The Lady's Protector (Highland Bodyguards #1) (3 page)

Ansel narrowed his eyes on the woman who stepped from the stone tower with the air of a queen, her red gown swishing softly.

“What do ye mean, ye are in charge?”

Whatever Ansel had been expecting, it wasn’t this. Granted, he hadn’t had much information to go on, but a castle in shambles housing an English noblewoman who claimed to be in charge was a stretch.

He’d ridden hard for nigh a sennight to get here as fast as possible, imagining that Lancaster’s bastard son could be set upon by Edward’s lackeys at any moment. Though he’d been caught in squall after squall, with the latest rainstorm lasting all through last night and into this morning as he’d approached the castle, he’d pushed onward, determined to take on this mission.

From a distance, Dunstanburgh Castle had been the imposing stronghold he’d been led to believe it was. But as he’d drawn closer, he made out the rough, unfinished lines of the curtain wall and the jagged protrusion of several incomplete towers. What kind of God-awful place had Lancaster stowed this son whom he claimed needed protection?

And when he’d ridden right through the open—nay, nonexistent—gates as if he owned the damn keep without so much as a guard to greet him or a question leveled at him about what his business was, he felt as if he’d been kicked in the ribs. Could this assignment be even more absurd and ill-conceived than he’d let himself suspect?

Now, the Englishwoman before him was looking at him as if he were a clump of shite stuck to a horse’s hoof. Though he would tower over her if she stood closer, her pale chin was tilted in such a way that she managed to appear as though she looked down on him.

“What do I mean? I mean that I am the lady of this keep,” she responded tersely. “What business do you have here?”

Ansel’s mood turned a shade darker. No one had mentioned anything about an English noblewoman running Dunstanburgh in Lancaster’s stead. What else didn’t he know about this cursed mission?

“I am here to collect the Earl of Lancaster’s bastard son,” he ground out.

Perhaps if he hadn’t been operating with only a few hours’ sleep each night for nigh a sennight, he would have modified his tone. Perhaps if he weren’t soaking wet and saddle-weary, he would have chosen his words more carefully. And perhaps if every sign didn’t indicate that this was a fool’s errand, he would have observed more decorum. As it was, he didn’t much care.

The Englishwoman’s lips tightened ever so slightly. Her gaze swept over him, but he detected more than just disdain in her eyes. Was that…fear?

As her gaze traveled back up his length, her eyes flickered ever so slightly over his left shoulder. It was all the warning he had.

He spun instinctively, yanking his sword free of its scabbard. The blade whirred through the air, flashing against the overcast sky. Just before his sword made contact with the person who’d snuck up behind him, Ansel snapped his arm to a halt. The blade vibrated an inch away from the neck of an aging man.

The man’s dark blue eyes rounded as he took in the sword at his neck. Ansel held the blade steady, his body nevertheless tense and ready to strike. Slowly, the man raised his hands to indicate that he hadn’t drawn a weapon.

With a quick glance, Ansel took in the sword on the man’s waist. Though the weapon looked to be in good condition, the man’s middle was thick from advanced years and inactivity. His coppery head, which was dashed liberally with white streaks, was held proudly aloft, like his lady’s was.

The Englishwoman’s gasp behind him broke through his battle-taut mind.

“Nay, do not harm him!”

Ansel lowered his blade slowly, keeping his gaze trained on the older man.

“Who the bloody hell are ye?” Ansel snapped.

“I am Bertram, Lady Isolda’s personal guard,” the man said, blinking at Ansel.

So the Englishwoman had a name. Ansel pivoted and took several steps backward so that he could bring both the woman and her guard into his line of sight.

“I dinnae ken what yer role is in all this, Lady Isolda,” Ansel said, re-sheathing his sword. “But I suggest ye keep yer man from attempting to attack me from behind again. I’m no’ always so eager to let my blade go unused.”

He shifted his gaze to Lady Isolda. Confusion now mingled with fear in her eyes as she watched his sword slide back into its sheath. Then as if consciously fortifying herself, she drew her chin up and straightened her spine. She met his gaze, and he realized suddenly that her eyes were the palest green imaginable.

“Who are you?” she demanded, taking another step toward him.

Ansel let himself truly look at her for the first time.

Though she carried herself with an air of regality, she was a petite woman. If she stood directly in front of him, the top of her head likely wouldn’t clear his chin. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a braid, though wild wisps had come loose around her face.

Those pale green eyes were framed by dark lashes and gently arching eyebrows the same rich color as her hair. Though the skin of her neck and hands was creamy, her cheeks were rosy, either from the salty breeze rushing through the yard or from the intensity of his scrutiny, he knew not which.

Under the plain shawl around her shoulders, she was clad in a dark crimson surcoat with intricate designs of flowers and leaves stitched onto it. The surcoat fit snugly over the soft curve of her breasts and tapered around her narrow waist. Now that she stood closer, he noticed that the surcoat ended at her elbows, revealing a gown underneath of a similar dark red. The gown’s sleeves stopped just above her wrists, where a creamy chemise showed.

Though Ansel didn’t bother to follow English fashion, he knew what her garb was meant to convey—wealth. No commoner ever wore a surcoat, for fabric of the kind Lady Isolda wore was far too expensive. To show three layers of such rich material spoke of coin, and a great deal of it.

Bloody hell
.

A rich English noblewoman with her chin raised to the heavens was the last thing Ansel needed.

Under his perusal, her eyes slowly widened, their pale depths disbelieving. Aye, he was being rude by not answering her question and staring so openly. He repressed a sigh. He still had a mission, and he wasn’t going to fail his King by getting on the bad side of some uppity English lady.

“I am Ansel Sutherland,” he replied at last.

She waited a beat, but when he said no more, her rosy lips thinned slightly.

“And what business do you have here, Ansel Sutherland?” she asked again.

“As I said, I am here to collect Lancaster’s bastard son.”

“To the Devil with you, you Scottish barbari—” Bertram, the aging guard, blurted.

Lady Isolda held up her hand, and the man instantly fell silent. A quick glance told Ansel that Bertram’s face had turned mottled red with indignation, though Ansel guessed it was directed more at him than at Lady Isolda.

“What do you wish with such a person?” she asked carefully. Her gaze again flicked to his sheathed sword, and he could see the wheels of her mind turning behind those pale green eyes.

“If I had come to do harm to Lancaster’s son, I wouldnae have re-sheathed my blade,” he said slowly, voicing what he suspected she was deducing. “Yer suspicion, along with the fear I see in yer eyes, tells me that the man I seek is in danger. Perhaps I am no’ the first to come looking for him.”

She held herself stock-still, but something flickered in her eyes that told him he’d hit a mark.

“That’s the truth of it, is it no’?”

When she again refused to acknowledge what he’d said, the last thread of his patience finally shredded.

“I’m here to
protect
Lancaster’s son, no’ harm him,” he snapped.

“What?” Shock briefly flashed across Lady Isolda’s delicate features before she could train them into regal detachment once more.

“I have been sent to guard the man, to ensure no harm befalls him. Clearly he’s in need of me, if this castle and one old soldier are the man’s only protection.” He swept a hand past Bertram to the half-built walls and gateless entryway.

“Who sent you?” Lady Isolda demanded, ignoring his censure.

Ansel took several deliberate steps toward her, effectively cutting Bertram out of their conversation, if it could be called that. He was a hair’s breadth from losing what remained of his composure, but he willed himself to keep his voice level.

“The Earl of Lancaster himself.”

Lady Isolda’s lips parted on a sharp inhale. Her eyes rounded, and suddenly she looked more like a scared lass than a blustering noblewoman. With only a hand span between them now, he saw that she was younger than he’d initially thought. Her demeanor was severe and cold, yet she couldn’t be more than five and twenty, and perhaps even younger.

“Why would—” He could hear her teeth click as she swiftly clamped her mouth shut. His gaze pinned her, searching for clues. What did this woman know of Lancaster? And what was she hiding from Ansel?

Lady Isolda struggled visibly to regain control of herself. At last, she seemed to find her tongue—and her cool bearing—once more.

“That is quite the claim. Do you have proof?”

He spun on his heels and strode to where he’d left Eachann untethered in the yard. With a sure hand, he removed a waxed parchment from his saddlebag. He unwrapped the parchment as he strode back toward her and handed her the Earl’s missive without hesitating.

Although the missive bore neither Lancaster’s seal nor his name, something about the look in Lady Isolda’s pale green eyes told Ansel that she was acquainted with the man. He watched her closely as she accepted the piece of parchment.

She quickly skimmed the missive, then let her gaze settle on the signature.

“King Arthur,” she murmured. Her slim throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. She refolded the missive and handed it back to Ansel, not meeting his gaze.

As he tucked the piece of parchment back into his saddlebag, the storm he’d just ridden through from the north descended on the castle. Fat drops of icy rain began pelting the yard. Though he was already soaking wet, he couldn’t help but mutter a curse at his luck thus far on this mission.

Lady Isolda pulled the shawl around her shoulders tightly. Even as raindrops hit her expensive red brocaded surcoat, she hesitated for a long moment. At last, she muttered something under her breath, then turned to Bertram.

“See to Ansel Sutherland’s horse,” she said over the increasingly loud drum of rain.

“But my lady, I will not leave you with this—”

“It is all right, Bertram,” she replied. Then she turned to Ansel. “This way, if you please.”

Lady Isolda strode briskly across the yard toward one of the partially constructed square towers that butted up against the incomplete wall. Ansel hoisted his saddlebags over one shoulder and handed Eachann’s reins to a narrow-eyed Bertram before following.

She shoved open the wooden door at the base of the tower and disappeared inside.
At least this one has a door
, he thought sourly. Though the tower lacked crenellation along its roof, it looked to be stoutly made of tightly fitted gray stone. The windows higher up were all shuttered firmly, which was more of a finishing touch than any of the other towers bore.

He stepped in behind her and booted the door closed with one foot. Once he’d dropped his saddlebags on the floor, he straightened and took in the interior of the tower.

The room was surprisingly cozy and well-appointed, though rather small for a noblewoman. A rectangular table with a few chairs next to it was pushed against the rear wall. The left side of the room was taken up by a small kitchen, with a hearth doubling as both the main source of heat and the site for cooking. Clean rushes softened the stone underfoot, and a few tapestries hung on the walls. To the right, a spiraling stone staircase led abovestairs.

“The rain has started up again, my lady. Shall I lay out a change of clothes—”

An older woman came bustling down the stairs, her voice echoing cheerfully against the stone. As the woman’s eyes landed on Ansel, she froze. A strangled scream rose in her throat.

“All is well, Mary,” Lady Isolda said quickly over the rising noise of the older woman’s scream.

The woman, Mary, clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and still riveted on Ansel.

“Forgive my maid,” Lady Isolda said to Ansel. “She is overly wary of…of strange men.” She turned to the servant. “This is Ansel Sutherland. He was sent to protect the Earl of Lancaster’s son.”

Ansel didn’t miss how deliberately she chose her words as she spoke to her maid.

“Ah,” Mary said, slowly lowering her hand from her mouth. She nodded in understanding to her lady. “Indeed, forgive me, my lord.” Mary’s dark eyes darted between her mistress and Ansel with uncertainty.

What in bloody hell had happened at Dunstanburgh Castle to set everyone so on edge? Ansel ground his teeth against the desire to curse this mission once again.

“Mary, please have the guest chamber made up for Sir Sutherland and—”

“I’m no’ a lord,” he cut in. “Just Ansel.”