against the length of him at the same time. He leaned down and crushed her open mouth with a kiss, swallowing her refusal and hoping to give her courage at the same time. Her growl vibrated over his tongue, but she quickly eased and curled her arms around his neck. He flicked his tongue in her mouth and enjoyed her longer than he intended. “If ye plan to live, ye best come out wielding a weapon,” Mam threatened on the other side of the door. Lizbeth’s hands flattened against his chest, and she pushed him. “I do not like you at the moment.” She swiped her mouth on her sleeve, erasing the evidence that she’d been thoroug
hly kissed.
“I would not have known.” He winked, trying to humor her. “Chin up, Lady Maxwell. All will be well. I vow it. Remember your status in the clan is higher than hers.” Broc tossed the door open and spun Lizbeth around by her shoulders. He set her in front of him like a shield and gave her a little shove into the radiant light of late mora, which dimmed in comparison to the vehemence in Mam’s glare. Lizbeth raised her chin and took two bold steps, making him proud to call her wife.
With his palm over the hilt of his sword, he sidled up behind her and held Lizbeth’s hand up to display her wedding band. “Mam, I’d like ye to meet my wife, Lizbeth.” “Think ye that ring makes her your wife?”
“We pledged our troth yester eve,” Broc defended. “Ye had no witnesses,” Mam hissed and sliced her blade through the air.
He placed his hand at the small of Lizbeth’s back and felt her flinch. “God was my witness. I need nay other.” “In order for it to be binding ye do.”
Grandmum limped into view beside Smitt, who didn’t even attempt to hide his enjoyment of the situation. He thought this amusing, did he?
“Ogilvy, step forward,” Broc ordered.
“Ogilvy?” Lizbeth asked, s
Broc knew now wasn’t the time for antics, but he couldn’t quite help himself. “Aye. His Christian name is Ogilvy, named after his da. He prefers Smitt because he thinks the women are smitten with him.”
Smitt obliged and stepped into their circle, his smile no longer dazzling. Broc spun Lizbeth around, holding her shoulders tight. “I, Broderick Maxwell, pledge my troth to ye, Lizbeth Ives.” He nodded his head for her to repeat the words back to him. When she stammered, he shook her shoulders. Her mouth was open, but her head slowly turned toward Mam’s menacing snarl.
He caught her chin, forcing her eyes on him, and gave her a look that demanded she be brave. “Speak the words, angel.”
“I, Lizbeth Ives, pledge my troth to you, Broderick Maxwell.” “There, ‘tis done. With witnesses.” Broc raised a brow at Mam. “Are ye appeased, or shall we reenact our consummation before ye as well?”
Mam visibly shook, then cried a guttural scream that echoed throughout the woodland. Within the span of a single heartbeat, Smitt lunged backward, Mam reared her sword above her head, and Broc shoved Lizbeth aside. Feet braced shoulder wide, he unsheathed the weapon at his hip in time to block the blow. Scraping metal rasped as he flung Mam’s blade wide. She turned a full circle, gaining momentum, and came at him from the side.
He again deflected the strike. Battling Mam’s fury was much easier with swords than words.
“Cease! Cease!” Lizbeth bellowed.
Mam balanced and reared back her elbow for a direct stab. With the hilt held tight in one hand, she aimed the sharp point straight at his heart and thrust.
“Nay!” Lizbeth screamed and dove in front of his chest with her arms clasped around her head.
His heart jumped out of cadence.
The tip of Mam’s blade stopped a baw hair from Lizbeth’s spine. Broc wrapped an arm around her violently shaking body and spun her to the side and out of danger. “Enough!” he yelled at Mam. “Put down your weapon.”
Mam’s blade lowered, and her eyes rounded beneath raised brows. “Is she wowf!”
“Mayhap. But nay more than ye.”
Lizbeth pushed out of his arms and gawked at them. Her gold eyes twitched beneath the sun’s rays like flickering flames. “What manner of woman wields a sword against her own kin?”
“Think ye I was going to kill him? He is my son.” “And he is my husband.” Lizbeth stepped toward Mam, and Broc prayed his bold wife didn’t push her. “Whilst I am not familiar with the way you and your kin resolve your differences, where I come from, when a blade is wielded, a man dies.” She filled her hands with her skirts and rushed into Grandmum’s awaiting hands.
“Come.” Grandmum patted Lizbeth on the back. “Let us go inside. I’ll fetch us a flask o’
whisky.”
“Better fetch two,” Smitt suggested and followed. “Da will make more.”
Broc sheathed his sword at his hip and wished he didn’t turn to ice when he stood next to Mam, but she’d always had that effect on him. He’d tried to gain her affections, hoped she might one day see the strong warrior he’d become and proudly call him son. but even now she stood unmoving, uncaring. How would he ever get this woman to accept his wife when she wouldn’t even accept him?
Mam’s mouth closed, and the point of her sword drew a crooked path in the dirt. “Think ye I intended to kill ye?” “Nay, but she did.”
“She shielded ye,” Mam stated with little emotion. ‘Twas a fact Broc hadn’t considered. A sudden ache clutched his heart. Pride? Love? “I s’pose she did. The lass must be growing a wee bit fond of me.”
“Fond of ye?” she questioned with that familiar accusatory tone. “No warrior, man nor woman, steps in front of a sword because of fondness. Had we been engaged in actual battle, she would have sacrificed her life for ye.” “Aye.” Broc could no longer contain his smile. His wee wife tried to protect him.
Mam searched the ground, her head tilting this way and that. “Think ye Lady Juliana would have thrown herself in front of ye?”
His smile fell instantly. “Lady Juliana is no longer my concern. I will meet with Laird Scott, along with the Wardens of the Marches, upon my return from Edinburgh.” Broc intended to say more regarding his plans to rally the border lords, but Mam paid no attention to his words. “S’truth.” Her gaze traveled from him to the dirt path leading to Skonoir Castle, then back to him. “I’m nay certain I would have done the same for my Magnus.” She crossed herself out of respect for her deceased husband. “I loved your da. Bore him a dozen bairns, I did. But…”
“Has she earned your respect then?” he asked when Mam’s words trailed off. Hopefully, Lizbeth’s act of bravery gained her Mam’s acceptance.
“She’s spirited. Aye?” Mam smoothed silver-laced strands of brown hair back into her braid.
“Oh, aye.” Mayhap too spirited deep down.
“She’s bonnie for English. That wee bit of red in her hair will help.” Mam tapped her finger against her bottom lip. “The aunts will take to her well enough, as will your sisters. The elders might need encouragement. Is there favor to be gained with the English through your marriage? Does she come with any entitlements?”
Broc knew the path this conversation would take, and while he once intended to hide Lizbeth’s secrets, he knew it best Mam knew the truth. “She comes with nay dowry. She bears the epithet of iady’ because her father holds a lord’s rank in England.”
“She is the daughter of an earl? A marquess mayhap?” she asked with far too much excitement.
A step back gave him enough distance to draw his sword.
“Lizbeth is the daughter of the Lord High Executioner.”
“Mo chreach” she whispered and stared at him, an odd fascination smoothing her harsh features. “She is skilled with the weapons then?”
Broc dipped his head to hide his humor. Lizbeth was so much more than the executioner’s daughter. “She’s a healer, like Grandmum, only I suspect a wee bit more knowledgeable of the craft. She cares a great deal for her loved ones and will make a gentle mother, but she holds nay likeness for the weapons. Instead, she is fond of flowers and making scents.” His efforts to convince Mam of Lizbeth’s qualities made him realize how very fortunate he’d been to find her. “Ye cannae protect Scotland with flowers. She’ll have to learn how to handle a sword.”
Broc snorted. “Ye go too far, too fast, Mam. Ye have only met her, and ye already have her wielding swords. Mayhap ye can start.with something less intrusive. Say, instructing her on delegation of duties.” He offered Mam his arm and blew air from his nose when she took it. They shared steps over the stone path toward the entrance to Grandmum’s.
“Can I trust ye to keep her safe inside the stronghold whilst I’m away?”
“She will be safe.” Mam
turned away from him and looked down at her sword.
“Heed me, Mam, or ye will find yourself living with Grandmum and milking her goats.”
“Shh…”
Giggle.
What is that smell? Lizzy’s nose awoke before the rest of her. She moaned and hugged the softly stuffed bolster of Broc’s bed, her bed—a very large, very empty bed. Her legs stretched and her feet slid between the silky sheets. Oh, the things she intended to do to her husband in this bed made her ache in places still tender from their lovemaking. He might have dominated her at noontide yesterday before he’d left for Edinburgh, but she would have her way with him soon. Very soon. Her mind wandered to all the sinful places in the laird’s solar she intended to tease him. She would await him naked on the velvet bench seat beneath the arched stained-glass window and let the afternoon light pour color over her skin. They would make love atop the dark green and scarlet carpet in front of a crackling fire in the hearth. Little did he know what she had planned. He wouldn’t always be the one in control. She squirmed, rubbing her aching bare breasts over the sheets. She yawned and then sniffed. Dirt? What is that smell? She sniffed again. It smelled like peach jam on burnt bread.
Giggle.
Her One Desire Page 21