Chapter 12
Broc was having a difficult time bringing himself to tell her that the back of her skirt was caught in the chain of her girdle. She was having such a fit of temper he wasn’t certain how she would take it if he told her outright. So he kept his mouth shut.
For her sake, he kept hoping her skirt would fall and cover that deliciously pert little rear, but it didn’t, and he wondered after a time that she didn’t feel the draft on her backside.
He kept pace behind her, trying to keep his ardor cooled, but it wasn’t easy when he kept imagining her stopping and bending to pick something up. What a beautiful sight that would be.
God’s truth, he’d always had a weakness for women’s arses, and this one was likely the sweetest arse he had ever beheld. His hands ached to ever so gently squeeze those firm cheeks. What he wouldn’t give to have them fill his hands whilst she rode him.
Despite his initial impression of her, it had been clear enough to Broc that she hadn’t ever seen a man unclothed before.
He was well endowed, to be certain, but not so much so as to deserve that look of absolute wonder on her face.
And he might be flattered, in truth, but his pride was tempered by the knowledge that she was naught but an innocent, which made him feel all the more responsible for her.
In fact, if he were any sort of gentleman at all, and not a barbarian as she claimed, he probably wouldn’t be looking at that delightful bottom, but he couldn’t seem to look away.
Och, but she had the loveliest little birthmark on her left cheek, perfectly formed, like a little half moon. It was nearly covered by her gown, but it kept peeking out at him from beneath and his loins tightened as he watched the delicate swing of her hips.
She was no frail miss, either. He admired the way she had handled him so easily, tossing him to the ground with very little effort. Had he thought her puny simply because she was English?
That had been his first mistake.
His second was not telling her sooner that her sweet little bottom was causing him extreme discomfort.
His throat was growing parched. His lips felt as dry as baked mud. His blood sang with longing.
Was the hair on her mons as dark as the hair on her head? Och, if she would merely bend over, he would know. The very thought of her doing so made him dizzy.
He was only a man, he reasoned, and her backside was tempting him beyond reason.
He tried to keep silent, not wanting to embarrass her, but his loins began to burn. Her firm little cheeks teased him to the point of torment, and his breath quickened with every step she took until it was nigh painful to breathe.
Self-preservation made him finally speak up, because he was going to go mad with desire if she didn’t cover that delightful bottom.
“Dinna worry,” he said. “I promise never to tell anyone about that cute little mole ye have.”
She spun to face him. “What mole?”
He winked at her. “That adorable half moon on your left cheek.”
She gasped aloud, her hands instinctively going to her bottom. When she realized she was exposed, she shrieked in alarm and scrambled to release the gown from her girdle. Her cheeks flamed, but she said nothing.
Broc couldn’t suppress his grin. Despite the fire raging beneath his plaid, his good humor was more than restored. His shoulders shook with repressed laughter. Her pretty cheeks were so red they appeared painted.
She wouldn’t look at him now, but merely worked fiercely to undo the skirt. “Why did you not tell me?” she said after a moment.
“I did tell you.”
“Hmph!” she said, still working feverishly to untangle her hem. She must have caught it when she’d lifted her gown, and then, when he’d interrupted her, she just hadn’t noticed. He’d made her so angry.
Elizabet cursed softly beneath her breath.
Frustrated, she unfastened the girdle, jerking it away from her dress, letting the hem fall free. She replaced the girdle at once and tried to refasten it, her cheeks burning.
She had been so bloody preoccupied with her thoughts and her anger that she hadn’t even noticed!
“I have a small mark on my right breast, too,” she disclosed, pretending an indifference she didn’t feel. “Care to see that, as well?”
When she dared to look up, he was smiling.
The rogue!
“I’d be willing to suffer it,” he replied, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners.
Elizabet stood staring at him, at a loss for what to say next. Her eyes stung for an instant. This was all too much to bear. Her brother, then Tomas—and where was Harpy?
He must have sensed her distress. “Dinna fret, lass. I will show you my arse, if it will make you feel better?”
He was teasing, she knew. He cared about her feelings, she realized. And it was clear by the blush in his cheeks that the notion of showing her his arse discomfited him.
Her ire faded at his expression, though she didn’t allow herself to smile.
She didn’t want to smile, though in truth, how could she remain angry when he had done no more than fill his eyes?
Another man might have filled his hands, as well.
Elizabet had truly never met a man like him.
He confused her more each moment she spent with him.
Still, she didn’t particularly care to let him off quite so easily.
She smirked a little. “Aye,” she challenged. “Show me, then.”
He gave her a lopsided smile and scratched his head. “Ye wish to see my arse?”
Elizabet thought mayhap he now regretted his offer. Too bad. She nodded anyway.
He chuckled. “Verra well,” he said, and turned his back to her. He stood there a moment, looking awkward, and then with his good hand he reached back and lifted up his garment, showing her his bare arse.
Elizabet couldn’t help herself. She began to giggle, though that didn’t prompt him to cover himself. He waited patiently for her to finish.
“D’ye feel better yet?” he asked after a moment.
He flexed his cheeks and then released them, and Elizabet giggled harder. Her hand covered her mouth in absolute horror, though she didn’t turn away.
Jesu, but it was a very fine arse.
Elizabet laughed outright.
“Och, it sounds as though you feel better!”
“Aye,” she replied, when she could. “I feel better!”
He dropped his plaid at last and turned around, his cheeks flaming, though his eyes revealed only mirth.
His gesture warmed her.
She screwed her face at him, confused. “Why are you so nice to me when I’ve given ye nothing but grief?”
He just looked at her.
“Is it your habit to play knight in shining armor for every woman you meet?”
Broc continued to stare at her, considering her question. In truth, it wasn’t. But it was his habit to protect those he loved.
Even with Page, though her father had rebuffed her, he hadn’t felt the least compelled to champion her—not in the beginning.
In fact, he had felt driven to protect Iain from her.
Page had had to prove herself before he’d accepted her.
Until then, he’d been more than willing to simply set her free so that she could find her way to wherever she cared to go—it hadn’t mattered to him, so long as she wasn’t a threat to his kinsmen.
So why, in truth, did he feel so obligated to protect Elizabet when she had the potential to devastate not merely his own clan, but the peace of many.
He had no answer to that question.
“Nay,” he said at last.
“So why are you helping me?”
He gave her a pointed look. “I couldn’t verra well just let the man shoot ye, lass.” He wanted suddenly to take her into his arms and gently hold her. He wanted to tell her everything would be fine.
He wanted to kiss her.
Christ, was he truly jeopardizing his entire clan for his base desires? Would he have done the same had Elizabet been a man—an Englishman at that?
He didn’t think so. Unsettled by his own questions, he frowned at her, and said, “Next time maybe I will.”
She blinked, and her brows drew together into a frown—obviously not what she wished to hear.
It wasn’t really what he wanted to say, either, but it was too late to recall his stupid words.
“Well, I don’t need your help,” she assured him and spun to leave.
Without another word, she hurried along the path ahead of him, and he started after her, muttering to himself, “Cursed woman!”
God’s truth, it was so much easier to have a hound.
Piers’ mood was sour, to say the least.
They’d searched the entire perimeter of his property and had found no sign of his cousin’s daughter. He was done for the afternoon, but her well-being weighed heavily upon his mind. How in bloody damnation had he been embroiled in this situation without warning?
“Why the hell did Geoffrey send his children without asking me first?” he snapped at Tomas.
Tomas shrugged as he dismounted from his horse and handed his reins to a stable boy. “He is hardly the brightest man,” Tomas remarked.
That much was true, Piers accepted, though it annoyed him that Tomas would say so.
Geoffrey had, in fact, had ample opportunity to advance himself, but had chosen to rely on his wives’ dowries to support him.
And now he was wedding someone else. Who was this woman anyway?
Piers had a sense that it was her fault these young people were endangered.
Geoffrey might have been shiftless, but he certainly wasn’t so cold as to throw his own children out of his home.
Piers didn’t like this new bride already— nor did he particularly like her emissary brother.
He eyed the man speculatively as they made their way toward the hall.
There was something about the lad that set his teeth on edge—his mannerisms, perhaps.
His arrogance was offensive, and furthermore his lack of emotion over John’s death was suspicious—not to mention that his anger over Elizabet’s disappearance seemed somehow contrived and empty.