Elizabet

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “I’ll gather my own men and search the north woods,” Colin announced and then turned to kiss his bride upon the cheek. He lingered, as though speaking softly at her ear, and then Meghan reached out to embrace her new sister in marriage. The two of them held each other as Colin turned and left them upon the stairs.

  What was he going to do about Elizabet?

  Broc didn’t feel confident about going to Piers anymore. He scarce knew the man, and neither did Piers know him. Why should he take Broc’s side when it was Broc’s word against three of his own compatriots—one of them Elizabet’s own kinsmen.

  Searching for the bowman, Broc looked closer, trying to make out their faces, but he could barely see more than their silhouettes against the torches lit behind them. He recognized Piers more than aught else by his stature and voice. He was one of the few men who stood nearly as tall as Broc.

  Should he come forward to Colin? If he did, he would be forced to hand Elizabet over to Piers. He was certain Colin would bid him do so. And in doing so, he would place Elizabet once more in danger. He couldn’t expect Colin to keep his confidence in such a serious matter. He would risk a blood feud between Piers and Meghan’s brothers.

  In that vein, he couldn’t take Elizabet to Iain either. The last thing he wanted to do was force his own laird to take a stand against Montgomerie. This wasn’t Iain’s problem. By the stone, it wasn’t his either, but what options did he have?

  None, it seemed, except to return to Elizabet and tell her what happened.

  Except that her brother was dead now, and Broc couldn’t prove it wasn’t by his hand.

  The riders were beginning to disperse now, and he didn’t want to lead them to Elizabet, so he thought it best to go. Cursing himself for the mess he had managed to embroil himself in, he turned and fled into the woods. Not daring to look back, he raced through the forest, weaving blindly through the trees in the darkness, relying on instinct to guide him.

  Only one thing did he know for certain. No longer at stake was her life alone. Regardless of whether or not he chose to let her go, the blame for her brother’s death would fall to Broc, and the peace that had fallen over the MacKinnon, Brodie, and Montgomerie clans would be no more.

  No doubt, his laird would stand behind him, as would Colin. Piers might love his wife, but Elizabet and her brother John were his own flesh and blood, and he would surely champion them. Unless Broc could bring John’s murderer to light, his own clan would be forced to take up arms against Montgomerie—and mayhap Colin against his sister’s husband.

  Broc couldn’t bear to have the blood of his kinsmen on his hands, but neither could he in good conscience simply hand Elizabet over to her murderer.

  Not to mention the fact that Elizabet would likely name him as her brother’s murderer along with her Sassenach companions, and where would that leave him?

  When he reached the hovel, he was drenched in his own sweat and reluctant to go in. He fell upon his knees to catch his breath.

  What was he supposed to say when he faced her? Her trust in him was tentative at best. No matter how he looked at the situation, he was in dire straits either way. Och, but what a pretty kettle of fish he had boiled himself within.

  It made a man wish he’d never gotten out of bed.

  Chapter 8

  It occurred to Elizabet only after he’d gone that she didn’t even know his name.

  Growing impatient for his return now, she paced the hovel, trying not to notice the stale, dank odor of the room. She grimaced with disgust as she walked through a sticky web and tried to shrug free of it.

  What sort of woman lived in a place such as this?

  His friend’s house, was it? It wasn’t her experience that men and women could be friends. She couldn’t help but wonder just how close they had been—her Scotsman and this woman who had wed his best friend.

  Had they been lovers?

  Likely!

  She clasped her hands at her back and continued to pace, considering the sparseness of the room. Elizabet had never really owned anything herself, but she had never gone without the most basic of necessities. In fact, she had been surrounded by luxuries as her mother’s lovers had all been generous. She reached down to clasp the crucifix into her hand, taking comfort in it.

  The woman who had lived here probably had missing teeth, else her Good Samaritan Scotsman would have claimed her as more than his beloved friend. He had probably wooed her until someone else had been willing to take her off his hands.

  Wind gusted into the room through cracks in the wall and ceiling. The candle on the table sputtered, threatening to go out. Elizabet hugged herself for warmth. She searched the room for a blanket and, finding one, seized it and threw it about her shoulders. It was threadbare and reeked of fermented drink, the odor permeating every fiber of the material. Apparently, the woman had been a drunkard, as well!

  Then again—her gaze assessed the tiny room—if she had been forced to live in a place like this, she might have taken to drinking, too.

  Anyway, these Scots were said to be partial to their ale. They were all barbarians, every one of them, women and children alike. However, they all shared one thing more valuable than any material possession Elizabet might ever crave.

  Freedom.

  Elizabet heard much about the way they lived. Even the women seemed to enjoy a certain mastery over their lives. They wed where they pleased and not at all if ’twas their wish. And their children ran about dirty and free. The men loved their brides and wed not for duty but for life. They had no need to keep mistresses on the side. Their mistresses were their wives.

  As much as Elizabet loved her mother, her sympathies had oft lain with the wives of the men who had visited her. And she hoped never to marry if it meant that her husband would lavish his affections upon women like her mother and leave her to rot alone at home, like some forgotten trophy set upon a shelf.

  She’d rather be alone.

  Except, not right now.

  Finally! She heard a sound outside the door and rushed to open it. It had grown black outside, the sky dark as pitch.

  There was no one there, and unnerved by the near moonless night, she pulled the door shut, shuddering, though not entirely from the cold. Anticipation of Broc’s return kept her on her feet. Concern for her brother made her pace the small room.

  What made her heart beat so swiftly?

  Her fingers went to her lips, remembering the kiss…

  He’d kissed her in anger, though he hadn’t hurt her. But he’d taken liberties she had never offered any man. And now she couldn’t forget the warmth of his mouth upon her lips. Every time she remembered, her heart jolted a little within her breast.

  With all that had transpired that afternoon—the bowman, her brother—the one thing that kept playing over and over in her head was the moment he had taken her into his arms.

  What was wrong with her?

  She tried to focus on the important matters.

  How long had he been gone now? It seemed like an eternity. What would Piers say?

  They must be very near Montgomerie’s fief, as her guardian angel—that’s how she’d come to think of him—seemed to know Piers well enough. Then again, an Englishman with holdings in Scotia would likely be talked about for leagues. She knew these Scots couldn’t possibly like Montgomerie’s presence here. Nor would they relish that he’d been given King David’s approval. Or that he was a favored emissary of King Henry.

  Had he been trying to teach her a lesson, or was it more? Heat crept into her face as she remembered his touch. And yet he hadn’t harmed her.

  She wished he would hurry.

  The night seemed to be getting colder by the instant, and, as the candle grew shorter, the shadows grew longer. Wrapping the blanket more firmly about her shoulders, she sat again at the little table to wait, anxious to learn something of her brother.

  What if he didn’t come back?

  Mayhap she should set out by herself to find Piers? She f
elt entirely too helpless waiting here in this place.

  There had never been anyone to champion her—not ever—not even as a child. Her mother had been far too busy with her own affairs, and if Elizabet had wanted something, she’d had to pursue it herself.

  The wait was driving her mad!

  Where was he?

  Growing too impatient to remain seated, she sprang from the chair and went to the door once more, throwing it open with a vengeance. The last thing she expected to find was her dubious savior standing there, leaning with one hand on the doorframe, staring down at his feet, as though he had nary a concern in the world.

  She shrieked in surprise.

  He bellowed in fright.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He stood and turned to face her, narrowing his eyes at her. “Picking flowers,” he answered.

  Elizabet narrowed her eyes. He was alone. Something had not gone well by the look on his face. “How long have you been standing there?” she demanded to know.

  “Not verra long.”

  She pushed the door open wider, allowing him entrance, and he walked past her without looking into her eyes.

  Elizabet waited for him to explain.

  Had Piers repudiated her? Panic assailed her. What would she do if he turned her away?

  “He wasn’t there.”

  Her heart fluttered. “Piers?”

  “Aye.” He turned to face her at last, and Elizabet felt her knees go weak at his glance. Never in her life had she met eyes so vivid a blue. “He’s gone to Edinburgh and willna be back for a few days.”

  Averting her gaze, Elizabet went to the table and sank into the chair, considering his news.

  When she met his gaze again, he was watching her, his blue eyes assessing.

  “You cannot expect me to wait here until he returns. My brother will worry.” Though John was the elder, Elizabet felt responsible for him.

  He met her declaration with absolute silence.

  Broc had decided his best course was to tell her the truth, because he didn’t know how to lie. But facing her now, he didn’t know how to tell her that her brother was dead. He tried to say the words, but they simply wouldn’t come out of his mouth.

  “He must know what has happened here. I must tell him,” she insisted, and his guilt escalated. He knew in his heart he hadn’t killed the man, but he knew she would believe that he had. And if she thought he’d murdered her brother, there was no way she would willingly remain with him. Her life was in danger. He couldn’t tell her the truth.

  For an instant, he feared he’d spoken his thoughts aloud. She sprang from the chair. “You said my brother was unharmed!”

  He shook his head, cursing the lie. “He’s fine, lass, but he was surrounded.” That much was true. “I could not speak with him.”

  She stared at him hopefully. “But he’s well?”

  Broc swallowed. “Aye, he seems not to be in pain.” It was a half-truth, at least.

  She sat again, her hand going to her chest as though in relief. Broc tried not to notice those soft and slender fingers that seemed to beckon him to take them into his own.

  When was the last time he’d held a woman’s hand? When was the last time he had thought to miss it?

  He’d made a vow to himself years ago to devote his life to his clan, to forswear his own gratification. Though on a few occasions he had forgotten himself—he was no saint—his loyalty and his life belonged to the MacKinnons. He owed Iain everything. There was nothing left of him to give to anyone else.

  Broc took the chair across from her, watching her expressions as she deliberated.

  She made him want things he hadn’t ever dared contemplate.

  “What now?”

  It was a good question.

  She looked so forlorn, so vulnerable, and he vowed to protect her at all costs. He didn’t know why he felt responsible for her, but from the instant he’d spied Elizabet alone in the forest, he had felt drawn to her somehow. She needed him, and he refused to abandon her.

  “Elizabet...” He leaned forward. “I know ye dinna like the idea of staying in this place, but I gi’ ye my word ye will be safe as long as ye remain.” It would give him time to figure out what to do.

  Her brows slanted. “I don’t know...”

  “If ye wish it, I will stay with you, but ye must trust me,” he pleaded.

  She stared at the table, obviously torn.

  “Och, lass, if I had meant ye any harm,” he reasoned with her, “would I have let ye remain here alone whilst I went to speak with Montgomerie?”

  She seemed to think about it a moment and then shook her head.

  “Nay,” he asserted. “I wouldna. And I am tellin’ ye I saw a bowman, and he was dressed in the same livery as the rest of your companions. Someone wants you dead.”

  She shook her head, denying his testimony, though he sensed deep down she must believe him. She would never have waited here for him otherwise. “Maybe he was defending me?”

  “Was there a need to defend ye when we were only talking?”

  Again she shook her head. “I simply cannot fathom why he should wish me dead.”

  It seemed to Broc that she knew who the bowman might be.

  “I was not the object of his attention,” Broc persisted, trying to make her believe.

  Her brows knit. “But he was kind to me and to my brother the entire journey.”

  “Aye, well... ’tis said you win more flies with honey.”

  Her shoulders slumped. She peered up at him, her eyes full of indecision. “How long before Piers returns?”

  Broc needed time, time to expose the bowman. “Three, mayhap four days,” he told her, shrugging.

  “Mercy! That long?”

  Every lie seemed to come easier. “’Tis what his wife said.”

  She blinked in surprise, then cocked her head at that revelation. “Piers has a wife?”

  “Meghan,” he said. “He wed her little more than two months past.”

  She peered down at the table and then up again.

  He placed his heart in his eyes and willed her to see it. “I willna let you down, Elizabet. Ye have my word.”

  “Very well,” she conceded at last, “I will stay. With one condition. You must seek out my brother and tell him where I am. Bring him to me if you can.”

  Broc swallowed his guilt, nodding agreement. “I’ll do it first thing on the morrow.”

  That gave Broc a single night—not enough time—but he had no choice.

  Chapter 9

  Her guardian angel stayed with her, giving her the blanket and the pallet and slept on the floor across the room.

  She had never been more aware of a man’s presence in her entire life. She could hear every breath he took, knew every time he tossed in his sleep.

  Or was he asleep?

  They doused the lights over an hour ago, but still she could not close her eyes. Every time she did, she saw her brother lying upon the forest floor.

  Since his return, he hadn’t been the least familiar with her, keeping to himself, in fact, as though she were cursed with some terrible disease. She might have thought he was repulsed by her, except that when he looked at her, she didn’t see revulsion at all. She saw that same look he’d given her earlier... before he’d kissed her.

  She had been so certain he would expect payment for his troubles. And she had hesitated to remain alone with him for fear of it, yet he had treated her with nothing but respect and kindness.

  Aye, she did believe him as he didn’t strike her as a man who would lie. Nor could she perceive one single reason he would lie simply to have her alone when in truth he could have had his way with her when he first encountered her in the woods.

  How could he sleep so peacefully when she was wide awake?

  Above her, slivers of moonlight stabbed through the roof like fine-edged knives. Tiny flying insects dove into the light and out again. Elizabet watched them with a sense of growing agitation.
>
  He’d promised to seek out her brother first thing in the morn. Likely he was anticipating a quick end to this ordeal. After all, this wasn’t his problem. It was hers.

  And she still didn’t know his name.

  She wasn’t certain why she hadn’t simply asked, except that somehow it seemed too personal. They were hardly friends.

  “Are you sleeping?” she whispered before she could stop herself.

  There was no answer.

  She said it louder. “Hey... are you sleeping?”

  Still no answer.

  “Well, of course you are,” she muttered to herself, and couldn’t explain the sudden sense of disappointment she felt at discovering it was so.

  Why should she care if her presence wasn’t enough to keep him awake. Why did she feel so vexed that he was sleeping so contentedly in his little corner of the room when she could not?

  She kicked the too short blanket down over her feet. She just couldn’t sleep, and it was colder than she’d ever remembered it being in her life. And she couldn’t fathom how he could sleep so obliviously. He must be made of stone! Her fingers and toes had long since gone numb. And her teeth were chattering. She pulled the covers up and curled her legs more tightly beneath her, trying to ward off the chill.

  “You never troubled yourself to tell me your name,” she hissed into the darkness.

  “Ye never bothered to ask,” he replied at once.

  Her heart jolted at the sound of his voice. “I... uh... thought you were asleep.”

  Broc smiled to himself. That much was obvious. “So it seems.” How in the world could he sleep when he knew she was lying so near? Without doubt, she was the most lovely woman he had ever set eyes on in his life, Sassenach or nay, and no matter that he tried not to see her as a woman, he could not suppress the images that had come to haunt his waking dreams.

  But he didn’t want her to know he was awake, because it was easier to deny his desire if he didn’t have to speak to her and hear her voice—if he didn’t have to look at her face by candlelight and wonder how many other men had gazed into those lovely green eyes. He was becoming obsessed with thoughts about her.