The Lady's Protector (Highland Bodyguards #1) (15 page)

Isolda’s head spun at the force of the passion burning through her. Ansel’s stubble scraped the sensitive skin of her neck, his soft lips giving stark contrast as he rasped the words.

“Aye,” she panted, arching into his hands all the more fully. “Aye, Ansel. I want you, too. Now.”

Suddenly she was lifted into the air, water cascading from her body into the tub beneath her. His arms bound her to his chest, and where her skin touched him, his tunic grew wet.

In two strides, he reached the narrow little bed they’d shared almost chastely last night. As he lowered her, still dripping wet, toward the mattress, she clung to him.

“The blankets,” she breathed. “They’ll get soaked and—”

“I dinnae care,” he growled, dipping her the rest of the way down. He straightened and looked down at her. With the candle behind him, he loomed like an enormous shadow over her, but his eyes burned with fierce desire as he gazed at her.

For a moment she felt too exposed, too bared before him where she lay naked on the bed under his scorching gaze, but then he began tearing at his own clothes with such urgency that she forgot to be ashamed of her nakedness.

His gaze held her captive as he yanked on the ties at the neck of his tunic. He unbuckled his belt while he kicked off his boots, and all the while his eyes feasted on her with a hunger she’d never seen before. The only time he broke his stare was to pull his tunic over his head.

Now it was her turn to stare, captivated by the sight before her. Her eyes raked over every hard plane and ridge. She was mesmerized by the hypnotic rippling and coiling of his corded muscles. She’d seen his bare chest before, but now she needed to touch it, to feel its heat and hardness pressed against her.

His hands tore at the ties on his breeches. With a sharp exhale, he yanked the material down, freeing his engorged cock. The hard, thick length of him jutted toward her, and her breath quickened and caught in her throat. She knew exactly what they were going to do next—and she wanted it as badly as he did.

Stepping free of his breeches, he lowered himself over her, his large, honed frame engulfing her. Instinctively, she spread her thighs to give him room to settle between them.

Though he supported most of his weight on his elbows, the air whooshed from her lungs. Surely this was madness, but any last shred of rational thought fled her mind as the full length of him rubbed against her, skin to skin.

His mouth fell to her neck, and he began alternating kisses and bites. Each petal-soft brush of his lips was followed by a shiver-inducing nip until her whole body quaked from the inside out.

His hands found her breasts, which were already arched for his touch. Then he trailed his lips downward until they captured one of her nipples.

She gasped and groaned, liquid fire shooting through her. Involuntarily, her hips bucked, bringing his cock into contact with her damp folds.

Now it was his turn to groan. He undulated against her, his cock gliding against the folds of her womanhood in a delicious tease.

“I cannot take any more,” she breathed. “Please, Ansel. Now.”

One of his hands slid between them, guiding his cock to her entrance. He held himself there, his thumb finding that perfect spot just above.

She cried out, half in ecstasy and half in desperation for more. 

His thumb strummed against that spot in an achingly slow rhythm until she feared her whole being would fly apart into a million pieces. Slowly, deliberately, he drove into her.

With each pulse of his thumb and each inch he pushed deeper, her breath broke on a cry of pleasure. At last he was sheathed fully inside her, and she could feel his cock pulsing with his own need.

She threw her arms around his neck, her nails sinking into his shoulders to urge him on.

He growled, and she knew the last thread of his control had snapped. He withdrew and thrust into her, wringing a desperate moan from both of their throats. Again, he drove deep, and again.

Isolda’s body could climb no higher. She began to quake as cascade upon cascade of pleasure broke over her, within her, through her. She cried out, her body arching against his as she greedily reaped every last drop of ecstasy from their joining.

His own climax ripped a shout from him. He thrust hard, holding himself deep as he spent himself inside her.

He collapsed on top of her, careful to roll to his side to avoid crushing her. She could barely hear his exhausted panting over the thundering pulse in her ears. Gradually, her heart slowed as the last tendrils of pleasure melted away in her body.

Her fingers grazed up his arm, where she brushed against the stitches she’d placed there only a few days ago. She inhaled sharply.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

In the flickering light of the candle, she could see the neat row of stitches she’d made. The skin underneath was neither swollen nor red, both good signs. Her gaze darted to his chest, then his other shoulder. All the wounds appeared to be healing quickly.

A low chuckle rumbled through his chest. “Nay, ye didnae hurt me, lass. Quite the opposite.”

His dark brown eyes were filled with a liquid heat as they held her. He brushed a wet strand of hair from her forehead, taking his time to tuck it behind her ear and trail his fingers down her throat.

She swallowed against his fingertips as cold reality leeched back into her mind.

“Ansel,” she whispered, a terrible dread sinking into her stomach. “We shouldn’t have—”

His hand lifted from her neck and hovered in the air between them to halt her words.

“Nay, you must listen,” she said, her throat tight with shame. “We cannot do this. I—”

“Shh.” His brows dropped in concentration. He cocked his head, his gaze slipping from her to the floorboards beyond the bed.

Confusion flickered through her. She strained to hear what had caught his attention, but the only sound was the muted rumble of voices seeping through the floorboards from the inn’s main room.

“Something isnae right,” he muttered. He swung his legs from the bed and stood, quickly snatching up his breeches. He dressed swiftly as she watched in bewilderment.

Was he leaving her? Pain sliced through her heart, reopening the old wound Lancaster had inflicted almost six years ago. Lancaster had turned cold and callous after he’d gotten what he wanted from her. She’d thought Ansel was different, but she’d been wrong before.

She didn’t fight the shame that washed over her. How could she make the same mistake twice?

“Ansel…” Pain cracked her voice and tears burned in her eyes as she watched him.

“Just hold on, lass,” Ansel said, darting to the door. He eased it open and brought his ear to the gap.

Now the noise from the main room drifted more distinctly up the stairs and down the corridor to their door. But what Isolda heard turned her blood to ice.

What she’d mistaken for simple voices belowstairs were actually shouts—angry shouts. The Scottish brogues overlaid each other, each more adamant than the last about the source of their anger—the English.

Isolda clutched a blanket over her nakedness as she sat bolt upright. She sucked in a ragged breath as Ansel’s gaze collided with hers.

“It will be all right,” he said softly, but he couldn’t mask the sudden tautness in his body. “They are likely just drunk and releasing a wee bit of pent energy.”

Fagan’s voice rose above the others then, cutting sharply through the noise and reaching them clearly.

“And why else would that bastard Mowbray deny us?” he snapped. “Because he’s a bloody English sympathizer!”

The floorboards rumbled as those belowstairs shouted their agreement, with some calling for Mowbray’s traitorous head.

Isolda pressed her lips together to stop the frightened whimper that rose in her throat.

“Get dressed,” Ansel commanded. “And gather all of our things. We may need to leave in a hurry tonight.”

He looked at her fully for a moment, his eyes clouding with some emotion she couldn’t read in the flickering candlelight. And then he was gone, slipping silently from the room and closing the door softly behind him.

Ansel crept on silent feet down the corridor toward the inn’s stairs. The warm glow of firelight filled the stairway ahead of him, but the scene was far from cheery, for angry shouts rent the air.

Though every instinct told him to grasp his sword hilt and slide the blade’s familiar weight into his hands, he resisted. There was still a chance that the night wouldn’t end in violence, and he would not be the one to start it. And if it came to that, he would have to call upon every last shred of skill and strength to ensure that Isolda was safe.

He eased down the stairs, moving slowly to keep from drawing attention to himself. The inn’s main room was crowded with restless men, their bodies warming the ale-scented air.

As he slipped into the back of the crowd, Ansel quickly scanned the room. Fagan stood in one corner, his foot propped on a chair. Though the other men stood as well, Fagan’s height made his dirty blond head tower over the others.

“…hands are stuffed with English coin, yet he wants more Scottish gold, too.”

The crowd rumbled indignantly in agreement with Fagan’s words.

Just then Ansel caught sight of a short figure squeezing through the tightly packed group of men.

“Margery,” he hissed when the woman pressed by him.

The woman’s head snapped up and she froze next to him. Her hands bristled with empty ale mugs.

“Ye’d best stay abovestairs with yer wife,” Margery said, her gaze darting around the room. All eyes were still focused on Fagan, though.

Ansel bowed his head so that she wouldn’t have to speak up to be heard over the crowd. “What goes on here?”

Margery glanced around again, but at last she spoke.

“My husband serves as the head of the Stirling chapter of the innkeepers’ guild, though he fancies himself the entire guild’s leader. He and the others have been attempting to petition Mowbray to lower their taxes.”

“And Mowbray wouldnae see them yesterday,” Ansel said. “What happened today?”

“Mowbray finally heard their petition this eve,” Margery said. “But he denied them. They came back here an hour ago already drunk and with their dander up.” She shook her head disapprovingly. “I told Fagan not to serve any more ale, but he wouldnae listen.”

“…might as well be English, for he has Scottish blood on his hands and Scottish coin in his pocket.”

The crowd roared in response to Fagan’s latest shouted declaration.

“As I said, ye’d best stay abovestairs,” Margery said quickly before slipping back into the mob and weaving her way toward the kitchen.

“We all ken verra well that there are still English among us, even after Bannockburn,” Fagan said, dropping his voice. The men responded by spitting on the ground and muttering about filthy English in their midst.

“They take our money, just like Mowbray, and some even report back to England. They say even women can be spies for Longshanks’s snot-nosed son, Edward.”

Ansel’s head snapped up, only to find that Fagan’s hard blue eyes cut across the throng to pin him.

The mass of drunken, angry men muttered again, some in surprise at the suggestion of female spies, some with a few choice words for all Englishwomen.

“Aye, it’s true,” Fagan went on. “The English are everywhere, watching us, stealing from us, sneaking onto our lands.”

Fagan dropped his boot from the chair he’d propped it on and slowly pushed his way through the crowd. Fire and ice collided in the pit of Ansel’s stomach. He tensed as Fagan approached, but he willed his hands to remain clenched at his sides.

“And how do these filthy English set their claws into Scotland? Why, with the aid of Scottish sympathizers like Mowbray.”

Fagan came to a halt directly in front of Ansel. The blond giant crossed his thick arms over his chest, but Ansel refused to move. He narrowed his gaze on the innkeeper, his lips curling back in a warning snarl.

“Who among ye is a sympathizer with the English?” Fagan said, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth.

The men roared denials and curses for any Scotsman who would aid the English.

Ansel held his ground, his teeth clamped together so tightly that his jaw throbbed.

“And what about ye,
friend
?” Fagan said, leaning even closer to Ansel. “Where do yer loyalties lie?”

“I fought by the Bruce’s side at Bannockburn,” Ansel said, his voice carrying across the suddenly hushed room. “And at Loch Doon and Dunbraes Castle. And countless other battles. So dinnae question my loyalty,
friend
.”

Many of those gathered shifted uneasily, but judging from the glint in Fagan’s eyes, he wasn’t done yet.

“Ah, but that is the funny thing about men’s loyalties, is it no’, lads?” he said, commanding the attention of the room once more. “Sometimes loyalties lay with a man’s country, and sometimes they lay between his woman’s thighs.”

Confusion flitted through the room as tension once again thickened the air.

“Ye see, friends, the man before ye ruts with an Englishwoman, who is abovestairs at this verra moment.”

Shite
.

A cacophony of outrage filled the small space. Someone bumped into Ansel from behind. There were too many bodies pressing against him to allow him room to draw his sword.

“Leave him be, Fagan!” Margery’s high voice cut from the kitchen, but no one heeded it.

“Perhaps the English still havenae learned their lesson!” Fagan shouted over the uproar, drowning out Margery’s distant protests. “Perhaps we should teach it to them again!”

Another bump, this time harder, threatened to knock Ansel off balance. A hard shove came from his other side. It was time to act.

Like a bolt of lightning, Ansel drew back his fist and unleashed it with a wicked snap. His knuckles collided with Fagan’s nose, producing a loud crack. Fagan stumbled backward, blood spurting from his broken nose.

The room erupted in chaos. Blessedly, the angry mob’s overindulgence of ale would work in Ansel’s favor. As they staggered backward in surprise around Fagan, he leapt toward the stairs, yanking his sword free.

The crowd’s shock faded, to be replaced by renewed anger.

His moment of surprise was up.

Two dozen drunk, livid Scotsmen who though he was an English sympathizer turned on him as one.