“Why, because he’s rich, handsome, and charming? Because he has a handful of castles, speaks French, and knows the same people as you? None of that means shite if you don’t want to bed him at night, Ella.”
He’d angered her. Her face flushed red and her eyes shot off little sparks of fire. “And you’re so sure I don’t?”
He knew she was trying to prod him into reacting, but he wasn’t going to do it. He wasn’t going to push her back against the door and prove it to her. Not that it wasn’t damned tempting.
But he did back her up a little, closing the distance between them to a hairbreadth. He could practically feel the furious beat of her heart against his chest. “I think the only bed you want to climb into is mine.”
She tried to push him back. “You arrogant—”
“Why else are you here alone with me when you know well what happens whenever we are together?” He caught her wrist and wrapped it around his waist so their bodies were just touching. “Why else did you follow me up the hill? You want me, El, just as badly as I want you.”
As if to prove the truth of his words, her body shuddered against his. It reverberated through him like a lightning bolt, setting off every primal instinct in his body. Take her. Make her yours.
But he couldn’t give in. She had to come to him on her own—not blindly with eyes clouded by lust. Not that he didn’t intend to use the passion between them to his advantage.
“Does he do this to you, El?” His voice was low and husky. “Does he make your body tremble for his touch? Does he make your breath quicken and your lips part for his kiss?” He moved the pad of his thumb over the velvety pillow of her lower lip, wishing it were his mouth. He wanted to drink her in. He wanted to slide his tongue in deep and taste every inch of her.
He leaned closer, brought his face to the side of her neck, inhaling the soft floral fragrance of the soap she used to wash her hair and blowing softly into her ear. She groaned, melted, and he almost forgot himself—almost.
He slipped one hand under the edge of her cloak, cupping her breast gently in his hand as his thumb rolled over the taut peak. After holding back for so long, he still couldn’t get used to being able to touch her exactly as he wanted. “Does he make these sweet little nipples hard? Do you want his mouth on you, sucking you?” She gasped at his wicked words, and he skimmed his hand to her waist to slide between her legs. “Does he make you hot and wet? Do you want him to put his hand right there”—he pressed—“and slide his finger into all that creamy softness?”
The gasp turned to a whimper, a deep whimper that egged him on. He was so damned hot; his body was on fire.
His tongue flicked in her ear. “Does he want to lick you up? Does he want to taste you until you shatter against his mouth?” She froze, and he chuckled. “Does that shock you? That is only one of the things I want to do to you. There are so many things I could show you about pleasure. I want you standing naked before me so I can see every inch of that beautiful body, I want you to ride me, I want to feel your mouth on me.”
Her whimpers were coming harder now, and he was not unaffected. The sultry haze he’d spun had wrapped around them both. He’d never talked like this to anyone in his life. But he wanted her to know everything he could bring her—everything she’d be giving up. But he was hard as a hammer, his blood pounding, close to the edge of his restraint.
He molded his hands on her breasts before turning her around and nestling her in the curve of his body. “Or maybe you’d like it from behind.” She arched into his hands, her bottom instinctively pressing against his hardness. “Aye, do you like that, sweetheart?” He kept one hand on her breast while the other dipped down in front between her legs, showing her how it would be. How he could pleasure her.
Unfortunately, she was also showing him, and it took everything he had not to move his hips against her and let the friction of that sweet bottom pressing against his aching cock release the pressure threatening to explode from the base of his spine.
He should never have started a game that he knew he could not finish. But, Christ, it felt good. And the knowledge that she liked what he was saying to her . . .
He swore and pulled back.
She stared at him mutely, cheeks flushed, lips parted, and eyes heavy with arousal.
“Marry me and you will have all that and more. I will spend every day for the rest of my life making sure that you never regret it.” He took her hand and put it on his chest over his heart. “My heart beats for you, Elizabeth. It has always beat for you. And I think yours beats for me. That’s why you’ll never be happy with Randolph.”
“You’re wrong!” She yanked her hand back as if scalded, looking as if she was close to tears.
But in doing so, she gave him his last argument. “Am I?” He looked down at her wrist, where beneath the edge of the sleeve of her cloak and velvet surcoat he could see the thin layer of brass resting against her wrist. “Then why do you still wear a cheap piece of metal when your wrists could be covered in gold and rubies?”
She didn’t say anything for a moment but just stared down at the bracelet as if she’d never seen it before. A lifetime of emotions crossed her lovely features before her eyes lifted to his again. “What you want is impossible, Thommy.”
“I know. There is every reason for you to refuse me and only one to say yes.”
“What is that?”
“When you know, you will have your answer.” He stood back. “You should go.”
This time she didn’t argue. She put her hand on the door before turning to look over her shoulder at him. “I will be back tomorrow or the next day with everything you need.” Seeing his expression, she added, “Don’t worry, I won’t stay.”
“It’s not that. I won’t be here.”
Her eyes rounded in panic that was fantastically revealing. “You’re leaving?”
“Only for a day or two. Bruce has a mission for me.”
The king had been disappointed but not surprised when Thom told him that even if he attempted to climb Edinburgh—with the result being almost certain death—there would be no way to safely get others up after him. With a surprise attack on the garrison at Edinburgh unlikely—at least from the cliffs—Bruce decided to focus on other missions. The first was an attempt to free a handful of men being held prisoner at Dunbar, another allegedly invulnerable castle located on an “inaccessible” rock. Thom had no intention of disappointing the king again. If it was physically possible, he was going to do it.
Elizabeth’s relief that he wasn’t leaving was so palpable he told himself it was only a matter of time before she realized the truth of her feelings. “It isn’t dangerous?”
“Nay,” he lied. “You don’t need to worry, I will return hearty and hale before you even have time to miss me.”
She looked at him as if she didn’t believe him. “You will be careful.”
“Always.”
Their eyes held and something deep and powerful passed between them. “Then Godspeed, and I will see you when you return.”
She could damned well count on it.
19
ELIZABETH HAD PLENT OF time to think over the next two days. But really there was not much to think about. The answer—the only possible answer—was clear.
Thom was wrong. She wasn’t going to marry Randolph because she was scared, she was going to marry him because it was her duty and the smart—indeed the only rational—thing to do. Any woman in her position would do the same. He was refined, handsome, charming, and would soon be one of the most wealthy and powerful men in the kingdom. He would bring prominence, added wealth, and prestige to the Douglases. He was the king’s nephew, for goodness’ sake! She would be a fool not to accept his proposal when it came.
Marry me . . .
The sharp tug in her chest did not lessen no matter how many times the words echoed through her head. Why was Thom doing this to her? He had to know what he asked was impossible. She couldn’t marry him. Even if there was
no Randolph the gap between them was too wide. Why was he forcing her to hurt him again?
But those were not the only words echoing in her head. Her cheeks heated every time she thought of the way he’d spoken to her. The things he’d said. The things he’d done.
She could still feel the warm pressure of his hand between her legs as her bottom pressed against the steely column of his manhood. Could he really . . . ?
Aye, she knew he could. Just as she also knew he was right: she would like it. She suspected she would like anything and everything he did to her.
Blast him for confusing her! For distracting her. For trying to turn her from her course. How was she supposed to think of anything else when all she could think about was his naughty words and wicked promises?
She wanted him—there was no denying that. But he was wrong if he thought it was enough to make her happy. She would never be happy with the life he proposed—one where she would be ostracized from many of the other nobles. Where the money she’d hidden wouldn’t be enough to keep them from the threat of poverty. Where she would be tucked away in some small cottage in a small village with nothing to do. She would go mad.
Randolph and she were perfectly suited. They would get along well enough. And Elizabeth was determined to prove it. For the first time since arriving in Edinburgh she threw herself wholeheartedly into getting to know him better and enjoying the city, which included Sunday’s outing to the market after mass.
Elizabeth was aware of the number of eyes that followed her and Izzie as they made their way through the crowded stalls. It wasn’t surprising, given their escort. She imagined it wasn’t often that a knight in full mail and arms with entourage strode through mercat cross in Edinburgh. That it was the king’s nephew made it all the more unusual, and the excited whispers buzzed through the crowd like a hive of bees. But Elizabeth paid them no mind; she was having too much fun.
It had been a glorious morning, in large part due to Randolph. So far he’d stuffed them full of pies and tarts, bought them more ribbons than they could wear in a lifetime, and made them laugh as he jested more than bargained with the merchants.
Surprisingly, even Izzie seemed to be having a good time. She’d barely spoken two words to Elizabeth when she’d returned from her ride to the park. Deciding that she would rather not be questioned about her own activities that day, Elizabeth hadn’t asked what went wrong. Suffice it to say, Izzie and Randolph weren’t going to be friends. Elizabeth had been surprised when Izzie had agreed to come along with her today—as had Randolph upon seeing her. But as the day went on, the sunshine and festive atmosphere worked its magic, and whatever tension she’d sensed between them had faded away.
The group stopped to watch a merchant selling apples juggle the fruit high up in the air, the women clapping each time he added an additional piece. When he finally missed at eight, Randolph insisted on buying the whole basket and had one of his men take it back to camp.
“I think I smell plum tarts up ahead,” he said as they ambled away from the applemonger.
Both women groaned. “I couldn’t eat another bite,” Elizabeth said.
“Nor could I,” Izzie added, putting a hand over her stomach. “I will not eat another sweet for a week.”
Randolph and Elizabeth exchanged a glance and smiled. They both knew what a sweet tooth Izzie had. She would probably be raiding the monks’ kitchens in a few hours.
“Well, if not more tarts, perhaps we can find something else you might like?”
He had a knowing smile on his face as he stopped before a jewelry merchant. As Sir Thomas had come straight from the siege camp, he had been carrying his helm under his arm, but he put it down on one of the tables to pick up a cameo brooch. He said something to the merchant she could not hear, and the man appeared very excited when he nodded and pulled something out of the purse he wore at his waist.
It was a bracelet. A very beautiful one. The thick rope of gold was designed in an intricate woven pattern. Every half inch or so was a large stone—alternating rubies and garnets.
Randolph held it out for her approval. “How about this?”
Elizabeth’s stomach dropped with something suspiciously like dread. Her heart started to pound. “I couldn’t,” she said. “It’s much too fine.”
“Nonsense. It is nothing.”
Nothing to him could feed a family for a year or two—maybe longer. But it wasn’t just the cost, it was what it signified. A bracelet of gold and precious stones was not a ribbon or a tart. There was only one occasion on which it was acceptable to give an unmarried woman this kind of jewelry, and that was on a betrothal or wedding. Indeed, the giving of jewelry was expected to befit the new bride-to-be’s standing.
Sir Thomas was essentially making a public declaration of his intentions.
The irony of him choosing a bracelet did not escape her.
Elizabeth wanted to refuse, but she knew what that would signify. And she did want to marry him. Of course she did. Today had proved they would suit quite well. Even if I don’t want to bed him at night . . .
Her mouth pursed. The bed part would come later.
So after another polite but halfhearted protest, she allowed him to put the bracelet on her wrist. It was heavy and foreign feeling. And for one ridiculous moment she heard what sounded like the clap of irons ring in her ears.
“Thank you,” she managed. “I don’t know what to say.”
“It is a mere trifle. There will be more—much more—I hope soon,” he said with a gallant bow over her hand.
It was just as before on the first night they arrived. It was a perfect moment—or what should have been a perfect moment—but it was almost as if it was for the appreciation of those around them more than for each other. Sir Thomas knew what was expected of him as one of the most renowned chivalrous knights in the kingdom and acted accordingly.
That wasn’t to suggest that it was in any way disingenuous or fake; rather that there was no real sentiment behind his actions.
Is sentiment what she wanted? Was it fair to expect from him what she was not demanding from herself?
They visited a few more booths, laughed, and continued to enjoy the bustle of activity around them, but a strange pall had been cast over the day. Indeed, Izzie had grown noticeably quiet.
Elizabeth couldn’t claim to be disappointed when one of Randolph’s men found him to say he was needed back at camp.
It seemed Edward Bruce, the Earl of Carrick, had arrived from Roxburgh to meet with his brother the king on the way to begin the siege at Stirling.
Making his apologies, Randolph left without delay, promising to see them at the abbey later. “If I know my uncle Edward, he’ll expect a feast.”
“Good thing it’s a Sunday,” she replied with a teasing smile.
A smile he returned, recalling their earlier conversation. “I hope we shall have more to celebrate in the next few days?”
She did not miss his meaning. He was going to formally propose the betrothal. Oh God. “Perhaps,” she managed in what she hoped he mistook for shy rather than uncomfortable.
The two women visited a few more booths—with Elizabeth purchasing some fabric for a new veil—before deciding to return to the abbey. It would be time to get ready for the midday meal soon.
“Is something wrong?” she asked Izzie as they walked down the hill, two of Jamie’s men following discreetly behind them.
“Of course not.”
“You seem upset.”
Her cousin shook her head. “Surprised perhaps. I thought you might be reconsidering.”
“I know you do not like him.”
“I like Sir Perfect well enough. What’s not to like?” she teased, repeating Elizabeth’s words from Blackhouse with an added note of dry amusement. Elizabeth tried not to laugh at Sir Perfect, not wanting to encourage her sobriquets—no matter how funny they were. “I merely thought you might be interested in someone else.”
Elizabeth sighed deeply in almost
a groan. “Is it that obvious?”
Izzie’s mouth turned wryly. “To me and Joanna, perhaps.”
“Please do not tell me I will be hearing it from you as well.”
Izzie laughed and shook her head. “No.” But then she sobered. “Do you love him?”
That was a question she wouldn’t ask herself. She couldn’t love him; it was as simple as that.
Izzie would understand. She wasn’t like Joanna—she was practical like Elizabeth. “That’s an unusually sentimental question from you, cousin.”
“Maybe I’m feeling unusually sentimental.”
Elizabeth gave her a challenging look. “Does it matter?”
“I suppose not,” Izzie admitted. “The match with Randolph is a good one—an excellent one. The one with your smithy’s son is not just a bad match, it’s a horrible one. There would be consequences.” She gave a sharp laugh as if something had just occurred to her. “To refuse Randolph for a smithy’s son? Lud, I almost wish you could do it just to see Sir No-One-Has-Ever-Refused-Me’s face. I can’t say that I wouldn’t enjoy seeing him knocked down a peg or two.”
They stopped talking as they walked through the gate, noticing a commotion in the yard. A group of riders had just ridden in.
Elizabeth’s heart jumped, realizing who they were. She’d suspected Thommy’s mission was with the Guard, but it wasn’t until she saw him standing to the side with a couple of the men laughing that her suspicions were confirmed. But a quick glance at the group and a longer study of Thom told her much more. It was just the members of the Guard—no other men had gone with them. And the close camaraderie among the group that had always struck her . . . it extended to Thom.
They are recruiting him, she realized. And she had to admit the realization awed her a little. Was Thom really good enough to fight beside some of the best warriors in Christendom?
It seemed so.
She was proud of him. Immensely proud of him. But she frowned, suddenly realizing something else. He’d lied to her! If he was on a mission with the Guard, she could be sure it was dangerous.
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