The Lady's Protector (Highland Bodyguards #1) (12 page)

She jumped when Ansel dropped the saddlebags he’d hung over his shoulder onto the floor.

“I’ll go see about Margery’s stew. Ye should get out of those wet clothes,” he said gruffly.

Before she could form a response, he’d slipped out the door and closed it behind him.

Isolda dragged in a fortifying breath. She’d been alone with Ansel last night, hadn’t she? Yet he’d been sleeping well away on the other side of the fire, and there hadn’t been a bed—a bed that reminded her of his lie to Margery.

My wife
. His Scottish burr had enfolded the word, making it sound strange and new.

She gave herself a little shake. Now was not the time to dwell on such silliness. She fumbled with wooden fingers at her cloak’s tie at her throat, eager to be rid of her wet garments. Once she was free of the sodden wool, she draped the cloak, along with Ansel’s borrowed plaid, over the chair pushed up against the little table by the door.

But when her cold-stiffened fingers reached the ties lacing down the back of her surcoat, she realized the threads had knotted. She blew into her hands, trying to work some feeling and dexterity back into them.

As she reached again for her surcoat’s ties, her fingers slightly more nimble this time, she realized to her horror that the threads were swollen with moisture. The knot wouldn’t budge, tug and fumble as she might.

Heavy boot-falls drew closer in the corridor outside the little chamber. She yanked desperately at her surcoat, but to no avail.

Ansel’s fist rapped on the door. “Isolda? Are ye finished?”

Defeated, she exhaled shakily. “Aye, you can come in.”

He opened the door, two bowls of steaming stew held against his chest with one arm and two mugs of ale held together by the handles in his free hand.

His eyes raked over her as he stepped inside and booted the door closed.

“Why are ye still wearing those wet clothes?”

She swallowed hard, her cheeks burning.

“I’m stuck. I need your help to undress.”

Ansel set the mugs of ale and bowls of stew down carefully on the tiny table to buy himself time.

His mouth was suddenly dry, and he feared that if he looked at Isolda directly, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from doing what his body longed for.

“What do ye mean, ye’re stuck?” He kept his voice level as he arranged the mugs and bowls slowly.

“The laces on my surcoat—they are knotted and swollen with rainwater.”

Bloody hell, did her voice have to be especially breathy all of a sudden? He dared a glance at her. Despite the comely flush to her cheeks, she still looked far too pale. Her damp clothes clung to her, and as she shifted under his gaze, he noticed that she still trembled.

All at once, hot, irrational anger surged through him. Aye, anger was good—better than the lust threatening to overpower him. He embraced the ire thrumming in his veins, for it gave him a safer outlet for his pent desire.

“Ye shouldnae have let me abuse ye so greatly on our journey,” he snapped, lowering his brows at her. “Ye should have spoken up, told me ye were so cold and wet.”

A flicker of indignation kindled in her eyes. Good—he’d get her blood pumping, even if it wasn’t in the way that his body craved.

“What would you have me do? Demand that you stop for several days until the rains passed and I grew more accustomed to spending every moment of daylight in the saddle?”

“Aye! Are ye no’ an English noblewoman? I thought making demands was exactly what ladies did best.”

She sucked in a breath through chattering teeth. Dark fear flitted across her pale features for the briefest moment.

“Of course I am a lady,” she snapped, quickly regaining her composure.

What had he just witnessed? He hadn’t meant to question her title, so why had her thoughts gone in that direction? What was she hiding?

Then again, her outrage could have just as easily arisen from his harsh tone and the ire he was directing at her.

The air bristled with a taut silence for a long moment. She boldly met his gaze, her delicate brows lowered and her mouth set defiantly.

He was being a bloody arse, he knew. Ansel clawed his damp hair back from his forehead and muttered a curse.

“It is no’ yer fault,” he said, the sharpness edging his tone a moment ago filed down now. “It is mine. I ken verra well that ye are a lady and no’ used to hard travel in the saddle or being out of doors in all weather. I should have watched ye more carefully.”

He was not used to making mistakes—or apologizing. It grated that he had done both, and that Isolda had borne the consequences.

Surprise flitted across those pale green eyes, which looked iridescent in the light of the single candle on the table. Isolda opened her mouth, but he held up a hand, willing himself to go on despite his stubborn pride.

“Nay, dinnae. It is my job to protect ye, whether it be from Edward’s men or from the elements.” He snorted wearily as his eyes raked over her. “As it is, ye look more likely to die of a chill on my watch than by some hired assassin.”

She puffed out a breath that held a hint of mirth in it. “Will you help me, then?” she asked softly, turning slightly so that he could see the laces trailing down her back.

But instead of looking at the ties, his gaze involuntarily slid from her slim shoulders to her narrowly cinched waist, then lower to the flare of her hips and the perfect roundness of her rear.

It was as if a boulder suddenly crushed his chest, for his lungs compressed and he struggled to draw in a breath. The only reason he didn’t curse himself to high heaven was because his tongue abruptly refused to move.

He was going to undress Isolda. And somehow he was going to have to find the strength not to touch her.

The room was so small that he was nigh flush against her back in one easy stride. He forced his gaze on the rain-swollen knot at the small of her back, just before that mouth-watering flare of her hips and bottom. Aye, she was good and stuck.

Ansel squinted in the low light. When he’d moved toward her, his frame had blocked the candle’s rays from falling on Isolda’s back. Unconsciously, he reached out and took her by the hips, angling her slightly to catch the light.

But with his fingers sinking into the wet material encasing her hips, a new surge of lust crashed through him. He could take her like this. He could spin her around, never loosening his hold on those perfect hips, then toss her skirts up and wrap her legs around his waist. Or he could simply bend her over and claim her, one hand tangled in that wild chestnut hair while the other held her steady as he sank into her.

He snatched his hands away from her hips as if he’d been burned. He was on a mission, damn it. The last thing he should be fantasizing about was claiming Lady Isolda’s tantalizing body.

It was bad enough that she was English nobility. There was no denying that it rankled his Scottish pride to find an English lady appealing.

Far worse, though, her presence was a distraction from his assignment. What if he was too busy smelling her hair to notice a stealth attack? Or too engrossed in wrapping her legs around his hips to detect a threat?

“Any luck?” she said over her shoulder.

Damn it all
. “No’ yet.”

He fumbled with the waterlogged knot, his fingers feeling clumsy and large. “I fear I’ll have to cut it.”

She glanced over her shoulder again, her brows creasing. “Cut it? But…”

“I ken it’s a fine garment, but ye willnae be wearing it again, for a time anyway. The surcoat marks ye as far too wealthy to be traveling alone on a single horse with the likes of me.”

Reluctantly, she nodded. “Very well. Cut the ties.”

He drew the dagger strapped to his boot and with a clean swipe, he sliced the knot from the laces.

Isolda exhaled, but instead of sounding disappointed at the damage done to her surcoat, she actually sounded relieved. The laces along her back swelled to accommodate the expansion of her ribs as she drew in a deep breath.

Ansel realized suddenly that part of Isolda’s ever-rigid posture wasn’t simply a haughty air she put on—her garments held her bound, limiting her mobility to the point that she had to remain stiff and unbending nearly all the time.

“Why do ye wear such ridiculously tight clothes?” he said, sliding his fingers in the lacing to further loosen them. He hadn’t meant for his words to come out so sharply, but he was having a hard time concentrating on anything but the feel of her back beneath the layers of damp fabric.

She stiffened beneath his fingers where they worked the surcoat’s laces. “It is the style. A well-cut garment reveals the skill of the tailor and makes the most of a woman’s form.”

“But ye cannae move—ye can barely breathe.”

“Aye, well…it is what the noblewomen of England wear.”

“Thank God we are in Scotland now,” he muttered.

At last the laces were loosened enough. Isolda’s hands came to her shoulders and she began to peel the tight, wet garment down. Yet the russet surcoat clung to the chestnut brown gown underneath. Her fingers were pale and unsteady as she fumbled with the fabric.

Ansel gritted his teeth. “Let me help ye with that as well.”

As he reached out, his hands brushed hers where they tugged at the material on her shoulders. Her fingers were icy and trembling.

He cursed himself silently once more. She was a lady, after all. She wasn’t used to such grueling conditions, and like an arse, he hadn’t been attentive to her. Perhaps she’d been right when she’d called him a barbarian.

Even still, he couldn’t deny the swell of respect that rose in his chest—she hadn’t complained in the slightest. Now, however, she was paying for it.

He stilled her fingers, holding them in his for a long moment to try to warm them. With a little noise, she drew her hands away and blew into them.

Gripping the wet fabric, Ansel began working it down her shoulders. The surcoat slowly peeled away like a second skin. First her shoulders and arms came free, then he tugged the surcoat down her back to her waist. With each inch gained, his hands slid against her body.

His manhood pulsed despite the fact that he, too, was cold and wet. Each contour was so delicate beneath his hands. What would her skin feel like beneath all these cursed layers of wet fabric?

With a yank that was perhaps more forceful than necessary, he pulled the surcoat over her hips.

“Thank you. I can see to it from here,” Isolda said, her voice a breathy whisper.

Had the feel of his hands on her body affected her as much as it had him? Ansel bit back an oath for the traitorous line of his thoughts. Now even his mind was in collusion with his body to thwart his mission. He needed to protect Isolda—and perhaps that meant protecting her from his own lust.

She pushed the surcoat to the ground and stepped out of it. But now Ansel noticed that the chestnut gown underneath it had laces as well—laces that were swollen with rainwater, just like the surcoat.

“Do ye…” He had to clear his throat, for it was suddenly thick. “Do ye have a spare chemise and gown, lass?”

“Aye.”

“Good.” He snatched up his dagger once more and sliced through the gown’s ties as well.

“What are you—”

“Ye can get new laces when ye are safe,” he said, his hands grasping the gown. “But ye cannae continue to linger in these wet clothes. Ye are soaked to the bone.”

He peeled the thin wool gown away, only to reveal the clinging layer of her linen chemise.

This time he couldn’t stop a low curse from slipping past his lips. The white linen stuck to her skin, revealing the expanse of her flawless, creamy back.

“Ye’d better see to the rest of it,” he said, spinning on his heels.

She must have hesitated for a moment, because the room fell so quiet that he could hear her shallow, uneven breaths. Finally, a wet thump on the wooden floorboards told him that she’d removed her gown. Only the faintest rustle alerted him to the fact that she was discarding her damp chemise.

He clenched his fists even as his cock pulsed urgently. She was standing only a foot or two behind him—naked. All that silken flesh was exposed to the air. If he reached out backward, his fingertips would brush against her creamy skin.

“Can you…can you hand me a dry chemise?”

Her tight voice snapped him out of his reverie. Glancing at his feet, he realized that he stood directly over his saddlebags and the satchel of hers he’d attached to them. He bent and dug in her satchel until his fingers brushed soft, finely spun linen.

Christ, is this what touches her skin at every moment?
His cock once again surged. He pulled the chemise free, letting the material slide through his fingers.

With a yank on his self-control, he stood swiftly and spun away from the bag. But too late, he realized what he’d done.

She gasped and turned partially away, clutching her wet chemise to her front. In the split second before Ansel thought to jerk his head to the side, his eyes feasted on the slim, milky length of her.

The soft glow of the candle encased her in golden light. It caressed her long, supple legs and clung to the inward sweep of her waist. Half of her shapely bottom was warmed by the light while the other was cast in shadow. Her unruly plait was almost completely undone. Wet tendrils of chestnut hair clung to her slim back and shoulders.

Ansel ripped his eyes away. “Bloody hell,” he hissed, extending the chemise in his hand toward her while keeping his head averted.

She snatched the chemise from his grasp. The whisper of dry material over skin told him she was once again hidden from his hungry gaze.

Desperate for something to do with his hands other than drag her against him and lay claim to her, Ansel turned to the little table.

“Here,” he said, bluntly shoving a bowl of stew into her hands.

She kept her chin ducked, but there was no mistaking the hot flush in her cheeks. She took the stew and sat in the small chair. As she moved, the linen chemise danced across her skin, taunting him.

He stormed back to his saddlebags and yanked free a dry tunic and breeches. Giving her his back, he quickly kicked off his boots and pulled his wet tunic over his head.

“What are you—” Isolda squeaked.

Ansel glanced over his shoulder just in time to see her snap her head away, her gaze studiously focused on the stew she ate.

“Ye dinnae expect me to stay in wet clothes either, do ye, lass?” His voice bore an edge, but it was better to sound cross than lust-addled.

“Nay, of course not.”

He stripped away his waterlogged breeches, his cock springing free readily. Damn it all, but no amount of cold, wet fabric could tame his eager manhood. He yanked on the dry breeches, followed by the tunic, then turned toward the table.

Just as he took up his own bowl of stew and mug of ale, Isolda rose.

“I am weary. I think I’ll turn in.”

“Ye can take the bed,” he said. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”