Still he could not speak of this, not even with her. “It was a long time ago,” he said. “And I’ve a good family and many friends.” He was fortunate, he told himself. Many had not even that.
Auld Alma’s voice whispered in his ear:Find ye a good woman to cherish and give her strong bairns. Let your father’s blood live long in your veins and those of your children! You are the last of the MacEanraig clan, lad.
He stared at Elizabet, his heart hammering.
She looked away. “Have you... a wife?” she asked, sounding dejected at the mere possibility.
Broc blinked at the question. “Nay.”
She lifted her gaze, a sudden smile hidden in her eyes, and somehow her hopeful expression lifted his mood.
“But as long as I had my dog I never suffered a cold bed.”
“Dog!”
“Aye, well, who needs a bluidy wife when ye can have a hound, right?” He winked at her.
She laughed softly and the sound of it sent an unexpected shiver through him. Christ, but she was lovely—more so every instant he knew her.
She arched a perfectly formed brow and lifted a hand to her thick plait, toying with it nervously, her smile brilliant. He wished she would undo it again so he could see it in the light of day. Last night it had felt so soft in his hands. Her mouth had tasted so sweet. He found himself thirsting for another drink of her mouth.
“But you must have a woman?”
“No,” he assured her. “And no hound either, but you have one,” he suggested, lifting his brows.
“NowI know what you want from me,” she said and laughed softly, glancing down at the crucifix she wore, her expression suddenly wistful.
“What is it, lass?”
Her smile turned melancholy. “It feels good to laugh—it has been a long, long time,” she confessed. “I’ve sorely missed it.”
Who else had she shared that beauteous smile with? Broc wondered. His gut turned over the possibilities. He didn’t want her heart to belong to anyone else.
She touched her plait and stared, transfixed, as though lost in a memory and he wanted that look to be for him.
Aye, he wanted his woman to desire his body, but he hadn’t realized how much he craved that gentle, loving look until he spied it in Elizabet’s eyes.
She began to fiddle with the bindings of her plait, pulling at the golden ribbon, and the shimmering material was a reminder that she was not for him. She had been born to a world of riches and luxuries, while he had been raised in the dirt.
What did he have to give her?
Nothing.
His father had been chieftain of their clan, but his true kinsmen were all dead and buried now. He had no coffers of his own to share, nor, in truth, even the right to offer sanctuary. He was risking much to help her—much that wasn’t his own.
Guilt pricked at him.
Still, he wasn’t about to walk away.
Before he could stop himself, he reached out and seized her crucifix, pulling her nearer.
Elizabet gasped in surprise.
“Whose memory do I see in your eyes?” he demanded to know.
For an instant, she didn’t answer, and he thought she would refuse him an answer. He tugged on the crucifix.
“M-my mother,” she said at last.
