The Lady's Protector (Highland Bodyguards #1) (4 page)

Lady Isolda’s lips tightened again almost imperceptibly. Something stirred in the pit of Ansel’s stomach. It was strangely satisfying to wheedle a reaction—even a negative one—out of this stiff woman.

“Very well,” she said, though he detected annoyance under the surface of her smooth tone. “Please have the chamber made up for Ansel. He will be staying this night—and no more.”

Before Ansel could object, Mary’s mouth fell open and she began chattering frantically.

“Oh, nay, my lady! This man cannot stay here in the tower with you! It is most improper! And is he Scottish? Oh, nay, my lady,
most
improper. Bertram and I will not allow—”

Ansel held up a hand for silence. The gesture sent Mary jumping, which gave him the opening he needed.

“I’ll sleep in the gatehouse,” he said. “But I’ll no’ be leaving until the threat to Lancaster’s son has been eliminated. Dinnae think to stand between me and my mission.”

“Nay,” Lady Isolda said, her voice so quiet that Ansel had to take a step closer to her to hear. “You will leave tomorrow. I will provide you shelter from the storm, but then you will be on your way.”

“Like hell I will,” he snapped. “Where is Lancaster’s son?”

Lady Isolda fixed her eyes on the rushes at his feet, giving her head the slightest of shakes.

“Enough games,” Ansel bit out. “Where is Lancaster’s son? Tell me.”

Slowly, Lady Isolda dragged her eyes up to meet his.

“He is not here.”

Frustration burned hot in Ansel’s veins. What a cursed mess this was. “Well, where the bloody hell is he?”

Lady Isolda’s throat bobbed in a telltale sign of nervousness, but even still, she tilted her chin upward.

“Only I know where he is. And…and I will not tell you.”

Isolda clutched her hands in front of her to prevent twisting them in the brocade of her surcoat’s skirts.

The enormous Scot took another step forward so that he towered over her. His eyes, which appeared nigh black in the hearth’s flickering light, narrowed on her. Mary inhaled sharply from the stairs, but Isolda didn’t dare take her eyes off Ansel Sutherland to glance at her maid.

“What do ye mean, only ye ken where he is, and ye’ll no’ tell me?”

He was so close that his scent reached out and enfolded her. He smelled of wood smoke and rain and horseflesh—purely masculine. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d stood so close to a man. It was indecent. Improper. And yet she refused to step back.

“I mean exactly that,” she replied, willing her voice to remain even.

Ansel shifted his weight irritably, and she had to drop her hands to her sides lest she brush against his—

Her eyes skittered over his large form once more. His shoulders were impossibly broad. The damp linen tunic he wore clung to his muscles, revealing clearly that he was not simply a big man. Nay, he was hard and honed everywhere she looked. Muscle corded in his shoulders and arms. His chest, which heaved with barely restrained anger directly in front of her eyes, appeared to be slab upon slab of pure strength. Even the blocks of muscle banding his stomach were plainly defined through his wet, clinging tunic.

When she ripped her gaze from his honed physique, his eyes had narrowed even more. The hard lines of his jaw were bristled with dark stubble. A slight cleft in his chin might have made him seem regal, but instead it combined with everything else about his rough, fierce appearance to make him look all the more like a wild Highland barbarian.

“I’ll no’ be gotten rid of so easily,” he ground out, his own gaze boldly assessing her. “I’ll have answers—if no’ from ye, then I’ll seek out Lancaster to settle this matter.”

She felt her eyes widen slightly and silently cursed herself for giving him a reaction.

“Mary, please busy yourself abovestairs.”

“But my lady—”

“Mary, please,” Isolda said firmly.

At last, her maid reluctantly retreated up the stairs. Isolda waited until she heard the soft thump of a wooden door close behind Mary before taking a deep breath. She squared her shoulders and drew herself up to her full, if scanty, height.

“The Earl of Lancaster doesn’t know where his son is, for if he did, he wouldn’t have sent you here to look for him.”

Ansel crossed his arms over his chest. The bulge of his forearms nigh brushed against her breasts, but she refused to back down. He cocked a dark eyebrow at her, his mouth turning down sourly.

“Aye, I suppose I can grant ye that,” he said, his low voice grudging. “But then ye must grant that Lancaster’s bastard is indeed in danger. Why else would ye be hiding him from me?”

Though she tried to school her features, she must have flinched slightly at the word “bastard,” for his eyes were once again keenly trained on her face.

“What is Lancaster’s
bastard
to ye?” he said slowly, emphasizing the offending word. “And why have ye stowed him away?”

“I do not have to answer such rude questions from some Highland
barbarian
,” she snapped, feeling a surge of ire heat her blood. “I am Lady Isolda of Embleton, and you…you are naught but a…”

“A Highland barbarian?” he parroted back to her. “Aye, I am that.” A wolfish smile curved his lips, but his eyes remained hard and searching. “But I am here on the authority of the Earl himself. By his order, I am to protect his son. Whether ye choose to hamper me or aid me makes little difference, for I willnae be deterred.”

“You will leave tomorrow morning,” she asserted again, though she cursed herself for the subtle waver in her voice.

He must have sensed her cracking resolve, for he leaned in ever so slightly. Suddenly Isolda got the distinct impression of what a lamb must feel like as it was hunted by a wolf.

“Tomorrow morning will prove ye wrong,” he said softly, flashing her another smile.

He leaned back on his heels, and she exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“For the time being, though, I am bone weary and sopping wet. I’d best retire to the gatehouse so that I can get a good night’s sleep. I’ll need to be refreshed for the work ahead of me tomorrow.”

He stepped back and gave her a little mock bow, then turned and scooped up his saddlebags, tossing them over his shoulder. He yanked open the door that led to the yard and barreled out into the storm.

The rain was falling harder now. The yard had darkened considerably, both with the thick clouds overhead and the waning daylight of a fall evening.

As the wooden door swung nearly shut, Bertram caught it and ducked his head, now dripping wet, inside.

“Ah, thank God, my lady,” Bertram said with a relieved nod of his head. “You’ve sent that Scottish…
man
away.”

Bertram watched Ansel’s back as he made his way across the yard, suspicion and distaste clearly written on his weathered features.

“Nay,” Isolda said, suddenly weary. “He is staying in the gatehouse for the night.”

Before Bertram could protest, she quickly went on. “Only for the night, though. I will send him away tomorrow.”

Who was she fooling? If she had been able to keep the Scot away, he wouldn’t be mounting the stairs to the castle’s gatehouse at this moment.

“I’ll see it done, my lady,” Bertram said, straightening.

She nodded, but her mind whispered the truth to her. Bertram couldn’t stop Ansel Sutherland. The Highlander more than proved that in the yard. How had he moved so swiftly, so fluidly when he’d drawn his sword on Bertram? She’d never seen a man move like that before.

Isolda pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling a headache forming.

“I think I shall retire for the evening,” she said.

Bertram bowed. “Do you wish for me to stay and stand watch over the tower, my lady?”

The Highlander could likely barge into her little tower any time he wanted, with only old Bertram to slow him. She would have to make sure that Bertram didn’t come to harm trying to enforce her wishes or protecting her from the Scot.

But for all of Ansel Sutherland’s bluster and ire, she doubted he was a physical threat to her.

“Nay, that is noble of you, Bertram, but it will not be unnecessary.”

As Bertram slipped from the tower with another bow, she strode to the stairs and began making her slow ascent. The curving stairway was dim, but her feet knew this path all too well.

At the first landing, she reached for the door that led to her chamber. Blessedly, Mary was not within, though the maid had lit the fire in the hearth against the far wall.

She could call for Mary to help her undress, but Isolda longed to be alone with her thoughts.

The letter Ansel bore proved that he spoke the truth about his mission to protect Lancaster’s son. The missive was in Lancaster’s handwriting and was signed with Lancaster’s pet name for himself to boot.

King Arthur
. Isolda’s mind flew back six years. Lancaster had spoken in hushed tones of his grand plans for himself. Isolda had been such a silly girl then. She’d hardly paid attention to his words, so entranced was she by Thomas’s clever blue eyes and the power he carried as easily as a mantle over his shoulders.

Aye, she trusted that Ansel would not try to harm her this night. But that didn’t mean the rough-edged man’s presence didn’t threaten her secret.

Isolda almost snorted. Ansel Sutherland wasn’t rough-edged. He didn’t have edges to speak of. He was rude, brash, impatient, and foul-tempered from what she’d seen so far.

But he was right about one thing—John, Lancaster’s illegitimate son, was in danger.

She’d feared as much for nigh a year. The accidents weren’t accidents at all, despite her desire to deny the truth. It was why she’d sent John away all those months ago. And it was why not even Mary or Bertram knew where she’d hidden him. It was too dangerous for them to know, for the knowledge alone could cost them their lives.

The fact that Thomas, the Earl of Lancaster, had sent someone to protect his son proved that the threat went far beyond her worst fears. Did such an action prove that Thomas cared about John after all?

Nay, she quickly pushed that line of thinking aside. She’d learned long ago that Lancaster didn’t have the capacity for love, or even caring.

Just as Isolda had freed herself from the confines of her exquisitely made surcoat, a rap sounded against her chamber door.

“My lady?” Mary’s weak voice drifted through the wood.

Isolda sighed. “All is well, Mary. I am tired. I can see to myself tonight.”

“But what about your supper, my lady? And I can help with the tangles in your hair.”

“Thank you, Mary,” Isolda said, softening her voice. “But truly, I am fine. Tend to yourself this evening.”

She heard Mary’s footfalls trail away down the stairs.

With cold fingers, Isolda worked on the ties of the gown she’d selected to complement the surcoat. When only her chemise remained, she unbound her hair and took her bone comb to the windblown mess of locks.

At last, she slipped between the covers of her down-filled bed. All the riches surrounding her came from Lancaster, but none of them would protect her from whoever was after John. Perhaps Ansel could help…

Nay, she wouldn’t divulge the secret of John’s location to anyone—not Mary, not Bertram, and certainly not some irate Highland warrior who simply showed up at Dunstanburgh demanding to know where John was.

Unease tickled down her spine, so she burrowed deeper into the downy folds of her bed. Ansel Sutherland was determined. He’d vowed to protect John, with or without her help. And from what little she’d seen of him so far, he didn’t seem like a man easily deterred.

She might just be stuck with the Scot for the time being.

It didn’t count as waking up if one hadn’t truly slept, did it?

Ansel threw back the blankets of his bedroll when the first rays of morning sun slipped through the arrow slit over his makeshift bed and fell on the stone floor of the gatehouse.

He could blame his foul mood on the relentless hammering of rain all throughout the night, or on the fact that the floor he’d slept on, while dry, was harder and colder than any patch of forest dirt. He could find fault with the fact that he’d had to eat sennight-old biscuits and dried meat since his hostess hadn’t offered him a warm meal or a mug of ale.

“Bloody English hospitality,” he grumbled to himself as he donned a set of dry breeches and a tunic he’d removed from his saddlebags.

But if he were honest with himself, the real reason for his sour disposition this morning lay with a certain green-eyed, chestnut-haired Englishwoman who seemed hell-bent on thwarting his mission.

As if the idea of helping the Earl of Lancaster, an Englishman who’d fought against—and killed—Scots more than once in the last few years, wasn’t bad enough. Now he had to get through the mysterious Lady Isolda, who clearly knew more than she was telling about both Lancaster and his bastard son.

“Doesnae matter,” he muttered. He was a Highlander, damn it. He was a warrior. And he was sent by King Robert the Bruce himself. No wee English lass, noble or not, was going to best him so easily.

The hours of restless tossing and turning last night had given him plenty of time to plot his new approach to the lady in question—and form a plan of attack.

Ansel shoved his feet into his still-damp boots and buckled his sword to his hip.

He didn’t bother fastening his shoulder-length hair at the nape of his neck, though. If she thought him a barbarian, he’d play the part, for it seemed to ruffle that cool, regal exterior she clung to. Perhaps if he could perturb her enough, he’d find an opening. And when he did, he’d strike.

He emerged from the gatehouse to find a surprisingly sunny, clear morning after last night’s storm. The grass under his boots glistened with lingering raindrops as he crossed toward Lady Isolda’s tower.

The yard was already abuzz with activity. Laborers were streaming through the gate and making their way toward various sections of the incomplete curtain wall. Ansel repressed a curse. He was going to have to talk with each and every one of them about what they knew of the lady of the keep—and Lancaster’s son.

No matter, he reminded himself firmly. If this was the first task associated with completing his mission, so be it.

He rapped sharply on Lady Isolda’s wooden door, but when it swung open, he found himself staring down at the wide-eyed maid, Mary.

“Where is yer mistress? I have some questions for her.”

The woman slowly shook her gray-brown head, wringing her hands in the apron tied over her simple woolen gown.

“She isn’t here at present my lor—er…”

“Just Ansel is fine, madam,” he said, doing his best to place a smile on his face.

Mary blinked up at him, clearly disconcerted by his attempt at kindness. Well, he was out of practice. But he would have to find a way to put the jumpy maid at ease if he hoped to ever get a scrap of useful information out of her.

“And where is she? Hopefully no’ tucked away with Lancaster’s son, wherever that may be.” He kept his voice light, though by Mary’s continued hand-wringing, he had an uphill battle ahead.

“Nay, my lo—Ansel.” Mary hesitated, her eyebrows drawing together as she considered something for a moment. “She is down on the Rumble Churn, below Gull Crag.”

She pointed off toward where the cliff atop which Dunstanburgh Castle was perched fell away in a sheer drop to the North Sea below.

“Does she…go down there often?” The thought of the rigid, cold lady he’d spoken with yesterday scrambling down a cliff was rather incongruous.

Mary nodded. “Aye, every day. But she prefers not to be disturbed during such times.”

“Thank you, Madam Mary,” Ansel said with a bob of his head. “I will no’ betray your confidence in me to your lady.” He threw in a wink at the end, which earned him another blink and a blush from the maid.

Aye, he could do this, he thought as he strode from the tower toward the cliff’s edge. Different people required different methods, but he’d have the information he needed eventually. Now all he had to do was figure out how to crack Lady Isolda’s icy exterior.

He came to a sudden halt as his eyes landed on the lady in question. She was picking her way across a sea of rounded black rocks far below the cliff. She wore a blue surcoat with a creamy gown beneath, both of which were whipping frantically in the wind.

The wind revealed her figure to his riveted gaze. At a particularly strong blast of salty air, her garments plastered themselves to her legs, outlining every long line and delicate curve. She carefully lifted her skirts, uncovering a slim ankle wrapped in the thin leather of her boots. The thick braid of chestnut hair hanging down her back swung with each of her prudently placed steps.

So focused on her footing was she that she didn’t notice him at the top of the crag, watching her. But even without a witness to point out his staring, he knew the truth. The telltale heat coiled deep in his belly—and lower.

“Bloody hell,” he murmured. The last thing he needed was to feel a bodily attraction to this haughty English noblewoman.

Suddenly her boot slipped on a damp rock. Her arms pin-wheeled as she attempted to regain her balance. Ansel’s heart leapt into his throat and without thinking about it, he took a step closer to the edge of the cliff.

She managed to right herself before taking what promised to be a painful tumble on the rocks. With a little shake of her shoulders, she carried on. Ansel, too, had to give himself a jolt. What had he planned to do, leap from the nigh one hundred foot crag and swoop to the lady’s rescue?

He watched the rigidness of her spine, the elegant way she held her head. Nay, she didn’t need him. She could take care of herself.

His eyes traveled the edge of the crag until he found the trail he assumed she used to reach the rocks below. Though he took a step toward it, he stopped himself. She didn’t like to be disturbed here, Mary had said. She’d halted and now stood gazing at the sun rising over the sea.

There would be plenty of time to question her—later. She could have this moment. He might as well get started with the others, though.

*    *    *

“Lady Isolda! You’d best come, quick!”

Bernard stood at the top of the narrow path leading back up to the castle.

“What is wrong?”

“It is the Highlander, my lady.”

Her stomach cinched into a knot. For some foolish reason, she’d held on to the sliver of hope that he would abide by her wishes and simply leave without a fuss this morning. Of course, that clearly hadn’t happened.

“What about him?”

“He is questioning everyone in the castle about the Earl of Lancaster’s son—and about you.” Bertram’s bushy eyebrows knitted together in consternation as he waited for her, his mouth turned down in clear ire as he spoke of Ansel Sutherland.

The knot in her belly tightened so hard that she gasped. She scrambled up the remaining few feet to the top of the path, no longer bothering to hold the fine blue silk of her skirts away from the ground.

“He asked me where Lancaster’s son is, my lady. He also asked many questions about you—how long you’ve lived here and how far your knowledge of Lancaster and his heir goes. Of course I told him naught. When I wouldn’t answer, he moved on to the laborers.”

Isolda’s nails bit into her palms as she squeezed her hands into fists. She barely resisted the urge to run across the yard. With all her willpower, she forced herself into a smooth but swift stride. Bertram fell in behind her.

She spotted Ansel’s broad back and loose, dark hair, which rustled in the salty breeze, along the southwest section of the curtain wall. Lifting her head, she marched purposefully toward him.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded when she was close enough not to have to resort to an undignified shout to be heard over the wind and the noise of the laborers working on the wall.

Ansel turned slowly toward her, a dark eyebrow cocked arrogantly. As he pivoted to face her, she noticed that his tall, muscular body had blocked out the man to whom he was speaking. He had the Master Mason, Elias, nigh pinned against the wall.

Ansel acknowledged her with a little tilt of his head, but then turned back to Elias as if she hadn’t just spoken to him.

“As ye were saying, ye never saw Lancaster’s son. But ye’ve only been on the job for a few months, aye?”

Elias nodded, his gaze darting between Isolda and the giant Highlander questioning him.

“Aye, that’s correct. I received a missive from one of Lancaster’s men hiring me for this job. The previous mason’s work was well done, from what I can tell, but apparently Lady Isolda sent him away and requested a new mason.”

Isolda’s heart hammered in her chest, nigh deafening her.

“How
dare
you question my workers about me as if I were some kind of criminal!” she hissed at Ansel.

“
Yer
workers?” Ansel turned back to her, that same wolfish look on his hard features. “If I am no’ mistaken, this is Lancaster’s castle. Ye are just the keeper—for the time being.”

As she sputtered to find words for her rage at his blunt overconfidence, he spun toward where most of the laborers were working.

“Listen up, men!” he shouted over the noise of their labor. “I was sent here by order of the Earl of Lancaster. As he is the one paying ye, it’s safe to say that he would demand yer cooperation with me. I’ll have more questions for ye throughout the day—unless, of course, Lady Isolda prefers to answer them herself.”

His dark gaze shifted to her, that cursed eyebrow raised expectantly.

Damn him. And damn Lancaster.

She was good and trapped now.