Broc couldn’t bear to have the blood of his kinsmen on his hands, but neither could he in good conscience simply hand Elizabet over to her murderer.
Not to mention the fact that Elizabet would likely name him as her brother’s murderer along with her Sassenach companions, and where would that leave him?
When he reached the hovel, he was drenched in his own sweat and reluctant to go in. He fell upon his knees to catch his breath.
What the bloody hell was he supposed to say when he faced her? Her trust in him was tentative at best. No matter how he looked at the situation, he was damned either way. Och, but what a pretty kettle of fish he had boiled himself within.
It made a man wish he’d never gotten out of bed.
CHAPTER 8
It occurred to Elizabet only after he’d gone that she didn’t even know his name.
Growing impatient for his return now, she paced the hovel, trying not to notice the stale, dank odor of the room. She grimaced with disgust as she walked through a sticky web and tried to shrug free of it.
What sort of woman lived in a place such as this?
His friend’s house, was it? It wasn’t her experience that men and women could befriends. She couldn’t help but wonder just how close they had been—her Scotsman and this woman who had wed his best friend.
Had they been lovers?
Likely!
She clasped her hands at her back and continued to pace, considering the sparseness of the room. Elizabet had never really owned anything herself, but she had never gone without the most basic of necessities. In fact, she had been surrounded by luxuries as her mother’s lovers had all been generous. She reached down to clasp the crucifix into her hand, taking comfort in it.
The woman who had lived here probably had missing teeth, else her Good Samaritan Scotsman would have claimed her as more than his belovedfriend. He had probably used her until someone else had been willing to take her off his hands.
Wind gusted into the room through cracks in the wall and ceiling. The candle on the table sputtered, threatening to go out. Elizabet hugged herself for warmth. She searched the room for a blanket and, finding one, seized it and threw it about her shoulders. It was threadbare and reeked of fermented drink, the odor permeating every fiber of the material. Apparently, the woman had been a drunkard, as well!
Then again—her gaze assessed the tiny room—if she had been forced to live in a place like this, she might have taken to drinking, too.
Anyway, these Scots were said to be partial to their ale. They were all barbarians, every one of them, women and children alike. However, they all shared one thing more valuable than any material possession Elizabet might ever crave.
Freedom.
Elizabet heard much about the way they lived. Even the women seemed to enjoy a certain mastery over their lives. They wed where they pleased and not at all if ’twas their wish. And their children ran about dirty and free. The men loved their brides and wed not for duty but for life. They had no need to keep mistresses on the side. Their mistresses were their wives.
As much as Elizabet loved her mother, her sympathies had oft lain with the wives of the men who had visited her. And she hoped never to marry if it meant that her husband would lavish his affections upon women like her mother and leave her to rot alone at home, like some forgotten trophy set upon a shelf.
She’d rather be alone.
Except, not right now.
Finally! She heard a sound outside the door and rushed to open it. It had grown black outside, the sky dark as pitch.
There was no one there, and unnerved by the near moonless night, she pulled the door shut, shuddering, though not entirely from the cold. Anticipation of Broc’s return kept her on her feet. Concern for her brother made her pace the small room.
What made her heart beat so swiftly?
Her fingers went to her lips, remembering the kiss…
He’d kissed her in anger, though he hadn’t hurt her. But he’d taken liberties she had never offered any man. And now she couldn’t forget the warmth of his mouth upon her lips. Every time she remembered, her heart jolted a little within her breast.
With all that had transpired that afternoon—the bowman, her brother—the one thing that kept playing over and over in her head was the moment he had taken her into his arms.
What was wrong with her?
She tried to focus on the important matters.
