The Lady's Protector (Highland Bodyguards #1) (13 page)

She nodded, her features flashing with relief. As he took up her chair, she moved to the narrow bed and drew back the covers. She settled herself with her back to him and pulled the blankets up to her chin.

Ansel downed his ale in one long gulp. By all the saints, this was going to be a long night. He finished the stew, letting its warmth seep into his weary body, then drank Isolda’s untouched ale as well. By the time he rose and blew out the candle, his body hummed with heat.

But as he stretched himself out below the bed in the dark, he could hear Isolda’s teeth chattering still.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered to himself. He sat up and slowly raked a hand through his hair. Was this God testing him, or the Devil?

“Ye cannae seem to grow warm, aye, lass?” he said softly.

“A-aye,” she replied.

“Then no amount of blankets will help. The only thing to do is…to let me warm ye.”

“What?” Panic edged her voice, but he’d seen the way she looked at him and felt the way she’d responded to his kiss back at Dunstanburgh. She wanted him, too. And like him, she was afraid of the strength of that desire.

“I promise no’ to compromise ye in any way.” His voice was a low rasp in the dark.

He heard her breath catch in her throat. After a long pause, she finally spoke. “You know very well that I am no innocent maiden. There is naught to compromise.”

All the air left his lungs in a long, slow hiss. Why did she have to say things like that when he was barely keeping his cock in his breeches?

“Ye are still a lady, Isolda,” he managed after a moment of struggle. “I’ll no’ insult ye by behaving…inappropriately. I am yer protector—naught more.”

“Aye,” she breathed.

Slowly, so as not to spook her, Ansel rose and placed a hand on the edge of the bed. She scooted away toward the wall, though it only created a sliver of space for him.

He eased back the blankets and slid in behind her, his chest to her back. By God, they fit perfectly together. Her head tucked under his chin, her bottom nestled perfectly against his groin, and their legs folded together as if they were made for each other.

Once he had the blankets pulled back up around them, he slid his arm around her front. His hand brushed past one of her breasts, and they both inhaled sharply. She trembled against him, but he couldn’t be sure it was entirely from the chill that had set upon her.

“Goodnight, Ansel,” she said, a wobble betraying her otherwise firm voice.

“Goodnight, Isolda,” he managed.

Slowly, her shivers eased and her body went limp in his embrace. But long after her breathing grew steady within the little cocoon of warmth their bodies made, his manhood throbbed against her. At long last, exhaustion claimed him, but his sleep was filled with heated visions of Isolda.

Isolda was drifting on a sun-warmed cloud. She inhaled, her nose filling with the clean scent of wood smoke, fresh air, and something familiar—something that both soothed and thrilled her at the same time.

She burrowed her nose into the pillow she was lying upon, drawing in another breath of the heady scent. The firm yet warm pillow shifted. She threw her arm and one leg around it to hold it in place, nuzzling it with her face once more.

“Christ, lass,” her pillow hissed in a rasping Scottish brogue.

She jolted fully awake with such a start that her eyes snapped open and her head jerked up from what she now realized was Ansel’s chest. With her swift movement, her nose bumped into his.

Ansel’s arms, which were wrapped around her like bands of iron, tightened to prevent them both from tumbling out of the narrow bed due to her sudden start. She was held immobile, her arm thrown over his chest and one of her legs entwined with his. Their noses still touched, with only a hair’s breadth separating their mouths.

“Christ,” he muttered again, his breath tickling her lips. She blinked up at him and suddenly felt like she was drowning in the dark pools of his eyes. Hunger lay there—a hunger so fierce and raw that her breath stuck in her throat.

Caught in his gaze, bound in his arms, there was no room to think, to put up her usual walls.

She sank her fingers into the front of his tunic. Even that small motion was all it took to close the distance between their mouths.

Ansel’s lips were impossibly soft considering every other inch of him was as hard as forged metal.

At the first brushing contact of their mouths, he inhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers clutching her to him all the more tightly. He held her so close that she could hardly breathe. Her breasts crushed against his chest, with only the thin linen of his tunic and her chemise separating them.

He tilted his head, deepening their kiss. As if they had a mind of their own, her hands massaged his chest. Her fingers brushed hot skin when they found the opening in the front of his tunic. Crisp hairs tickled her fingertips as she greedily delved inside his tunic, longing for more contact.

One of his hands slid up to her hair, which had come completely free of its plait. His fingers sank into her locks, sending tendrils of sensation through her scalp. Her nipples tightened against his chest, and damp heat began pooling between her legs.

His tongue flicked against her lips in askance, and she readily opened to him. Their tongues mated in a needy, velvety embrace.

Unbidden, her knee rose against his thigh, bringing her womanhood fully against his hip. She moaned into his mouth, her body desperate for more of him.

Suddenly he rolled them both so that she was flat on her back. His broad frame loomed over her, though he bore some of his weight on his elbows. She dragged in a ragged breath, but their mouths were still fused together in their passionate kiss.

Slowly, he slipped a knee between her thighs, pressing up until he met with that aching spot. She moaned again at the delicious pressure against her throbbing sex. Her fingers turned to claws against his chest. A growl rose in his throat and vibrated against her lips, but her nails only seemed to fuel his lust.

He shifted slightly to free one of his arms from underneath her. The movement suddenly brought the hard thrust of his manhood against her hip. She writhed against his knee where he pressed between her legs, which made her hip rub more fully against his cock.

Flexing his pelvis against her, she felt the full extent of his arousal. His cock strained against his breeches, pulsing into her hip.

With another unintelligible curse against her lips, his now-freed hand cupped one of her breasts. Just the contact of his palm covering her already-taut nipple through her chemise sent her arching greedily into his hand.

“Ansel,” she panted.

He groaned in response, sliding his callused hand over her breast. She gasped, pleasure shooting through her whole body. The sensation was building on itself, surging like a rising tide. She undulated against him, silently begging for more.

A sharp knock at the door had her jumping nigh out of her skin. She shrieked in surprise, but the sound was muffled by Ansel’s lips.

“If ye wish to break yer fast, porridge is being served belowstairs.”

It was Margery’s curt voice on the other side of the door.

“Thank ye, Margery. We’ll be down momentarily,” Ansel bit out between gasps for breath.

As the innkeeper’s footfalls drew away, Ansel rolled from the bed. Isolda clutched the covers to her chest as if she were naked. The truth was, she felt more than naked. She’d let her guard down, dropped her imperious air for a mere moment, and look what she’d almost done.

Hot shame crept up her neck and into her face. She was a wanton woman, just as her parents had said—just as Thomas, the Earl of Lancaster, had said.

Ansel gazed down at her, his eyes still smoldering with passion. He dragged a hand through his hair.

“We shouldnae have—”

“Aye. It was a moment of weakness. It will not happen again.”

He nodded slowly, though his dark eyes still carved into her with unspent desire. “Aye.”

He gave her his back as he set about stuffing his feet into his boots and clamping his belt and sword on his hip.

Isolda slid her feet onto the floor, careful to smooth her chemise where it had ridden up her legs. She pushed the blankets aside and rose, but as she stood, every muscle screamed in protest.

She groaned and wobbled on legs that somehow simultaneously felt like pudding and burned like the Devil.

Suddenly Ansel had her by the arms, his brows lowered and his mouth turned down behind the bristle of stubble darkening his face. “What is wrong?”

Isolda shifted gingerly, only to be rewarded with another flood of discomfort from her overwrought muscles.

“It is naught. Just the result of two days in the saddle and a night spent on the ground in the rain,” she said through clenched teeth.

Ansel muttered an oath. “I shouldnae have pushed ye so hard.”

His gaze swept over her, and a fresh wave of mortification washed through her. Despite the lack of comforts in her childhood and adolescence, she had let herself grow weak and soft living the life of a lady these past six years. And now she was so saddle-sore and achy that she’d be hard-pressed to walk, let along spend another sennight traveling north with Ansel.

“I’ll be fine. I’m just a little stiff, that’s all.”

His eyes narrowed on her in assessment. “Nay,” he said at last. “We’d best stay here for at least a day or two, lest ye grow far worse with the travel that lays ahead.”

“But what about—” She lowered her voice, though she doubted anyone was listening. “What about Edward’s men?”

A muscle ticked in Ansel’s jaw as he considered for a moment. “As I said, it is my job to ensure that no harm befalls ye. We must be watchful for another attack, but my hope is that either Edward wouldnae send men into Scotland, or that they havenae picked up on our trail. In either case, I’d be doing ye no service if I rode ye into the ground. Ye need to rest.”

His gaze searched her again, this time dropping to her mouth. For a breathless moment, she thought he was going to kiss her, but then his hands dropped from her arms and he stepped back consciously.

“I’ll fetch us something to eat,” he said, his voice level with reserve.

“Nay,” she said quickly, her gaze flitting involuntarily to the bed. If she stayed in this cramped room with nothing but her memories and Ansel’s lingering scent, she just might go mad. “I’ll join you belowstairs in a few moments. I just need to gather myself.”

“Verra well,” he said. “But remember—try to wear something simple, and avoid speaking. Ye are no’ an English lady here.”

He slipped silently from the door, leaving her alone with her burning cheeks and a body that ached with a need for far more than just rest.

Aye, she was no lady.

Ansel dragged his hair back and fastened it with a bit of leather as he descended the inn’s wooden stairs. He could only hope that the small act of smoothing his hair would hide any traces of the turmoil that raged inside.

Christ, what had he almost done? He had never failed to put his duty and honor before all else, yet his desire for Isolda threatened to undo that. He was supposed to be serving his King, not tumbling with some Englishwoman whose son he was meant to protect. For some reason, Isolda made him feel like the wild barbarian she’d called him all those days past.

Ansel slid into a chair in the corner farthest from the door, hoping to go unnoticed. A few of the inn’s patrons had already taken up tables and chairs as they waited for their breakfast. They were all quiet and kept their eyes down, some likely as uninterested as he in being questioned, and others slumping wearily from too much ale the night before.

Just then, the inn’s door opened and a tall, thick-set man entered.

“Margery!” he bellowed.

The woman came bustling out of the kitchen that was attached to the inn’s main room.

“Well it’s about blooming time!” she snapped.

Ansel glanced casually at the large man who’d just entered. A scraggly blond beard obscured the lower half of his face. He stood easily as tall as Ansel, who towered over most Lowlanders and Englishmen, but was several stones heavier. His eyes were red-rimmed and as he stomped toward Margery, Ansel caught a whiff of stale ale.

“I dinnae need yer sharp tongue this morning, woman.”

“
Woman
?” Margery squawked, planting her fists on her wide, aproned hips. “That’s
wife
to ye, Fagan!”

Fagan, apparently the other keeper of the Rose and Thistle, slumped into a stool next to the kitchen. Margery resumed stirring a caldron of porridge over the hearth, not bothering to close the door between the inn’s main room and the kitchen.

“And what kept ye all night?” she demanded over her shoulder, though she lowered her voice so as not to disturb the other patrons. Ansel strained to listen without being noticed.

“Mowbray refused to hear the petition,” Fagan grumbled, crossing his meaty arms over his chest. “All fifteen of us waited until the guards turned us away, but we never even saw the English bugger’s hide.”

Margery straightened and darted her head around the room. Ansel studiously pretended to be engrossed in picking at his nails, but he didn’t miss Margery’s furtive looks.

“Dinnae speak of Sir Philip that way,” she hissed, dropping her voice even lower. “He may have sided with King Edward, but he is a Scot, and he is with King Robert now.”

Ansel clamped his teeth together to prevent from snapping an oath. Aye, Philip Mowbray was a Scot—and a traitor. The man had sided with Edward and held Stirling Castle for the English. When the Battle of Bannockburn had forced him to turn over the castle to Robert the Bruce, for some reason Mowbray had been allowed to stay on as the castle’s keeper, this time for the Scots. The Bruce was a more forgiving man that Ansel would have been.

“Aye, well,” Fagan muttered. “Nevertheless, he wouldnae even hear the petition to lower the innkeepers’ tax. Mowbray grows fat on our backs behind Stirling’s walls.”

“And let me guess—after ye all were sent away, ye decided to grouse into each other’s ears all night?”

Fagan straightened on the stool. “We talked, aye. At the Dragon’s Head. The innkeepers’ guild will hear of this, ye ken. We’ll no’ stand for Mowbray leeching us dry, just like the bloody English did.” He waved a large hand dismissively at his wife. “But ye wouldnae understand. Ye’ve never had a head for business.”

“Ye spent all night—and likely all our coin—drinking at the Dragon’s Head instead of earning yer keep in yer own establishment, and
I’m
the one who doesnae understand business?”

Margery waved her porridge-encrusted wooden spoon at Fagan. When her husband didn’t respond, she grumbled something and began doling the steaming porridge into wooden bowls.

With her hands and arms full of bowls, Margery began moving around the tables and chairs, distributing the simple fare to the inn’s other patrons. When she reached Ansel, he quirked an eyebrow at her and lifted his mouth into a grin.

“And I thought
ye
were supposed to be the thistle of the Rose and Thistle,” he said softly.

She snorted as she set down his bowl. For the first time that he’d seen, her frown flipped into a smile. “Aye, well,” she said, shooting a glance at Fagan. “Even roses have thorns. Och, and dinnae fash yerself about yer horse. When it became obvious that my husband wasnae going to return last night, I saw to him myself. He’s a fine animal.”

Something tickled in the back of Ansel’s mind. Was Margery again trying to get an explanation out of him for why he and Isolda had shown up in the rain at such a late hour last night? Like as not, she was just simply curious—as an innkeeper, she no doubt saw all manner of people passing through. Still, Ansel would have to tread carefully to avoid drawing too much attention.

“Thank ye, Madam Margery,” he said, bowing his head a little in an overdone show of manners. “Ye are most kind.”

She simpered under his praise. “Of course, milord. Will ye and yer wife be staying long?”

“A few days, perhaps. Hopefully the rains will stay away until—”

The room, which had already been quiet, suddenly fell dead silent. A flicker of movement on the stairs caught Ansel’s eye, and all at once he realized that he’d made a terrible mistake.

Isolda stepped carefully down the stairs, one hand on the railing and the other lifting her skirts past her toes.

She wore a simple gown with no surcoat, as he’d instructed, but the wool was clearly spun finely and dyed a rich emerald green. Even from across the room, he could tell that it was tailored expertly, for it fit every one of her delicate curves like a caress. And the creamy linen chemise that peeked out at her wrists and along the modestly scooped neckline spoke of more precious coin for the fabric and tailoring.

But it wasn’t just her garments that spoke of wealth. It was the way she carried herself with that damned regal air. With her shoulders back and her head held at a carefully tilted angle, she looked like a queen deigning to descend toward her subjects as she reached the last step.

Ansel’s gaze quickly darted to the other patrons. Dread sank into his stomach. The men had completely forgotten the porridge in front of them and were staring open-mouthed at Isolda. But to Ansel’s horror, they weren’t simply looking at her with awe or reverence. Nay, lust lit their eyes and had their mouths hanging slack.

The green gown drew attention to those ethereal eyes, which now sought the room for Ansel. Her lips were rosy and slightly swollen from his demanding kiss. A flush pinkened her otherwise pale skin. Though she’d tamed her chestnut locks into a tight plait, it still shone lustrously in the light of the inn’s fire.

She inhaled as her eyes finally landed on him, which caused the faintest hint of the upper curve of her creamy breasts to swell along her neckline.

Ansel gritted his teeth until his jaw ached to keep from cursing. Aye, he’d made a terrible mistake. He’d been a fool to think that he could travel inconspicuously with such a great beauty as Isolda. And by staying at an inn, he very well may have drawn unwanted—or even dangerous—attention to them.

Isolda made her way across the room, seemingly unaware of the eyes that followed her as she moved.

“There ye are,
wife
,” Ansel said louder than necessary.

Isolda’s step faltered for the briefest moment, but she managed to keep her features smooth. She sat across from him at the little table in the corner.

Margery placed a bowl of porridge in front of Isolda, eyeing her surreptitiously.

“As I was saying, we’ll be staying a few days—and of course we’ll pay ye for the fine accommodations and yer extra attentions to my horse,” Ansel said levelly to Margery.

The innkeeper nodded, her eyes flickering at Ansel’s less-than-subtle implication that he’d also pay extra for her discretion—and for giving them privacy.

Margery moved back to the kitchen, but Ansel could feel Fagan’s probing gaze on them.

“Would ye care for a bath to ease your aches, sweeting?” Ansel said, taking Isolda’s hand in his.

Her eyes rounded for a moment at the endearment and his touch. She opened her mouth to respond, but then she seemed to remember his instructions about not speaking. She clamped her lips shut and pressed them into a forced smile, bobbing her head in a nod.

“I’ll ask Madam Margery to see to it,” he said, keeping his voice light.

As Isolda ate her porridge, most of the other patrons of the inn slowly rose from their empty bowls and reluctantly made their way outside or abovestairs. Many cast hungry glances toward Isolda, despite the fact that Ansel still had her hand folded in his.

When at last Isolda was done and the room was almost empty, Ansel called Margery over.

“A bath for my wife, if ye please,” he said, willing the tight tension from his voice. “Perhaps this evening, after supper.”

Margery bobbed into a quick curtsy and reached for Isolda’s empty bowl.

“Thank you,” Isolda said absently as Margery cleared the table.

Margery’s hand froze on the bowl, her eyes shooting to Isolda. “What did ye say?”

Too late, Isolda compressed her lips, her gaze darting to Ansel.

Shite
. Dread twisted like a knife in his belly.

Fagan rose slowly from his stool and stalked toward their table. “Well, well. It seems as though we have an Englishwoman in our midst.”