Highland Brides 04 - Lion Heart (12 page)

Broc expected to find Elizabet still abed. Instead he returned to find her gone.

He tried not to panic—for her sake, not his own. He knew they were out searching for her. What if the bowman found her first? He’d promised no harm would come to her, and he didn’t intend to fail her now.

He barreled out of the hut, shoving the door open and calling her name frantically.

By God, if they found her first, if they discovered his involvement, the clans would all be at war again. And Broc would be the man responsible for starting it. Was this how he repaid his debts to Iain? By starting a blood war worse than the MacLean-MacKinnon feud?

“Elizabet!” he called, running through the forest. And then at once he saw her, hiding behind a bush. Her head popped up, and then she ducked once more.

She was hiding from him. She obviously didn’t wish him to find her. Too bad. He had, and he bloody well intended to drag her back to the hut where she would be safe.

He ran and dove after her, determined to catch her. He hardly expected what happened next.

Somehow, she seized hold of him, taking his arm and twisting his body in midair like some warrior woman. Dazed and confused, he landed with a thud upon his back.

“Damn,” he said, and groaned.

Elizabet stood, arms akimbo, and glared down at him. “What in damnation were you doing?”

He gave her a look of wounded pride. “That hurt,” he protested.

It served him right.

Elizabet raised a brow at him, unmoved by his little-boy pout. “I heard you the first time you called,” she assured him. “Didn’t it occur to you there might be a reason I didn’t answer you at once?”

His confusion turned slowly to comprehension, and his gaze snapped to the place where she’d been stooped and then back to her. He seemed suddenly to realize what he’d interrupted, and his eyes widened. His cheeks began to color, and he rolled over onto his side, grunting in pain.

“It serves you right!”

He ought to be as mortified as she was! “I’m fine,” he said, rolling back toward her, holding his arm, nursing it, and looking sheepishly up at her.

“More’s the pity!” How dare he look so beset when she had every right to chastise him!

“It’s just that… I saw you were gone,” he explained, wincing as he tried to rise.

“Am I a prisoner in that hovel? Can I not leave to attend to my own affairs when I must?”

He merely looked at her, blinking, but didn’t reply.

“Well?” she persisted, vexed with herself for noticing, once more, the color of his eyes—the deepest blue she’d ever spied. “Am I your prisoner?” she demanded to know.

“Nay,” he replied somewhat grudgingly, holding her gaze. Some strange light glittered there in the depths of his eyes. Admiration, mayhap? “I merely worried, lass.”

“Aye, well, I have been taking care of myself since the day I was born,” she informed him baldly. “I can certainly handle myself as long as it takes to—”

He grinned suddenly. “Piss?”

Elizabet’s face heated. He didn’t have to put it quite so crudely. “Let me see your arm!” she demanded, changing the subject.

He offered it to her without question, though smiling still. His mistake.

“Ouch!” he said when she seized it.

She didn’t feel the least bit sorry for him!

And she didn’t know how to remove his garment either. She wanted to be certain he hadn’t hurt himself. “Take off your… dress,” she commanded.

He shrugged away from her. “Och, it’s not a dress, lass and I’m fine.”

“Of course you are, because you’re a man and you’re invincible,” Elizabet argued. “Now, take it off, please.”

When he didn’t comply quickly enough, she took matters into her own hands, tugging at the garment to loosen it. Upon closer inspection, it was almost as though he’d just rolled himself up in one big piece of woolen cloth, and she grew frustrated at once. Surely there had to be some way to remove only the top portion of his clothing. “Haven’t you people ever heard of needle and thread?”

He gave her a beleaguered look and once more tried to shrug free of her. “I dinna wish ye to take it off.
We people
dinna run about showing our arses to strange lasses.”

Elizabet’s cheeks warmed. “We are no longer quite strangers after last night,” she reminded him.

“I beg to differ,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “I’ve never met any woman stranger than you. One minute you like me, trust me, the next you loathe me and want to break my arm!”

Elizabet’s brows collided. “I
never
said I trusted you.”

“Nay,” he agreed. “Ye didn’t.” And he returned her wounded glance.

“I only wanted to be sure you weren’t injured.”

He stared at her. And then suddenly his lips curved into a slow grin. “Verra well, then…” He stood with purpose, watching her intently, the muscles in his arms tensing. With merely a few tugs in the right places, the folds of cloth fell away, exposing him completely.

For an instant, Elizabet merely stood, eyes wide.

Good Christ,
every
part of him was large.

His shoulders were massive and beautifully carved—like some majestic Roman statue. His chest seemed as solid as stone. His hips were lean and his legs so muscular that she could only stare in awe. Thin white scars covered his body—the most prominent a diagonal line across his breast. He was a man made for war, there was no doubt.

Her gaze fell to his male parts, conspicuous as they were.

Gasping softly at her own brazenness, she spun about, impatiently waving a hand, her face as hot as Hades must be. “You’re fine! You can get dressed now!”

He chuckled at her back. “But you haven’t even looked at my arm yet,” he protested.

God’s truth, she had looked at more than enough!

She could hear the note of amusement in his voice, and she hardly appreciated it. “I’ll look at it later!” she swore.

Another chuckle.

Sweet Mary, she tried to eradicate the image of his manhood from her memory, but it teased her, returning in glimpses to make her heart beat faster.

“Next time, respect my privacy!” she said, without turning. “You scared the—”

“Piss out o’ ye?”

Elizabet gasped in outrage, turning to face him, her eyes wide with shock at his crudeness. “You have no manners at all!”

“I never claimed to,” he answered, throwing her own words back at her. “I’m a Scots barbarian, remember?
We people
are uncouth.”

Guilt pricked at her.

“This all could have been avoided had you simply answered me,” he rebuked her.

“I would have answered just as soon as I was finished—”

“Pissing?”

Elizabet tossed her hands upward. “Argh! I don’t have to listen to this!”

He continued to rebuke her as she walked away, “For all I knew you could have been in danger and couldna call to me. I was merely trying to help.”

“Well, I wasn’t in danger, as you can see!” Except of wetting her shoes! She wiggled her toes, horrified by the discovery that she had indeed wet her slippers.

“Not this time.”

The dampness on her feet renewed her ire.

She heard him chuckle softly at her back. “I do not find this the least amusing, I assure you!” she said without turning.

“What can I say?” he reasoned. “I’m a man. I’m easily amused.”

Elizabet had no reply to that.

How could he remain so blithe when she was in a fit of temper? If she had not witnessed firsthand his fury yesterday afternoon, she’d never have believed him capable of anger. It was that everlasting mirth in his eyes that made him appear so harmless. She didn’t have to look to know he was watching her.

She started back in the direction from whence she’d come, contemplating her strange reaction to this man. Why did her heart beat so fast when he stared at her? And why was she so angry at him, despite the fact that he was only trying to help? So what if he’d kissed her, in truth. He’d left her alone last night when she’d asked him to, and she could hardly blame him for assuming she was willing when she’d blatantly invited him into her arms.

He was a threat to her somehow; he left her feeling vulnerable. Because something about him made her yearn for more than the lonely life of a spinster.

She decided it was best to ignore the feelings he evoked in her. She wanted her freedom. She didn’t need a man to tell her how and when to live her life.

“You’re going the wrong way,” he declared, and the sound of his voice made her heart leap.

Elizabet turned to look at him, growing flustered.

He was doing it again—making her dizzy, muddling her mind with a simple glance. She was completely turned around. She studied the woods then turned again to meet his amused gaze.

“Are you certain?”

He nodded. “I know these woods well, Elizabet.”

The intimate sound of her name upon his lips made her breath catch.

Jesu, what did it matter if he spoke her name so gently it made her think of a lover’s whisper? Don’t think about him that way anymore, she commanded herself.

But how could she help it in his presence?

It was like closing one’s eyes to the daylight and pretending the sun didn’t shine though it beat down upon your head.

She heard his footfalls stop, so she stopped too and turned to face him.

His face was screwed as though in pain. She resisted the urge to run to him. It served him right if his arm hurt. Mayhap next time he would think twice before he leaped over bushes to catch her unawares. She set her hands upon her hips. “What’s wrong now?”

“’Tis only that… well…” He shook his head. “Naught he said. “Naught at all.”

Elizabet’s spun away from him and walked faster, keenly aware that he followed, cursing him softly beneath her breath.

B
roc was having a difficult time bringing himself to tell her that the back of her skirt was caught in the chain of her girdle. She was having such a fit of temper he wasn’t certain how she would take it if he told her outright. So he kept his mouth shut.

For her sake, he kept hoping her skirt would fall and cover that deliciously pert little rear, but it didn’t, and he wondered after a time that she didn’t feel the draft on her backside. He kept pace behind her, trying to keep his ardor cooled, but it wasn’t easy when he kept imagining her stopping and bending to pick something up. What a beautiful sight that would be.

God’s truth, he’d always had a weakness for women’s arses, and this one was likely the sweetest arse he had ever beheld. His hands ached to ever so gently squeeze those firm cheeks. What he wouldn’t give to have them fill his hands whilst she rode him.

Despite his initial impression of her, it had been clear enough to Broc that she hadn’t ever seen a man unclothed before. He was well endowed, to be certain, but not so much so as to deserve that look of absolute wonder on her face. And he might be flattered, in truth, but his pride was tempered by the knowledge that she was naught but an innocent, which made him feel all the more responsible for her.

In fact, if he were any sort of gentleman at all, and not a barbarian as she claimed, he probably wouldn’t be looking at that delightful bottom, but he couldn’t seem to look away.

Och, but she had the most lovely little birthmark on her left cheek, perfectly formed, like a little half moon. It was nearly covered by her gown, but it kept peeking out at him from beneath and his loins tightened as he watched the delicate swing of her hips.

She was no frail miss, either. He admired the way she had handled him so easily, tossing him to the ground with very little effort. Had he thought her puny simply because she was English?

That had been his first mistake.

His second was not telling her sooner that her sweet little bottom was causing him extreme discomfort.

His throat was growing parched. His lips felt as dry as baked mud. His blood sang with longing.

Was the hair on her mons as dark as the hair on her head? Och, if she would merely bend over, he would know. The very thought of her doing so made him dizzy.

He was only a man, he reasoned, and her backside was tempting him beyond reason.