The Lady's Protector (Highland Bodyguards #1) (20 page)

“Farewell!”

Isolda’s hair tickled Ansel’s neck as she twisted around in the saddle before him. She waved furiously behind them where Meredith, Burke, Niall, and Fiona stood at the base of Brora Tower.

Yesterday’s perfect weather had broken overnight, and now they headed out into a dreary, misting rain. Yet Ansel hardly noticed, for spring had bloomed in his heart at the knowledge of Isolda’s love. He was not a man given to flowery thoughts and soft emotion, but he couldn’t deny the happiness soaring within him.

They had eventually returned to the tower to find Meredith’s knowing eyes dancing with joy. Over a simple meal, they had told Burke and Meredith that they were going to retrieve John. Isolda had entrusted him and him alone with John’s location, so Ansel had said only that John was in the Highlands.

At Meredith’s pointed question, Ansel had proclaimed that he and Isolda would wed once they had retrieved John. Then they would return to Sutherland land and Ansel would petition Laird Kenneth Sutherland for a plot of land on which to settle.

Meredith had nigh tackled Isolda to the ground in a fierce hug. Burke had removed a treasured bottle of whisky from the back of one of the wooden cabinets in the tower’s little kitchen so that they could all toast the happy news.

Now Ansel kept Eachann at a slow walk so that Isolda could twist backward to wave and look her fill upon her new family, who stood gathered around the tower despite the damp weather.

Niall bolted from Meredith’s side and ran alongside Eachann, waving frantically at Isolda. She blew a kiss to him and the boy stopped in his tracks, staring after them with a stunned expression on his face.

“Ye’ll ruin the lad for a lass of his own,” Ansel said, the reproach in his voice softened by mirth.

At last, they slipped behind a gently rolling hill and the tower was lost to sight. Isolda turned face-forward in the saddle once more and leaned back against Ansel’s chest.

“I can hardly believe that I will gain a sister, brother, niece, and nephew along with a husband,” she breathed. “I don’t want to wait a moment longer than necessary to be wed.”

“Perhaps one of the holy men at Fearn Abbey can see to it,” he replied, nuzzling his nose against her hair.

“Aye,” she said contentedly, but then hesitancy returned to her voice as she went on. “Do you imagine that Laird Sutherland will grant you a plot of land? I must confess, I do not fully understand how such clan dealings work.”

She craned her neck so that she could gaze up at him, her brows swooping together in consternation. “From the way you presented it last night, you seem confident that your Laird will acquiesce, but asking for land is no small matter. Do you truly believe we can start a life together in the Highlands so easily?”

“Naught in the Highlands is easy, lass,” he said, cocking a smile. “But in this case, aye, I am confident the Laird will grant me what I ask.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I havenae told ye, have I?” He felt his smile widen as her pale green eyes narrowed on him.

“Told me what?”

“That I am the Laird’s cousin, and that until he produces an heir of his own, I am next in line for the Lairdship.”

To Ansel’s satisfaction, Isolda’s mouth fell open. “You…you are Laird Sutherland’s cousin? And you would be Laird if—”

“Aye, but God willing, I never will be, for Kenneth is more than worthy, and some day—soon, if the clan has aught to say about it—he will have his own heirs.”

Isolda continued to stare up at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. “At first I thought you were little more than a hired guard, just some Highland rogue paid to watch over John. Then I came to learn that you are in King Robert the Bruce’s elite inner circle of warriors and that you were sent to me by the King himself. And now you tell me that you are the cousin of a Laird and in line for the Lairdship?”

“Aye,” he said simply, enjoying her bewilderment.

Her brow crinkled again, and he had to bite back a bark of laughter that rose in his throat.

“You let me call you a barbarian! How could you?”

Horror at the memory washed over her features, and this time he couldn’t stop a snort of amusement from slipping out.

“Are ye pleased to learn that ye are to marry more than just some Highland barbarian? Are ye glad that I am a man of consequence after all?” he teased.

“Nay, I am not pleased at all,” she said, swatting his shoulder in mock indignation. “For I had hoped that you were born a commoner, as I was.”

Her smile slipped as she held his gaze, her green eyes drawing him in.

“Truly, Ansel,” she said softly, “you could not please me more, whether you were a King or a pauper. I love you.”

His chest swelled with pride at her words.

As they rode, Ansel told her of moving from Brora to Dunrobin Castle at the age of ten to begin his training alongside Kenneth. He spoke of his largely happy childhood getting to spar and learn with his cousin, though he also confessed a longing to have a true home, a place he could call his own.

The rain picked up from a gentle mist to a drizzle as he guided them south toward Cadboll. Isolda slipped her hood up, and Ansel dragged the plaid that draped across his shoulder over his head.

Just as Isolda settled herself once more against his chest, Ansel’s eye snagged on a dark flicker of movement in the distance.

He must have stiffened, for Isolda looked up at him.

“What is it?”

Ansel squinted through the hazy gray sheets of rain. “Likely naught,” he said, his eyes taking in the lone figure standing next to a cart with a single horse hitched to it. “Just another traveler caught in this blasted rain.”

As they drew nearer, Ansel realized that the cart was stuck in a patch of mud made worse by the increasing downpour. The old man standing next to the cart was covered in mud, likely from his efforts to free the cart’s wheel.

When they were nearly to the man, Ansel pulled Eachann to a halt.

“Wait here,” he said to Isolda, keeping his voice low. “There is no point in all of us getting muddy.” He flashed her a smile before turning toward the man.

Gray-white hair stuck out from under the man’s simple cap. His clothes, along with the large but aging draft horse, indicated the man was likely a simple farmer or laborer.

“Greetings, friend,” Ansel said as he approached. “Ye look to be in a wee bit of trouble.”

“Och,” the old man grunted. “Wee my foot. The heavens cannae decide if it is summer or winter, it seems.” He swept a hand through the rain, his mouth turned down as he looked accusatorily at the clouds overhead. “I was to fetch a new plow from my brother-in-law in Cadboll, but I cannae verra well do that in this cursed bog.”

“We are headed to Cadboll as well—or rather, the abbey near there,” Isolda said cheerily behind Ansel. Though she still sat atop Eachann, she’d drawn the horse closer to catch the old man’s words. “Perhaps you could unhitch your horse as we could help you there.”

The old man shook his head. “No good. I cannae fetch the plow without my cart.” He crossed his arms with a sigh, glaring at the cart’s wheel, which was sunk halfway into the mud.

“Then perhaps I can help. Ye drive the horse. I’ll push.”

The man eyed Ansel for a moment, assessing him. “Och,” he muttered again. “Verra well. Much obliged.”

He moved to where the old draft horse stood as Ansel took up position behind the cart. At Ansel’s nod, the man slapped the horse’s flank and urged the aged animal on. Ansel drove his shoulder into the back of the cart, his feet sinking into the mud as they sought purchase.

The wooden cart groaned and the mud sucked at the wheel, but they only gained a few inches.

“Again!” Ansel gritted through his teeth, redoubling his efforts against the cart as the old man tried to spark some fire in the draft horse.

At last, the cart creaked and the wheel sucked out of the mud. Ansel almost lost his footing and would have landed face-first in the muck if he hadn’t managed to pull his boots free just in time to catch himself.

With his crisis averted, the old man was suddenly nigh leaping with merriment.

“Thank ye, my lad,” he said to Ansel. “A good, stout Sutherland back was all I needed.” He looked approvingly over Ansel’s plaid, then bobbed his head to Isolda. “A good man, that is what ye are. I wish ye safe travels to the abbey. God will surely smile on such kind folk.”

Long after Ansel remounted Eachann behind Isolda and nudged the animal southward, the old man waved and shouted his thanks.

Isolda giggled. “You are covered in mud nigh to your knees.”

Ansel tightened his arm around Isolda’s waist. “I see a stream tucked in that copse of trees ahead—care to help me wash?”

She giggled again, but the sound was huskier this time. Lust surged through him, cutting through the cold and dampness seeping into his bones.

“Aye,” she whispered. “Though I may have to remove all your clothes to ensure that you are thoroughly clean.”

*    *    *

By the time they had regained Eachann’s saddle and continued south, the rain had eased but the sky was the dark purple of a stormy evening.

Aye, that little romp in the woods had cost them a bit of time, but Ansel wouldn’t trade it for the world. It seemed as though now that they had confessed their love, the passion that had crackled between them from the beginning raged like a wildfire.

Isolda nestled herself once more against his chest with a contented sigh. He would never grow tired of those gasps and moans of pleasure that he could draw from her. As he inhaled against her hair, he tucked away a reminder to himself to make sure she always had a supply of her intoxicating lemon and lavender soap.

Though her body was limp and languid against his at first as they rode, by the time the sky had darkened further into an overcast dusk, she must have sensed that they were near the abbey. She straightened, her body taut with anticipation as he slowed Eachann.

Ahead of them, the pointed roof of the abbey loomed out of the gray-black night sky.

“Is that Fearn?” Isolda breathed, her voice trembling.

“Aye.”

Since they had approached from the back side of the abbey, they had to cross through the cemetery to reach the abbey’s doors. Marker stones began to emerge from the darkness around them, lurking like ghosts in the moonless night.

She glanced back at him, and he caught a flash of white as she gave him a wobbly smile. “John is so close.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but for some reason, unease crept up his spine.

The abbey was quiet up ahead, though that shouldn’t have raised his suspicion. Since it was well after sunset, the monks would have retired already.

He could not place his finger on what was causing the hairs on his nape to stir. Though his gaze darted around the cemetery as they rode toward the abbey, his eyes landed on naught but shadows and stillness. Perhaps it was the mere fact of crossing holy ground that made him uneasy.

As he drew Eachann to a halt, Isolda threw her leg over the horse’s neck and slid to the ground before Ansel could stop her.

“Isolda, nay,” he said, his voice coming out sharper than he intended.

“What is—”

All around them, the grave markers sprang to life. It was as if the stone itself leapt toward them.

Nay, the stone grave markers weren’t coming to life—men were emerging from behind them, weapons drawn.

They were under attack.

Ansel’s body lurched into motion even as his mind lagged behind.

He flung himself from Eachann’s back as he dragged the sword on his hip from its scabbard. With his free hand, he yanked Isolda back by the arm, putting her between him and Eachann. The horse snorted and sidestepped, but with a click of Ansel’s tongue, he stilled, well trained war steed that he was.

Ansel’s gaze skittered around the graveyard, his sword raised in front of him. He counted ten men closing in on them and sensed more than saw at least two more approaching behind Eachann. They moved like shadows and ghosts among the grave markers, their swords dull in the moonless night. Yet to Ansel’s shock, they did not attack.

“I made sure that this time, the men I selected would be well-trained warriors rather than green village lads.”

The flat voice floated over Ansel’s shoulder from the abbey. He pressed his back against Isolda, squeezing her between his body and Eachann’s, forcing the animal to pivot. Alert lest the men in the graveyard decided to strike, Ansel shot a glance toward the abbey.

A dark-headed man emerged from the shadows. His gait was lazy, though he moved with a fighter’s languid lethality.

Familiarity crashed through Ansel’s brain, followed by a swell of sickening dread.

“Ye are the man from Dunstanburgh,” he said slowly, his gut turning to lead. “The one who attacked Isolda in her chamber. The one I should have killed.”

Isolda gasped behind him. He didn’t dare shift his eyes to her, but he could feel her trembling against his back.

“Aye,” the man said calmly. “My name is Clemont, though that will mean naught to you.”

“I bested ye and a dozen of yer men already,” Ansel ground out through his teeth. “If ye wish to try yer luck again, ken that this time there are no windows for ye to jump out of, no place for ye to flee like a coward from my blade.”

Annoyance flickered in Clemont’s dark eyes, but instead of goading his ire, Ansel’s words seemed to disappoint him. “You have already lost and you don’t even know it,” he said flatly.

He stepped aside and swept his hand back toward the abbey.

Ansel squinted into the dimness. A crumpled pile of cloth lay in the abbey’s doorway.

The gears in Ansel’s mind finally clicked into place. It was not a heap of cloth he was staring at, but the body of a monk.

“What have you done with John?” Ansel breathed, a knife of fear twisting in his belly.

A wordless, strangled cry rose from Isolda behind him.

“Do not concern yourself with the boy,” Clemont said levelly. “You and I have more pressing matters at the moment.” His dark eyes flicking past Ansel to Isolda. “The man paying my employer requires that I shear all the loose ends in the little mess he made. Collecting the woman for…disposal is the second of two threads to be collected and trimmed.”

“Nay!” Isolda shrieked.

Ansel tightened his grip on his sword.

“Ye and your men will have to go through me before I let ye harm a hair on Isolda’s head,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Hence the pressing matters we must attend to—if you will not hand over the woman, I will most certainly go through you.”

Clemont’s voice was eerily smooth. Fear stabbed deeper in Ansel’s stomach. The man had clearly ceased to care about taking life long ago. What horrors had he committed to make him so calm at a moment like this?

“Nay!” Isolda cried again, her voice cracking with panic. “Do not hurt John. He is an innocent child!”

Clemont waved away her words. “It doesn’t matter. I have been paid, and I must see to my task. That is all. Now hand over the woman.”

“How did you know?” Isolda hissed desperately. “How did you know where to find John? I only told—”

Then she gasped. Ansel realized with burning clarity what direction her thoughts had taken.

“I only told
you
, Ansel.”

*    *    *

The terror that pounded through Isolda’s veins was suddenly spiked with something far darker—betrayal.

She pressed against Eachann’s flank, trying to peel her body away from Ansel’s as fear and disgust twisted in her belly.

“You promised you’d never betray me,” she whispered, her throat ragged.

“I didnae!” Ansel shot a glance over his shoulder at her, his eyes pleading.

Her heart splintered into shards. John had been found. And Ansel had deceived her. She had trusted again like a fool, and now she and John would pay for it.

Even still, a sliver of her longed to believe him. The hard, warm planes of his body crushed against her protectively. His eyes were harried as he shot her another glance before returning his gaze to Clemont. Confusion cluttered her mind.

“I told no one, Isolda, I swear it,” he said, his voice edged with desperation.

Before he could say more, Clemont spoke again.

“I have no interest in your lovers’ quarrel,” he said levelly. “But your bickering wastes my time.” He fixed Isolda with a hard, flat stare. “The old farmer you helped not far from here was quick to tell me where you were headed when a little pain was applied.”

Isolda dragged in a ragged breath. “The man…you…you hurt him.”

“I killed him, aye,” Clemont replied, his voice soft and low. “It was a small price to pay for the information I needed.”

It was as if the world tilted on its side. She had been so quick to question Ansel, to lose all faith and trust in him, when in fact
she
had been the one to tell the kind old farmer that they were headed to Fearn Abbey.

And that meant she’d cost the innocent man his life.

Sickness roiled in her stomach. She swallowed hard against the burn of bile rising in her throat.

“Enough talk,” Clemont said levelly, turning his gaze on Ansel once more. “I won’t bother telling you that you have a choice to hand over the woman. You don’t—just as I don’t have a choice in killing the woman and the boy. So let us get on with it.”

Isolda felt Ansel stiffen even more in front of her. Then it felt as though everything ground to a halt and hung suspended and frozen for a long, terrible moment. The cold night air hung thick with anticipation. The men surrounding them stood poised to attack. Every muscle in Ansel’s body was wound tight.

And then all Hell broke loose.

The four men closest to them launched forward, blades whirring in the otherwise dead-quiet cemetery.

“Mount Eachann!” Ansel bellowed to her as he struck like an uncoiling snake at the first of his attackers.

The clang of metal on metal shattered the night. Isolda threw herself onto Eachann’s back. The animal pranced with nervous eagerness as a battle erupted around them.

A scream of agony tore through the air. Isolda’s heart lurched in terror, but her gaze found Ansel in the middle of the fray, still upright and swinging his sword.

He moved like Death himself. Every curve of his blade, every pivot, every block blurred into a lethal dance. Two more men quickly fell at Ansel’s feet, but he didn’t slow even as more attackers launched themselves at him.

Eachann’s snort and sidestep jerked Isolda’s attention away from Ansel. Two more men loomed out of the shadows surrounding the abbey, though Ansel was completely absorbed in fending off the four new opponents who closed in.

“Ansel!” she cried, unable to form any other word.

He spun and impaled one of his attackers with a mighty thrust. His gaze flickered to her before he pivoted once more to block a blade aimed to decapitate him. But just as he deflected the attack, he let out a sharp whistle unlike any she’d heard before.

Eachann tensed beneath her, his ears quivering for a heartbeat. Then suddenly the war horse reared, and Isolda had to cling to his mane to avoid being thrown to the ground.

Startled by the horse’s sudden lurch, the two men charging from the abbey faltered in front of Eachann. The war horse’s hooves darted out, catching one of the men square in the head and clipping the other’s shoulder.

Isolda clung tight as Eachann’s hooves once again connected with the ground, sending a jolt of impact through her bones. Before she could squeeze her eyes shut against the sight of two lumps on the ground, she glimpsed one lying motionless and the other moaning and crawling away, his arm dragging limply alongside him.

Ansel still fought with deadly grace, though now only two men surrounded him and no more emerged from the shadows. Blood darkened his shirt, though Isolda could not tell if it was his or his enemies’, who lay unmoving around the graveyard.

He dove out of the way of an arcing blade and rolled, popping up on his feet a moment later. With not a hair’s breadth to spare, he blocked a blow meant to hamstring him, then rammed his sword along his attacker’s until his blade sank into the man’s leg.

Before he could withdraw his sword, the other man launched a renewed attack. Ansel ducked under the swiping blade, then drove his shoulder into the second man, sending him toppling backward. Jerking his blade free, he ended the first man’s life with a clean slice across the throat and turned to the other. Still lurching backward, the second man took Ansel’s sword in the belly. He slumped to the ground, the last breath of air he’d ever take leaving him in a whoosh.

“I shouldn’t be impressed, but I am.”

Isolda’s head whipped around to where Clemont stood. He’d moved to the abbey’s doors, where the body of the monk still lay in a heap.

“My men should have handled you, but yet again you have bested them.” Admiration tinged Clemont’s voice, sending tendrils of disquiet twining up Isolda’s spine.

Ansel straightened and staggered toward where Isolda still clung to Eachann’s mane. He laid a bloodied hand against the horse’s neck to soothe him.

“There is nowhere for ye to run, Clemont,” Ansel panted. “Ye’re finished.”

“Nay,” Clemont said, his voice once again flat. “Not quite.”

His hand darted behind the abbey’s doors and a second later, he dragged out a small, huddled figure.

The whole world fell away—the graveyard, the abbey, the bodies strewn on the ground, even Eachann’s warm, strong body beneath her and Ansel’s comforting nearness.

John trembled in Clemont’s grasp.

Clemont flicked his wrist, and suddenly a dagger appeared in his hand. He raised the blade to John’s throat.

Her sweet son blinked through the darkness, his pale eyes landing squarely on her.

“Mama?”