Ella's Desire (Borderland Ladies Book 3) Page 4

  “Lady Ella,” he called after her. She did not stop. Of course. What had he possibly expected? That she would stop, turn to him and race into his arms?

  He shook his head at his own stupidity and quickened his pace until he was directly behind her. “Lady Ella.” He spoke with more authority this time.

  It did the trick. She spun about, her eyes flashing with indignation. “Why are you following me?”

  He offered a smooth smile that slid easily over his mouth. “I simply wish to walk you to your chamber,” he replied. “To learn more about you.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. “That isn’t necessary but thank you.”

  “I would enjoy it.” He offered her his arm. “Being at your side, knowing you are well-protected.” His courtier’s manners had always pleased women.

  Ella, however, did not appear impressed.

  Not that it mattered. He would win her over the same as he won everyone over.

  Ella looked at his arm but did not take it. “I will hardly be abducted on my way to my room.”

  He dropped his hand and contented himself to walk beside her. “How long ago did William’s wife and child pass on?” If she wouldn’t share anything about her own life with him, sharing things about others would still enable him to get to know her.

  “About fifteen years ago.”

  “And he’s not remarried?”

  Ella slowed her brisk pace. “Nay.”

  “He must have loved her very much.” Bronson could not stop his thoughts from trailing back to his own mother’s death, and how his father had married Brigid before the year was out. It had been impossible to resent his stepmother, though. She had been such a source of comfort to him as he made his slow, painful way through grieving.

  “Mayhap marriage causes considerable stress.” Ella’s tone was nonchalant with the pragmatic assessment. “Papa never remarried either after my mother died.”

  “You write stories of love, and you assume their lack of remarriage is due to stress?”

  Ella didn’t answer but began walking more quickly. “Here is the door to my chamber, and no fiend has attempted to abscond with my person. Are you pleased?”

  He stopped in front of her and took in her face. Sconces lit the corridor with small flames and cast a gilded hue to her lovely face. Her blue gaze flicked away and back up to his face, bits at a time, as though grudgingly studying him as well.

  It was her mouth which most drew his attention, pink and lush, gently parted as though she wanted him to kiss her. He knew better.

  “You aren’t going to attempt a kiss now, are you?” Her tone confirmed his suspicions so perfectly, he nearly laughed.

  “You should be so lucky.” He smirked. “But, nay, I’ve no intention of kissing you.”

  “Lucky indeed.” Ella crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Oh, aye, because kisses aren’t just sloppy things meant for mouths. I’d touch my lips to you. Gently at first, and not on your mouth, but here.” He lightly ran a fingertip down the graceful dip between her shoulder and neck. “Then here.” Slowly, he drew his finger to the hollow of her collarbone. Her pulse ticked with wild frenzy beneath his fingertip. “Then I’d cup your face in my hands and slowly, tenderly kiss your mouth until you felt your whole world melt away from beneath you.”

  Her lids lowered, her eyes hazy with unmistakable desire. “I would hate that,” she whispered.

  He nodded with a serious expression. “Which is exactly why I didn’t bother trying.” He looked about. “Shall I fetch a maid to assist you in changing into a new gown? Mayhap one with a proper fit?”

  Her arms had relaxed to her sides as he’d spoken about the kiss, and now pulled up to cross over her chest once more. “Nay, I will not be coming down. I should like to stay in my room.”

  “I shall miss your conversation. There is a fire in you that greatly appeals to me.” With that, he took her soft hand in his, kissed the air above it and departed, leaving her to slowly simmer in his wake.

  Ella scrambled into her room and tried desperately to reach the ties of her kirtle. The unforgiving fabric was so tight about her, she could scarcely breathe. She’d nearly fainted dead away when Calville had gone into detail on what he would do to her if he were to kiss her.

  Ugh. The man was beyond arrogant.

  She hated how sure he’d been of himself and hated even more how her body had stirred with heat in response. Her fingers grasped and missed the ties of the kirtle several frustrating times before finally catching one and yanking. It unraveled quickly, as if it were as desperate to be rid of the strain as she was to be free of the squeezing pressure.

  She drew herself from the garment and resisted the urge to kick it aside. After all, the tear could be mended. She laid it over one of the chairs near the hearth, drew on a night rail and curled into the large shared bed.

  The night had been a failure. Ella’s heart sank. Mayhap she ought to have done something more drastic. And yet part of her was glad she had not. Her goading had done nothing more than reflect poorly on her character.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to will sleep to come, to still the churning thoughts in her mind. While sleep did not come, images did. Ones of Calville leaning over her, his mouth brushing across the skin of her neck. She traced the path he had with his fingertips. Her skin prickled with pleasure.

  She opened her eyes. Nay. She would not think of such things. But no matter what she told herself, when she tried to sleep again, she imagined him kissing her collarbone. She cast a longing glance at the chamber’s door and silently begged her sisters to walk through it soon, to save her from her own mental torment.

  A sudden thought came to her: not only had she failed that evening, but Calville had won.

  Eventually, sleep finally did come and on the morrow, she received a summons from her father to see him in his study. She quickly broke her fast and went to the solar to meet with her father. He sat at the large desk with his forehead propped in his hand.

  “Welcome home, Papa,” Ella said pleasantly.

  The earl lifted his head and glowered at her. “I heard of your behavior at supper last eve.” He sighed heavily and pinched at the bridge of his nose. “Coming home from Truce Day with tidings such as those was most unwelcome.”

  Her stomach twisted with guilt. Being Warden was difficult, she knew. He often spoke of the perfidy of others in power he had to deal with, of innocent men punished for crimes they did not commit, while wicked men were freed. All this paired with the king questioning his loyalty.

  Her father was losing weight as he aged, and now the large chair he’d once filled seemed to swallow him up. It made him appear vulnerable in a way she’d never noticed before. And it made her feel all the more wretched for what she’d done.

  She was exceedingly grateful she had not brought Moppet to supper or acted rudely at the table. “It was simply a discussion. I am sorry if it offended him.”

  If Calville had been offended, however, hopefully it had been enough that he would return to London and leave her be.

  Lord Werrick narrowed his eyes. “Are you truly, Ella? Or have you and your sisters come up with some scheme to run him off so that he won’t want to marry you?”

  Ella dropped her gaze to the ground lest he see the truth written on her face.

  Her father saw through the paltry guise. “Ah, exactly as I figured.” He sighed. “Marin told me you wore Cat’s kirtle and tore it.”

  “I’m sorry, Papa.”

  “And I am sorry as well, Ella.” He pushed up from his large chair and came around the desk to embrace her. “I know this is not the marriage you had wanted. I know what you are forced to do is unfair.”

  She nodded, unable to speak. It all was unfair. Terribly so.

  “It breaks my heart that you have to make this choice.” There was a heaviness to her father’s tone, and it tore deep into Ella.

  He pulled her into an embrace against his skinny chest. Never once had h
e asked her to take on this burden of a marriage to Calville. Anice and Marin had, but never Papa. It was a reminder of why she had accepted this marriage in the first place: to save her father. A man worthy of saving, no matter the sacrifice.

  Her father released her, and she looked up at him. “Why did you never marry again after Mother died?”

  Her father drew in a hard breath. Her question had taken him aback.

  “I…” He blinked and looked about the room, clearly gathering his thoughts.

  “Was it because marriage is so difficult?” she pressed. If nothing else, at least she could win an argument.

  “Nay. It isn’t that, it’s simply…” Papa’s eyes went watery with unshed tears. “How can I fall in love again when my heart died with her?”

  She murmured her thanks, then offered her father one final hug by means of silent apology for having hurt him, first with her childish behavior, then with her question, and fled the room.

  She could not think on it anymore, not when it made her head ache and her heart pound. She grabbed the green leather-bound copy of Floire et Blancheflor. Never had she related more to Blancheflor, feeling as though she herself had been sold by King Felix to the merchants traveling to Babylon.

  But rather than being sold to keep her from love, she was being married off.

  5

  Bronson walked the length of the orchard with his hunting dogs trotting behind him. Rafe could have easily taken the dogs to run them a bit, but Bronson had hoped to find a lady tucked in a tree. He wouldn’t have complained should a naked leg dangle in front of him once more.

  He’d thought about it often enough to border on being rather ridiculous. How could a single limb be so wonderfully tantalizing? And while he didn’t know the answer to that, he knew only that it was.

  He could almost feel the heat of her silky skin as he imagined palming her shapely calf and sliding her skirt up those creamy thighs, gazing openly at what he’d only been able to peek at before.

  After a second pass through the orchard, Bronson accepted Ella was not about. Upon entering the castle, Bronson passed his beasts onto Rafe and went in search of Ella. He wouldn’t want the excitable beasts jumping and racing about as he told her about the conversation he’d had with her father that morning.

  The Earl of Werrick had been quick to apologize for Ella’s behavior, claiming it was his own fault for spoiling his middle daughter. Bronson had told the earl that no apologies were necessary, and that he was still interested in the marriage. Negotiations for the union had proceeded smoothly. Now the marriage was fully settled, the documents signed.

  He had implored the earl not to tell Ella. At least, not yet, not before Bronson could speak with her.

  At least not until he found her, which had proven to be a difficult task. At last, he caught sight of Cat as she passed through a doorway. He followed her into the castle’s kitchen, rich with smells of various cooking foods. Food stores hung on strings overhead and were bottled in clay pots.

  Cat beamed brightly at him. “Good morrow, Lord Calville. Did you sleep too late, and sneak down for a bit of bread as well?”

  He chuckled. “Nay, I’m searching for Lady Ella. Have you seen her?”

  Cat lifted the cloth off a wooden bowl and peered at a pile of freshly baked rolls. “Have you checked the orchard?”

  “Aye, I didn’t see her there.”

  Cat pulled out a roll and held it to him. He shook his head. She shrugged, biting into the bread as she let the cloth fall back into place over the bowl.

  “Ach, what are you doing here, my Cat?” A rotund woman with bright blue eyes and gray hair came out of what Bronson presumed to be the larder.

  Her apron streaked with flour suggested she was the cook. A female cook was an interesting thing to be certain, but if she had made the food the prior night, she’d done it as well as any man.

  The woman lifted a brow at Cat’s full cheeks. “Overslept again, did you?”

  Cat nodded vigorously.

  She peered into the bowl and tsked. “You could’ve taken the ones I’d made from this morning rather than the ones just out of the oven. Did you burn your tongue?” the cook asked.

  Cat nodded vigorously again.

  The woman poured a cup of ale from a pitcher near her and handed it to Cat. “Serves you right, you know.”

  Cat drank deep from the cup and set it down with a happy sigh. “Aye, I know, Nan. Thank you.”

  Nan nodded to Bronson. “Who is this you’ve brought into my kitchen?”

  “The man Ella has to marry.” Cat winced. “Er, I mean, Ella’s betrothed.” She shot him an apologetic smile.

  Something nudged at Bronson’s shins. He glanced down and found the small black cat from the day before. Apparently, the dogs had scared it off until now.

  “I see Bixby likes him.” Nan chortled with laughter.

  “Why does everyone find that so funny?” Bronson asked warily.

  Cat giggled. “Because Bixby loves rats.”

  Bronson failed to share their humor. “It’s unfortunate Lady Ella isn’t a rat then, or I might have more ease in locating her.”

  “Ach, we’re only jesting, my lord.” Nan smiled good-naturedly at him. “The lady is most likely in the orchard.”

  “I checked there already.”

  “Perhaps the solar then?” Cat broke off a piece of the roll, blew on the chunk, then popped it into her mouth.

  Bronson inclined his head with gratitude. “Come along, Bixby.” But as he made his way to the doorway, the cat remained where he’d stretched out on the floor. Bronson grinned at having been abandoned by the little beast.

  Apparently, he was not a rat after all.

  “Have you heard from Geordie recently?” Nan asked Cat as if he had already left the room. No doubt not noticing Bixby hadn’t followed him at all.

  Cat’s wide smile wilted. “Nay. I suspect he’s terribly busy on campaign to not have written.”

  Bronson slipped from the kitchen, giving the ladies their privacy. He found the solar easily. The room appeared empty, but then he spied Ella.

  There she was, on a padded bench seat beneath a large glass window. Sunlight streamed in and poured over her. Her back rested against the wall; her legs were propped in front of her with a book settled in her lap. She had a whimsical expression, something far away and dreamy as she read, completely oblivious to his presence.

  She bit her lip and her fingers lightly curled over the next page in anticipation to turn it before she’d even finished reading.

  “It must be a very good book.” He said it as softly as he could, lest he startle her.

  She jumped slightly regardless, and her brow furrowed. “It is.”

  “Is it one you and your sisters wrote?” he asked.

  “Nay, ’tis Floire et Blancheflor.” Her eyes went to the book once more.

  He approached her. “My mother had a fondness for reading.”

  “Mmmm…” Ella settled deeper into the cushions. Her bare feet poked out from beneath the fine linen of her pale blue gown.

  “My father said books were far too expensive and so he didn’t buy her many.” He glanced around the room at the shelves of books. It was not nearly so many as in a monastery, but there were easily four dozen or so. A veritable fortune. Their leather spines faced out in a colorful array of dyed leather. No doubt some were books the women of Werrick had written.

  “I imagine hunting dogs and destriers far surpass the cost of a book.” She turned another page and her attention trailed to the upper left-hand corner of her book. She looked up and shook her head slightly, as though chastising herself. “It sounds like you know what she liked.” Her gentle smile was evidently offered by way of apology.

  “Aye, I know everything my mother liked.” Bronson settled against the wall opposite the one Ella leaned against to better see her, to watch her captivating expressions and the way the light played in her glossy hair.

  “She liked animals,” he co
ntinued. “Cats, especially. We had several in the house and it was riotous when my father would return from court with his hunting dogs.” He laughed at the memory of chairs being overturned and tapestries falling. “Cats running about in every direction, dogs darting about after them.”

  Ella chuckled and her eyes slid back to her book.

  “I don’t think she ever read Floire et Blancheflor,” Bronson continued. “But her favorite book was Roman de la Rose.”

  Ella’s head lifted with interest. “Roman de la Rose?”

  “Aye. Penned by Jean Renart. Do you know it?”

  Ella sat straighter, her gaze focusing on him fully for the first time since he’d entered the room. “I do. I read it once when I was at court. It was a beautiful story.”

  “I have it still at Berkley Manor. It was the only book I kept after my mother died. You can have it if you like.”

  “You would give me her book?” Ella looked at him wonder.

  The victory, though small, had made him glad to have mentioned it. It would make the news he would share more welcome. Or so he hoped.

  Ella had always wanted a copy of Roman de la Rose. She never asked her father for books; he simply bought ones he thought she might enjoy. To ask for more had seemed greedy when he was already so generous. Now Calville was offering her exactly what she’d coveted for years. Giddy excitement quickened through her.

  And yet, it had been his mother’s book. He obviously had cared greatly for her, enough to have kept it after she had died.

  Ella set her book aside and hugged her knees to her chest. “How old were you when your mother died?”

  He shifted his gaze from her to the floor on the other side of the room. “I was ten.” He shrugged. “Too old to need my mother.”

  He did not look away from the invisible spot on the floor. Despite his flippancy, it was obvious her loss still pained him.