The Lady's Protector (Highland Bodyguards #1) (16 page)

Isolda dressed hurriedly by the light of the single candle. She did her best to squeeze out the remaining moisture from her hair and quickly plait it, but her braid hung wetly against the hood of her cloak.

As Ansel had instructed, she grabbed their few possessions and stuffed them into their bags. With a start, she remembered the precious scented soap she’d set aside as she’d bathed. How long ago that deliciously hot bath—and Ansel’s scorching touches—seemed now.

She shoved the thought aside and retrieved the bar of soap, carefully wrapping it in linen before stuffing it into her satchel. She could dwell on their shared passion, and the flood of shame that followed, some other time, but not now.

She gasped and started as another rumble sent the floorboards vibrating. Although she could no longer make out what the voices were saying, their rage was obvious.

Clutching herself in her arms, she paced across the narrow room. Was Ansel safe? Was she? If only she hadn’t spoken and revealed the fact that she was English. Though Margery had been kind, if a bit thorny, Fagan had clearly been suspicious of her that morning.

Just as she turned to nervously cross the room once more, noise erupted in the direction of the stairs. This time she didn’t manage to suppress the cry of fear that ripped from her throat. The din was suddenly different. It was sharper and more intense—and closer.

There was a loud thump on the stairs, followed by another at the far end of the corridor. A scream of pain sliced through the door.

Isolda’s heart leapt into her throat, her pulse hammering in her veins. Hands trembling with fright, she snatched up her satchel and Ansel’s saddlebags, which were still attached.

A scuffle sounded right outside the door. Someone grunted in pain, then there were more thuds of contact.

Her eyes darted around the room. It was so small that there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. She backed toward the shuttered window, holding the bags before her like a shield, her eyes wide and riveted on the door.

“Isolda!”

Ansel’s harsh cry was unmistakable even muffled by the door’s thick wood.

“Ansel!” she shrieked, her voice hitching with terror.

The door suddenly exploded inward. Ansel launched himself inside, then slammed the door closed. A heavy thud reverberated through the wood a second later as some large body flung itself against the door.

Ansel drove his shoulder into the wood, keeping the door shut even as it bounced with another assault.

“Go out the window!” he shouted at her. “Get Eachann from the stables and bring him to the alley below us.”

“What? But we are at least a dozen feet off the ground!”

“Go!” Ansel barked, struggling to keep the door shut against the mob outside. “Now!”

Renewed panic surged through her. She spun and yanked the shutters away from the window. Night shrouded the ground below in shadow.

Isolda swallowed hard. Voices bellowed on the other side of the door. Ansel grunted with the effort of holding it closed, his shoulder shoved into the wood even as his boots slipped against the floorboards.

She threw their bags to the ground. They landed with a muted thump a moment later.

That will be me in a moment
.

Heart in her throat, she swung first one leg and then the other over the window ledge. She gripped the wooden sill, her nails clawing for purchase.

Drawing on every drop of willpower she possessed, she lowered herself until she dangled from the sill, her feet twisting in nothing but air. Dragging in a breath, she said a prayer and let go.

Night air whooshed passed her for a terrible, stretching moment. Then her feet slammed into the ground, sending bolts of pain through her legs. She rolled to the side and bumped into their bags.

Fear numbed the pain as she stumbled to her feet, clutching the bags. She staggered toward the stables attached to the back of the inn.

Inside, Eachann was easy to spot even in the dimness. He was the biggest horse by far, fit to carry Ansel’s large frame. She ran a soothing hand across the bay’s nose, then slipped his bridle on. She struggled with the heavy leather saddle, her fingers trembling as she worked the buckles underneath the large animal’s belly.

Whispering a word of reassurance into Eachann’s velvet brown ear, she boosted herself on his back and guided him out of his stall.

The horse’s ears twitched at the shouts coming from the inn. Just as Isolda spurred Eachann into the alley above which their window stood, light and noise erupted from the front of the inn. The men inside were now spilling out in search of them.

She reined Eachann into the shadows along the inn’s wall, praying her trembling body wouldn’t spook the animal and give their assailants warning. Her gaze shot up to the window she’d fallen from.

“Please,” she breathed, no more than a whisper of air crossing her lips.

As if in answer to her plea, Ansel appeared in the windowsill. He jammed his sword in its scabbard before launching himself into thin air.

Isolda clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her scream as she watched him fall. He landed and rolled far more gracefully than she had, though he cursed when he rose to his feet, wavering.

Large bodies blocked the light from the window overhead.

“There he is!” someone shouted.

More shouts answered behind them as the men who’d come out the inn’s front door rounded the corner and saw them.

Isolda spurred Eachann toward Ansel. He staggered forward, flinging himself onto Eachann’s back as they passed him without slowing.

The mob closed in behind them just as Isolda dug her heels into Eachann’s sides. The horse, well-trained and bred for battle, surged forward mightily, nearly unseating both Isolda and Ansel.

Ansel wrapped his arms around her and grabbed the reins, jerking Eachann to the right. The animal exploded onto a wider road, breaking into a full gallop. The road flew by under Eachann’s pounding hooves.

At last, the angry shouts faded behind them. The town shrank away and soon they were riding by the weak light of the partially obscured moon, dark woods surrounding them on either side of the road.

Isolda slumped backward against Ansel, terror suddenly replaced with quaking exhaustion. He grunted sharply when her back connected with his chest.

“Are you hurt?”

He grunted again and suddenly yanked the reins to the left, pulled Eachann off the road. Blackness surrounded them as they slid under the cover of the thick pine trees lining the road.

“I’ll be fine,” he replied at last, though his voice was tight behind her. “Just a few scrapes and bruises.”

“What…what happened?”

“Fagan worked those men into a froth of ale and anger,” he said disdainfully. “They decided to turn their resentment against us.”

“Did you…kill them?” She hated the sound of her own voice, but even more, she hated the swirl of fear she felt at the thought.

“Nay,” he said, his voice suddenly softening. “They were riled up, but they werenae evil men. Still, they needed stopping—or at least slowing.”

She dragged in a shaky breath. Once again, he’d saved her. “Thank you.”

His hand tightened possessively around her, but then suddenly he released his hold on her.

“It was my fault that ye were in danger to begin with.” His voice was hard and flat, and she could feel tension radiating off him where he sat in the saddle behind her.

“Nay, Ansel,” she breathed. “It was my fault. I spoke when I shouldn’t have and revealed that I am English.”

“Nay, lass,” he ground out through his teeth. “I mean I shouldnae have…seduced ye.”

Heat flooded her face even as the night air ruffled the cloak around her shoulders. “I let you…I wanted you, too…”

“Aye,” Ansel said, his voice a low rasp. “But I am yer protector. I was supposed to keep watch, to be ready at all times. Instead, I lost myself. I let myself be distracted.”

His words burned, yet there was a note of truth to them. That was what it had been between them—a distraction from all the pain and fear of late. Nothing more. She swallowed the ache that rose in her throat. He was right. She knew their attraction was wrong, too, but he was strong enough to say so.

“Because I let my guard down, I didnae hear the trouble brewing belowstairs,” he went on stiffly. “I must beg yer forgiveness. And I promise that it will never happen again.”

“Aye,” she breathed, blinking back the tears of hurt and shame. “Never again.”

Ansel pulled Eachann to a halt next to a gurgling forest creek.

“We’ll rest here for a wee bit,” he said flatly.

Isolda nodded stiffly and threw her leg over Eachann’s neck. Without Ansel’s assistance, she slid down Eachann’s side and landed on the soft forest floor.

It was one of a hundred little ways she had found in the last sennight to avoid having to come into physical contact with him.

Ansel should have been grateful to her for that, for even the most innocent jostling contact atop Eachann’s back or brush of their hands when he passed her his waterskin was enough to send hot longing shooting through him.

He silently cursed himself as he swung down from the saddle.

Over the last sennight of hard riding, neither of them had spoken of their lovemaking at the inn or Ansel’s harsh words along the roadside when they’d fled the village.

Aye, he’d been harsh when he’d told her that they shouldn’t have succumbed to their lust, that he was choosing to put his mission to protect her above his desire to claim her as his. And yet, she seemed to have her own reasons for keeping a cool distance between them, though she hadn’t shared those reasons with Ansel. All he knew was that the last sennight had been long and painful.

Of course, the conditions only worsened their grueling journey into the Highlands. God seemed to be enjoying putting them through their paces as they traveled.

The last of the summer heat and sunshine had evaporated, leaving the cold, damp air of true fall in its place. It had rained for much of the last sennight. Even now, heavy clouds hung threateningly low over the trees where they had stopped to rest.

Ansel had explained to Isolda that after the disaster at the inn outside Stirling, they wouldn’t be staying in any more inns, nor would they pass through even the sleepiest of villages. They wouldn’t even be using the roads. Instead, they would make what would have already been a difficult five-day journey into a sennight-long slog through forests and moors, plains and mountains in order to avoid unwanted attention.

She hadn’t complained, only nodded, lifting her chin in that noble way. Her regal bearing was back again, despite the fact that none of the comforts suited to a lady were possible on this journey.

It seemed like ages ago that he’d taken pleasure in ruffling those haughty feathers of hers to get a rise out of her. Now Ansel recognized that stiff air for what it truly was—an act. He’d seen the pulsing passion Isolda bore just below her mask of formality. The only thing he didn’t understand was why she hid behind that rigid, cold façade even now that he knew the truth. Something about it spoke of desperation.

Ansel guided Eachann toward the babbling stream, then dropped the reins so that the weary animal could drink the cool, clear water.

The patches of forest had grown smaller and were separated by greater expanses of rugged land as they’d ridden north. The shelter of the trees and the cheery stream were a relief from the difficult, rocky terrain they’d been crossing all day.

This was the Highlands—his home. The hardness of the land was a comfort of sorts, a reminder of who he was. This land had forged him. It had made him as strong as the rocky ground, as sharp as the biting fall wind, and as steely as the cloudy sky overhead.

Isolda bent next to the creek and cupped her hands in the water. She lifted them to her mouth and drank long and slow. When she dropped her hands, beads of sparkling water clung to her rosy, full lips.

Bloody hell
. Highlander or nay, Ansel didn’t feel particularly strong at the moment. Desire surged through him. She didn’t even have to touch him to nigh bring him to his knees.

She rose from the creek slowly, placing her hands on the small of her back and arching against the undoubted stiffness that knotted her body.

He’d been careful to watch her for signs that she was pushing herself too hard again. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice and put her health in danger. He’d given her two plaids, which she kept wrapped around her over her cloak at all times. The sight of her wearing Sutherland colors twisted something deep in his chest, but he wouldn’t let himself consider what it meant.

Though Isolda fared better than he would have expected in the last sennight, she couldn’t completely hide her discomfort behind that mask of nobility. Her delicate hands kneaded her lower back just above where her gown’s laces ended and her bottom curved sensuously.

She had on the brown woolen gown she’d first worn under the red surcoat. Ansel had insisted she pack away the expensive surcoat, though even the simple brown gown with laces borrowed from another garment was too fine for the journey he’d put her through.

His mind shot back to that night when he’d sliced through her garment’s ties and caught a glimpse of her creamy flesh for the first time. Unbidden, his manhood throbbed to life in his breeches.

Damn it all, he had to get his thoughts—and his body—under control.

He tore back the flap on one saddlebag and began rummaging in its depths just to give his hands something to do. His fingertips brushed cool metal, and he withdrew one of the two daggers he’d tucked away there when they’d departed Dunstanburgh.

They were Isolda’s attacker’s daggers—the daggers Ansel had been forced to pry from his own flesh. He’d examined them already, though neither gave him clues as to who their assailant had been.

He held up the small throwing dagger again anyway, grateful for the pretense of busying himself with something other than staring at Isolda. The blade was short but fat, almost oval-shaped, likely so that it would do more damage when it made impact with its target. Neither the hilt nor the blade itself bore any markings or etchings, however.

Isolda turned from the creek and strode to where Eachann stood. When her gaze fell on him, she started in surprise.

“I noticed you removed those…things…from my chamber that night,” she said, her eyes locking uneasily on the dagger. “But I didn’t realize you brought them with us.”

Ansel shrugged in his best attempt at nonchalant detachment. “I thought to study them for clues, though they offer none.”

“But…you don’t think that whoever attacked us has followed us into Scotland, do you?”

He didn’t miss the sudden tremor in her voice.

“Nay,” he replied brusquely. “Even if Edward’s men had crossed the border after us, our trail should be cold. No one has seen us since the village, and the rains will have obliterated our tracks, even so far off the road.”

She absently ran a hand down Eachann’s neck, apparently unaware of Ansel’s eyes following her every move.

Though her tight-fitting, expertly tailored surcoat had made the outline of her body quite clear, Ansel savored seeing her in a simple gown, her chemise peeking out at the sleeves and along her collar bones. For some reason it felt more intimate to be able to see her body moving against the slightly less snug garments. He imagined what her skin must feel like brushing along her soft linen chemise, her hips swaying gently within the folds of her woolen gown.

Ansel silently cursed himself again and snapped his eyes from her. He was acting like a bloody starved animal when he should be concentrating on his mission. He’d made a terrible error in thinking he could indulge in his lust for Isolda instead of focusing on protecting her.

“Are we close to our destination?”

His gaze darted back to Isolda. She still stood stroking Eachann’s neck, her back partially turned toward Ansel. Surprise flitted through him. It was the first time in a sennight of hard travel that she’d asked if their harrowing journey was almost over—another indication of just how exhausted she must truly be.

“Aye, we are.” He squinted past the copse of trees in which they stood. “Though we cannae see it from here, the North Sea is just off to the east.” He pointed with the little dagger toward the flatter land to their right that marked the coastline.

Isolda’s gaze followed the blade, but then snaked back up his arm and over his chest. Her pale green eyes flicked to his face ever so briefly, but then she shifted her gaze away.

Ansel cleared his throat. “Dunrobin Castle, the clan seat of the Sutherlands, lies over there.” He shifted the dagger slightly to the north.

“Is that where we are going? To Dunrobin Castle?”

Though Isolda kept her voice level, he detected a note of yearning in it.

“Nay,” he said reluctantly.

She pressed her lips together. “Is the castle not safe?”

Ansel clenched his teeth against the sharp pang of shame that stabbed him at her words. It was his job to protect her, to make her feel safe at all times. Yet her voice held an edge of fear that clearly revealed his failing.

“Aye, the castle is verra safe.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I have lived there for many years.”

Her eyes darted back to his, her dark brows arching with surprise before she regained control over her features. “Oh?”

“Aye. The castle is surrounded by a thick stone wall, and there are several towers where guards and watchmen stand at all hours of the day and night. It is one of the finest strongholds in all the Highlands, for it must protect the Sutherland Laird.”

Despite her casual nod, he saw curiosity lurking in the depths of her eyes.

“And that is your home?”

He shrugged. “As I said, I’ve lived there for many years of my life. But my true home is just there.” He drew the blade slightly inland from where Dunrobin lay. “Brora Tower. That is where we are headed.”

Though several rolling hills and clumps of forest stood between them and Brora, blocking the view, Isolda’s eyes nevertheless searched where he pointed. Her curiosity sent a pinch into his chest. How he wanted to pull her to him, tell her all his secrets and draw out all of hers. How he wanted her to
know
him.

“Brora Tower,” she repeated. “Is it safe there, as it is at Dunrobin?”

Again, the edge of concern in her voice cut him. The swell of longing in his chest was swiftly replaced with hot guilt.

He turned fully toward her, holding her eyes with his. “I was wrong to think us safe outside Stirling. Though the Lowlands have been quiet since Bannockburn, Scots’ memories are long. Edward has ravaged Scotland for so many years—as did his father, Edward Longshanks, before him—that Scotland will be many years in the healing. I shouldnae have taken the chance in assuming that the tensions of war had eased.”

Isolda’s gaze softened and her lips parted. “Do not be so hard on yourself. You could not have predicted the actions of an angry mob. Besides,” she said with a little shake of her shoulders, “those men were fools, not truly evil, as you said. They were not working for Edward to hunt John and me down.”

“Aye,” Ansel said, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “It seems that we have shaken Edward’s men.”

She nodded, a relieved exhale slipping through her lips.

“And the Highlands are different than the Lowlands,” he added. “Though war has reached us even this far north, we have no’ been ravaged by the English like the Lowlands and Borderlands have been. An Englishwoman in the Highlands will certainly draw curiosity, but no’ hatred as it did farther south.”

A crease appeared between her eyebrows as worry once again tightened her features. “Will I be the subject of much…attention where we are going—Brora Tower, you said?”

Ansel couldn’t help the flutter of fondness that pulled up one corner of his mouth. “Nay, for there aren’t many there to bother over ye. Ye’ll see soon enough. We should reach the tower in a few more hours.”

He felt her hesitant gaze follow him as he turned and dropped the throwing dagger into his saddlebag.

“We’d best be on our way.” Unconsciously, he stepped to her side and gripped her waist to help her into the saddle. She stiffened beneath his touch but didn’t pull away as he lifted her onto Eachann’s back. It wasn’t much, but even getting to touch her again sent a swell of heat through him.

As he swung into the saddle behind her, she studiously leaned forward slightly, creating the same small gap between their bodies that had existed for the last sennight.

It was right of her to do so, he reminded himself firmly, but that didn’t ease the ache in his chest.

He spurred Eachann forward, cursing himself silently for longing so desperately for what he could never have.