Her One Desire

by Kimberly Killion

  Broc loosened the laces of her tunic and gathered the material around her waist. He embraced her, pressing her skin to his, and kissed her hair. She felt a near desperation to be intimate with him. A hum escalated throughout her body as she placed featherlight kisses along his jaw, hoping they would come upon an inn soon. He moaned, licked his lips, and pushed her tunic high over her bare thighs. The thickness of his manhood grew to pulsing proportions beneath her bottom, causing her knees to latch a little tighter around him. Clasping her fingers around his neck, she leaned back, needing to feel his caress and the warmth of his mouth. “Touch me.”

  Her breasts bobbed in rhythm with the steed’s canter until he caught one in each hand and circled her nipples with the tips of his short nails. At last his moist tongue sprinkled her areolas with wetness one at a time until her nipples crinkled. She wiggled, growing more aroused, feeling his passion through every ounce of coddled skin. The tension became unbearable, and the muscles inside her flexed and throbbed.

  She gasped and tightened the clasp of her ankles behind him as a streak of fire flashed through her. “Will we be stopping soon?” Please say aye.

  “Nay. With Smitt leading us, ‘tis quite possible we will ride all the way to Scotland.”

  Holding her hands in one of his to aid her balance, he lowered her onto the horse’s nape.

  “Lie back. I want to see ye. I’ll not let ye go.”

  Her breasts glistened in the moonlight, and the wind slid over her like cool satin. He gathered her tunic at her navel and played over her skin, teasing all of her curves. “Do ye know I’ve pictured ye like this.”

  Through the slits of her eyes, she recognized the hunger in his gaze, and the vixen who’d been locked away far too long wanted to play. “Ye pictured me naked atop a horse?”

  “Aye.” He tickled her small nest of curls, drawing heat straight to his hand. “I pictured ye naked in the tunnel the first time I ever smelled your scent,” he admitted, “but I pictured ye naked atop a horse the morning after we left the inn. Ye are far more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.”

  His words caused a blush to further heat her burning skin.

  She was about to beg him to touch her when he delved two

  fingers between the wet folds of her womanhood and circled her sensitive ball of flesh with the tip of his thumb. Her wrists buckled inside his grip as she lifted her hips off the horse’s back. “Oh, Broc.” His name passed over her teeth with a sharp intake of air. “You must stop the horse.” “Nay.” He urged the steed faster across the open plain, stroking her, bringing her closer to the brink of ecstasy. Her core fluttered in anticipation. She held tight to his hand and cried out his name over and over into the night. Desire seared through her loins. The pinnacle of her climax lay on the surface. He tore his fingers from inside her and let go of her hand.

  Nay! Her core pulsed.

  He stood in the stirrups and released the laces of his trews to free his erection from its confinement. “I need ye.” “You intend to make love to me on a moving horse?” She sat forward, struggling to keep her balance without the aid of his hand.

  “Oh, aye.” He curled his hands around her buttocks, lifted her overtop him, and nipped her ear. “Wrap your arms around me.”

  She did and tucked her face in the crook of his neck as he opened her to him.

  “Make love to me, Lizbeth.” He slid himself into her wet canal and fell into rhythm with the stallion’s rocking gait. Her nails dug into his shoulders, holding on, as each stride filled her with his thickness. The horse controlled the pace of their lovemaking, beat after beat, pulse after pulse, until the spiraling friction escalated and sent her searching for air. The sound of wet slapping flesh heightened her desires, exciting her in ways she’d not yet experienced.

  Fingers spread wide around her cheeks, teasing the crevice of her backside, circling the puckered hole until one finger snuck in to its knuckle and mimicked the to and fro movement of his hard shaft inside her. She cried out and squeezed her muscles, wanting him to stop … wanting him to go faster, harder.

  “Ye are mine. No one will ever take ye away from me again.” His groans were animalistic. Deep, throaty … primal. “Mine … “ He repeated the word with each thrust.

  “Mine.”

  “Mine.”

  “Mine!” he roared and crushed her pelvis to his. Digging his fingertips into her bottom, he dominated her, and she wanted to show him the same aggression. He was her mate, her husband, her lover. Empowered by his passion, she reached between them and squeezed his tiny nipples and sunk her teeth into his shoulder. Pleasure took hold of her body in rippling waves.

  Like a caged animal set free, he bellowed an instinctual growl so fierce and loud it vibrated in her ears, and then he erupted into her heat. He flooded her, surge after powerful surge, filling her with life.

  The beat of his heart thundered as one with hers in the aftermath. His thighs tightened, slowing the steed up the side of the knoll until they came to a stop. His forehead rested on her shoulder, and his harsh breaths heated the space between them. “Oh, Lizbeth …”

  She waited for him to finish, expectation making her heart gallop faster than it had moments before. He must love her; his touch told her so. He’d been willing to die for her. She nuzzled into his neck, wanting desperately to hear him profess his love. Say the words.

  The sting of tears prickled her eyes. Her lips brushed the rim of his ear. Love me, she begged silently, but her plea echoed throughout her heart… unanswered.

  Chapter 23

  “Is it really necessary for you to enter Grandmum’s home with a dagger?” Lizbeth pursed her lips and scowled at Broc, a face she’d worn often enough over the last few days. He suspected she was weary. For nearly a sennight, they rode hard, slept little, and made love every chance they could slip away from the others. Lizbeth was at her most playful before dawn. Twice he’d awoken with her atop him wanting to play the victor. And twice he’d put her back under him. Every day that passed she became stronger, bolder, more dominant. He was eager to get her back to Skonoir Castle, but she’d insisted on paying Grandmum a visit since the sun was still high. Standing on the stone walkway behind him, Lizbeth crossed her arms under her breasts, displaying her stubbornness, but the effect was lost on the daring cut of the deep purple gown he’d bought her at Market Cross in Leicestershire. He paid little attention to her temper as his gaze focused on the creamy swells of her breasts, currently accentuated by a thick gold hem that followed her curves down the front of her skirt where her toe drummed an impatient tune. Waiting.

  “Dinnae tap your toe at me,” he demanded, which only made her glare at him with those flaming eyes and tap with more ferocity.

  “Sheath your weapon.”

  “Grandmum will not poke me if I’m wielding a weapon.” “You are a foolish Scotsman. Step aside.” She brushed past him, leaving a sweet scent in his nose reminding him of the thick garden of white and red flowers where he’d made love to her before dawn. Gillyflowers, to be more precise. Why the woman insisted on educating him on every floral species across England he didn’t know, but it made her smile. ‘Twas enough for him.

  “Are you coming?” She offered him her hand from the threshold.

  “Aye.” He sheathed his weapon, took her hand, and stepped in front of her to lead her into the entranceway. The tip of a sword found the hollow of his throat the moment they entered Grandmum’s great room.

  “Tis about time ye returned.”

  For a moment Broc thought he stared at his reflection, except the man before him was younger and wore the plaid. He almost didn’t recognize Ian in the colored light of Grandmum’s stained-glass window. Truth was, nigh a year had passed since Broc had seen his younger brother. “You’ve grown. A lot.”

  “Aye.” Ian slid his sword into the sheath at his hip, then clasped Broc’s hand and embraced him with a slap on the back. A hearty slap. “I’ve been safeguarding the border whilst ye’ve been frolicking
about England. Is this your woman?” Ian ran his gaze over Lizbeth, bringing her eyes away from Grandmum’s window.

  “Aye. This is Lizbeth.”

  “I am his wife,” she corrected, “not his woman.” “ ‘Tis one and the same,” Ian remarked with a nonchalance that made Broc consider slipping from the room. The lad still had lessons to learn.

  “Pray forgive me, but nay they are not. A wife is expected to be faithful to her husband. To be dutiful and support him and help him make decisions. A woman is someone a man ruts over before he finds a wife to guide him.” Broc wanted to applaud her for standing up to Ian. No doubt, she worried over her position as Lady Maxwell. Mayhap she feared being incapable of managing the household. For days he’d searched for reasons to justify her low spirits.

  Ian opened his mouth, then closed it. He stared at Lizbeth for long moments before turning to Broc. “Have ye been to Skonoir?”

  Lizbeth humphed and went to the sill housing Grandmum’s dolls.

  “Nay,” Broc answered and worried over Lizbeth’s mood.

  “Why are ye not at the keep?”

  “He is hiding.” Grandmum limped into the room. Thankfully, her poking fingers were occupied with a flask of whisk)’, four small cups, and her sword.

  “I am not hiding. Think ye a mon cannae visit his grandmum without everyone accusing him of misdeed?” Ian denied Grandmum’s accusation, but Broc knew something was amiss. No one visited Grandmum lest they wanted a medicine or a place of refuge.

  “Ah chad Ye been here a sennight, and the roof on the barn still needs to be fixed, as do the fences.” Grandmum turned a blind eye to her grandsons, set the whisky and cups on the trestle table, and then hobbled toward Lizbeth, who was completely preoccupied with Grandmum’s dolls.

  Broc cringed. Dinnae poke her.

  “Are ye weel, child? Ye look a wee bit peaked.” Grandmum brushed Lizbeth’s hair with bony fingers.

  Lizbeth didn’t answer. Instead, she rearranged Grandmums dolls with a fierce frown.

  “She is well,” Broc answered for her and gathered he shouldn’t have when she glared at him over her shoulder and her toe started tapping, again.

  “Then ye are breeding her?” The skin raised above Grandmum s eyes.

  “Oh, aye,” Broc said with pride. He regarded the sweet shade of pink coloring Lizbeth’s cheeks as a compliment until one winged brow arched over a narrowed eye. “Oh. aye?

  Oh, aye? Is that what you’ve been doing. Lord Maxwelll Breeding your woman?” Lizbeth puffed air through her nose. A heartbeat later, her chin started to quiver. A ray of sunlight flickered in her watery eyes just before she lowered her lids.

  “Lizbeth, I dinnae—“

  “I’m going to the barn.” She started for the door. “If’n ye’ve the time, the goats are in need of milking,” Grandmum said.

  Lizbeth disappeared in a flash of purple velvet.

  The moment she was out of earshot, Ian laughed outright.

  “That one’s got a wee bit of a temper, dear brother.” “Aye.” Broc took full responsibility for sharpening Lizbeth’s tongue, and he liked her that way. She wasn’t the skittish doe he’d met in the runnel who twisted her sleeves and pinned her chin to her chest. Howbeit, something definitely troubled her. Mayhap she was carrying and the moods had already taken over her senses. The thought of seeing her round with his child made his cullions harden. “Lady Juliana would never spout off in such a way.” Ian’s comment jarred Broc out of his musings.

  “Lady Juliana is nay longer my concern.” He cared little for the comparison. Grandmum grinned with all four of her teeth. “Mayhap she should be.”

  “Explain.” Broc waited for Grandmum to fill them each a quaff of whisky while Ian feigned great interest in the edge of his sgian dubh.

  “Tis my understanding Laird Scott has been eagerly awaiting your return for little more than a sennight. He and a dozen of his kinsmen have taken up quarters at Skonoir with his daughter in tow and is demanding a wedding. Says Lady Juliana has been soiled by a Maxwell.” Broc instantly sensed Grandmum’s accusation. “I dinnae steal the woman’s virtue. I’ve not been in her presence in three years. If the mon thinks to accuse me of such, then he will have a war on his hands.”

  Grandmum slipped whisky between her smirk. “Ye are not the mon in question, laddie.”

  “Smitt?” Broc asked. The drabber had been home only three days before Broc had sent him back into England. Damn! ‘Twould take a team of oxen to get his cousin before a priest.

  “Nay.” Ian tossed a quaff of whisky down his gullet ‘”Tis I.” “Ye jest.” Broc straddled the trestle bench and tipped his own bit of whisky. The spirits stung his throat and coated his belly with fire. Ian didn’t look at him. His brother hung his head like the boy who once stole Aiden’s sword. But Ian was apparently a boy no longer. “She must be five years your senior.”

  “One, brother. One year. Lady Juliana was eighteen when Laird Scott and Da betrothed her to Aiden.” Broc tried to draw up Lady Juliana’s memory, but couldn’t even recall the shape of her face. The only woman in his mind’s eye was his Lizbeth. Grandmum poured them each another quaff. Another soon followed. No words passed as they each engulfed three hearty doses of Uncle Ogilvy’s whisky.

  “What are your intentions?” Broc asked.

  “I wish to take her to wife.”

  “Then why are ye hiding at Grandmum’s?”

  “Lady Juliana once belonged to Aiden. Whilst he did not want her, I know ye did.”

  “And when ye found out I took a wife, ye rushed out and stole the lass’s virtue?”

  Disappointment leaked into his voice without warning.

  “Nay.” Ian stood and splayed his palms on the table. “I’ve been meeting Lady Juliana where our soil meets Clan Scott for nigh a year in secrecy. ‘Twas only after I heard ye took a wife did I act on my desires for her.”

  Broc waited for anger to take over or even a bit of jealousy, but Lady Juliana had never been the woman for him. Lizbeth had always been inside him, waiting for him to save her. “Ye should have married her first. Ian.”

  “I wanted your permission.”

  Awe could only describe the feeling slipping through Broc s chest. ‘Twas either that or the whisky. He’d gained his brother’s respect as he would undoubtedly gain the respect of Clan Maxwell. ‘Twas good to be the leader. He poured another round of whisky and studied the warrior woman depicted in Grandmum’s stained-glass window. He read the words inscribed over her head: Neart, Grd agus Onoir. “Strength, love, and honor, brother. May ye achieve happiness and strength through love and honor the same as I have.” Broc held up the small cup and waited for Ian to join him. “Then I have your permission?” Ian raised his cup along with his dark brows.

  “I will set the banns on the morrow. Ye will wed Lady Juliana in three sennights.”

  Upon entering the barn, Broc kept his distance as Lizbeth’s fingers were wrapped around the goat’s teat. He had no desire to bath in goat’s milk before returning to Skonoir. Quite a mood had settled over his wife. Albeit, she cried in her sleep less and less, she certainly carried a burden with her, and he wanted to lighten her load. He settled against the barn frame, feeling the effects of

  Uncle Ogilvy’s whisky. The longer he watched her, the broader his smile became. She was ranting to the goat. He couldn’t hear her words, but her sharp gestures were made of definite scorn. God, he loved this woman. He didn’t know when he’d come to realize it. Mayhap when Hollister took her from him, but with each passing day, he felt her love strengthen him, empower him, make him the dominant leader he needed to be. She suited him well. She stood after milking the fourth goat and wiped her hands down the front of the expensive velvet gown he’d bought her.

  ‘”Milking goats is hardly work for a lady.”

  Lizbeth lifted two pails and started past him out of the barn, making no reply to his statement.

  God’s hooks. What the devil was wrong with his wee wife? “Put the pails
down.”

  She stopped abruptly, slopping creamy yellowed milk over the edge of one pail. He studied her profile, searching for her mood, but a veil of indifference hid her emotions. The longer she stood in silence, the more frustrated he became. “Ye will tell me what has you acting out of sorts.”

  She turned toward him. A glimpse of fury ignited her eyes into fiery suns. “Because you order it? Because you are the leader of your clan and hold power over me as your wife? I have spent the whole of my existence pacifying men of power. I have a mind. I know what plants ease stomach cramps and what plants keep the insects from biting the skin. I’ve eased women’s labor pains whilst they brought their bairns into this world. I may not brandish a sword like the women in your clan, but I can improve the quality of life for your kinsfolk, but I cannot do this behind you.” “Ye are not behind me.” He looked over his shoulder to prove his point.

  “I am in their eyes. Did you not see the dolls?”

  “The dolls?” Completely perplexed, he concentrated on her words.

  “Grandmum made me a doll. She put me behind you on the sill.”

  Broc stared at her wishing she were less complicated.

  “This is not about the dolls.”

  “You are the leader of your clan, and I am your wife, not your woman. I must be at your side.”

  “Ye are at my side.” The woman was wowf. “Nay, I am not. I take a step forward, ye take two.” Lizbeth set the pails down and started out of the barn. Broc stepped in front of her. “Dinnae walk away.” “Do you see? You did not stop me from behind. You always have to be on top looking down on me with your strength and prowess.”