Her One Desire (23 page)

“Ye can almost hear the stars twinkle, they are so close.” She knelt beside him and gathered his hand in hers. “Scotland is as beautiful as you described it.”

“Wait til ye see the flowers. Ye will be forever picking them to make your scents.” His thumb caressed her palm in circles. “Aunt Radella and Aunt Jean will be eager to learn your secrets.”

Tears pooled behind her eyes. She looked down trying to hold them at bay. He couldn’t know how desperately she wanted to be a part of his life, a part of his family. “Do you still intend to take me to Dryburgh?”

“Nay.” He sounded appalled. “I’m taking ye to Grandmum.” While that wasn’t the answer she expected, she nodded and followed him back astride the steed. The final leg of their journey was short—very short. In fact, the horse hadn’t even reached a trot before Broc pulled back the reins at the base of the knoll and dismounted.

“Why are you stopping again?”

‘”Tis Grandmum’s estate.” He gestured toward a clearing encircled by forest on three sides.

Lizzy squinted at the oddity that could only be described as a small castle. A walkway led to a square two-story tower with three windows, only one alight. Behind the little fortress was a barn with a sagging roof, a cart shed, and two other outbuildings.

“She lives this far away from your stronghold?” ‘Twas an atrocity of disrespect to tuck away their elders.

“I told ye she was mean.” He pulled her from the horse. “Da moved her out of the keep when he married Mam. Claims she meddled too much in his affairs.” Broc unsheathed a dagger and guided her up stone steps to a side entrance. “You enter your grandmum s house armed?” Lizzy doubted she wanted to meet a woman whose grandson felt the need to protect himself upon his arrival.

“I enter everywhere armed. Ye are in Scotland now.” “But you said I was safe here.” Her footing stuck, and his hold on her hand grew tight.

“Safe from your enemies. Not mine.” A swift yank slammed her against his chest. He winked, popped a quick kiss on her lips, and gave her a not-so-gentle pat on the backside. The man’s moods were a mystery.

The hinges of a heavy wooden door whined upon their entry, raising the small hairs at her nape. This was not a place she wanted to stay. A cobweb brushed her face in the dark entranceway. Hysteria seized her. She jerked back and swiped her face. Broc swiveled. “Tell me ye dinnae fear the little creatures as well.”

“I do not fear them. I’m just not particularly fond of them.” She checked her garments for silky threads. “Grandmum!” he shouted.

Lizzy jumped.

“Sorry, angel. I dinnae mean to startle ye.” He returned his weapon to his waist and swiveled toward her.

“Broc, I—“

“Who’s there?” A candle flame rounded the corner and with it came Broc’s grandmum. She brought an ill-furnished great room to light via two wall sconces, then turned toward them.

She was easily the oldest woman Lizzy had ever seen. Wrinkles covered every bit of exposed skin, and her hair, white as a full moon, only added to her eerie countenance. She wore a crossbarred wool tunic and shuffled with the aid of a walking stick through the floor rushes. On closer inspection, Lizzy realized her walking stick was actually a sword. “Tis Broderick.” With an arm bent behind his back, he pulled Lizzy closer.

“I used to ‘ave a grandson by that name, but the liverbellied jack quit visitin’ long ago.”

The woman reached out a crooked finger and poked him in the breastbone. “Ow!” He rubbed his chest and then bent to kiss her cheek. “Forgive me, I’ve been in London.”

“Aye, I thought I smelled English on ye.” She leaned a bit to get a better view of Lizzy.

“Who ye got with ye?” Broc drew a breath and switched places with Lizzy, bringing her in front of him. “Grandmum, this is Lizbeth.” Lizzy bobbed her head once and demanded her fidgeting to cease. “ ‘Tis good to meet you.”

The woman extended a gnarled hand toward Lizzy’s face, causing Lizzy to blink rapidly, then curled a tendril of Lizzy’s dark red hair around her finger. “She’s a Scot?” “Nay,”

Broc answered.

“English?” Her face puckered, deepening her wrinkles.

“Aye, but she is learning to dislike them.”

Grandmum inspected Lizzy’s dark gown, making her feel like an object and not a person.

“Is she in mourning?” “Nay.” Lizzy beat Broc this time. She didn’t travel all this way to be treated with the same abuse as she’d endured in the Tower. She didn’t need someone speaking for her, telling her how to act and what to do.

“Are ye breedin’ her?”

“Mayhap.”

Mayhap?
What kind of answer was “mayhap”? Did he intend to take her to wife or not?

Of course, she didn’t voice this question. Instead, she squeezed his pinkie finger with all her might.

“If’n you’re plannin’ to birth Maxwell bairns, then we best get some meat on your bones.” She poked Lizzy in the arm.

“Come, I’ve stew in the hearth.”

Rubbing her tender skin, Lizzy stepped to follow and felt the release of her hand. She turned.

Broc took a step backward. “I need to return to Skonoir.”

“You’re leaving me here?”

“Nay, lass,” Grandmum answered behind her. “He’s hiding ye here.”

Lizzy noticed the woman held the same stiff pose as she. Fists punched into her hips and one eye squinted near shut on Broc.

“The council will be awaiting my arrival and I need to see to preparations for my return to London. Be nice to her, Grandmum. She frightens easily. I will return on the morrow.”

The moment his words ended, he left.

Infuriated by his abrupt departure, Lizzy humphed. Why would he not take her with him?

Was he embarrassed of her? “Come along, lass,” Broc’s grandmum said from behind. Lizzy humphed again, but conceded to follow her through an archway. “Have you a name?” she asked, not certain how to address the woman.

She shrugged. “Grandmum. ‘Tis what the kin have always called me.” Then she added,

“Or witch,” and cackled all the way through a narrow passageway. She jested. Like Broc, Grandmum probably found her own wit far more humorous than anyone else did. A salty scent danced beneath Lizzy’s nose when they entered the next open room. Grandmum filled two troughs and waddled her way onto a bench seat. Lizzy wouldn’t dare insult her, so she squirmed into the seat across from her and picked a bite of meat from her stew. ‘Twas good. Salty, but better than oatcakes.

“Ye are English, aye. A peasant?”

“Nay.”

“Then ye are titled? The daughter of an earl mayhap?”

Lizzy sighed and stopped herself from rolling her eyes. Parentage. ‘Twas always the first question. Another bite filled her mouth so she wouldn’t have to answer, but Grandmum waited. She slurped three spoonfuls of stew through the handful of teeth still remaining in her mouth, staring at Lizzy between each bite.

“The stew is good. What’s in it?”

“Mutton and turnips. Is your father a baron?”
Curse it!
“Did you know if you add primrose petals to your stew, it takes the bitterness out of the turnip?” “A duke?”

There would be no sidestepping with this woman. “I am labeled a lady among the courtiers in London because my father is the Lord High Executioner.”

“Ah chac.r
Grandmum’s skin rose where there should have been eyebrows. “Weel, that should make for interesting chatter. Tell me o’ your da.”

Lizzy sighed. “He is responsible for upholding England’s law by punishing its criminals.”

“How does he punish them?”

The woman was obviously senile if she wanted to talk about Father’s profession over sup. “The same way executioners have punished criminals for centuries: beheadings, hangings, the rack.”

“Do they still draw and quarter a mon, like they did our great Wallace?”

“Fortunately, that ‘tis one punishment I’ve never witnessed.” To be hung, drawn, and quartered was a penalty reserved for the most heinous of crimes. Mayhap Buckingham would see that fate with Lord Hollister at his side. “I once saw a mon confined in the stocks in the Highlands.

Do they have those in your London?”

“Oh, aye.” Lizzy took another bite. “I’d rather my wrists

and head be bound in the pillory then have the bottoms of my

feet exposed to the mob and their feathers. Some of us in the Tower call the stocks ‘the tickle bench.’” Emma had made that one up. Grandmum chuckled and slurped her stew. The topic became sterile for Lizzy, but Grandmum displayed no revulsion throughout the remainder of their meal. The old woman stood and rocked a few times before she gained control of her right leg, then finally took a step forward. “My Ogilvy’s whisky is in the larder.” She pointed at an ante-chamber with her sword. “We’ll have a few quaffs before retiring.”

More than eager to find a bed, Lizzy didn’t argue. She located the flagon and trailed behind Broc’s grandmum to a sitting area in front of a hearth. The moon speckled colored light through a stained-glass window set into the stone. Though night saturated the outer edges, Lizzy could make out the image of a woman brandishing a sword, small hands grasped at her skirts.
Neart, Grd agus Onoir
arched in bold black letters above the rendering. “Strength, love, and honor,” Lizzy said aloud, remembering the blue mark on Broc’s arm. Grandmum fell into the only chair in the room. “My husband had the window commissioned for me years ago from Spain.”

“Ye are the woman?” Lizzy asked, intrigued by the details.

“Aye. The hands tryin’ to stop me belong to my bairns.

‘Twas my husband’s way of telling me to lay down my sword.” Grandmum tossed back a quaff of whisky, her sword now propped against her leg.

“Ye went to war?”

“Aye. More than once.”

Lizzy’s gaze dropped to the windowsill. What she previously thought to be scraps of material and dried kindling was actually an assortment of dolls made of folded grasses. Twine held them together and distinguished the girls from the boys, but all were dressed in a red and green crossbarred cloth. Oddly enough, the dolls drew up an old memory she had long forgotten. “My father used to carve things. Mostly birds, but he made me a doll once.”

“My dolls represent my offspring. Eighty-four of them. I bred half the kin living inside the bailey wall of Skonoir Castle.”

And Broc’s father tucks her away like a leper. Lizzy decided to dislike the man regardless of his status as their chieftain. Grandmum started plucking off names and the status of said bairn, be they dead or alive, which determined the placement of the doll. Those still living stood in an upright position on the sill; those deceased lay in a pile. Half her kin were dead.

“Which one is Broc?”

“Aiden, Broderick, and Ian are those three.” Though the tip of her finger curved into the corridor when she pointed, Lizzy managed to follow her direction to three dolls leaning against the wall, each boy taller than the next. Lizzy blew dust from the middle one.

“Nay, the big one is my Broderick. I made him stronger than Aiden. Taught the lad to wield a sword myself, I did. Same as I did wee Ian.”

Lizzy smiled inwardly, picturing a young Broc in swordplay with this woman. A sense of admiration touched her heart as she reached for Broc’s doll.

Grandmum poured herself another quaff of whisky. “He is more honorable than Aiden. Am I wrong?”

“I was not privileged to know Aiden before he passed.”

“Passed?”

Immediately regretting her words, Lizzy explained. “I’m sorry to be the one to bring you such news, but Aiden died in London only days ago.”

Grandmum pushed herself out of the chair and waddled to

the window beside Lizzy. “Bluidy English.” She snatched up

Aiden’s doll and laid it on its back atop the pile representing her deceased kin. The woman was obviously accustomed to death, for she shed no tears. Instead, she spun, swayed, and then gestured for Lizzy to follow. “’Tis late. There is a guest chamber at the top o’ the steps. Best get ye some rest. We work before the cock crows.”

“When did he die?” Elbows resting on his knees, Broc bowed his head and stared at the stone floor of the council chamber.

“Magnus passed in March of an apoplexy.” Mam’s voice caught.

Broc looked up, wanting to comfort the woman who’d given birth to him, but she held her back to him and gazed out the window, letting the slightest breeze push her silverstreaked hair around her neck. Rigid fingers gripped his scalp. “I should have been here during your grieving period.” “I would have sent word of your da’s death had I known where to locate ye. Mayhap then ye could have brought Aiden home to me.” Her words turned cold, accusing. Did she blame herself or him? “Ye cannae punish yourself for Aiden’s death.”

“Tell me who I should punish then.” She spun, her striped
arisaid
rippled around her in wavy lines of crimson and black. Hazel eyes void of tears reaped vindication. “I will bring him to heel before me and Clan Maxwell.” Fists balled atop the council table, she awaited his answer, but Broc didn’t have the words she sought. The man who actually stole Aiden’s last breath was not necessarily the man who killed him. Or mayhap Broc wanted to find truth in that theory since the same man was Lizbeth’s father. He readied himself, hoping he possessed the strength to withstand Mam’s wrath. “Aiden died in interrogation. If ye seek to place blame, then direct your fury toward England.” The tempest spiraling behind her eyes was directed straight at Broc.” ‘Tis easy for ye to condemn an entire coun try for your inadequacy. Ye accompanied him on a mission with a single purpose. To protect him. Ye failed.” She bent low. “The same as ye failed Lilian and Mattie.” Broc rose from the cuttie stool and gripped the hilt of his broadsword, now hanging at his hip. He didn’t deserve Mam’s accusations. “I am only one man.”

“The chieftain has to be more than a mon,” she snapped back. “He must possess skills and strengths beyond that of a mortal. He must be a champion, a defender of people. Aiden was all of this and more. ‘Twas his destiny to rule, his birthright to protect the clan.” Her condescending tone twisted the knife deeper in his heart. Her every word, her every look, made him feel miniscule. The boy inside him sought her acceptance, but the man stared at the Maxwell targes lining the walls of the council chamber—the shields that protected his kinsmen in battle. His brethren would give their lives for him, and he would not disappoint them. “I will make Clan Maxwell a proud leader.” “Aye. The clan’s losses are your gain. Ye are laird now. Tis what you have always craved. Think ye can protect the borders when ye could not even bring your brother home to me?” Broc rolled his neck until it popped.
God give me strength. Three,
four, five
… he counted. “Aiden was my brother. I loved him. I watched Da shape him into a warrior, a leader, but he was only flesh and blood. He craved as well. ‘Twas what got us captured and him killed. Ye gave him everything, and he abandoned his responsibilities to tup an English skirt.”