Ella's Desire (Borderland Ladies Book 3) Page 2

  She stared down at the small purse and remained silent. Shame squeezed through him. His offer was not enough. And how could it be, after so many years of shameful neglect?

  “Forgive me,” he said. “It is all I can give as yet. There will be more soon…”

  Brigid sniffled and finally lifted her head. Tears shimmered in her pale blue eyes. “Thank you.” The words came out on a sob. She pressed her lips together and swiped at her eyes. “I think God has finally heard our prayers, because he brought you to us.”

  It was unworthy praise and her stated poignancy plunged into his chest.

  He gave her what coin he had, ignoring her protests when she declared it to be far too much, and rode on back to London that night with Rafe at his side.

  There were no more options available to him now, not when his father had so neglected Brigid and Lark. They were Bronson’s responsibility now, and he would not be remiss. He and Rafe would depart again as soon as they arrived in London, to head to Werrick Castle on the border between England and Scotland where the Earl of Werrick also served as West March Warden on the English side. Where Lady Catriona would be waiting to wed Bronson.

  For whether he wanted one or not, he was getting a wife.

  2

  Ella spent the next fortnight coming to terms with her dismal fate. She was by no means happy with it, but she had at least begun to accept it. Or rather, how she might work around it.

  She strode across the courtyard, her steps purposeful. However, as she neared the stable, her knees went soft and her steely resolve began to melt. She could turn back to the castle. No one would be any wiser, as the first part of her plan was known only to her.

  She had left Moppet back in the castle, and now regretted having done so. His furry warmth was always such a comfort. And yet, how ridiculous would it look for her to have a squirrel nestled in her hands? The image that conjured was so amusing that she might have laughed were she not so terribly nervous.

  She sucked in a deep breath and entered the stables. The Master of the Horse was the only one within, as she had hoped. Peter’s broad-shouldered back faced her, a pitchfork clutched in his fists as he hefted a load of straw into a nearby stall. He turned at the sound of her approach and the frantic race of her heart went completely still.

  His sleeves had been rolled up to keep him cool in his labor, and sunlight played over the corded muscle at his forearms. His strong chest was visible through the notch at his tunic, lightly sprinkled with dark hair. His eyes looked hazel from where she stood, but she knew they possessed flecks of green as vibrant as summer grass. He fixed her with his beautiful gaze now and shook a dark lock from where it had plastered to his brow.

  She tried to breathe and found she could not. How could she, when he was so perfect? When she was actually going to do this thing she had imagined for so long?

  Peter frowned slightly. “Lady Ella. Are you well?”

  “Aye.” She stopped, uncertain how to go about speaking. “Nay. I…”

  He rushed to her. His arms were wonderfully strong, left bronzed from years of work under the sun’s rays. How she wanted to fall into them, to feel those powerful hands gently cradling her face, running down her neck, her shoulders…

  He hovered where he stood, not touching her, but poised to in case his assistance was needed. “My lady, what is it?”

  “I need your help.” Lightheadedness nearly overwhelmed her. She had practiced what she would say, and this was not it. “Please.”

  His gaze searched hers in earnest concern. “Of course. What do ye need?”

  Her pulse flickered with fear. Could she truly do this?

  “Lay with me,” she breathed.

  Peter’s eyes went wide. “I beg your pardon, my lady?” His gaze flicked frantically around the empty stable, as though seeking confirmation no one had heard her brazen request.

  “I’m to be married off.” She stepped toward him and lowered her head in supplication. “The maids talk. You are an extraordinary lover, and I’ve always found you to be terribly handsome.” She was speaking too quickly, her words pitched with desperation.

  Heat burned in her cheeks. She hadn’t meant to sound so pathetic.

  Peter backed up. “My lady, please. This isna a conversation we ought to be having.”

  “No one need know.” She stepped closer. “It will only be between us. Show me passion before I enter this forced union.”

  “Nay, Lady Ella.” He clenched his jaw.

  His words slammed into her like a fist. Rejection.

  She stopped short in surprise. Unexpected tears prickled at her eyes. “Do you think me unattractive?” she asked in horror.

  Peter had lain with most of the women at Werrick Castle, if rumors were to be believed. Surely, she was as pretty as those who had warmed his bed before.

  His gaze danced around the room, landing everywhere but on her. “Nay, my lady. But ye’re the earl’s daughter. No’ just any earl, but a border warden, and one I hold in high regard. I’ve too much respect for him, and for ye, to do what it is ye request of me.”

  “I see.” But she did not see. If no one was to know, why would any of it matter?

  “And if I was a laundress instead of my father’s daughter?” she pressed.

  He shook his head and those unique, exquisite eyes met hers finally. “But ye’re not a laundress, Lady Ella.” His tone softened as though he meant to take the sting from them. “And ye never will be.”

  Emotion welled like a fist in her throat, nearly choking her. She nodded as if she understood, as if everything was right and well between them. She stepped back, but a small stone caught the heel of her shoe and she stumbled.

  Peter reached out to her, but she pulled away, preferring to trip than accept his aid. “Lady Ella.” There was a gentleness to his voice. Pity.

  It was impossible at that moment for her to be any more humiliated. The one thing she had planned to do solely for herself had gone so miserably wrong. Now she was left with rejection in addition to an unwanted impending marriage.

  Bronson rode from the civilization of London into the wilderness of the border. He’d been traveling at a steady pace for a fortnight, and still he and Rafe had not arrived at Werrick Castle.

  A low rumble came from overhead. The second one in several minutes.

  The rain had been a constant companion throughout their travel. Initially, they had stopped several times to find shelter. After a short time, they’d given up. Fortunately, the majority of Bronson’s belongings, and several of his prized hunting dogs, were in the large covered cart being driven by Rafe.

  Regardless, it was hard to shake the idea that all the rain was a bad omen. As though the heavens themselves were frowning upon the union.

  “Do you think she will be beautiful, my lord?” Rafe asked. The young man looked up at him through a fringe of wet, blond hair.

  “The king says she is,” Bronson answered.

  And indeed, he had said all the daughters of Werrick were stunning beauties. All but one had golden locks and beautiful blue eyes. Appearances were pleasant, but they did not make this decision for him.

  Bronson would marry her if she looked like the back end of a goat. Anything to give Brigid and Lark the life they ought to have lived these past fifteen years.

  Bitter anger tightened along Bronson’s back at his father’s carelessness. It was the late earl who always told Bronson to look after women, to see to their needs and wants. Apparently, he had only meant women who might offer him favors for an evening rather than his own wife.

  “If she is lovely,” Rafe said with careful consideration, “then the journey is worth the effort.”

  Bronson’s leather cloak had soaked through and there was a chill deep in his bones. Despite his ire, he could not help but smile at the younger man’s enthusiasm.

  “I hope you’re right.” Bronson nodded to the castle looming in the distance. “Because it looks like we’re about to discover the truth soon enough.
”

  A curtain wall encircled the lush grassy hill surrounding the structure. Werrick Castle was rustic in appearance, no doubt built more for defense than for comfort. He’d heard such things about life in dangerous areas and was glad he’d purchased a sword prior to leaving London.

  The rain ceased all at once. Little good it did now, though. Bronson was drenched and eager to change from his wet traveling clothes.

  The portcullis was down when they arrived and there was an unsettling quiet about the surrounding area that left Bronson straining his eyes and ears for another soul. An arrow whizzed down from the battlements and stuck at an angle in the soft ground. The white fletching caught the wind and made the arrow bob slightly.

  “Far enough,” a female voice shouted.

  Rafe shot Bronson an incredulous look as he shouted up to the castle wall. “My Lord, the Earl of Calville is here upon the request of the Earl of Werrick to discuss contracting a marriage with his daughter.”

  Silence followed the declaration and continued for several beats before the portcullis groaned and slowly creaked upward. As it lifted, Bronson swept at his hair and straightened his clothing. After days spent in the storming weather, trudging through mud and wearing sodden, wrinkled clothes, there was little he could do.

  By some miracle, the downpour had not resumed. Rather, the clouds had cleared away, revealing a blue sky filled with the brilliance of a full-faced sun. Except it only made his appearance all the more disheveled.

  Lady Ella would no doubt take one look at him and refuse to accept him into her home. And he wouldn’t blame her. He coaxed his horse into the courtyard, expecting the earl to come forward and present his daughters.

  There was no earl, but a woman instead. She wore a fine blue kirtle of costly silk and her hair was bound into braids coiled beneath a gilt caul. Her attire was dry and absent any wrinkles or mud.

  If he had expected a pretty woman as his bride to be, he would have been taken aback. This woman was not merely pretty: she was beautiful. Beyond beautiful. Her fair skin was flawless, her cheekbones high, her lips full and sensual.

  He sank to one knee before her. “Lady Ella.” His three hunting dogs crowded around him, silent as though they too were in a state of awe.

  “That isn’t necessary, my lord,” she said. “Please, do get to your feet.”

  Bronson rose obediently. It was then he noticed a man standing beside Lady Ella. A man who put his hand possessively about her waist.

  Bronson narrowed his eyes at the intimate gesture.

  The woman inclined her head in greeting. “Forgive me, my lord, I am not Ella, but her eldest sister, Marin. This is my husband, Bran Davidson.” She cast a glance at Bronson’s wet, wrinkled clothing. Though it was quick, it was enough to leave him practically wincing at her assessment.

  “It rained for the majority of our trip,” he offered by way of apology.

  She smiled in such an understanding way, it eased some of the tension from his shoulders. The kindness she exhibited only enhanced her appearance. After a lifetime at court, Bronson had come to be something of an expert on women and knew well what sort of reaction a woman like her would elicit from the courtiers. She would have every man in the palm of her hand.

  If one sister was so finely featured, what must her younger sister look like?

  “At your leisure, my lord, you may recover from your journey before you are introduced to the rest of my family,” Marin said in a congenial tone. “My father, the Earl of Werrick, is Warden of the West March on the English side as I’m sure you are aware. He is presently at Truce Day and will join us on the morrow.”

  Bronson nodded as though he understood what Truce Day was. Mayhap a border thing. At any rate, he would not meet his bride in such a disheveled state and allowed Marin to lead him into the keep where the interior redeemed the old castle. While the outside was gray and bland stonework built for defense, the interior was luxurious and meant for comfort.

  Tapestries hung from the walls, exquisitely worked with resplendent thread, and all the furniture was ornate and polished to a high shine.

  No wonder Werrick was held in such high esteem. It was evident he had considerable wealth. It made sense now that a man with such a fortune could afford to supply a considerable dowry for his third daughter.

  The chamber Bronson was shown to was far grander than his own in London and nearly four times the size. Rafe set about hastily preparing the room and before the hour was up, Bronson was ready to meet his intended.

  He opened the door to his room and nearly tripped over a black cat.

  He muttered a swift apology to the animal. His mother had chattered on with the hunting dogs and other household animals when he was a lad. It was a part of her that had never left him, a small piece of himself that reminded him of her.

  He strode down the hall, in search of Marin or someone who might introduce him to the betrothed he was suddenly very eager to meet.

  The black cat trailed behind him and attempted to wind about his feet as he walked. “Are you following me?” he asked. The cat stared up at him with bright green eyes.

  “Do ye know what they say about Bixby?” Marin’s husband, Bran, grinned at him from across the hall.

  The man’s accent was heavy with a Scottish brogue. Bronson straightened in surprise. Was the king aware Werrick’s eldest daughter had married one of his enemies?

  “I do not,” Bronson replied warily. He’d heard enough about Scotsmen and what they did to the English to be on guard. When Rafe had dressed him, he’d attached the sword to Bronson’s belt. It was an awkward accessory as it was heavier than the decorative blade he’d worn at court. He was glad for it now.

  Bran simply laughed at Bronson’s reply and bent to scratch the cat’s head.

  Bronson ignored the rude response. “Where might I find Lady Ella?”

  “Lady Leila and Lady Catriona are down in the garden.” Bran scratched under the cat’s chin, making its eyes squint in pleasure. “Ye might start by asking them.” With that, he stood and made his way down the hall in the opposite direction.

  The Scotsman had offered the information like something wondrously helpful when it was anything but. Bronson hadn’t any idea where the garden might be.

  He found it eventually, with the assistance of an errant servant he happened upon in the hall who had been far more helpful than the damned Scotsman. The garden smelled of wet soil and was filled with many flowering plants. It was rather a fine garden, more than he had expected from the primitive exterior of the fortified castle.

  Two young women were picking carefully through a small garden of plants that had been marked off with a waist-high wooden fence. One was light-haired as Marin was, while the other possessed dark hair.

  A foul mood had settled over Bronson during his search through the many halls of Werrick Castle, but he covered it with a courtier’s smile as he approached.

  “Good day to you, my lord.” The blonde young woman smiled at him, her loveliness equal to Marin’s. “You are Lord Calville, I presume?”

  No servants appeared to be about, not for protection of their person, nor to dig about in the earth for them. He regarded their dirt-stained hands. “Where are your servants?”

  “In the keep,” the blonde woman replied casually.

  The dark-haired girl did not speak, merely glancing at him from the corner of her eyes.

  He glanced about. “Should you be out here alone? Without a guard present?”

  The blonde laughed. “We can handle ourselves well enough. I’m Catriona, but everyone calls me Cat, and this is our youngest sister, Leila.” She nodded to the dark-haired girl, who faced him with a curious expression. After a long moment, she inclined her head in greeting.

  “I’m pleased to meet you both.” Bronson offered his best courtier’s bow. When he straightened, however, both women had resumed their task in the dirt.

  He cleared his throat. “I’ve yet to meet my betrothed. Have you seen her ab
out?”

  “Nay,” Lady Catriona replied with a pleasant smile.

  He’d been a courtier long enough that he could bury his growing irritation with the barbarity of this place. The lack of manners and decorum was truly deplorable. “Do you know where I might find her?” He kept his tone pleasant with considerable effort. “Or perhaps you might introduce me?”

  Lady Leila bent to pick several leaves from the plants while Lady Catriona looked around with a little hum of contemplation. “You can try the orchard.” She shrugged and gave him a brilliant smile.

  God’s teeth, this was exasperating. He had anticipated the borderlands would be different than what he was familiar with in London, but this was getting ridiculous.

  “And that would be in what direction?” He pointed toward a cluster of trees. “There?”

  “Aye.” She gave an enthusiastic nod.

  He hesitated before leaving and glanced at the two young ladies. “Are you sure you do not need someone to stand watch over you? I’ve heard it’s dangerous here.”

  “Oh, it is,” Lady Catriona replied brightly. “We’re fine.”

  Lady Leila nodded and tucked a fistful of leaves into her basket.

  Bronson slowly walked away, but kept his ears trained on the girls to listen for any sign of a call for help. He entered the quiet orchard and was disappointed to discover no sign of Lady Ella, or any other person for that matter.

  Heat crept over his chest at his own foolishness. What would a lady be doing in an orchard anyway?

  Fully vexed, he strode through the orchard. Something dropped down in front of his face from a tree above and he stopped short.

  A woman’s leg kicked back and forth only inches from his nose, languid and naked. Absent a skirt, stockings or even a slipper.

  Surely this was not his betrothed.

  3

  Bronson stared in surprise at the shapely, naked leg. It was a fine example of what a woman’s limb ought to be. A trim ankle, petite feet with well-formed toes and a firm calf. His gaze trailed indulgently upward to where the delicate knee disappeared in a cloud of red silk brocade. For the most part.