The Lady's Protector (Highland Bodyguards #1) (2 page)

Though Ansel prided himself on his normally unflappable nature, he did nothing to attempt to hide his stunned confusion from Garrick.

“I knew Lancaster has been giving Edward trouble for some time, but are ye jesting, man? Ye’re speaking of civil war in England. Ye truly think Lancaster will make a play for the throne?”

“Aye, so our sources say,” Garrick replied soberly. “From the moment Edward replaced Longshanks as King, Lancaster has been working against him. Now Lancaster has come out publicly to oppose his cousin’s reign. Bannockburn only proved what Lancaster has been saying all along about Edward—that he is a weak and ineffectual ruler.”

Ansel shook his head in astonishment, the wheels of understanding grinding slowly. Before he could form his next question, Garrick went on.

“Which brings us back to why I’m here. Lancaster fears that his bastard son will be used as a weapon against him. Edward’s allies may come after him, either to ransom him back to Lancaster, or more likely to simply kill him and end Lancaster’s bloodline if he is successful in gaining the throne.”

“Lancaster doesnae have any legitimate heirs?”

“Nay,” Garrick said. “He has been bound in an unproductive marriage since he was fourteen. He has only sired the one bastard. If he somehow managed to ascend to power, his son will be in serious danger—hell, he likely already is.”

Ansel released a slow breath through his teeth. At last, he lowered himself into his chair once more, though he had to grip the wooden arms to give his hands something to do.

“And ye think that having Lancaster ruling England is better than Edward?”

“One of Lancaster’s main qualms with his cousin’s rule is that Edward has wasted countless men, time, and coin fighting against the Bruce,” Garrick said with a shrug. “Lancaster has vowed that he will see an end to these fruitless wars once and for all—either by blocking Edward from taking action or by wresting the throne from his cousin and halting the wars himself.”

Finally, Ansel’s initial shock was ebbing and he could see the threads of strategy weaving together in his mind.

“So the Bruce considers Lancaster the enemy of his enemy—King Edward. He thinks that if the Scots offer to aid Lancaster, when Lancaster comes to power, he’ll leave us be.”

“Aye.”

“Answer me this, then. Lancaster wishes to end England’s conflict with Scotland. But isnae that exactly what we already accomplished with Bannockburn?” Ansel asked. “Granted, ye and the Bruce’s army are still finishing the work that must be done—taking back what was ours. But the war is over, Garrick. The English are whipped and on the run. All has been quiet since June, thank God. We dinnae need Lancaster at all.”

“That is where ye’re wrong, Ansel,” Garrick said, his mouth drawing tight. “The battles may have stopped for the time being, but the war is far from over. The English arenae going to hand us our freedom so easily.”

Ansel crossed his arms over his chest against a fresh surge of unease. “What are ye saying?”

“Remember the days when the Bruce’s army tried to play by English rules on the battlefield? We met them in open combat, face to face, just as they wished?”

“Aye,” Ansel replied. “And we had our arses handed to us many a time until ye encouraged the Bruce to fight differently.”

“We learned how to use the land we know and love so well to conceal us,” Garrick said, leaning forward intently. “We struck swiftly and silently, then dissolved away so that they couldnae strike back. It changed the course of the war.”

At Ansel’s cautious nod, Garrick exhaled and sat back once more. “And now the English are changing the nature of war themselves. They willnae meet us in open combat after the mess they made of Bannockburn. But that doesnae mean that they have given up trying to undermine our efforts for freedom.”

A dagger of dread slashed through Ansel’s gut. “What has happened?”

“Sir William of Airth was found murdered. And no’ cleanly, either.”

The slice of dread turned into a hot knot of anger. William of Airth controlled a small region in the Lowlands. Though Ansel hadn’t spent much time with him, he’d met the man at Bannockburn and had fought by his side. 

“What did they do to him?” he ground out.

“He was tortured first, from what we could gather. There wasnae much of him left, to be honest. Whoever it was, they tried to get answers out of him, though he never was privy to the Bruce’s plans. Like as no’, the bastards hoped to send a message—even lords arenae safe in Scotland. That’s the third one to be murdered in as many months since Bannockburn.”

Ansel let out a long breath. “War used to be men with swords facing off. And now this. Is this war, or is this what peace looks like?” he muttered, suddenly heartsick and weary.

“I dinnae relish this any more than ye, Ansel,” Garrick said lowly. “But yer King is calling on ye. He needs ye for this mission. Protect Lancaster’s bastard-born son.”

Honor tugged hard in Ansel’s chest, yet the thought of working for an English nobleman sent sour bile rising in his throat.

“Why does Lancaster want a Scot? Why no’ send one of the many English lackeys I’m sure he keeps at his heels to protect his son?”

Garrick’s mouth twisted, but he managed to refrain from laughing this time.

“The Bruce thinks it is Lancaster’s attempt to strengthen ties between himself and the Scottish freedom fighters, but I’m no’ so generous. I trust Lancaster about as far as I can throw him. I’d place coin on Lancaster thinking strategically in calling on a Scottish warrior to guard his son. If word gets back to Edward that Lancaster is working with us, or if things go south for his son, a Scot is a lot easier to disavow or stow away somewhere—or get rid of, if need be. Lancaster is counting on discretion—that’s why he approached the Bruce in the first place.”

“So I am to be the sacrificial lamb,” Ansel bit out. “I am to be Lancaster’s pawn in his little game of playing allies with the Bruce.”

Garrick’s lips twitched, but it looked more like a wince than a smile. “I said the Bruce hopes for Lancaster to leave us alone, no’ that the man would be our ally. That is also why the Bruce wished for me to send for ye. He trusts in yer sense of honor and responsibility, and yer skill to protect the bastard son, but also yer cautiousness. The Bruce is counting on ye to remember that yer mission is to protect the son, no’ serve Lancaster. In protecting the Earl’s bastard, ye are serving
our
King, no’ the English.”

A stone of resignation sank in Ansel’s stomach. There was clearly no way he was going to talk his way out of this task, no matter how much it repulsed him to do an English nobleman’s bidding. He’d placed his faith, his trust, and his life in Robert the Bruce’s hands when he pledged loyalty to him all those years ago during the darkest days of Scotland’s fight for independence. He could not simply shirk his duty now that the fight had slipped into this dank underworld of secret alliances and stealth attacks.

But nor would he accept this distasteful mission without trying every angle to escape it.

“Kenneth placed me in charge of Dunrobin while he is away with the McKays. I cannae simply leave the castle and the clan without a leader,” he said, but the appeal sounded feeble even to his ears.

A slow smile began to spread across Garrick’s hard face.

Shite
.

Ansel had lost, and they both knew it now.

“That is why the Bruce instructed me to stay on in yer stead until yer cousin returns.”

“What?” This time Ansel stopped his chair from tumbling backward, but he still jerked to his feet swiftly enough to send it wobbling. “A Sinclair watching over Laird Sutherland’s stronghold? Bloody—”

“Dinnae get yer bollocks in a twist,” Garrick said, that wolfish grin still on his face. “I am to send a missive to Kenneth letting him know what has transpired and urging him to return to Dunrobin with all haste. That is, unless I find that having yer clan under my thumb is just too much fun.”

In the back of his mind, Ansel knew that Garrick was jesting, trying to get a rise out of him. Yet his fist wasn’t connected to his mind at the moment.

He acted on instinct. His hand darted at Garrick’s smug face. At the last possible moment, he pulled back slightly so as not to damage his friend overmuch. Still, Garrick’s head snapped back when Ansel’s fist made impact with his jaw, and his chair rocked backward precariously.

In a flash, Garrick was on his feet. Yet instead of the blow wiping the grin from his face, as Ansel intended, Garrick only smiled broader.

“Aye, there’s the fighting spirit I came here seeking!” He playfully pounded Ansel on the shoulder with enough force to send him staggering.

Garrick took his seat once more, his body relaxed with his victory. Ansel smoothed back his hair with one hand. His mind swirled as he contemplated this new mission. Though he resented doing anything to aid a bloody Englishman, he felt the familiar stirrings of honor-bound purpose in his chest.

“What can ye tell me about Lancaster’s son? How old is he? What does he know of the threat to his life?”

“Unfortunately, I dinnae ken much,” Garrick said. “I’ve told ye all that the Bruce shared with me. He did give me this missive though.”

Garrick removed a piece of folded parchment from the sporran pouch on his hip and extended it toward Ansel. A broken blot of red wax stood out in the dim light of the small chamber, but there was no distinguishing seal on it.

He quickly scanned the missive, but as Garrick had said, it contained little detail, likely to safeguard against the danger of the message falling into the wrong hands. Yet the mission it laid out was clear enough.

Protect my son from the forces that work against us.

The missive was signed “King Arthur.” At Ansel’s snort, Garrick spoke.

“It is the code name he gave himself. He fancies himself the future King of some mystical kingdom.”

“Christ,” Ansel muttered.

Garrick stood, his gray eyes dancing. “It’s settled then. Lancaster has stashed his son in some stronghold he controls in the Borderlands—Dunstanburgh, the Bruce said. Ye’ll travel there with all haste and ensure that no harm comes to Lancaster’s son. The fate of our cause may rest on whether this bastard lives or dies.”

“Ye dinnae need to remind me,” Ansel muttered.

Garrick slapped him on the back once more, but this time, his face bore no trace of a smile.

“Ye’d best be away, then.”

Bloody hell
.

What had Ansel gotten himself into?

Isolda picked her way carefully across the Rumble Churn. It was a fitting name for a haunting place—the expanse of beach stretched just below Gull Crag, where chunks of the cliff’s black rock had fallen and lay partially submerged in the lapping sea.

The rocks beneath her feet were slick with a combination of ocean water and the low mist that almost always clung to the ground here.

Though even at the height of summer the days remained cool and pleasant thanks to the salty breeze wafting from the North Sea, fall now stung the air with a sharp cold. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Soon enough she’d have to start wearing her thicker woolen cloak.

The old, dull ache flared hot in her chest at the realization. Fall was upon her—the first fall without John.

Tears burned her eyes, their brine mixing with that of the North Sea wind. She swallowed hard and inhaled a fortifying breath, despite the fact that no one was nearby to witness her sudden surge of emotion. But
she
would know if she lost control. And she could never do that, for if she succumbed to the pain, she might never be able to drag herself back to sanity.

Isolda carefully lifted her skirts to keep them from tripping her on the black, sea-rounded rocks. She’d already reluctantly turned around where the walls of Gull Crag grew too steep and the ocean swallowed the Rumble Churn.

In the mornings, when the newly born sun illuminated the mist shrouding the rocks, Isolda let herself imagine that she was in some fairy land as she picked her way across the expanse.

But she only allowed herself to walk the length of the Rumble Churn once each day, lest she come to rely too heavily on the escape from the real world. This morning had been squally and temperamental, so she’d been forced to wait until late afternoon to indulge in her daily walk.

She made her way across the last of the rounded black rocks and began her scramble back up Gull Crag. Though the cliffs stood nigh one hundred feet tall in some places, she’d discovered a narrow but less steep path where the northeast corner of Dunstanburgh Castle clung to the top of the Crag. Soon enough, this path down from the cliffs to the sea would be sealed in by the curtain wall, but for now, with construction only partially complete, she treasured her secret route.

Once she crested the narrow trail, her stomach reknitted into its normal pinch. Though the curtain wall was still only a few feet high in many places, the stones did their work well enough. This was her prison. Only the North Sea at her back wasn’t walled off, but the ocean was its own barrier, pinning her within the confines of Dunstanburgh.

The Earl of Lancaster had chosen this site for his newest castle well. And he’d chosen her prison well.

Though she normally kept a tight rein on her emotions, she suddenly felt choked by her surroundings. Her gaze ran along the partially built wall in search of relief.

With the afternoon advancing toward evening and the accompanying waning of daylight upon them, the workers were busy at their tasks. Some were lifting enormous stones with pulleys and guiding them into place on the wall, while others slathered plaster onto the stones that had already been set.

None of the two dozen or so workers raised an eye to her. They were used to her routine of walking along the Rumble Churn every day, and also her occasional appearances in the yard as they worked. She imagined they thought of her as little more than a ghost, slipping silently around the unfinished castle in the fine gowns Lancaster had bought for her.

Her gaze landed on the partially finished gatehouse that stood at the southwestern edge of the wall. It was the tallest structure by far, and when it was complete, it would provide a dominant lookout over both land and sea. Perhaps if she climbed to the top, she’d be able to see even more of the North Sea and have one last taste of freedom for the day. None of the laborers worked nearby, which would afford her some privacy as well.

Straightening her spine, she glided as calmly as possible across the grassy yard and toward the gatehouse. Blessedly, her movement still didn’t draw any attention among the workers. Though her fine garb said otherwise, she preferred not to be noticed. Such was the case ever since—

Nay
. She pushed the thought aside harshly. She would climb the gatehouse tower and look at the sea for a while. That was all. Then she would return to her chamber in the squat tower against the northern wall and busy herself with work on her fine garments, as she always did.

Gripping her brocade silk skirts, she walked into the stone gatehouse, which still didn’t have a door yet. She crossed to the spiral staircase and began winding her way upward. She passed the landing that opened into an enormous room that would eventually be the keep’s great hall, then climbed higher still past the chambers above that were meant for Lancaster and his family. Her chest pinched, but with practiced willpower she ignored it.

At last, she reached the top of the gatehouse. Though one day there would be a crenelated parapet atop which guards could keep watch, it had yet to be finished. Instead, the stairs ended abruptly on a smooth stone roof several dozen feet above the yard.

As she stepped onto the flat roof, the wind whipped her skirts and threatened to unplait her hair. Her eyes landed on the sea, its seemingly endless expanse spreading before her. A jolt of energy surged through her veins. How long had it been since she’d felt so alive, even briefly?
Not since John left.

The pain mingled with the swell of fleeting freedom as she stood atop the gatehouse. Just then, a beam of sun broke through the clouds behind her and fell on her back. The sun held no warmth, but she let its light bathe her. The wind stung her cheeks, cleansing as prayer.

The rumbling thump of a stone being dropped into place on the wall snapped her attention back to reality once more. The men swarmed at their tasks in the yard below like dutiful insects.

Her gaze swept beyond the castle walls to the east where the ray of sun had struggled to break through the clouds and fall on her. With another lash of wind, the gap in the clouds closed and the beam of sun winked away.

A flicker of movement drew her eye to the rolling green hills beneath the gray-purple clouds.

A rider approached.

Isolda’s stomach leapt to her throat in an instant, nigh choking her with panic. Could it be another attack? Her fingernails bit into her palms as she clenched her fists.

The rider drew closer. He bore a sword on his hip, but no armor. So he wasn’t a knight. She squinted, quickly assessing his attire. He wore the simple breeches and tunic of a commoner, yet commoners did not bear swords.

She took a steadying breath. The last attack had occurred at night, done by a drunken madman. The one before that hadn’t been an attack at all, but merely an accident, or so it had seemed.

No one would dare attack the Earl of Lancaster’s castle in broad daylight, and especially not with only one man armed with naught but a sword. He was likely just a messenger, or a new laborer brought by the Master Mason. The logic of this realization set her somewhat more at ease, though she still trained her gaze on the lone rider.

He slowed his bay horse as he approached and guided the animal down the length of the three man-made ponds that ran along the front of the castle. The ponds served as moats of sorts, and when they were complete, the bridges across them could be tightly controlled.

With no bridges built yet, the rider found the narrow dirt entrance between two of the ponds that the laborers used to cart in supplies. He spurred his steed toward the gate.

The rider crossed through the gate and reappeared a second later in the yard. With practiced ease, he swung from the saddle. He turned a slow circle, seeming to take in the construction and the unfinished nature of the castle.

This close, she could now see that he was soaked to the bone. His simple clothes clung to him, his dark, uncovered hair dripping down his back. He was far larger than she had realized from a distance. He would likely tower over most of the laborers, though his wide shoulders spoke of a familiarity with hard work.

“Who is in charge here?” he barked to no one in particular.

Isolda felt her brows collide. Did she detect a Scottish burr in the man’s deep voice? A new rush of unease thrummed in her veins. A Scottish accent was not so unusual to hear in the Borderlands. Yet the man who’d just barreled into the yard didn’t look like a simple Lowland laborer. His movements were too fluid, too…lethal. Like a warrior’s.

Disquiet coiling tighter in her belly, she lifted her skirts and hurried toward the spiral stairs leading back down to the yard. When she was almost all the way down the gatehouse stairs, she heard the stranger’s booming voice demand once more who was in charge.

Where was Bertram?
She couldn’t hide like a coward and wait for her guard to arrive. Nay, she was the lady of this keep.

She stepped through the open doorway and into the yard, dropping her skirts with a swish of silken fabric. The rider spun on his heels and pinned her with a hard stare, his dark eyes sharp and penetrating.

Shoving down the quake of fear that jolted through her, she lifted her head in an imitation of the most regal of ladies.

“I am.”