Page 8 of Ella’s Desire

He stared up into the leaves as a bedraggled looking squirrel scampered to the end of the branch and launched another acorn at him.

“Moppet, cease that at once.” The woman’s hand reached out toward the squirrel.

“My lady, please.” Bronson lifted his arms in an effort to assist her descent. “Come down before you injure yourself.”

“I’m perfectly fine.” The squirrel evaded her grasp and chattered irritably to itself. She rose with slow care, balancing on the branch in her bare feet. The full skirt of her scarlet kirtle billowed gently in the breeze and offered a teasing glimpse of those slender, shapely legs.

This time he did glance away, surveying the orchard. “My lady, someone will see you in this state of indecency.” And he certainly didn’t wish to be caught taking advantage.

“Are you looking?” She spun about and clutched at her skirt.

The branch, however, was only so thick and there was not enough room for both her feet at once. Her feet slipped from the bark and down she went in a stream of red silk and ribbons of golden hair.

He leapt to her aid, rushing toward her and she landed perfectly in the cradle of his arms. He hadn’t anticipated the impact would be like having a sack of grain dropped on his chest and only just managed to mute his grunt at the impact.

She blinked in surprise and slowly turned her face toward his. If having her land on him hadn’t knocked the wind from him, gazing upon her threatened to steal every breath he’d ever taken. She had the same pale hair as her sisters, with long-lashed blue eyes. The crimson of her gown made the flush of her cheeks and the pink pout of her mouth stand out.

He held her weight easily against him, reveling in the warmth of her body, the sweet scent of the fruit trees clinging to her skin. Her hair was unbound and blew lightly in the gentle breeze.

He wanted to crane his head forward, to brush her lips with his own to see if they were as soft as he imagined they were. “Are you Lady Ella?”

“I am.” She pulled her bottom lip into her mouth very much the same as he’d wanted to do. “And you were not supposed to arrive for several more days.” She squirmed in his embrace. “Release me.”

“Are you injured?” he asked.

“I assure you, I am quite well.” She wriggled again. “Do release me, please.”

Obliging her request, he settled her to the ground. She bent and picked up something. A leather-bound book. Strange that she would have an item so valuable out of the castle.

“What were you doing up in the tree?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Reading.”

He glanced at the book once more. “Psalms?”

She shook her head. “Nay, stories.”

He looked at the blank cover. The books he’d seen had scrolling titles and colorful images painted on them by monks. “What story is it?”

“You wouldn’t know it.” She pursed her lips, considering him, as though unsure if she ought to go on or not. Finally, she lifted her shoulder. “They’re stories my sisters and I created.”

“You mean you wrote them?” he asked.

She nodded and pulled the book to her chest, arms crossed over it like a shield.

Was she intentionally making him dredge every bit of information from her? Because he would. If need be. “What are they about?” He took a step closer and she backed up.

Her brow furrowed, and she stared hard at the ground. “Love,” she whispered. The full effect of her glare hit him like a blow. “They’re about love.” She threw the statement at him with heavy accusation. Before he could reply, she shook her head. “You were not supposed to arrive yet. Do excuse me.” With that, she dashed out of the orchard with bare feet and the acorn-wielding squirrel racing after her.

Bronson watched her go and absently rubbed the ache on his brow where he’d been struck by the acorn. Where did that squirrel get the acorns from in the middle of an orchard?

It was a silly musing, and one he’d rather place his focus on than the blatant truth of his encounter with his beautiful betrothed. For it was quite obvious that Lady Ella did not wish to marry him.

Ella was curled into a ball of misery on the bed she shared with Cat and Leila when they entered some time later.

By all rights as eldest daughter at Werrick, she ought to have their mother’s former rooms, but she hadn’t wanted to take them. Memories of her mother’s screams, of the cloying odor of blood, were too much for Ella to bear. And besides, after over twenty years of sleeping with her sisters, she did not wish to sleep alone. They were warmth and comfort, laughter and love. She would remain in this room, in this bed, with them until she was forced to marry. Which might very well be soon.

“Did Calville find you?” Cat flopped on the bed beside Ella.