Chapter 9
Her guardian angel stayed with her, giving her the blanket and the pallet and slept on the floor across the room.
Jesu, but she had never been more aware of a man’s presence in her entire life. She could hear every breath he took, knew every time he tossed in his sleep.
Or was he asleep?
They doused the lights over an hour ago, but still she could not close her eyes. Every time she did, she saw her brother lying upon the forest floor.
Since his return, he hadn’t been the least familiar with her, keeping to himself, in fact, as though she were cursed with some terrible disease.
She might have thought he was repulsed by her, except that when he looked at her, she didn’t see revulsion at all.
She saw that same look he’d given her earlier. .. before he’d kissed her.
She had been so certain he would expect payment for his troubles. And she had hesitated to remain alone with him for fear of it, yet he had treated her with nothing but respect and kindness.
Aye, she did believe him as he didn’t strike her as a man who would lie. Nor could she perceive one single reason he would lie simply to have her alone when in truth he could have had his way with her when he first encountered her in the woods.
Jesu, but how could he sleep so peacefully when she was wide awake?
Above her, slivers of moonlight stabbed through the roof like fine-edged knives. Tiny flying insects dove into the light and out again. Elizabet watched them with a sense of growing agitation.
He’d promised to seek out her brother first thing in the morn. Likely he was anticipating a quick end to this ordeal. After all, this wasn’t his problem. It was hers.
And she still didn’t know his name.
She wasn’t certain why she hadn’t simply asked, except that somehow it seemed too personal. They were hardly friends.
“Are you sleeping?” she whispered before she could stop herself.
There was no answer.
She said it louder. “Hey... are you sleeping?”
Still no answer.
“Well, of course you are!” she muttered to herself, and couldn’t explain the sudden sense of disappointment she felt at discovering it was so.
“Jesu!”
Why should she care if her presence wasn’t enough to keep him awake. Why did she feel so vexed that he was sleeping so contentedly in his little corner of the room when she could not?
She kicked the too short blanket down over her feet.
She just couldn’t sleep, and it was colder than she’d ever remembered it being in her life.
And she couldn’t fathom how he could sleep so obliviously!
He must be made of stone! Her fingers and toes had long since gone numb.
And her teeth were chattering. She pulled the covers up and curled her legs more tightly beneath her, trying to ward off the chill.
“You never troubled yourself to tell me your name!” she hissed into the darkness.
“Ye never bothered to ask,” he replied at once.
Her heart jolted at the sound of his voice. “I... uh... thought you were asleep.”
Broc smiled to himself. That much was obvious.
“So it seems.” God’s teeth, how the hell could he sleep when he knew she was lying so near?
Without doubt, she was the loveliest woman he had ever set eyes on in his life, Sassenach or nay, and no matter that he tried not to see her as a woman, he could not suppress the images that had come to haunt his waking dreams.
But he didn’t want her to know he was awake, because it was easier to deny his desire if he didn’t have to speak to her and hear her voice—if he didn’t have to look at her face by candlelight and wonder how many other men had gazed into those lovely green eyes.
He was becoming obsessed with thoughts about her.
“They call me Broc Ceannfhionn.”
“Broc... Kyonin,” she repeated, and was silent a moment, as though considering his name.
“It means Broc the Blond.”
“Well, that makes sense.”
Broc grimaced into the darkness. Was it a good thing to be fair? He wondered. Did she find him as beautiful as he found her? His face burned at the thought.
“Tell me about yourself, Broc Kyonin.”
Broc was unaccustomed to making idle chatter, particularly with highborn English lassies—and he was even less comfortable talking about himself.
“Well, let’s see… I dinna have fleas anymore,” he told her, and hoped she appreciated that fact. Thanks to Page, he no longer walked about scratching his head like some mangy beast. He had loved his Merry fiercely, but fleas were certainly one thing he didn’t miss about her.
He thought he heard her giggle, but it was so soft a sound he couldn’t be certain. He wouldn’t blame her for laughing. What an idiot he must sound like. Put him face to face with a woman he wanted to bed, and he suddenly became an imbecile.
“Well... I don’t have fleas either,” she countered, her tone slightly amused, and he understood she was mocking him.
He felt his cheeks grow warmer but grinned despite himself.
Wench.
He wanted to know everything about her. Who was her father? Who was her mother? How long was she to remain in Scotia? Was she in love with some fortunate man? Had she come to be wed? Had her father sent her to Piers to be bartered in marriage?
Broc winced at that thought. He hoped not.
Neither of them spoke for the longest time, and the hovel fell silent save for the chattering of the lass’ teeth.
Broc lay there, yearning for the sound of her voice, his body taut with desire.
No simple longing was this. Nay. The more he tried to deny it, the more he hungered for the taste of her flesh, the more he thirsted for the sweet nectar of her mouth.
He was glad for the darkness that hid the evidence of his desire.
Had he a blanket, he would have easily erected himself a tent large enough to fit both of them beneath.
Her teeth continued to chatter.
“Are ye cold, lass?” His voice was thick with lust, he knew, but he hoped she wouldn’t notice.
“I never imagined a summer night could be so wintry!”
He chuckled at her lighthearted complaint. “’Tis the Highland winds.”
“I suppose.”
Once again silence fell between them.
Broc wondered what else to say. He didn’t really want her to go to sleep just yet. He wanted to know more. Where did she grow up? And what was her favorite color?
She saved him the effort of finding suitable conversation. “How well do you know Piers?”
“Not verra well at all.”
“I see.”
She went silent again, and Broc knit his brows, at a loss. Never had his palms sweated this much when Meghan spoke to him, lovely though she was. What was wrong with him? “So... then… have ye come to wed?” he asked far more bluntly than he’d intended.
“Me?” He heard her turn toward him upon her pallet, and he tried to imagine what she looked like lying there in the dark. “Oh, nay!”
He nearly sighed in relief.
“My father thought we would fare better with Piers as my brothers and sisters are many. He couldn’t provide for us all.”
Her disclosure left him feeling envious.
He’d always wondered what it would be like to have siblings.
In fact, he’d had a baby sister, but he barely remembered her.
She’d died when the English had raped his village—in his mother’s arms—cut down by the murderous bastards.
Erin had been her name. How old would she be now?
It gave him a prickle of guilt that he couldn’t recall.
He’d been seven when he’d come to the MacKinnons.
His sister had been mayhap two at the time of her death.
And it had been nearly twenty-three years since he’d come to Chreagach Mhor.
He pushed the memories away and resolved not to let Elizabet down.
Except that he already had.
Her brother was dead.
“We will discover who the bowman is, lass. Dinna fear. I willna allow him to harm ye.”
This time her silence was fraught with worry. He could hear it in her voice when she spoke again. “I hope my brother isn’t in danger.”
The lie weighed heavily upon him. “I’m certain he will be fine.” God help him for not telling her the truth. It would haunt him later, he knew, but it couldn’t be helped.
For the longest time neither of them spoke. Night sounds filled his ears. The scent of her drifted to where he lay shivering—sweet and warm.
“You must be cold,” she said after a time.
His heart beat a little faster. “A bit.”
“Would you... like the blanket?” she surprised him by asking. “I have the pallet, after all. ’Tis only fair you should have it.”
Broc was speechless at her gesture.
Not since his mother had anyone cared whether he’d eaten, whether he was cold, or whether he had a soft place to lay his head.
Since he’d been a wee child, he’d fended for himself.
That this Englishwoman would concern herself over his comfort—and more, that she would offer to ease his misery at her own expense—moved him more than he liked to admit.
His throat grew thicker yet. “Nay.” His intentions weren’t entirely noble when he suggested, “We could share it?”
He grimaced, waiting for her to become incensed by the proposition, but she surprised him by saying, “It is cold...”
Broc’s heart jolted.
Mayhap, for her sake, he should have refused, but she promised to warm him in a way he hadn’t ever been warmed before and he could not deny himself the sweet pleasure of her warm body at his side.