The Lady's Protector (Highland Bodyguards #1) (10 page)

“Isolda.” Ansel rose to his feet, taking her gently by the shoulders and holding her gaze steadily. “Listen to me. We will leave tomorrow morning, no arguments. Ye must keep John safe, and I must keep ye safe. To do that, we cannae stay here any longer than absolutely necessary.”

Stark, cold reality settled deep in her bones at last. She couldn’t fight Ansel any longer, not when deep down she knew he was right, knew she owed her life to him. But tonight had left her with no more words, no more tears. All she could manage was a broken nod.

She removed the last of the fragments of wood from Ansel’s shoulder, then wearily stitched the two dagger wounds and the sword cut. As she tied off the last stitch, he gently took her hand in his.

“Rest now. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

She let him lead her up the stairs and through her open, ruined doorway into her chamber. She recoiled slightly at the sight of her bed, for dark bloodstains marred the coverlet where she’d stabbed her assailant. He guided her to the far side of the large bed where the blankets were clean.

“I’ll stay with ye until ye fall asleep,” he said, pulling back the covers.

She didn’t bother to remove her soiled surcoat. Instead, she slid wearily into bed, allowing him to pull the blankets around her.

He sat on the stone floor next to the bed, facing her. The last thing she saw before her lids drooped closed and exhaustion stole her away were his dark, unreadable eyes watching over her.

Isolda woke with a start. She sat bolt upright, a gasp on her lips and her eyes flaring wide.

But the nightmare she’d torn herself from was the same as the reality she awoke to.

Her gaze fell on her window. Judging by the pale pink light of pre-dawn seeping through the open shutters, she’d only slept for a few hours. Her eyes traveled to the shattered door, and then the bloodstained coverlet on her bed. Aye, her nightmares had come alive last night.

Unbidden, her gaze landed on the floor below the window, but the two daggers Ansel had pulled from his body and dropped to the floor weren’t there.

She let out a shaky breath, glad that at least one small piece of the horror from the night before was no longer there to greet her this morning. Ansel must have removed them when he’d left her side sometime in the middle of the night.

Her chamber was empty, though the memory of Ansel’s dark gaze burning into her sent a strange pinch into her heart.

She’d almost completely fallen apart in front of him. But now in the light of day, she needed to be brave.

She rose and quickly discarded her bloodied surcoat, gown, and chemise. After rinsing her hands and face in the basin of cold water on her desk, she went to her armoire.

Row upon row of expensive silks and brocades met her gaze. She selected a simple linen chemise, a gown of chestnut brown wool, and an unembellished surcoat of russet red. They were the only garments close to appropriate for riding while still being suitable for a lady. Ansel hadn’t told her where they were going, but surely her title would help grease the wheels if they needed assistance.

She pulled a satchel from the back of the armoire and packed a few extra chemises, gowns, and one nicer surcoat along with her comb and the few other personal items that would fit. Then she slung her thickest wool cloak over her shoulders. Depending on where they were going, fall could be kind to them, or it could be cruel.

With one last look, she closed the armoire softly. Six years ago she could have never imagined possessing such wealth in the form of those expensive garments. Now she relied on them, for they were her armor, as sure as any knight’s chainmail and plates of metal. Or perhaps the rich brocades and silks were her shield, for she hid behind them and behind the title of lady.

She pushed the dark thoughts aside. Aye, Lancaster had bought her silence with the endless reams of decadent cloth. In that way, she was no better than a whore, just as her mother and father had called her the day they abandoned her at Clitheroe, her belly beginning to round with Lancaster’s child. But she’d done what was necessary to survive—for herself, and for her son.

With the satchel slung over her shoulder, she stepped through her splintered door. When she reached the bottom of the spiraling stairs, she was surprised to find the ground floor chamber empty. Blood darkened the rushes on the ground where Bertram had lain, but he, Mary, and Ansel were nowhere in sight.

She pushed open the tower door and stepped into the yard. Although she braced herself for the sight of bodies, all she saw in the pink morning light was blood on the yard’s grass.

Movement in front of the stables drew her gaze. A cart with a draft horse harnessed to it stood ready. Bertram lay in the back of the cart, with Mary standing by his side.

Isolda rushed to the cart, her heart suddenly in her throat.

“How does he fare?” she breathed.

“I could be worse.” Bertram’s voice was a grating whisper, but his pale lips quirked in a faint smile.

“Bertram!” Isolda took his hand as gently as she could and gave it a little squeeze. Relief stole her breath, and all she could do for a long moment was gaze down at the dear man’s wan face.

“He woke not long ago,” Mary said softly by her side. “He’s been demanding to see you before we head out.”

Isolda shifted her gaze to Mary, tears making the maid wobble before her vision.

“So he has convinced you that you must leave as well?”

“Aye,” Mary replied, her voice pinched with emotion. “We both fought to stay by your side, my lady, but that Scot is as stubborn as a mule.”

Just then, Ansel emerged from the stables drawing his enormous bay stallion behind him.

He wore a clean linen tunic and breeches, and his face and hands were free of the blood they bore last night. His hair was drawn back and tied at the nape of his neck, but dark stubble bristled thickly on his face, and his eyes carried shadows under them.

Isolda realized with a start that he had likely not slept at all last night. He must have removed the bodies of their attackers beyond the castle walls, gotten the cart ready, carried Bertram to it, and prepared his horse for their journey while she rested. Even still, he moved with the same fluid strength as he always did, with no indication of weariness other than the smudges under his eyes.

“Stubborn? Aye, I am that,” Ansel said levelly as he approached.

“Where will they go?” Isolda asked, still clutching Bertram’s hand.

“South, away from Embleton,” Ansel replied, halting his horse next to the cart. “I dinnae ken if any of the other village laborers were hired to attack ye, but if they were, Mary and Bertram willnae be safe anywhere near the village.”

“I have some family in York,” Mary said. “It is a big enough town for us to disappear for a while—until we get word that you are safe, my lady.”

Isolda threw an arm around her dear maid, drawing her into a fierce embrace. “I’ll send word soon, I promise,” she whispered, her throat nigh closing with a swell of emotion. “And you had better be up and back to your training.” She turned back to Bertram, giving his hand another squeeze.

“Aye, my lady, you can count on it,” he replied with a little nod of his copper-gray head.

Ansel helped Mary up into the front of the cart and handed her the draft horse’s reins. As Mary clucked the horse into motion, Ansel strode to the newly erected wooden gates. He pulled one side open, giving Mary enough room to maneuver the cart through.

Mary waved one last time as the cart rolled slowly through the gates. Then Bertram’s hand appeared from the bed of the cart, waving reassuringly. Isolda waved back, tears burning her eyes and choking her throat. Her only friends in the world pulled gradually out of sight.

Isolda’s chest compressed painfully as a new surge of emotion stole her breath. Without realizing what she was doing, she turned from the gate and strode across the yard toward Gull Crag.

When she reached the edge of the cliff, she dragged in a lungful of the salty air. The sun was just cresting over the North Sea, its golden beams encasing her. Far below, waves crashed against the Rumble Churn, wrapping the black stones in white froth.

She sensed more than saw Ansel move silently to her side.

“We have limited time,” he said quietly. “At best, we have a few days before the man who attacked ye reaches whoever sent him to deliver the news of his failure. At worst, we only have a few hours before some spy in the village realizes what has happened and alerts his compatriots, whoever they may be.”

“Aye, I know.” She drew in another breath, the brine burning her lungs and mingling with the tears welling in her eyes. “It is just…I may never see this place again.”

She glanced at him and found his dark brown eyes riveted on her.

“Ye will live through this, Isolda. I swear it. I will protect ye.”

A tear slipped from her eyes and burned a path down her cheek. The cold sea wind stung against the trail of moisture. “I know you will. I believe you. And I trust you. But…”

He tensed slightly, his muscles shifting under his tunic. “But?”

“But I still won’t tell you where John is. Please understand. I fear that if the words cross my lips, my son will be in even graver danger than he is currently. I know it doesn’t make sense, but—”

To her surprise, compassion flickered in the depths of his eyes. “Aye, I understand. A mother must protect her child. Ye dinnae need to tell me where John is—I’m no’ asking. All I ask is that ye let me protect ye.”

Another swell of emotion, this time tinged with gratitude, rose in her throat. “Aye, I will.”

With one last, long look at the sea, she turned and made her way back toward his waiting horse. Ansel took her satchel and fastened it to his saddlebags, then helped her mount.

As he swung up into the saddle behind her, she finally had her emotions in check enough to speak.

“Where are we going?”

He snorted softly behind her. “We’ll both keep our secrets for now, my lady,” he said in her ear.

He took up the reins, and suddenly she realized just how intimate it was to share a horse with a man. His arms wrapped around her waist to grip the reins, and her bottom was nestled snugly between his thighs. The hard plane of his chest was flush with her back.

She could feel his thighs tighten slightly as he squeezed his knees into the horse’s sides. The well-trained animal surged forward into a rapid walk.

Isolda barely had enough time to glance over her shoulder as they crossed through the open gate. The castle stood silently in the golden glow of sunrise. The unfinished towers and ragged curtain wall looked somber and desolate even in the cheery morning light.

Even still, this was the first place she’d called home, for her childhood had been one of constant travel to the next fair or grand market. This was the place she’d raised John until a year ago. This was the place she’d learned to stand with her spine straight and her chin raised.

And this was likely the last time she’d see it.

Ansel reined his horse to the north, though he angled far to the west to avoid Embleton, which sat quiet and still in the distance.

They were off.

Though he couldn’t see her face, Ansel could tell by Isolda’s slumped shoulders and lowered head that she was lost in her own world for most of the morning.

He never knew a woman’s tears could have such an effect on a man. Aye, he’d drawn a few tears from his sister when they were just bairns, for which he’d been chastised by their stern father, but this was different.

He was taking her from her home, dragging her away from her only companions and upending her world. He was also going to keep her safe, by God, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t struggling with the rest of it.

The image of her gilded in the golden light of sunrise, tears shimmering in her eyes and trailing down one cheek, was burned into his mind. She had never looked so hauntingly beautiful, wisps of dark hair dancing around her face and her chin held level even as pain flooded those pale green eyes. Something beyond lust had twisted his heart as he’d gazed upon her—something far more dangerous than mere physical desire.

He should have been grateful that once he’d mounted Eachann behind her, the deeper pinch in his chest had reverted back to simple lust once more. Yet he could not muster gratitude for his scrambled thoughts, thudding pulse, and throbbing manhood.

If only he could be lost in thought as she seemed to be. Instead, every nerve ending was on fire, molten need coursing through his veins. With each of the horse’s brisk steps, their bodies rolled together. He prayed that she wouldn’t notice the hard length of his manhood where it pressed against her bottom, but praying did little to relieve the heavy ache between his legs.

And her scent.
Bloody hell
. He’d noticed a faint whiff of it earlier, but now he could drag in his fill with each inhale, for the chestnut crown of her head was directly before his nose.

With his body humming with desire, his senses were sharp enough to dissect the subtle, complex scent drifting from her hair. There was a sweet, tart top note—lemon, he deduced. A luxury item like lemon soap would have had to be brought from Spain, or perhaps even the Far East. The tangy, expensive scent was a reminder of her elevated station.

But below the sharp sweetness of lemon, he detected the piney, earthy smell of lavender. The two scents twined together headily, one bright, one dark, until Ansel thought he’d grown drunk on the combination.

He gritted his teeth against the nigh unbearable desire to pull her plait free, drag her back flush against his chest, and bury his nose in her unbound hair while his hands found the soft curves of her breasts.

He jerked his head to the side, forcing his eyes to focus on their surroundings. If he wasn’t careful, he’d guide them dangerously close to a village or town. Or worse, he’d lose hold on the last thread of self-control he possessed and do just what his body demanded.

The one benefit of her being lost in her own thoughts was that she hadn’t probed him with questions about where they were going, nor had she been paying attention to their surroundings.

But even as he counted that small blessing, her chin tilted up and she glanced around. She shifted as she craned her neck to take in the position of the sun. It was past midday now, and though the sun was warm and pleasant again today, the autumn evening would be descending soon.

“We are riding north.”

It wasn’t a question, yet she didn’t mask the confusion in her voice.

“Aye.”

She shifted again, twisting so that she could look back at him. Her movement sent her bottom rubbing against his groin. He clamped his mouth shut on a colorful curse.

“Why?”

“Because it is safer.”

A crease appeared between her dark eyebrows. “I don’t see how heading farther into the Borderlands could be—”

Her eyes widened on him in understanding. “You are taking me into Scotland, aren’t you?”

“Aye.”

Suddenly, a look of fear flickered behind her pale green eyes.

“Why?” she repeated, but this time the word was guarded.

What could riding into Scotland possibly mean to an English noblewoman? And why did he sense there was something she was hiding? Ansel tucked the thought away. She was tired and raw from the events of the night before. No need to push her on the matter just yet.

“For starters, because the English willnae follow us. Edward’s men will think twice about pursuing ye into Scotland,” he said evenly. “With Bannockburn hanging around their necks, they’ll no’ likely charge past the Borderlands again.”

“Bannockburn,” she said softly. “You were there, weren’t you?”

Surprise flashed through him as she continued to hold his gaze, her head swiveled on her slim neck. Before he could ask her how she’d guessed, though, she went on.

“You spoke of seeing many battlefields when we were tending to Bertram last eve. And…and I noticed when I was stitching you that you bear a few fresh scars.”

Heat coiled low in his belly. So, she’d been staring at his body, more than just to see to his most recent wounds. But the lust was also tinged with a different heat—the darker burn of all the memories of battles that still haunted him.

“What do ye ken of Bannockburn, lass?” His voice bore a low edge he hadn’t intended, but he wouldn’t apologize, even though she recoiled slightly.

“Only that King Edward sought to relieve Stirling Castle from Scottish attacks last June,” she breathed. “Robert the Bruce beat the English back, and Edward was forced to flee. You have already told me that you work closely with the Bruce. What was your role at Bannockburn?”

“I dinnae like to talk of battle.”

She bit her lower lip, drawing his eyes there.

“Forgive me,” she said softly. “It is only… I know so little of you, and now we are riding into Scotland. Alone.”

He released a slow breath. She was right, of course. He wasn’t naturally a trusting or forthcoming man, but she only had him now. She needed to trust him, which meant that he had to overcome his own reticence and guardedness.

“I have fought by King Robert’s side for seven years,” he said quietly.

Her lips parted in surprise, but he went on. “Bannockburn was one of many engagements I’ve participated in for Scotland’s independence. It wasnae the bloodiest, but we were outnumbered two to one. Even in the thick of things we all sensed something—that it would be a decisive battle, one way or another.” Ansel snorted softly to himself. “Luckily for us, we were on the winning side.”

It was the most he’d ever said about the battle to someone who hadn’t been at Bannockburn. It was a small offering, but relief seeped into him at Isolda’s nod of understanding.

“You said that the English wouldn’t likely follow us into Scotland, but that it was only one of the reasons we are riding north,” she said. “What are the other reasons?”

Ansel let his gaze scan their surroundings again. Soft, rolling green hills were broken up by patches of plowed farmland and clumps of trees turning the vibrant reds and yellows of fall.

“I’m no’ verra familiar with the English countryside,” he said, cocking a brow at the tame-looking landscape. “I’m from the Highlands, ye ken.”

She nodded again, so he went on. “If the men after ye and John
do
decide that it’s worth risking their English hides on Scottish soil, I need to be familiar with the land. I need to be able to use our surroundings to my benefit.” He shrugged “And I ken the Highlands like the back of my hand.”

Her eyes rounded slightly. “So we are going all the way to the Highlands, then?”

He felt a satisfied smile twist the corners of his mouth. Suddenly he was reminded that Isolda was a proper English lady—her tone revealed her horror at the idea of traveling into the heart of the wild, uncivilized Highlands.

“Aye, I’ve a place in mind—somewhere safe, somewhere the English arenae aware of.”

Her brows furrowed, and again he was rewarded with a surge of roguish gratification.

“And you won’t tell me where it is?”

“Nay, for as ye ken well, sometimes just speaking a secret, even into a trusted ear, will cause trouble.”

Color rose into her cheeks, but she reluctantly nodded her understanding again. “But how long will we be traveling? Surely the Highlands of Scotland aren’t too far away.”

“If we ride hard every day for a sennight, we’ll reach our destination—if the weather cooperates, that is.”

At her shocked expression, he went on quickly. “That reminds me—did ye bring any other clothes more…suitable for travel?”

His gaze slide down to where her wool cloak split open over her snug, finely made russet surcoat. Her breasts strained against the layers of material as she inhaled.

She looked down as well, her brows rising in desperation.

“Nay, these are the closest things I have to riding clothes.”

“It’s just that they’ll likely be uncomfortable for the long days in the saddle ahead of us. And they are a wee bit…conspicuous for the Highlands,” he said carefully.

Truth be told, she’d stick out like a rose in a field of wildflowers in Scotland wearing the getup of an English noblewoman. None but the wealthiest in the likes of Perth and Edinburgh even wore surcoats and gowns of the quality and fabric that Isolda owned.

“You didn’t tell me where we were going, and I didn’t have time to—”

“Aye, ye’re right,” he said evenly, trying to soothe her rising panic. “We’ll just have to trade for some new garments for ye when we reach an inn.”

Her delicate features still bore the creases of discomfort at that. Aye, he enjoyed pricking her pride, but he didn’t truly believe she was some spoiled chit. Perhaps there was something else behind her unease at losing all her finely made garments. Another question to stow away for later, he thought with a flicker of apprehension.

“Are we…sleeping in an inn tonight?”

Her voice was so hopeful that he actually felt like the savage she’d once called him for disappointing her. “Nay, no’ tonight. We have to get through the Borderlands first, and I willnae risk drawing suspicion from the English and Scots alike in a village or town. We dinnae exactly make a likely pair.”

For the briefest moment, surprise and then amusement scuttled across her face. The faintest curve of her full, pink lips insinuated a smile.

“Aye, you are right about that.”

But then her face sobered to its usual serious cast.

“Where will we sleep then?”

He gestured broadly across the landscape surrounding them. “Outdoors.”

Isolda pressed her lips together but didn’t say anything. She only nodded tightly and turned back around, settling herself facing forward in the saddle.

Disappointment warred with respect in his mind. Aye, he enjoyed getting a rise out of his English lady, but he couldn’t deny his admiration for her grit. His blood pumped hotly in his veins and his manhood jolted to life once more as her bottom nestled between his legs.

This was not exactly the mission he’d had in mind when he’d left Dunrobin. It would be a long journey back to the Highlands.