“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?
