Highland Brides 04 - Lion Heart (26 page)

Having her at his disposal was half the battle, and he was pleased the wench had mettle enough to stand up to Montgomerie—the arrogant bastard would never have let her leave else-wise.

Still, he couldn’t simply kill her. He had to do it so that it placed suspicion on his two companions. They were stupid, mayhap, but loyal to Geoffrey, so he hadn’t dared approach them. They rode ahead of him, Elizabet at his side, her mood somber and her eyes red-rimmed from her ceaseless weeping.

He’d be damned if he’d give up his purse. He deserved to keep it.

It was his now.

So was that damned crucifix she wore like a trophy around her waist. He eyed her malevolently, his gaze drawn to the girdle she wore. The object of his concern was pressed into her hand. She held it as though it were a talisman to ward away her grief.

The look upon Margaret’s face when she’d first spied the piece of jewelry had been lamentable. She’d known at once that he’d stolen the trinket from her jewel box. Though she never asked him about it, he knew she knew. Still, the look in her eyes when she’d discovered it on Elizabet’s girdle and realized he’d used it to pay some whore for his pleasures had turned his gut.

He understood why it upset her so. It had been a gift to Margaret first… a lover’s gesture, not a brother’s.

Elizabet rode stoically at his side, saying naught, her gaze distant, and he knew she was thinking of that damned Scot.

Stupid wench.

She thought the worst was done.

Well, he was going to give her something better to weep over. She thought her life was over without him, did she now? Well he had news for her. She wasn’t going to need to waste her dowry on some abbess’s treasury after all.

Broc had no choice but to appropriate one of Montgomerie’s horses from the field where he’d put them.

Piers was like to be angry when he discovered it gone, but Broc didn’t give a damn. Piers had broken his word. He’d looked Broc straight in the face and sworn to him that he would not leave Elizabet in Tomas’s hands. Then he’d let her go anyway, abandoning her to that bastard’s mercy.

He was afeared he was going to be too late.

He’d never forgive himself if anything should happen to her.

Elizabet was all that mattered to him.

E
lizabet’s heart felt as though it had been ripped from her breast. In its place was emptiness, sorrow and pain.

She had never dared to hope that she would find love and live happily ever after, but it was a cruel, cruel twist of fate that she should be taunted with a glimpse of it and then have every chance of happiness snatched from her.

She didn’t see how she could ever be happy again—not after Broc.

She had felt so cherished in his arms, so beautiful, so full of hope…

Now she felt only foolish.

Never again would she allow herself to fall prey to a man’s sweet words and gentle caresses. Never would she be so stupid to place her trust in any man’s care.

In fact, let any man dare even look at her sideways, and she would curse him to hell where he belonged! Men were faithless knaves, who cared only for their own selfish pleasures.

She didn’t want to remember the devotion with which he had worshiped her body or the unselfish way he had made love to her. She wished she could erase the memories entirely, for she knew it would leave her aching for something she could never have.

And Tomas… she no longer saw him the same somehow. There was something in his demeanor that seemed sinister now.

Her other two companions were decent men, and she trusted their words. If it hadn’t been for their testimony, she would never have taken Tomas’s word over Broc’s.

And the worst of it all was that she, too, had witnessed everything—except that she had been too enraptured with Broc to trust her own eyes. She had allowed him to convince her otherwise with scarce more than a wink of his blue eyes and a few empty assurances.

As it turned out, he was naught but a liar—and she was a fool because she still wanted to believe him.

She cast an annoyed glance at Tomas, wishing he would keep to himself. If she had to suffer his presence every instant of their journey home, she thought, she would scream. He was like her shadow now, never leaving her side. No matter that the other two had given testimony to his innocence, she couldn’t help but feel uneasy in his company.

“You made the right choice, Elizabet.”

She nodded, not wishing for conversation at the instant.

“You made the only choice to honor your brother.”

Elizabet’s heart wrenched at the reminder.

John deserved far more than to be buried in some foreign land by a bunch of strangers who cared naught more for him than they did for justice and truth.

“I’m only glad you were fortunate enough to escape,” Tomas persisted.

She hadn’t escaped, in truth. Broc had shamelessly brought her there—after having his way with her—without any warning of what she would encounter. For that, too, she would never forgive him. Though it scarce mattered, because he like as not didn’t care how she felt. If he had, he would’ve at least honored her with the truth.

Shame kept her tongue stilled.

Fury kept her from weeping.

“He was a dangerous man, Elizabet!” Tomas said, as though rebuking her.

She cast Tomas a beleaguered glance. “You needn’t tell me what I already know!”

Sweet Jesu, she was beginning to believe that all men were bent on inflicting misery and heartache! Go away! she begged him silently.

“Anyone who could so savagely cut a man’s throat and leave him to be mauled by wild animals should be hung by his entrails!”

Bile rose in her throat at his exclamation.

“So much blood!” he said, shaking his head. “Poor young John. “’Tis a fortunate thing you did not see him,” he assured her.

Her heart jolted, and she straightened in the saddle, suddenly realizing what he’d said.

John’s throat hadn’t been cut.

Nor had there been any blood.

She recalled it clearly, because she’d searched for a wound and had found not one single drop of blood or any sign of injury. When Broc had assured her that he’d merely smacked him with the butt of his dagger, she had believed him because, in truth, she hadn’t spied any wound at all.

She looked at Tomas, trying to determine whether she had heard him correctly or not. He wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was fixed elsewhere.

She peered about, searching for their companions, and found that they were nowhere in sight. It was only she and Tomas. She’d been so busy castigating herself for her mistakes that she hadn’t even been aware of their surroundings.

Her heart began to beat a little faster as she gathered the reins in her hands. “Where are the others?” she asked Tomas casually.

He tilted her a glance, arching a brow. “Riding ahead. Considering that we managed to get ourselves lost last time, I suggested we be certain to travel the right path.”

“Good idea,” Elizabet remarked, trying to sound nonchalant, though she was suddenly anything but.

“Everyone is anxious to be across the border,” he explained, “and I wanted to be certain we traveled expeditiously. This land is filled with dirty savages,” he told her.

Elizabet nodded, willing her heartbeat to slow. She turned her gaze toward the horizon. The land was flatter now, and few trees obstructed the scenery, but there was no sign of the other two. She swallowed convulsively, telling herself to remain calm.

She cast Tomas a veiled glance, trying to determine whether he sensed her apprehension. He wore a placid smile and seemed not to have a single care.

She carried no weapon at all, not even a dirk.

Her gaze fell to the pack that hung over his mount. He kept his crossbow there, which he used to hunt for their meals. Her belly fluttered at the sudden realization. Broc had claimed he’d spied a bowman in the woods. Tomas was, indeed, partial to the bow. He carried no sword but kept one sheathed in the scabbard slung over his horse. His dagger, he kept in his belt; it was the only weapon he carried on his person.

She was beginning to get the most awful feeling in the pit of her belly.

Oh, God… what if Broc was right?

How could she be certain anymore who was telling the truth?

She took a deep breath and dared to ask, “I meant to inquire… but forgot… about the pouch….”

Her heartbeat quickened.

“Pouch?” he said, sounding perplexed. His brow furrowed as he looked at her.

“My dowry,” she reminded him. “Did you remember to take it from John’s body? He was carrying it, as you recall.”

“The pouch!” he exclaimed, as though only just recalling it. “Nay.” He shook his head soberly. “I fear it was stolen by that Scots bastard,” he told her.

Elizabet lifted her brows and turned away, her breath catching painfully.

That was the one thing she knew absolutely for certain. Broc did not steal the pouch. There hadn’t been time. He hadn’t even known about it.

Fear squeezed her heart. It flip-flopped against her ribs. She tried to speak but couldn’t. Her stomach turned violently over his disclosure, and she felt suddenly as though she would be physically and uncontrollably ill. Dizziness threatened to spill her from her mount.

Broc had been telling her the truth all along. She knew that with a sudden certainty that overwhelmed her.

And she was alone with this madman with no weapon to protect herself.

She closed her eyes, trying to compose herself, forcing her thoughts to clear, and repressed the overpowering urge to wheel her mount about and fly back to Broc.

Jesu…

She said a silent prayer, begging God’s aid and Broc’s forgiveness. It was true that he hadn’t told her about her brother, but he had been speaking the truth about everything else.

Piers had tried to keep her from leaving, but she had been stubborn and willful in her anger.

She hadn’t realized how long she’d been silent, until Tomas commented on her reticence.

She shook her head. “I’m just tired,” she lied.

“We’ve quite a way to go,” he replied.

Her stomach roiled.

She had to get away from him somehow. The reins shook in her hands. There was no better time than the present. The longer they rode, the farther they would be from anyone who might help her, the less her chances for survival. She swallowed her fear and said, laughing nervously, “I’m afraid I must beg you to give me respite.” She reined in her horse. “I must have a few moments of privacy.”

He frowned at her. “Is aught wrong?”

“Nay,” she lied. “Naught at all.” He reined in as well, and she cast him a sheepish look and said, “’Tis merely that I must attend to my personal affairs.”

His brow arched. “Can’t it wait?”

She shook her head fervently. “Nay.”

His scowl deepened, and he gave her a harried look. “Very well, then.” He glanced about, as though surveying their surroundings.

There were no trees in the immediate vicinity, nothing to hide behind, which would work to her benefit. He couldn’t possibly expect her to squat before him.

“There is a small hillock in the distance,” he told her. “Why don’t you ride ahead of me and attend to yourself there. I shall bide my time, and by the time I reach you, you should be done.”

She looked about with a sense of growing desperation. She didn’t want to ride ahead, but it seemed that she didn’t have a choice. She didn’t wish to cast suspicion upon herself. If she could get far enough ahead of him, then there was a chance she might be able to turn about and ride back far enough to his flank that he couldn’t spy her.

She nodded, eager to be away from him. “Very well,” she agreed. “I shall.” And she gave him a nod and heeled her mount into a canter. She didn’t dare turn around to look into his face, so afraid was she that he would anticipate her intentions. She rode faster, grateful not to hear hoof beats at her back.

Please, God, she prayed, let me get away from him.

“Broc,” she whispered, and tried to envision his face, drawing her courage from him.