Ella's Desire (Borderland Ladies Book 3) Page 11

  “Help me up,” he said tightly. “I can walk.”

  She carefully tugged on his good arm until he was standing. He whistled for the dogs who came trotting toward him, both brown with mud, their pink tongues long and lolling.

  Fortunately, the servants were able to see to them, as well as find Moppet, while Ella showed him to a small stone room within the keep. An old woman with withered skin and bright amber-colored eyes sat at a desk filled with various jars, a pile of herbs on a metal plate in front of her.

  “Is this yer Lord Calville?” She smiled, revealing brilliantly white teeth.

  “Aye, Isla.” Ella guided Bronson to a seat by the fire. “He fell out of a tree.”

  “A tree?” Isla threw her head back and gave a cackling laugh. “What was the lad doing up in a tree?”

  He was grateful the agony of his shoulder had eroded any sign of arousal, lest she know exactly what they had been doing in that damn tree.

  Isla pushed herself up from her desk. “I’ll look him over but will need to take off his shirt to do so.” She jerked her chin toward the door. “Off with ye, my lady. All the better to preserve yer innocent eyes.”

  Ella met Bronson’s gaze and slid guiltily away. They both knew her eyes were no longer innocent.

  Isla looked between them and snorted. “Off with ye anyway. If it’s bad, ye’ll no’ want to see it.”

  Ella hesitated at the doorway.

  “Yer sisters are looking for ye.” Isla prodded her fingers into Bronson’s shoulder.

  He gave a hiss of pain and she pursed her lips. Whatever it was, he didn’t want Ella to be there to see what this woman did to him either. “I’ll be fine,” he offered by way of reassurance.

  Ella finally quit the room and let the door close behind her.

  “Off with yer tunic, lad.” Isla helped him pull the cloth over his head, as well as the linen beneath it, a difficult task when he couldn’t help but cradle his wounded arm.

  “Ye’ve got to mind yerself with that young lady.” The healer narrowed her eyes and leaned in close as she examined his shoulder. She smelled of sage and several other herbs he could not identify. Her fingers pinched at the skin of his shoulder with a surprising amount of strength. “The lass has wild ideas, mind ye. Ye’ll get yerself killed trying to keep up with the likes of her.”

  Stars of white-hot pain danced in his vision. “So I’m learning,” he said through his teeth.

  “Yer arm’s come away from yer shoulder.”

  He jerked upright. That didn’t sound good. “Can it be mended?”

  She waved her hand with nonchalance. “Och, aye, it’s easy as sin, but painful as a hot poker in the arse.”

  A…what? He stared at her in horror. “‘Tis only my shoulder…”

  In response, she threw her head back and howled with laughter. “Hold on, lad. It’s going to get worse before it gets better.” She grabbed something from a small box on her desk and tossed it to him. A strap of leather. “Put that in yer mouth to protect yer fine teeth.”

  No sooner had he bit on the leather than she grabbed his forearm with her icy strong fingers and pulled, pulled, pulled his arm out to the side.

  The pain was blinding. He growled his discomfort through the leather clenched between his teeth and found himself suddenly in agreement with the old healer.

  Ella’s wild ideas just might get him killed.

  Ella hovered by Isla’s door, uncertain if she ought to leave. Bronson’s injury was entirely her fault. He had tried to dissuade her, but she had been too driven by lust, too eager to please him as he had done for her.

  Her stomach twisted into knots over her guilt. And, truth be told, she was disappointed to have not finished their interaction. She had sensed how close he had been to his crises; how he had been swollen harder than iron in her hands, the veins straining against the thin, silky skin. He was so near to the pleasure she had experienced the night before.

  “Ella.” Cat’s voice called to her from down the hall as she ran over, oblivious to how her skirt swirled about her ankles. “We’re preparing the wedding decorations. Will you join us?”

  Ella hesitated and regarded the closed door once more. No sound emerged. What was happening within?

  Cat blinked. “Are you ill?”

  “Nay, Bronson fell out of a tree.”

  Cat giggled. “We can’t all be as good in trees as you, Ella. Was there much blood?”

  “Nay, there was none.”

  Cat smiled at this. “Then he will be well. Whatever injuries he has, Isla can cure.” She caught Ella’s hand and pulled her. “Come, we are making the decorations for the great hall.”

  Ella reluctantly allowed Cat to pull her away from the closed door where Bronson was injured on the other side. Injured because of her. Cat was going on about flowers and ribbons, but Ella’s mind wouldn’t leave Bronson.

  She was led all the way down the hall, up a flight of stairs and into the warm, sunlit solar. Leila sat on the cushioned bench between the windows, surrounded by bits of ribbons, with Moppet beside her and Hardy at her feet.

  “Moppet,” Ella exclaimed. The servants had sworn to locate him for her, but she hadn’t been able to inquire about him yet.

  “He’s in a mood, I’m afraid.” Leila patted his head. He jerked back from her touch, his black eyes narrowed. “Apparently he didn’t want to come back inside.”

  “Bronson fell out of a tree.” Cat giggled.

  “That isn’t kind,” Ella admonished her younger sister.

  Leila looked up from Moppet. “What was he doing up in a tree?”

  Ella’s cheeks burned at the very mention. “Trying something different, I suppose,” she answered brusquely. “What is going on here?” She bustled to the bench and picked up a blue ribbon. “This looks sufficient.”

  “Sufficient?” Cat’s mouth dropped open. “You are the one who is full of the most romantic notions, and you are using ‘sufficient’ when describing your wedding decorations?” Concern replaced her shock. “Is it not going well with him?”

  “Nay, it isn’t that.” Ella tried to laugh off her comment, but the sound was hollow and false. “I feel awful for what happened. He was up in that tree because of me.”

  “You didn’t do anything to make him fall, I’m sure,” Cat protested. “Come, look at the flowers. We have daisies.” She lifted one of the fragile green stems and twirled the white and yellow flower enticingly. “I had Drake fetch them all earlier.”

  Drake, Werrick’s Captain of the Guard, had several sisters himself and, being the model of chivalry, was always obliging with Ella, Cat and Leila’s whims.

  “You made him go out to pick flowers so soon after returning back from taking Marin and Bran to Kendal Castle?” Ella asked.

  Cat shrugged. “He said it was no bother.” She lifted the daisy higher for Ella to see. It was pretty. The petals pristine white, the center wide and as brilliant a yellow as the sun.

  “We can’t use daisies,” Leila said from where she sorted through a tangle of ribbon on the window seat.

  Ella took the flower from Cat and twirled the slender stem as her sister had done. “Why not?”

  Leila pieced a blue and orange ribbon together and studied them together for a moment. “Because they make Lord Calville sneeze.”

  Ella studied her youngest sister. “How do you know?”

  “He comes to see me in the mornings when I’m going through my stock of herbs, to see Hardy.” The dog at her feet perked up and Moppet slowly crept back on the cushion, closer to Leila. She chuckled and patted Moppet’s head. This time, the stubborn little squirrel did not balk at her affection but nestled against her instead.

  “He said they made him sneeze,” Leila said. “I saw it once. His nose went twitchy and he sneezed so loudly, it frightened poor Hardy.”

  Hardy cocked his head.

  “We could do peonies.” Cat lifted a heavy pink blossom from the row of other flowers. “Does he like peonies?”
<
br />   Except she wasn’t asking Ella, she was asking Leila, who considered the question with earnestness.

  The twist of guilt in Ella’s stomach knotted with further frustration. How did she not know about the daisies? Nor any of his affinities towards flowers.

  “I think he likes them well enough as he hasn’t said they make him sneeze.” Leila discarded the orange ribbon, then lifted a white one and matched them together. “I say we go with blue ribbons. It’s his favorite color.”

  “How do you know that?” Ella asked.

  Leila and Cat both looked at her. Even Hardy shifted his adoring gaze from Leila to Ella.

  “He hasn’t told me his favorite color.” Leila looked at the ribbon in her hand and slowly looped it around her forefinger. “It’s just that he wears blue often, and so I assumed.”

  “It’s an excellent point.” Ella smiled to cover her own oversight. She ought to have noticed such a thing as well.

  Except the smile was as false as her words. She had not once noticed him wearing blue, let alone on multiple occasions. She had noticed the plumpness of the bottom lip she enjoyed suckling, she was familiar with the stroke of his fingers at her most intimate place and she knew the length of his manhood exceeded that of her hand. But she had not known his color preference, nor that her favorite flower made him sneeze.

  Ella thought of Bronson often, longing to be at his side, eager for his touches and his kisses. But the preparations for the wedding made her realize one thing with certainty: she needed to learn more about who he was.

  14

  Bronson adjusted the sling on his good shoulder. The thing was a nuisance. Fortunately, the pain had subsided almost as soon as Isla had made it pop again.

  He strode through the castle with his arm locked at an angle in the sling. It would only be for a few days, or so Isla said.

  Despite the discomfort he had endured, he did not blame Ella for his injury. She had meant only to bring him pleasure. And she had, all the way up until he tried to show her how to bring him to climax. With her fingers on him, sliding, squeezing.

  He paused in the hall and drew a deep breath to cool his blood. It would not do to walk into dinner with a raging cockstand. Ella rushed to his side as soon as he entered with Wolf and Bear at his heels, the beasts now clean despite their jaunt in the mud.

  “How do you fare?” Her concerned gaze swept over his shoulder and widened at the sight of the sling.

  “It appears arms can slip free of shoulders, as was the case with mine.” He indicated the linen tied over his shoulder. “Isla was able to put it back but says I must wear this for several days.”

  “Are you in much pain?” Ella took his good hand. “Bronson, I’m so sorry.” She flicked a gaze around them and lowered her voice. “You had said not to, but I insisted—”

  “I’m not in pain anymore, my dove.” He drew his hand from hers and brought it to her face. She nestled into it, her smile one of gratitude.

  “Come, eat.” She drew him with her toward their chairs. “There is a troubadour tonight, so we will have a story once supper is complete.”

  The food was as good that eve as it had been the previous nights. Chicken with asparagus in an onion sauce, more bread than they could eat, poached pears drenched in honey. As with all evenings when he ate such decadent fare, his thoughts drifted to Brigid and Lark. They would surely arrive within the next several days.

  He was grateful they would be in Werrick Castle with him, where they would have a comfortable place to sleep and good food such as the trenchers heaped before him.

  “Lord Calville,” the Earl of Werrick called to him from the head of the table. He indicated the sling with his eating dagger. “You took a tumble from the tree today, did you?” He chuckled. “Need I even ask how it happened?”

  Bronson’s mouth opened and closed, his voice locked somewhere between the unspeakable truth and an unprepared lie.

  The earl chuckled and waved a hand at Bronson. “You needn’t tell me, lad. ’Twas only a jest. We already know Ella doubtlessly lured you up there. Mind you watch her.” The earl winked at his daughter. “She’s part sprite, I tell you.”

  Several people at the table laughed, including Ella. When Bronson gave her an incredulous look, she simply pressed her lips together and shrugged despite her reddened cheeks.

  She lifted her goblet of wine and let it hover in front of her mouth. “Their assumptions are innocent,” she whispered before taking a delicate sip. She set the cup aside. “And I intend to make it up to you.”

  “Hopefully not in a tree,” he said in a low voice.

  She laughed and shook her head. But the brush of her foot against his under the table told him she already had something planned. Only this time, he knew that if his life might be in any form of danger, he would allay her intent.

  After they had finished eating, an awkward venture for him with only one hand, and after several more jesting remarks about Bronson’s fall from the tree, the benches were moved toward the great yawning hearth where a merry fire crackled. The troubadour stood before the fireplace, atop a stool to add a bit more height to his short frame.

  Though slight in stature, his large voice made up for the smallness of his body, and his story carried throughout the great hall. The story was one of a woman who never thought she would find love, and a noble knight who sought only to perform one act of heroism for his lord. Though it was inevitable that the woman and knight should meet and fall in love, Ella still emitted soft, wistful sighs with each predictable turn.

  The hour was late when the troubadour finished the last of his long poem. The crowd broke apart, each going about his or her own business. And so, it was that no one thought to question if Bronson would see Ella to her chamber that night.

  He guided her in the darkened hallway with his good arm. “You are better at reading than he was at sharing his story.”

  Ella gave a little laugh. “You shouldn’t say such things.”

  “’Tis true.” He leaned close to her. “And your stories are far better as well.”

  Her laugh was throatier this time. “I’m pleased you enjoy them so.”

  He stopped in front of her door, the correct one this time. Ella gazed up at him, the skin around her eyes tight as though she was assessing him.

  He lifted a brow with curiosity.

  “What color do you prefer above all others?” she queried.

  “Blue.” He smiled. “Why do you ask such a question?”

  She shook her head. “‘Tis not important.”

  He touched her cheek and her lashes swept down. This was his favorite part of the night, above the fine meals and the troubadour and even any dessert Nan could put together. He loved this time with Ella best, when she was soft and warm and as eager to kiss him as he was her.

  Their lips touched, gently, softly, and then the tips of their tongues brushed one another. Ella nuzzled his neck with her nose, then his ear.

  “Leave your door unlatched tonight,” she whispered, her breath sweet and hot against his ear.

  He straightened and gazed down at her. She smiled and slipped into her room.

  Ella’s heart threatened to pound through her chest with nervous excitement. She lifted the small hand mirror once more and glanced at her reflection. Had she put on too much rouge? Not enough?

  Was she being overly critical?

  Aye, that was definitely it. She had spent the last hour in her private chambers readying herself as the castle quieted for the night. Bronson’s room was only a short way down the hall from hers. A brisk walk would have her to his door in moments. She pulled a cloak over her shoulders and secured it at her throat. If nothing else, the voluminous fabric would cover her simple night rail beneath, and the hood would hide her identity if someone should happen upon her.

  She put her hand to the latch of her door and paused with reverence. This would be it. The night she would give herself to Bronson. The night she would tell him she loved him, and when she wo
uld show him as much. Her body was already burning with the need for release.

  She pulled her door open and went out into the dark hall. Her feet were bare on the cool stone floor, but more importantly, her steps were silent. She moved like a shadow to the door she knew was Bronson’s and quietly entered.

  He sat before the fire, the elbow of his good arm propped on his knee as he stared into the flames. At the quiet click of his door closing, he lifted his head and grinned at her. “Does the evening require a cloak?” He got to his feet to approach her. He still wore his blue and gold doublet and leather trews from supper.

  She was not so overdressed. With her gaze locked on his, she pulled the hood back and unclipped the fastening. In a quiet rustle of costly fabric, the heavy cloak fell from her shoulders, leaving her in nothing but her night rail.

  Bronson paused mid-step as his gaze combed over the length of her.

  She walked toward him with the slow saunter she’d seen tavern ladies use, her hips swaying with promise. “It’s warm enough to not require a cloak for anything other than concealment.” She stopped in front of him, so close her bosom nearly touched his chest. “I don’t imagine I’ll need this night rail either.”

  Bronson’s gaze swept down her once more and lingered on her breasts. Her nipples prickled at the attention and she felt them growing taut. He swallowed. “Ella, you are a maiden and I am not yet your husband.”

  “You will be my husband soon.” She stroked a hand over his sling. “Your poor arm. Does it pain you?”

  “Nay.”

  “Let me make it up to you.” Her fingers slid down the sling to his stomach, over the band of his trews and down to where she’d touched him so intimately earlier. “I want you to have me, Bronson. All of me.”

  The bulk under her hand twitched and began to grow firm. He closed his eyes. “What you are asking cannot be undone, Ella.”