Her One Desire by Kimberly Killion Page B

light extinguished. Blackness engulfed her.
    She sucked in an audible breath and stared into the darkness, wishing she hadn’t left Mother’s rosary in the pocket of her gown.
    Nine, ten, eleven … She counted her breaths, which came louder and faster with each passing second as if she were drowning. She waited, not knowing who would enter her thoughts. She tried to think of anything but the people she loved, the people she hated—
    flowers, chickens, her boots, a stool Emma.
    Lord Hollister’s wife flashed in brilliant colors inside her head. Black hair, olive skin, rose-colored lips stretched wide in horror as they tied her to the dunking stool by the river.
    Emma gasped for air when they pulled her out.
    Lizzy did the same.
    Lord Maxwell rolled toward her; his arm slid beneath her neck while his other arm wrapped around her shoulders. He held her against his chest in a guarded embrace, his breath warming the back of her head. “Sleep, angel. All will be well. I will be here to protect ye should the demons sneak into your sleep” He kissed her hair and then fell against the pillow.
    He couldn’t know the value of the gift he offered. “Thank you,” she whispered and slowly crept her hand inside his, seeking a little more of his protection. He squeezed her fingers and rhythmically brushed her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. Behind her closed lids she pictured flowers—purple ones, white ones, some pink. A smile eased her tension as her toes stepped into a valley painted with color. A grand castle stood proud and tall in the distance: a symbol of strength, protection. In her vision, Lord Maxwell’s fingers tightened around hers and led her into paradise. His paradise. His home. Scotland.

    Chapter 8

    Broc awoke with a plan.
    After pulling himself away from the warmth of his sleeping angel, he dressed with less pain than the day before. He secured his weapons within his garments and stepped into the empty corridor. Snoring guided him past two chamber doors. Feminine whimpers and the tattoo of a rocking bed led his ear to a third chamber. Deep moans escalated in time with the cadence of slapping flesh.
    Then came a loud smack.
    Silence.
    A long throaty howl of pleasure wailed behind the door. God’s hooks! Broc shook his head and wished those sounds didn’t have him raging hard and sweating like a swine. He had to remind himself why he’d left a soft, warm bed with a soft, warm woman curled in his arms.
    He jerked his head side to side and set his tension free in two pops, then raised his knuckles and tapped the wood. A yellow light brightened beneath the door until it swayed inward. The ripe smell of sex attacked his nose the same time his eyes were greeted by a young naked woman. “What do ye want?” she asked, making no attempt to hide her nudity.
    Though it took him a moment, he tore his stare from her favors and searched the shadows of the room. “I’m looking for Smitt.”
    “He’s occupied at the moment.” The woman pulled the candle back far enough into the chamber to prove her point. “What is it?” Smitt crawled off another woman and strutted toward the door like the proud cock he displayed. He rested his forearm against the door frame and grinned. “Do ye ever sleep?” Broc knew his cousin to be a bit randy, but the man was going to contract diseases if he continued such continual play.
    “I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Are ye ready to go?” “Soon. I was hoping to get a wee bit of assistance from your lady friends before we left.”
    “Your spitfire turn to ice, did she?”
    Instantly piqued by the comment, Broc unsheathed a dirk from his waist and pressed the tip into Smitt’s chin. “She is not my spitfire, and she damned certain is not ice. Reserve your filthy tongue for pleasuring the ladies, else you’ll find it on the tip of my blade.”
    “Easy, cousin. Twas a jest.” Smitt stepped back, raking his fingers through his black hair. What was it about Lizbeth that made Broc