He was glad she had finally stopped battling him, but he felt guilt-stricken that she was worried for her brother.
“The worst he’ll suffer is a headache,” he reassured her.
Either he had swooned, or Broc had managed to hit him just right to knock him out. In either case, Broc knew for certain the lad was still breathing when they left him. He’d reached down to feel his breath. His frantic sister had simply been too distraught to notice.
“I saw you fell him!”
“Aye, lass, you saw me hit him with the butt of my dagger.”
They reached Seana’s abandoned hovel, and he set her down in front of the door. It took her a moment to regain her footing.
“We’re here.”
“Wonderful,” she replied and Broc recognized both fear and anger in her tone. He admired her for standing up to him. She was nothing like her milksop brother. In fact, he decided she had more courage than most men.
Her brows collided and she seemed to be considering whether to believe him. “You hit him with the butt of your dagger?”
Broc nodded, watching her expression.
Much of her flaxen hair had worked itself free from her thick braid and fell in disarray about her face. He brushed it aside to reveal a pink nose, evidence of tears, and eyes so stark a green they seemed almost unreal. She had the look of a Highland lass about her—and attitude as well. She shrugged away from him.
“Ye have my word, he’s fine.”
Her eyes glazed with unshed tears.
“Och, dinna cry.” He reached out to wipe away her tears, unsettled to see them.
She slapped his hand away and averted her gaze.
He was glad she had. He almost forgot himself—almost forgot she was a peevish English lass. Still he wanted to tell her not to worry, that he wouldn’t harm her, but his tongue was suddenly too thick to speak.
Already, in little more than a few months, the forest had begun to reclaim Seana’s hovel. Colin had forbidden his new bride to return to this place, where so much had happened to dispirit her.
He watched the girl from the corner of his eye as he worked the door free of the vines that had begun to tangle within the doorframe. Once the door was forced open, he gently pushed her within the cairn, but not before she managed to cast him a malevolent glare.
Broc really couldn’t blame her, but he would explain everything once they were safely within.
He followed her inside and closed the door behind them, casting the room into shadows, but, no matter, he knew his way around well enough not to trip over anything. In any case, the place was nearly empty now. It was dank and rotten-smelling and Broc grimaced at the grim reminder that Seana’s old man had lived the last of his life huddled in a cold, damp corner of the single-room dwelling.
He didn’t understand how Seana had lived here so long. He understood even less why her da hadn’t gotten off his lazy, drunken backside and built them a small but respectable hut somewhere in these woods instead of shacking up in the ruins of an old cairn.
But none of that was really any of his affair.
The old man was dead now, Seana was comfortable and deliriously happy with her new husband, and the cairn would make a good hiding place until Broc could best determine what to do with his feisty bit of baggage.
He pulled her further into the room. “You cannot keep me here,” she protested, jerking away from him as though his touch disgusted her.
He grasped her firmly, pulling her back. “Trust me when I tell you ’tis for your own good, lass.”
Not until he discovered who the bowman was did he intend to release her. He didn’t wish to have her death on his conscience now that he had chosen to intervene. Sassenach or not, she was a woman in need of his protection, and what sort of man would he be if he refused to give it?
His mother had needed him once long ago, and he’d failed her. He’d not throw away any opportunity to redeem himself by championing those who could not protect themselves.
He led the girl to one of two chairs in the room and sat her down at the table, then knelt in front of her to explain the situation as calmly as he was able.
Before he could open his mouth, she flew at him. He caught her hands before she could do any damage and jerked her down once more.
“Listen to me!” he demanded.
“This place smells like death!”
“Aye, it does,” Broc agreed. “Now, listen,” he commanded once more, trying to calm her.
“Someone will find us,” She sounded hopeful. And angry. “And when they do, you will regret ever having laid a hand upon me, Scot!”
“Nay.” He shook his head. “No one will find you here.” Even those who had known Seana lived here had not been able to find the place with precise directions. The dwelling was well hidden between cliffside and woodland.
As soon as he was able to do so he would get her some light. The place didn’t look quite so frightening with torches lit against the night.
“Aye, my men will find us.”
Not unless they chose to be found, Broc was certain.
“And if they cannot find me, my father will send more men to aid in the search. They will find me.”
It sounded to Broc as though she were trying to convince herself, but he wanted to tell her that there would be no need, if only she would shut up and listen. “They will search in vain,” he said instead, annoyed with her persistence.
“And my father’s cousin will be furious. He too will scour this land, and when he finds me, he’ll cut off your hands for daring to touch me.”
At least he was getting somewhere now.
“And your cousin is?” he asked.
Maybe her cousin would aid them. If he could leave her here in Seana’s hovel, safe from the bowman, he could go and seek out her cousin on her behalf.
“What good will it do for me to tell you who he is? Will you set me free once you know? Or hold me for ransom?”
She struggled to free her hands from his grip, but to no avail. He held her fast.
Broc’s brows drew together. “Ransom?” The thought hadn’t even occurred to him.
“Aye, that thing you do when you abduct innocent women to extort money from unsuspecting victims,” she explained acidly. “Don’t tell me the thought never crossed your mind, Scot.”
He blinked and stared up at her and then grinned suddenly.
“Don’t look at me that way!”
“Which way?”
“As though the idea only just occurred to you.”
His grin widened. “Och, lass, how much are you worth?”
Elizabet gasped in outrage.
She wanted to assure him that no one would pay anything for her. Despite her bravado, she doubted a distant cousin who had no inkling she even existed and didn’t have the first notion she was to be tossed at him like so much baggage would bother to lift a finger to help her. And she wasn’t about to give up her meager dowry either, when it was all she had left in the world. Besides, even if she promised her captor every last coin, she had no assurance he would set her free. If this madman wished to ravish her, kill her and toss her body to the wolves, no one would care. The thought wholly disheartened her.
He shook his head. “I have no intention of ransoming you.”
Elizabet eyed him dubiously, unsure whether to be relieved or afraid at that revelation.
Her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room, and she peered about, trying to gauge their surroundings. It did smell like death in this place. It reminded her of some old, forsaken crypt.
“Where are we?”
“Somewhere safe.”
Light. She needed more light in order to be able to assess her chances of escape. “I’m afraid of the dark,” she lied. Or mayhap it wasn’t a lie. Somewhere near where she sat, the sound of little scurrying feet brought a gasp to her lips.
“If you promise to behave, I’ll light a candle.”
Elizabet bristled. No one had commanded her to behave since
she was a child. But she nodded anyway.
“I promise,” she said grudgingly, and took comfort in the fact that a lie told in self-defense wasn’t any sort of lie at all. God would surely never hold it against her.
The first opportunity this madman gave her to run she intended to use it. But he seemed to sense that and stood between her and the door, giving her no opportunity, and she cursed him beneath her breath. She could see his silhouette move through the deepening shadows like a sinister wraith. After an interminable moment, the promised light appeared.
Elizabet blinked as she stared at the half-burned taper he held in his hand. Her gaze moved to his face.
The rotten devil had the face of an angel. It was that face she reasoned, that had made her so vulnerable. She had mistakenly believed that no man with a face like his could do something so ignoble.
Well, she had been wrong after all.
At least with the candle lit, the room didn’t appear so frightening. Evidently, it had been used, though not recently, as someone’s home. It was dusty now, and cobwebs had formed in the corners. Anything that might have made the place seem cozy had been removed, and all that remained were the barest essentials.
She was seated at a small, crude table, with a portion of its top lopped off. In one corner of the room was a small brazier, and stacked beside it were a few pots and pans. In another corner lay a lone pallet.
He went to the brazier, lit it, and then came toward her once more, his presence inescapable. She cast a yearning glance at the door.
“What is this place?”
He towered before her, looking down at her, and Elizabet swallowed.
“A friend lived here. She’s wed now and gone.”
A lover, Elizabet wondered?
She cast him a glance, one brow arched. No man ever befriended a woman save to acquire her assets, be it her wealth or her body. “A friend?” she asked dubiously.
She didn’t seem to be able to keep herself from baiting him, and that simple fact unsettled her. She wasn’t a stupid woman. She knew nothing about this man, but her instinct was confusing her. Somehow, though he appeared threatening, she didn’t feel threatened. Foolish conclusion after she’d witnessed the felling of her own brother.
“Aye,” he replied. “A verra good friend.”
“Hmph!”
So was this their secret meeting place? Her home? Had he abandoned her here to wither in the dark and cold?
She wrinkled her nose in absolute disgust. If so, these Scots had much to learn about wooing a woman. Her mother, at least, had been showered with luxuries and bathed in exotic perfumes.
“If this is all you offered the poor woman, ’tis no wonder she wed someone else.”
He had the audacity to chuckle at that.
“She wasna my woman.”
“All the worse,” Elizabet chastened, offering a baleful glance for his shameless confession.
As if that fact should excuse him!
“Nay, lass,” was all he said in his defense.
“Men are curs,” she said. “You live to eat, sleep, fight like bratty children, and you cuckold your fellows without conscience.”
He frowned at her, annoying her with his heedless attitude. “Och, she’s my best friend’s wife!”
“Since when did that stop a man?” She stood and railed at him, becoming outraged now, just thinking of the injustices her mother had suffered at the hands of men like him. “You think the whole world belongs to you, and it matters not what a woman’s desires are.” She jabbed him in the chest. “You pass her from hand to hand, whispering lovely promises and, all the while, you intend to honor not a single word.”
He started to speak again, but Elizabet was beside herself with the insult. He’d injured her brother, seized her against her will, and now he dared to stand before her and speak so casually of using some woman he hadn’t a right to!
“Ye misunderstand me, lass.” He was growing vexed with her. She could tell by his harassed expression.
“Dinna ye ever hush, woman?”
“Nay!” Elizabet assured. “And when you kill me, I will not die silently. My screams will haunt you until the day you die!”
“I’m no’ going to kill ye.”
Relief nearly choked her. “You’re not?”
He sounded incensed. “Nay.”
Well, he would surely ravage her at least.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Well… if you touch me, I will scratch out your eyes from your pretty face!”
He stood there looking at her as though she were deranged, and then shook his head. “I’m no’ going to touch you ye either, for goodness sake! And neither am I pretty!”
This time, Elizabet couldn’t keep the surprise from her tone. “You’re not?”
“Nay,” he said with far too much certainty.
It occurred to her suddenly to be offended—it was that something in his tone that sounded as though the very notion of touching her was abhorrent. She sat here noting his beautiful face and body despite the gravity of the situation and feeling ashamed for it, and he obviously didn’t return the least attraction.
What was wrong with her that he didn’t want her?
What was wrong with her that she should want him to want her?
Well, it wasn’t that she wanted him to want her precisely, but that she didn’t want him not to want her, either.
And the dialogue in her head was becoming inane.
The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Why not?”
Chapter 6
For an instant, Broc didn’t believe his ears. He screwed his face at her. “What do you mean why not?”
She seemed to think about her question a moment and then rephrased it. “Just what do you intend to do with me if you don’t mean to ransom me, kill me or take advantage of me?”
Her question amused him, though it shouldn’t have. Broc tried not to laugh.
The shudder of her delicate shoulders told him she was frightened, but she was hardly cowering before him this moment, and he couldn’t help but respect her for standing up to him. She stood as though demanding his explanation, and he had a sudden ridiculous notion to kiss her.
When was the last time he had even thought about kissing a woman? Other than a distant affection he held for Page, he couldn’t remember.
He stared at her, trying to deny the thought, but it had already escaped. And like a wild horse fled from a barn, it refused to return from whence it came.
He wanted to kiss her, of a certain.
He set the candle down upon the table and watched the play of its golden light upon her body. Like a goddess she stood proudly before him and he couldn’t remember a woman ever looking so intoxicatingly exotic, so purely feminine.
She was tall but lean with the most perfect curves he had ever imagined: a tiny waist that begged to be embraced, full hips, and long, lithe legs.
His mouth went dry as he admired her.
He tried to recall himself, but couldn’t keep from imagining those sweet lips upon his own, soft and full.
He pushed away these thoughts, swallowing at the sudden thickness in his throat. Dutifully, he ignored the stirring in his heart.
“I tried to explain already, but ye wouldna listen.”
She said nothing, merely cocked her head at him, and he assured her at once, “Your brother is fine, lass. You have my word.”
He could tell that she wanted to believe him. Her eyes pleaded with him.
“I truly mean you no harm.”
Still she listened, though her expression was dubious still, and he was grateful for the opportunity to finally explain. He wanted to help if he could. “I took ye only because I believed you to be in danger.”
She lifted her chin, challenging him. “Fie! I see the way you look at me.”
He tensed at her insinuation. “How is that?”
For an instant, she didn’t speak, merely glared at him.
“As though you like m
e, and do not deny it!”
Anger flashed through him. He had done nothing but try to help her and she dared to question his honor—or mayhap because she spoke the truth and was looking at him now as though he were somehow beneath her.
He reached out before he could stop himself, seizing her by the arm, jerking her against him, glaring down into her face.
“I see—because I’m a barbarian Scot I cannot control myself, is that right?” He wished there was a way to show her just how much restraint he’d shown from the instant he had spied her. He wished he she could know just how much he yearned to pull her into his arms…to kiss her…
“You are the one who claimed you were a barbarian who ate children and used trees for toothpicks, not I!” She arched one of her perfect brows. “I have never met any man who was willing to deny temptation. Why should you be any different?”
The statement made him wonder how many men she had tempted. Though, why should he care if she’d made eyes at half of England?
Aye, why should he be any different.
Fury clouded his thinking. He drew her to him, stealing a kiss.
His mouth bruised hers, taking without giving, and Elizabet’s heart hammered like a ram against her ribs.
The more she struggled, the harder he kissed her, until her knees grew wobbly and gave beneath her. Only when she clung to him weakly did he end the assault upon her mouth. But he didn’t release her, and she was almost grateful, because if he had, she would have crumpled into a pile at his feet.
He left her breathless and without words even to protest his scandalous embrace.
“Is that what you expected of me?”
Elizabet’s heart beat too fiercely. Words would not come. Confusion enveloped her.
Why was she not more angered by the liberties he had taken? And why was her heart fluttering so wildly within her chest? Fear mayhap, but something else as well.
When he released her and stepped away, it wasn’t entirely relief she felt. She wavered on her feet and took a single step back, reaching for the table for support.
“As God is my witness, I do not intend to ransom ye, nor to kill ye. Neither do I intend to abuse you. If it were my intention to do so, I wouldna be standing here trying to reason with you.”
Elizabet Page 4
