Ella's Desire (Borderland Ladies Book 3) Page 8
He’d heard stories of the wild Scotsmen who lived on the border. Still, the reminder helped drag him from his daze. He’d taken lessons with the sword when he’d been a boy and he fought often with his fellow-courtiers, though those bouts were done for sport with blades made for appearance rather than purpose.
He was grateful now for the practice he’d gotten doing those mock battles with his friends. If he hadn’t had experience, he would be dead.
He slipped his sword into the sheath and wiped his blood-stained hands on his trews as though he didn’t care. He slid the horror and guilt smoothly behind a courtier’s smile. “We did what we had to. I’d do it again to ensure you were protected.”
Ella studied him. Dots of blood speckled over her face like freckles. “You’ve never killed anyone before, have you?”
“Not many reasons for running someone through with a blade at court.” He winked at her.
Her mouth lifted in a smile. “Life is different here on the border.”
“So it appears.” He clasped his hands together to keep from staring at them, from remembering that awful moment when the first man had died. “The ladies are as well.”
Ella smirked and lowered the bloody head of the axe to the ground. “Aye.”
Bronson nodded his head, pretending to understand completely. But he did not. His mind reeled as he tried to take it all in. Not only had they been attacked, not only had he killed men, but Ella had joined in the battle. Lady Ella, who seemed so petite and delicate, had hefted an axe and slain men with the ferocity of a warrior.
He most certainly was not at court anymore, and this wild new land was filled with surprises. No doubt with even more to come.
That was what worried him.
10
Ella relaxed, her concern for Calville eased by the casual expression on his handsome face. No doubt before today, he’d never used the shiny blade on his hip.
Papa wouldn’t be pleased about him learning of her skills in battle. He’d asked them all to maintain a pretense of ladylike decorum, which was why he had canceled their practices until Calville departed. With Ella, of course.
However, in a situation such as the one she and Calville had just faced, revealing their secret was a far cry better than perishing or being abducted.
Calville indicated her skirt. “I presume that is not your blood on your kirtle.”
“Correct.” Ella slid her hand along her belt and realized she no longer had her dagger. The one she’d thrown at the archer. It had been her favorite, a jeweled thing as fine as it was practical. Marin had used it once when she initially meant to kill Bran all those years ago.
It was a pity to have lost it. She glanced toward the thicket where the archer had been. Perhaps…
She made her way through the brambles and over a sodden layer of undergrowth to where the man had fallen. And where he still laid. She said a quick prayer over his body, the way their priest, Bernard, always did over the dead, and then pulled her dagger free from where it had plunged into his chest.
Calville was waiting for her when she emerged from the thick foliage. “How did you learn to fight? When have you killed men before?”
Ella sauntered over to the tree stump and sank the axe deep into the wood. Blood ran down the blade and stained the pale grain beneath with death. “We fight with the Werrick soldiers.”
She knelt in the grass and wiped her dagger against the damp earth to clean the blade as best she could. “Many years ago, we were attacked, and my father learned exactly how vulnerable we all were. We would have all died, were it not for my mother.”
She stopped herself from sharing the story. Its pain had always been there in her heart, lodged like a stubborn burr. She could dodge its spines, but never could she be fully free of its insistent presence.
“What happened?” He held out his hand to help her to her feet.
She accepted and rose, but he did not pull his hand away.
“I’ve never told anyone before,” Ella said softly.
Calville met her gaze, his green eyes tender and honest. “You can tell me.”
She nodded and swallowed, as though it might help to dislodge the words. “My father was injured trying to save us and so my mother came to our aid. She was beaten, and…ill-used.” She clenched her jaw. “She died several months later after delivering a babe, but she was dead before then. In spirit, at least. I remember seeing her walking the halls like a wraith.”
“Did the babe die as well?” Calville asked.
Ella’s heart gave a fresh twinge of pain. That was when Leila had been born, but it felt almost like a betrayal to her youngest sister to mention it. All the sisters, and Papa too, refrained from ever bringing up that Leila was not like them, that her paternity was so different than their own.
Nay, they loved her like the sister she was, and it was never mentioned. Not even among them.
For this reason, Ella did not answer the question. Instead, she pressed on. “Papa wanted us to leave, saying it was too dangerous. And it was.” She shrugged as though it didn’t matter, when it so very much did. “We begged to stay with him, and he finally conceded as long as we learned to fight. Our skills in battle have saved our lives countless times.”
“Ella…” he rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand.
It was the first time he’d used her Christian name without her title, but she didn’t correct him. Surely a man who knew the depth of her secrets was close enough to refer to her so intimately. A man who would soon be her husband.
“We should clean up,” Ella suggested.
He hesitated, his gaze filled with concern before he released her hand. “Aye, but mayhap away from here.”
Together, they led their horses some distance from the cottage to the nearby stream, which was where Ella had originally intended on taking Calville in the first place. Sunlight streamed through the copse of trees and speckled the forest floor with dots of light. Clear water rushed over smooth stones and the sound of bubbling filled the air around them.
The scene was so drastically different from what they’d left at the cottage, it might as well have been another world. And that was exactly how Ella thought of it. A different world. Her world.
And she’d never brought anyone before to be part of it.
A sense of peace washed over Bronson as soon as he entered the small clearing by the stream. The glint of sunlight, the brilliance of the blue sky overhead, the green grass underfoot and the myriad of colors in the surrounding forest, it was almost unreal.
“This is where I meant to take you.” Ella closed her eyes and breathed in slowly.
Bronson did the same, inhaling the scents of wet earth and crisp, cool air, as well as the delicate perfume of flowers. Ella’s scent.
He opened his eyes and was struck again with the beauty of the area. It was all too easy to see why Ella went there often. All around him was splendor with calming forest sounds, as though one might exist in such a place without ever being bothered. He looked to Ella and found a soft smile touching her lips, her face relaxed and alluring.
A bit of blood showed on one of her cheeks. He wiped at it with his thumb and she started.
“Mayhap we should clean up a bit,” he suggested.
“Aye, of course.” She led the way to the stream and crouched by the water, heedless of her leather boots or her fine kirtle. Not that it mattered as both were stained from battle, the blood bright red on the yellow silk.
He knelt by the stream and submerged his hands in the icy water and rubbed them together. Gore lifted from them in a cloud of orange-red. Immediately it made him feel better, as though the removal of the stains also helped to cleanse his mind.
He cupped his hands and splashed water on his face, massaging his skin to rid it of blood, before dragging his fingers through his hair. His doublet clung heavy and wet to his body, impeding his movement. Without thought, he slipped free the buttons and pulled it off, leaving only his linen shirt beneath.
He tugged it free of his trews and lifted the hem upward, over his head. Ella drew in an audible gasp. He would take that as a good thing.
Once more, he bent over the stream and scooped up handfuls of water to let them sluice over his face and body. When he was done, he turned to Ella and found her staring.
“You have…your arm…” she stammered. Her cheeks went pink. “You have an injury on your arm.”
He followed her gaze to his forearm where the blade had nicked him. A watery trail of blood dribbled down from it. The thing was little more than a scratch. He was damned lucky that’s all he’d gotten, especially when he’d frozen after killing the first man.
“Let me see it.” She stepped out of the stream and made her way over to him.
Bronson got to his feet and faced her with his forearm extended.
Her fingers brushed his skin, more of a caress than an inspection of his wound. “It isn’t deep. I’m sure I’ll live.”
Her gaze slid up to his, her eyes wide and blue and innocent.
Lust slammed into him. Hard and undeniable. He’d heard soldiers speak of it before, the overwhelming desire after a battle, when the energy still roared in one’s blood and left them restless and unsettled.
Ella ran her tongue over her bottom lip and glanced toward his mouth, as though of the same mindset as he. It was all he needed. He drew her into his arms. Her head tilted back in supplication, her lips parting.
Aye, this was what he wanted. Needed.
He pressed his mouth to hers. He tried to be chaste at first, not wanting to frighten her. Not wanting to move too fast lest he lose control of the powerful, raw longing pumping through him.
She flicked her tongue against his. He groaned at her forwardness and stroked his over hers. The delicate dance of their attraction descended into something desperate then, with mouths slanting, teeth scraping, breaths panting. His body was on fire, his cock raging for release.
His hands were on her, smoothing over the curves he’d imagined. He longed to draw up her skirt and skim his palms over her shapely legs. The image of the long, naked limb dangling in front of him had teased him for far too long.
Ella’s hands moved over his bare chest, her fingers roaming in exploration, sending ripples of pleasure prickling over his skin. He wanted her to touch all of him thus.
The very thought sent another surge of yearning through him. He cupped her breast, the move brazen. But she did not nudge his hand away or shy back. Nay, she pushed into his touch, arching into him. Her hips brushed his hard prick and another groan tore from him.
Without thinking, he caught her bottom with his free hand and pushed their pelvises together. Her softness ground against him with the most wonderful friction.
She gasped suddenly and snapped him from his lustful haze.
He released his hold on her and straightened. Ella’s hands curled around his neck and she rose on her toes while she tried to pull him down to her once more.
“Where are you going?” Her hand cradled his jaw. “Please don’t stop, Calville.” She searched his eyes as if she could spend a lifetime doing so. “Bronson.”
His name emerged on a breathy sigh, one born of desire and daydreams and exhaled in such a manner, he could not refuse.
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her soundly, with passion infused in the claiming of her lips. Despite the reminder of her innocence, he found himself touching her again, stroking her breasts through the silky fabric of her kirtle, tracing the hard nub of her nipple with his thumb. This time when he caught her fine bottom in the palm of his hands and drew her against him, Ella melted into the embrace with a moan.
She moved against him, grinding against the bulge of his need until he feared the tease of such pressure might unman him. He wanted to lay her out on the bank of the stream and push her skirts up so he could let his gaze caress those beautiful legs.
His fingers clenched a handful of her skirt, the thick fabric bunching in his palm with physical temptation. He need only lift it higher, kneel at her feet, run his hands up her slender ankles and firm calves. “Ella.” He’d meant to say her name to tell her they should stop, but the rest of the words did not emerge.
“Ella?” She arched her brow in flirtation. “Not Lady Ella, Bronson?”
“It should be.” He didn’t bend over her again, despite the temptation to do so.
“Should it?” She ran a single fingertip down his naked chest to his navel.
He drew in a shuddering breath. “Aye.” He brushed his thumb over her lower lip. “And we should not be doing this either.”
She closed her eyes at his touch, her mouth parting. “And what exactly is ‘this?’” Her breath whispered over his finger. “Kissing?”
“More than kissing.” His voice came out gruff. “Touching.”
She blinked her eyes open. “I like touching.” Her fingers eased past his navel to the thin line of hair that disappeared into his trews. With a wicked grin, she dragged her hand up to the back of his neck. “I like kissing too.”
He resisted her pull. “Ella, I do not want to take this too far.”
“What would ‘too far’ be?” she breathed.
He hesitated, but only for a moment, just long enough to feel the draw of his own curiosity leading him down a path he knew better than to venture on. “Laying you down on the grass.”
Ella sank onto her knees and pulled him down to the ground with her. He froze, poised over her as she lay her head back and stared up at him with those blue, blue eyes.
“Drawing the skirt of your gown up.” His attention slid down to her skirt, the hem still wet from the stream.
Her fingers moved over the fine silk, slowly inching it upward. A bit of her slender stocking-clad ankle peeked beneath it.
He stared, transfixed. “Higher.”
She did as he asked, revealing the sensual curve of her calf and an elegant knee above the line of her wool stocking.
His breath was coming harder and faster. This foreplay was exquisite, even if it would have no chance of release. At least not here with Ella. He most certainly would be handling himself at the first opportunity and thinking of exactly this moment.
“And then I would touch some more.” His fingertips brushed the back of her knee.
She sucked in a breath and bent her leg, propping it up slightly. A triangular gap showed beneath the hem of her kirtle, giving him a tantalizing view of the tops of her legs, and what lay beyond.
“I would trace my fingers up your lovely legs.” His fingers eased over the tops of her stockings to where her skin was impossibly soft. He paused, not moving any higher. “Up your thighs to where your most intimate place is.”
Ella’s cheeks were red and her lids heavy. “Will you show me?”
Bronson curled his hand into a fist so he would not. “In due time, my dove.”
Disappointment shone bright in her eyes and made it all the more difficult for him to do the right thing. He got to his feet and held his hand out to help her to her feet.
She accepted his assistance and rose gracefully to her feet. The dress, regretfully, fell back into place over her legs. “When?” she asked.
“When we are not wearing clothing stained with blood, preferably.” He nodded toward her dress.
She glanced down and grimaced. “Then next time, when we are not attacked,” she offered hopefully. “Attacks only happen occasionally. We were simply unlucky on this venture.”
Unlucky was one way to put it, for unlucky had many sides. One of them was suggesting waiting a fortnight to marry Ella when he’d been ready
to take her on the forest floor only moments ago.
The coming wait until their wedding promised to be a long one, indeed.
11
The ride back to Werrick had been exquisitely pleasant. Warmth hummed in Ella’s veins and washed over her cheeks. Each time she snuck a glance at Bronson’s handsome profile, her heart gave a giddy little flutter.
Sadly, he’d had to put his shirt and doublet back on. Still, she could not stop thinking of his powerful chest, the carved lines of his muscle. His skin was smooth and soft despite the chiseled masculinity of his body. She nearly moaned at the memory of touching him.
But it was more than simply his physical appearance, though that was indeed fine. He was fascinating. They spoke of many things on the way back to Werrick, of Hardy and his affection for Leila, of court life with its many rules and stiff clothing, and of how wild and beautiful the English-Scottish border was. All too soon they arrived at Werrick and Peter was greeting them to take their horses.
For the first time in as long as Ella could remember, Peter’s long-lashed hazel eyes did not make her stomach dip with excitement. And when she allowed Bronson to aid her from her horse, she did not once slide a glance in Peter’s direction to gauge his reaction.
Suddenly she was glad for his rejection of her, though it had of course been painful. But she was grateful, for that rejection had saved her completely for Bronson, for his kisses, his touches. For him to slide his hands up her skirt and do everything he promised he would.
“My Lady, are you hurt?” Peter’s horrified voice startled her from her musing.
She followed his gaze to her dress where blood from the reiver stained the fine silk. “We were attacked but are uninjured. Please see to it whoever is living in the Old Pell cottage is paid handsomely for my use of his axe.”