Sweet Mary, it was like nothing she’d ever dreamed of.
She had seen lovers embrace this way and then steal away to some secret place where no one could spy them. And she had secretly envied them, wondering what it must feel like to belong to someone—to know that the arms that held her cherished her. She had watched men use and discard her mother so easily and sworn to God she would never fall prey to soft words whispered against her ear.
And yet here she was, willing to take whatever hewould give her. Her legs trembled beneath her, threatening to make her sink at his feet.
“Broc,” she pleaded, clinging to him desperately, but he only kissed her more insistently.
She was afraid to open her heart.
Afraid to want.
Afraid to hope.
Men said whatever served them best—used up what was inside and without another thought tossed away the shell that remained. Her mother had died alone, abandoned and empty. Only Elizabet had been at her side.
“Be my wife,” he murmured against her lips.
Elizabet’s heart jolted nearly out of her breast at the unexpected behest.
“Nay!” she replied at once, turning her face from his fiery kisses. His lips singed her, his words burned deep into her heart. The possibility that he might not mean them daunted her more than she could have anticipated.
Her mother had left her alone, no matter that it hadn’t been her choice to do so. Her father had sent her away with little more thought than he would have given to washing his hands. Piers, was like to deny her, too. Why should this man want her when her own father did not?
“You cannot wish to wed me?”
Every time she had ever dared to hope she might have a place to call her own, a family to embrace her, she was left disheartened.
“Aye, lass, I do,” he swore. When she tried to turn away, his hands cupped her face, forcing her gently to look into his eyes. “Look at me!”
She could face his desire and match it with her own, but she could not allow herself to hope!
“I want to make you mine, Elizabet.”
Her father had once said that to her mother, as well,but it hadn’t meant it. He’d abandoned them both, returning to his wife and the children she’d borne him—as was his duty.
And yet… despite her resolve not to feel it, a tiny ember of hope flared up within her.
He held her close, looking into her eyes, as he said with feeling, “I never had such purpose to my life until I met you, Elizabet.”
Elizabet’s heart flowered at his words.
She wanted to believe him.
When she wasn’t with him, she only wanted to see him. With every stitch she had sewn this afternoon, she’d yearned for his return.
He brushed her lips with another kiss and her head fell back, wanting more, but he withdrew again. “I know I have no right to ask, but if ye will allow me to... I will care for ye always, Elizabet. No harm will ever come to ye.
“As God is my witness, I will never fail you,” he swore. “And ye will live as best I can provide and die an old woman asleep in your bed.”
A wistful smile crept into his eyes. “Can ye fancy yourself wed to a Scots barbarian?”
Tears welled in her eyes. She shook her head to deny them. “You are not a barbarian, silly man! You are more a gentle man than any I’ve ever known.”
He gave her a playful wink. “Aye, but you said so yourself,” he reminded her, and kissed her high upon the cheek, then unexpectedly lapped the teardrop from her skin.
Elizabet’s breath caught over the intimacy of the gesture.
“I believe every word that comes from that beautiful mouth,” he swore, as he bent to brush his lips over hers once more.
