Page 58 of Ella’s Desire

Except then, Cat put a bow into Lark’s hands. And an arrow. Then, little Lark shot at a target some distance away.

The smile lifting at Bronson’s lips now tugged downward. Regret suddenly nipped at him. Lark was expected to become a lady, one who would fetch a fine husband at court. She was not meant to learn to wield bows and fight like a man when there was no true need for her to do it.

He would speak with her on the morrow and put a stop to such wild play.

20

Bronson stayed up through most of the night, not in Ella’s bed, but reading her book. The story had been one of great love, in which the hero had been a knight who swept his lady off her horse to kiss her.

While he was not certain how easy it would be to sweep Ella from her horse, especially when Kipper appeared to be jealous, he was still skilled at courtly love. Chivalry was encouraged at court, and Bronson happened to be one of the best. Surely, the aspect of being wooed romantically in front of the whole court would appeal to Ella.

He made his way to the great hall to break his fast and found her already there. She looked up at him and then cast her attention demurely to her lap, the action flirtatious. It made him want to lift her chin and kiss her soft mouth.

Lark sat with Leila and Catriona, the three excitedly chattering together, with Hardy at their feet. The dog stared up at them in eager expectation, pausing to glance at one before shifting to the other.

Bronson took his seat beside Ella. He had not mentioned Lark’s prior activities at supper the evening before. Well, save for a brief comment to Brigid, who had simply gazed affectionately at Lark and said she was pleased to see her daughter so happy. And while Bronson was pleased to see her happy as well, Lark was supposed to behave like a true lady.

She would be married off at some point, as all women were. Bronson wanted her to have a good future, with a man who could afford to give her a quality life where she would never wear ill-fitting clothes. Where she would never be forced to go hungry again. In order to do that, she would have to do what was expected of an earl’s daughter.

Bronson broke open an oatcake and drizzled a bit of honey over it. “I trust you slept well, Lady Ella?”

She stirred the pottage in front of her. “Aye.” She turned her head in his direction.

Bronson bit into the oatcake and washed it down with a bit of ale. “I hear you and your sisters have been planning the wedding feast.”

“I…we…are nearly done.” Ella gave him a strained smile and pushed around her pottage.

“Did I ever tell you how many books there are at court?” He waved over a servant to refill his ale.

Ella turned slowly toward him. “Books?”

“Aye, many more than what you have in your solar here.”

A servant eased a flagon between them and filled Bronson’s goblet. Bronson waited until the boy departed. “And we shall have new gowns made for you.”

The bright interest in her eyes dulled. Her father’s words came back to Bronson. Don’t make her change who she is.

“You can keep them simple if you like,” Bronson suggested. “More comfortable. I cannot have my lovely wife unable to breathe.”

Her face relaxed somewhat, and the tension eased from Bronson’s chest. This was where he excelled. At knowing what people wanted and giving it to them.

“Fine silks that compliment your beautiful skin.” The back of his hand gently brushed hers. A purposeful accident.

Color rose in her cheeks.

“The softest of wool for winter, edged with sable.” He leaned toward her. “You’ll be the loveliest woman at court, the most well-read of all the courtiers in attendance. And you’ll be my wife.”

Excitement danced in her eyes.

Bronson pulled her hand into his despite the witnesses present at the table. “When shall it be then, my dove? On the morrow? Two days hence?”

Ella cast him a coquettish glance and opened her mouth to speak. It was at that exact moment Lark reached for her drink and the sleeve of her gown rose on her arm to reveal skin that was black and blue with terrible bruising.

Bronson straightened. “Lark, your arm.”

His sister slunk back in her chair and eased the sleeve back into place at her wrist.

“Push your sleeve up,” he demanded.