The Lady's Protector (Highland Bodyguards #1) (11 page)

Clemont jammed his fist into the still-bleeding wound in his side as he swung down from his horse. Since he hadn’t fallen dead during the long, hard ride back to Clitheroe Castle, he deduced that it was only a flesh wound. Still, he grunted and cursed when his feet hit the cobblestones inside Clitheroe’s gates.

“Go tell your lord that I have returned,” Clemont bit out to one of the two pages rushing forward to take his horse. The lad bowed swiftly and darted into the castle.

Slowly, Clemont forced his legs to move. The long night, followed by a full day of hard riding, would have left him stiff and sore even without the bleeding gouge in his side.

He strode across the yard and toward the squat little keep. Luckily, the whole castle was so small that he only had to struggle through a few paces before reaching the keep. Although laborers were hard at work outside the curtain wall building several more structures, the keep itself was necessarily cramped and short. Ironic, Clemont thought not for the first time, given the man who owned it.

He crossed through the doors and into the narrow, low-ceilinged ground floor chamber. The room was empty, for one of the new structures outside the wall was to be an enormous, elegant great hall more fitting for its owner’s station. Clemont moved immediately to the stairs, knowing where he could find the lord of Clitheroe Castle.

As he made his way up the stairs, the page he’d sent ahead of him darted down. The lad averted his gaze—so, the lord was in a foul mood, was he? Clemont’s news wouldn’t help matters, but the throbbing ache in his side dulled any lingering impulse to care.

When he reached the door he knew to be the man’s study, he didn’t even bother knocking. Instead, he strode in, sweeping the door closed behind him.

The Earl of Lancaster sat at an enormous wooden desk, which was strewn with papers. Weak light streamed in through a series of narrow slits in the thick stone. The stark little room bore no other furnishings, leaving Clemont to come to a halt before the desk.

Once again, he was struck by how incongruous Lancaster’s primary seat for official business was. The Earl was the second richest man in all of England, behind only the King himself, yet the squat, square keep with the dark, cramped chambers didn’t exactly send the Earl’s enemies quaking. Perhaps that was why Lancaster seemed to be in a perpetually foul mood.

Lancaster rose slowly from behind the desk. Of course, the man tried to make up for his inadequate keep in other ways. He wore silks and brocades from head to toe, as usual. The arrogant tilt of his dark head spoke of unquestioned power, and the smooth, pale hands he placed on the desk between them nigh reeked of wealth.

“I hope you have good news for me, Clemont,” Lancaster said softly, though his pale blue eyes were sharp. They took in the sight of the blood dripping from Clemont’s fist where he held his side.

“Nay, my lord,” Clemont said.

Lancaster’s delicate hands fisted on top of the piles of parchment and missives. “What happened?”

“I gathered a force of men, as you instructed—quietly. One of the laborers in Embleton gave me the details I needed—the castle’s layout, where the woman slept, and so forth. But I began to hear rumors in the village that a stranger had arrived at Dunstanburgh. Indeed, my man among the laborers confirmed it—a Scot.”

Something flickered in Lancaster’s icy eyes. Even though his mind was dulled from pain and fatigue, Clemont didn’t miss Lancaster’s little tell.

“You wouldn’t have aught to do with a Scot arriving at Dunstanburgh, would you, my lord?” he said, narrowing his eyes on the Earl.

Lancaster held Clemont’s sharp gaze but didn’t speak.

Rage, sharp and hot, surged in Clemont’s veins. “Because if you did, your contract with my employer would be void. We would collect full payment, though, of course.”

Clemont shifted slightly, the subtlest of threats.

Lancaster lifted his hands slowly from the desk. “Remember to whom you speak. I am the Earl of Lancaster, cousin to King Edward II—and the future King of England. You are no more than a man for hire, a bounty hunter, and your employer—”

Seeming to seek composure once more, Lancaster slid a hand over his already-smooth hair.

“You hired someone else,” Clemont said flatly. “Despite the fact that my employer guarantees a satisfactory completion of your…requested terminations.”

Lancaster’s mouth lifted in a little smile. “Aye, I hired the Scot, but not to do your job. I have every faith in your abilities, Clemont. Or I
did
. I ask again—what happened?”

“We attacked the castle, just as planned. But the Scot…” Clemont pressed his hand harder into his side, sending a fresh wave of pain through his body. He had been bested. And he was never bested. “The Scot took out my men.”

“And yet you stand before me, bleeding,” Lancaster snapped, annoyance tightening his mouth.

“I made a move for the woman. She gave me this.” Clemont peeled his hand away from his wound and pulled the jeweled dagger from his belt. He’d had to wrench the dagger from his side while riding at a full gallop.

Lancaster snatched the bloody, jewel-encrusted dagger from Clemont’s hand.

“That bitch,” he breathed. “I gave her this.”

“She said the boy wasn’t with her, and from what my laborer on the inside said, she spoke the truth.”

Lancaster muttered an oath. “It is as I thought, then. She has hidden the boy somewhere.”

“I could have gotten the information from her if the Scot hadn’t been there. He drove me away.” Clemont shifted again, but this time it was to reapply his fist to his aching side. “I gave him a few of my own daggers, though. He couldn’t give chase.”

Lancaster’s cold eyes jerked from the dagger in his hands to Clemont. “Did you kill him?” he asked sharply.

Clemont felt another stab of bitter distaste for Lancaster. “I don’t know, for I was forced to flee. It seemed as though the Scot was there to protect the very woman you sent me to kill once I found and killed the boy. Why?”

Again, Lancaster’s mouth quirked, but his eyes remained icy. “Ah, Clemont. There is so much more at play than the murders of my bastard son and his mother, but a simple bounty hunter like you wouldn’t understand.”

Clemont gritted his teeth even as he repressed an inward smile. Aye, Lancaster was a rich, powerful man and Clemont was no more than a hired killer. In fact, Clemont’s employer practically owned him.

But the tables could so easily be turned. If some other rich English nobleman had wished for Lancaster’s head delivered on a gilded platter, Clemont would have gladly seen to the task.

Killing had long ago lost the flush of emotion for Clemont—fear, pleasure, anger, all of it had worn away into the flat necessity of the tasks his employer gave him. Yet if his employer would let him, he’d relish extracting a slow death from this arrogant whoreson. He’d use his short throwing daggers to draw out the fear and the pain.

“Try me.”

Lancaster waved at the paper-strewn desk with the dagger that still bore Clemont’s blood. “If I am to be King of England, alliances must be made—including with the barbarian Scots. Hiring a bodyguard binds me closer with their fool King, Robert the Bruce. Besides, I had my suspicions that Isolda has stowed our son somewhere in Scotland—who better to sniff the boy out than one of the Bruce’s lapdogs?”

Realization washed over Clemont. He kept his features emotionless though. “So you contracted with my employer and hired me to hunt down and kill the boy and the woman. But you also hired a bodyguard for her. You reasoned that if I failed, you’d still have the Scot in play.”

“And your arrival today confirmed that I was right to have a backup plan,” Lancaster said, his gaze sliding over Clemont. “You look like hell.”

Aye, the woman had done a number on his face with her claws, and his clothes were soaked with his own blood and the grime of a night and a day of hard travel.

“So what is your next move, my lord?” Clemont said levelly. “Is the Scot a bounty hunter as well? Do you have no more need of my services?”

“Don’t be so defensive, Clemont,” Lancaster purred with a lifted eyebrow. “Of course I still need you. In fact, you’ve played your part perfectly thus far. Your attack has likely spooked Isolda and the Scot. I thought the other…
incidents
I put in her path would have done the trick, but she is a stubborn little bitch. But nay, this time she cannot be mistaken. If the Scot is worth a sliver of what the Bruce claims, he’ll insist that he and Isolda flee.”

“And how does that help me complete my task, my lord?” Clemont said, barely maintaining his threadbare patience.

He was used to dealing with rich, pompous asses who thought themselves superior to him, but Clemont did the work they were too weak or cowardly to do. He spilled his marks’ blood and he watched the life drain from their eyes while his employer took coin from the likes of the soft-handed Lancaster.

“Clemont, use a little imagination,” Lancaster said reprovingly. “If Isolda fears for our son’s life, the first thing she will do is seek him out to reassure herself that she has hidden him well. Isolda has proven…difficult to control, but at the end of the day, she is like all other mothers—blinded by some foolish protective instinct and completely unreasonable when it comes to her child.”

Lancaster walked around the desk, his ornate, wood-heeled shoes clicking softly on the stone floor.

“All you have to do is pick up their trail, and I guarantee they’ll lead you right to my son. If you are up to it, that is.” He waved casually at Clemont’s bloodied side.

Clemont raised an eyebrow. “Aye, I am up to it. I am not one to leave a task unfinished.”

“Your employer assured me the same about you,” Lancaster said, his eyes sparkling. “The village healer can stitch you up, then I would suggest you head out. Surely they can’t have too great a lead on you.”

“Tracking them won’t be a problem.”

“I am truly impressed with your employer’s services,” Lancaster said. He spun the dagger around in his hand and extended it, hilt first, toward Clemont. “I think you’ve earned this.”

“Nay,” Clemont said, eying the jewel- and blood-encrusted dagger. “My employer only allows me to take payment from him.”

Lancaster shrugged and set the dagger down on his desk. “Suit yourself. Your employer certainly is a demanding man.”

Uninterested in talking with Lancaster any longer than necessary, Clemont gave a stiff nod of his head, then spun on his heels to seek Clitheroe’s healer.

“Oh, and Clemont.” Lancaster’s casual voice halted him at the door. “Your failure to extract the necessary information to find my son was part of my plan—this time. But if you fail again…”

He didn’t need to voice the rest of the threat. Clemont knew very well that if he didn’t deliver the heads of Lancaster’s bastard son and the boy’s mother, he would face the consequences. And anything Lancaster could dream up would be far more pleasant than what his employer would do to him if he failed.

And that was why he wouldn’t fail.

Isolda gritted her teeth to keep them from chattering. She would
not
complain, she told herself over and over as she held her spine rigid and her head level beneath her cloak’s hood. She would
not
.

Last night had sorely tested her. After a long and grueling day in the saddle, Ansel had guided Eachann into a copse of evergreen trees away from the road. They’d made a simple camp and eaten hard biscuits and dried meat that Ansel had apparently procured from Mary.

When it was time to hunker down for the night, Ansel had given her a length of blue and green plaid he’d removed from his saddlebag. Taking another thick wool plaid for himself, he stretched out on the opposite side of their little fire and had gone to sleep.

Though saddle-sore and exhausted from the horrors of the night before, Isolda had struggled to fall asleep. And she couldn’t blame her status as a lady for her discomfort. Nay, she’d spent many a night sleeping on the ground wrapped in stout wool up until six years ago. The true reason was that the plaid she’d wrapped around her cloak enveloped her in Ansel’s heady, masculine scent.

It was almost a relief when the clouds that had threatened earlier that evening unleashed a heavy rain on them. The dark trees overhead dripped noisily, and fat raindrops pelted her huddled form, distracting her from the dangerous direction of her thoughts.

But when the fire hissed out and the ground grew soft beneath her, she silently cursed her situation thoroughly.

She was on the run from the forces of evil who would kill her and her son. She didn’t have a friend in the world who could help her other than Ansel. And all she could think about was being alone with this Highland warrior who smelled of wood smoke and fresh air, whose hard body had rubbed against her all day in the saddle, and whose eyes bore dark secrets she longed to know.

She only had one defense against her own traitorous lust—playing the part of a lady. She had learned over the last six years to bear the title like a shield, to hide behind the armor of expensive clothing and a rigid, haughty air.

The problem was, how could she hide her desire for Ansel behind her regal bearing when she was soaking wet, cold, saddle-sore, and muddy?

It had been a long night, indeed.

The gray light of morning brought no relief, however. There had been neither time nor a place to change her soaking, too-tight surcoat and gown, so she was forced to mount Eachann in garments she now realized were a terrible choice for this grueling journey.

The rain continued throughout the day, though blessedly it weakened to a misty drizzle. Yet despite her wool cloak and Ansel’s plaid, which she still had wrapped around her, the cold, damp air seeped into her aching bones.

By the time the sky turned from light gray to the muted blue of a cloud-obscured sunset, Isolda’s teeth were firmly clamped together and her lips pressed tight against the nigh overpowering need to plead for mercy from their punishing trek.

As if reading her thoughts, Ansel spoke low and gentle behind her in the saddle.

“We’ll be stopping soon, my lady.” His voice was like a silken balm on her bedraggled spirits.

Ansel had been quiet all day as they’d ridden through the drizzle. She had never been this far north, but she could guess from his rigid watchfulness of their surroundings that they’d crossed through the Borderlands and were in the Lowlands of Scotland by now.

Isolda pried her lips apart and willed her jaw not to chatter noisily. “Where will we stay tonight?”

“At an inn this time. I fear ye’ll need to be wrung out if we sleep in this rain another night.”

Despite her weariness and discomfort, she felt a weak smile tug one corner of her mouth.

“And where are we? I gather we are no longer in England?”

“Aye, we are south of Stirling.”

Sharp fear cut through the cold and numbness in her mind and body. “Stirling? But isn’t that where…”

“The Battle of Bannockburn was decided back in June, Isolda,” Ansel murmured, though she didn’t miss his hands clenching slightly on the reins in front of her. “Besides, it’s no’ like we will be riding directly to the castle and asking Sir Phillip Mowbray for a bed. We are going to an inn well outside the town and away from the castle.”

She nodded woodenly, but she couldn’t ward away her unease. “And what will those who fought for Stirling Castle and Scotland’s freedom think of an Englishwoman in their midst?”

“I’ve been meaning to speak with ye about that. Now that we are in Scotland, I’ll no’ be calling ye ‘Lady’—just Isolda. And ye’d best no’ speak overmuch, if at all—yer accent will only draw unwanted attention to us. Understood?”

Suddenly Isolda felt like a soldier taking orders from the gruff Highland warrior sitting behind her. She swallowed hard.

“But I thought you said that the battle was over and decided in June,” she said, unable to stop the waver that broke through her voice.

He exhaled and shifted in the saddle, his chest brushing her back. She’d been trying all day to keep a respectable distance between their bodies, but even with the slight touch, tingling heat jolted through her frozen bones.

“Some willnae take kindly to an English noblewoman, it’s true. Many are still raw over Bannockburn—they lost their families, their homes, and their farms to the English. It will be best no’ to test anyone’s allegiances, ye ken?”

She nodded again, her jaw too achy from trying to keep from shivering to say more.

Just as the drizzling rain finally let up, Ansel reined Eachann off the road. In the falling darkness, Isolda could make out a little clump of buildings ahead. Ansel drew them to a halt when they reached the largest of the structures, which rose from the center of several squat wooden shops.

Ansel slid off the horse and landed with a splat in the mud. He turned to retrieve Isolda from Eachann’s back, but when his hands wrapped around her waist and his gaze met hers, he cursed.

“Why in the bloody hell did ye no’ tell me ye were so cold, lass?” he bit out. “Yer lips are nigh blue and ye are trembling like a leaf!”

Aye, she must look a sight. Her plait was a wild mess beneath her hood, she was rigid as an oak knot from trying to keep her shivers at bay, and her once-fine clothes were sodden and streaked with mud.

“I did not wish to be a nuisance,” she said tightly. “I know we must move with haste, and I don’t want to hinder you further than I already have.”

That wasn’t the entire truth, of course. Aye, she knew now just how badly she needed Ansel’s protection, and she didn’t want to stand against him as she had back at Dunstanburgh. But if she were honest with herself, she would admit that playing the part of a proper English lady—sitting straight-spined in the saddle, not touching him, and maintaining her threadbare hold on propriety—was the only thing keeping her from falling into his arms and begging for his warmth, his touch, his kiss.

“Aye, well, ye’d be more than a nuisance if ye keeled over from exhaustion—or worse, died of a chill—just because ye were too proud to tell me how ye suffered.”

His hands tightened around her waist and he pulled her gently from his horse. But when her feet came into contact with the soft ground, she gasped and moaned.

Her feet had gone blessedly numb by midday. Now they throbbed under her weight, somehow burning cold and hot at the same time.

Isolda tottered precariously and tumbled directly into Ansel’s chest. Like strong, warm bands of iron, his arms wrapped around her, steadying her and preventing her from falling to the mud.

He cursed again, the sound rumbling through his chest. Despite her now-uncontrollable shivers, a warm flush crept to her cheeks. Once again, they were plastered together, his arms around her and his head tilting down toward hers.

Her breath caught in her throat. She’d tried all day to maintain a proper distance between them, and her blasted body betrayed her yet again. The truth was, no matter how much she tried to hide it, she wanted him—wanted their hot lips melded together, his hard body forcing her soft one to yield to it, those rough hands of his holding her close.

Just then, the door to the building behind Isolda opened and light flooded out.

“Who is that out there?”

At the sound of a woman’s voice, Ansel’s head snapped up, his gaze darting over Eachann’s back toward the wooden building before which he’d stopped.

“We are in need of a room for the night,” Ansel responded, his hands still firm on Isolda’s waist. “And we will happily pay extra for the late hour and the inconvenience.”

The unseen speaker grumbled about the mud, but from the sound of squelching, she was making her way toward them.

“Just the two of ye, then?”

Isolda still couldn’t see the woman who spoke, for she was short enough to be blocked by Eachann’s brown flanks.

“Aye,” Ansel said. “Though I’ll also throw in another extra coin for the care of my horse.”

At last the woman emerged from behind Eachann. In the yellow light spilling from the open door, Isolda took stock of her.

She was short and wide of hip. Though her garb was modest, she had a crisp, clean apron tied snugly around her waist. Her hair was pulled back in a simple bun, the light revealing it to be dark blonde. Her cheeks were rosy, yet she wore a slight frown on her face as she took in the sight of them.

“I suppose ye’ll only want one room?” The woman’s eyes slid down to where Ansel’s hands still gripped Isolda’s waist. In a burst of embarrassment, Isolda tried to pull away, but Ansel’s hold only tightened, keeping her in his grasp.

“Aye, my
wife
and I only require a warm, dry place to sleep.”

Ansel’s pointed word seemed to set the woman slightly more at ease, but a torrent of hot mortification flooded Isolda.

“Ah, verra well,” the woman said, her gaze turning less critical. “I’ll have my husband see to yer horse when he returns from the castle shortly, but I can take him to the barn now and then show ye to a room. I am Margery, and my husband and I run the Rose and Thistle—ye can guess which one I am.”

Ansel removed his saddlebags from Eachann and Margery led the animal behind the inn, disappearing from the band of light streaming from the still-open inn door.

“Can ye walk?” Ansel said softly.

Isolda’s legs felt like pudding, but it wasn’t because of the ebbing numbness from their long, cold day of riding. “Your
wife
?” she hissed, rounding on him.

He grunted, but it sounded dangerously close to a snort of mirth. “Aye. It will attract less suspicion. How else would ye have me explain my arrival at an inn after dark with a beautiful woman in my arms?”

The air whooshed from her lungs at his words.
He thinks me beautiful
? Even as she struggled to form a response, her heart skittered against her ribcage.

Just as she opened her mouth, Margery came squelching back around the corner holding up the hem of her skirt distastefully against the mud.

“Come on then,” she said brusquely, beckoning them toward the open inn door.

Ansel took her arm in his then started toward the door, though he went slowly enough for her to find her legs and totter alongside him.

Tears almost sprang to Isolda’s eyes as she stepped into the inn. Warm light from a roaring fire filled the room. There were a few tables and chairs, where several small clumps of either villagers or the inn’s patrons sat drinking mugs of ale and talking quietly. The smell of seasoned stew sent a rumble through Isolda’s stomach.

Margery snatched an unlit candle from one of the unoccupied tables and lit the wick in the hearth’s fire.

“This way,” she said, leading them toward a flight of wooden stairs at the back of the room. At the top of the stairs, they followed her down a narrow corridor lined with doors to the last room.

“It’s small, but it’s watertight and clean,” she said, swinging open the door. The light from the candle in her hand illuminated a simple but tidy chamber. Shutters were closed tight against the day’s rain, and the wooden floor was swept clean, with nary a cobweb in sight.

But when Isolda’s eyes landed on the bed, she had to swallow the knot that rose in her throat. As Margery had said, it was a clean, dry place to sleep—but the bed was so small that it would hardly accommodate even one person.

“Thank ye, Madam Margery,” Ansel said smoothly, stepping into the room and drawing Isolda after him. “This will do perfectly.”

“Will ye be joining us belowstairs for a meal, or perhaps some ale?” she asked, eyeing them again. “Ye both look like ye could use some hot food and a drink to warm ye.”

“Aye, we’d greatly appreciate a meal, though we’ll take it up here, if ye please.”

Margery raised an eyebrow. She looked like she wanted to probe them further on their late arrival and bedraggled appearance, but instead of pressing, she simply nodded. She deposited the candle on the tiny wooden table opposite the bed then silently departed, closing the door behind her.

Isolda quickly scanned the little chamber once more. Unbidden heat rose to her face at the sudden intimacy of being alone with Ansel in such a small space—a space with little more than a narrow bed in it.