The Lady's Protector (Highland Bodyguards #1) (6 page)

“But ye have never met a Highlander. Suffice it to say that when we make a decision, it is final. I’ll protect ye, and thereby John, as long as a threat exists.”

She was at her wit’s end. She’d never intended to tell him that John was her son, nor had she anticipated the news that both she and John might be in grave danger. She pinched the bridge of her nose, unable to muster any more steel for her spine.

“I cannot stop you from staying, or from appointing yourself my protector,” she said. “But I ask that you stop questioning the people here about me or John. It is unseemly and—”

“Done,” he said evenly.

“And I do not want you interfering with the work of the mason or the laborers. As you have already pointed out, they are in Lancaster’s employ. They must be allowed to make progress on the castle.”

“That I cannae promise,” he said, his face set. “There will be some changes around here, if only for yer safety.”

She was too weary to fight anymore. The tears she’d held inside throbbed in the back of her eyes and another headache was forming. All she could manage was a nod.

“Please excuse me,” she said, scraping together the last semblance of propriety she could muster. She strode past him and to the stairs, then stepped carefully down to the yard. She had to will herself not to run straight to her tower and instead glided as a lady would across the grass.

But when she had climbed the stairs to her chamber and closed the door, she could hold back the tears no longer.

Both her and her son’s lives were in danger, entangled by political schemers who spun them in a web as if they were no more than flies. And the only thing standing between her and death was a roguish Highlander with dark eyes and warm, strong hands.

Ansel splashed cool water over his face and bare chest. Though dreary clouds had dominated the sky for the last sennight, today had been a brilliant fall day. The sun had blazed in a crystal-clear blue sky, enticing the castle laborers to strip down to just their breeches.

He straightened, his eyes immediately traveling up the northwest tower to the window he now knew to be Lady Isolda’s. Sure enough, she stood at the window, the wooden shutters drawn back to let the sunshine and warm air inside. Even from this distance, he could feel her gaze shift to land on him where he stood along the wall.

With a curse for himself, he ripped his gaze away. He couldn’t deny his attraction—she was a beautiful woman, and he was a virile man, after all. But it was a distraction, one he could ill afford with so much to do still.

Over the last sennight, he’d taken charge of Dunstanburgh’s construction, much to the vexation of the Master Mason, Elias.

His first order of business had been to shift the laborers’ efforts from the patch of curtain wall along the southern edge of the keep to the gatehouse. Though having a completed wall was essential to properly fortify the castle, it was far more important to have a gate to block the primary entrance to the keep.

At least with the wall standing a minimum of a few feet all around, an assailant would have to scramble over it, wasting precious seconds of an attack, and potentially the element of surprise. In addition, no horses could be driven over the wall’s thick base. But leaving the main entrance completely unbarred was simply unacceptable. Ansel himself had ridden in without so much as slowing his horse.

Of course, the problems had started immediately. Master Elias, the wiry little man with a sharp mind but a stubborn streak, had objected to Ansel ordering his crew of workers, especially when it meant pulling them off the task of completing the wall.

Master Elias’s sole focus was to finish his task on time, lest the precious months before construction had to be halted for winter be wasted. But Ansel didn’t care a whit for Elias’s schedule if it meant leaving the castle—and Lady Isolda—vulnerable to attack.

After much debate, Ansel had at last convinced Elias that shifting to the wooden gates wouldn’t set back his schedule, for the task needed to be done eventually anyway. But the portcullis wasn’t going to be completed and delivered until next spring, according to the mason.

Though Ansel had wanted to throttle the man several times in only a sennight, he’d taken to spending his time with the mason and his workers. Partly it had been done out of convenience—he lent his strength to the task of fitting and erecting the wooden gates, and consequently took his meals with the men.

But he also had a strategic purpose in embedding himself amongst the laborers. The men flowed into the castle every morning at dawn, then walked back to the village of Embleton at dusk. It was hard to keep track of all of their faces. If Ansel wasn’t able to seal Dunstanburgh’s walls and lower its portcullis tight before winter was upon them, he could at least keep an eye on who came and went from the castle.

He cupped his hands once more in the bucket of cool well water at his feet and splashed away the day’s labor. As he watched the workers file out through the new wooden gates, he felt that telltale itch between his shoulder blades.

Lady Isolda still watched him. He cursed himself silently. How was he expected to keep his mind sharp and his body focused with a beautiful—if haughty—English noblewoman watching him at all hours?

Ansel stomped toward the gatehouse, where he’d discarded his tunic and belt with his sword fastened to it.

“Bertram,” he barked, startling the lingering laborers. They gave him a wide berth as they quickened their steps through the gates. Aye, he thought sourly, despite working alongside them for the last sennight, they were obviously still wary of the cantankerous Scot in their midst.

Ansel didn’t bother donning his tunic, for though the sun was just slipping behind the mountains to the west, the earth still held the day’s warmth. As he strapped his belt around his hips, Bertram came shuffling from Lady Isolda’s unfinished tower.

Unbidden, Ansel’s eyes shot from the door where Bertram emerged to the window where Lady Isolda had stood watching, but his gaze was a second too late. He caught a glimpse of swishing green fabric and then the shutters snapped closed.

Bertram fumbled for the sword on his hip as he crossed the grassy yard toward Ansel. The man’s gate was stiff, likely from their little training sessions. Ansel had insisted that the old guard train with him from sunset, when the laborers headed toward the village, until the blue light of gloaming turned too dark for sword work.

Ansel pulled his sword free of its scabbard smoothly.

Without waiting for Bertram to take up a readied stance or raise his own sword, Ansel launched an attack. Bertram barely managed to get a handle on his weapon and deflect the blow. Their blades rang out across the quiet yard.

“Today’s lesson is on preparedness,” Ansel said, pivoting for a new angle of attack. He feinted right, then struck out at Bertram from the left.

“The lesson being that there is no such thing as being prepared enough.”

Bertram blocked the attack but only had time to take a shuffling step back before Ansel lunged again.

Just as Ansel spun to level a mighty blow on Bertram’s weaker side, the wooden door of Lady Isolda’s tower thumped faintly.

Ansel halted abruptly in mid-turn, sword raised over his shoulder. Lady Isolda’s pale skin stood out starkly in the falling twilight. Her emerald green surcoat was cut flat across the top, baring the curve of her shoulders to the evening air.

Bertram, already panting from Ansel’s ruthless attacks, took the opening Ansel gave him. He thrust forward, aiming for Ansel’s middle.

At the last possible moment, Ansel yanked his gaze away from Lady Isolda and parried the blow. He turned, letting Bertram’s momentum carry him forward even as he grabbed the man’s wrist. With a quick twist, he torqued the blade free of Bertram’s grip.

Bertram stumbled forward with a grunt of surprise. When he turned to find Ansel with both blades cocked in his grip, he folded in a slump, his hands on his knees and his breath ragged.

“Is this really necessary?”

Ansel’s head snapped back to Lady Isolda, who glided across the yard, emerald brocade swishing softly against the grass.

“Aye, it is.” Ansel tossed Bertram’s sword onto the ground at the older man’s feet, then spun his own blade in his palm, readying for another attack. “Again, Bertram.”

Lady Isolda stepped between Ansel and her guard. “Nay, Bertram, it is all right. You may rest for a moment.”

“No, he may no’. Yer fierce guard here is rusty with a blade and sorely in need of the exertion.”

Lady Isolda took several sudden strides toward Ansel. “There is no need to embarrass him. He is a good man,” she bit out in little more than a whisper, thus shielding Bertram from her words.

Ansel exhaled slowly through his teeth. Aye, Bertram had never once complained over the grueling hour of training Ansel had put him through each evening. But Lady Isolda still didn’t seem to understand how little her aging guard would be able to do against another attack by one of Edward’s men.

“He needs this,” he said, studiously keeping his voice low as well. “Hell, he needed this every day for the last decade. If he is to be ready when—no’ if—another attack comes, he must train.”

She raised her hand and waved it dismissively in the small space between them. The motion drew Ansel’s gaze down. He immediately regretted it.

The low cut of her surcoat not only revealed the creamy skin of her shoulders, but also her delicate collar bones—and the soft curve of the tops of her breasts. They rose and fell gently with her breathing, but under his gaze, her breaths grew rapid and shallow.

His manhood surged to life despite the small voice in the back of his mind screaming that he shouldn’t—couldn’t—be attracted to this woman.

He forced his gaze from her breasts up the slim column of her neck, where he saw her throat bob in a swallow. When his eyes reached her mouth, her tongue darted out to moisten her lips.

Shite
.

He was acting like the barbarian she’d called him by salivating over her like some starved animal. But when his gaze continued upward at last to her eyes, he was startled to find that she was actually staring at his bare chest.

Her pale green eyes almost seemed to glow in the fading light as they darted over his exposed form. Color rose in her cheeks even as she shifted her gaze to the ground between them. She visibly floundered to regain her regal air, but a long moment stretched, with neither of them saying anything.

Bertram shifted behind her, saving them both from having to find their tongues.

“It is all right, my lady,” he panted, bending to retrieve his sword. “The training is doing me good. And Ansel is right—we must be prepared.”

One thimbleful of tension drained from Ansel. At least he’d convinced Bertram of the reality of the threat against Lady Isolda. If only the lady herself wouldn’t be so damnably stubborn.

She turned slightly toward Bertram, breaking the invisible spell that had held them so close. “We
are
prepared, Bertram. No harm has befallen me that you haven’t been able to handle. I simply wish…”

She smoothed her hands down the front of her surcoat. “I wish for life to go on as normally as possible.” She turned back to Ansel, her eyes firmly confined to his face. “You are unsettling Master Elias and the workers. Bertram is sore and tired. And I—”

“Aye?” Ansel said lowly. “Am I unsettling ye as well?” He leaned forward, all but obliterating the remaining space between them. He couldn’t seem to help it—ruffling this noblewoman’s feathers sent the blood hammering in his veins.

“Aye,” she said, her voice suddenly breathy. “You are disturbing the peace here, Ansel Sutherland.”

He snorted. For some reason, she couldn’t seem to drop his clan name when speaking to him—at least in front of others. They hadn’t addressed the fact that she’d fainted into his arms, or shed tears before him, since that day a sennight ago. She’d simply slipped back into her carefully cold demeanor once more. It must seem too intimate to discuss. Doing so would threaten her seemingly unflappable exterior—just like calling him solely by his given name or staring at his bare chest would.

“The peace here is an illusion,” he said, the lust in his veins suddenly tinged with dark memories. “This is Northumbria, is it no’? Peace and the Borderlands dinnae mix. And peace for someone who has been targeted by the King of England is impossible. Trust me—a Scot would ken.”

Uncertainty flashed in her pale eyes, but she quickly replaced it with that stubborn defiance he’d seen often enough already. She tilted her chin in that regal way and parted her lips to argue with him, but just then an idea sparked in the back of his mind.

Before she could debate the need for his protection yet again, he interjected. “But if ye truly believe that all I’m doing here is unnecessary, perhaps ye’d be willing to put yer keep—and yer guard—to a test.”

With her lips still parted, she tilted her head, but this time it was in confusion. Her dark brows came together over her eyes.

“What do you mean, a
test
?”

As the idea took shape, Ansel couldn’t stop the slow smile that began spreading across his face.

“Ye think ye dinnae need my protection. Ye think that Bertram here is enough, and that all the changes I’m making to Master Elias’s construction plan are unnecessary.”

Guardedly, she nodded her agreement.

“And I wish to prove to ye that ye are a sitting duck here, with naught but an old man’s sword and a few piles of stones to stand between ye and whoever seeks John’s location.”

She stiffened slightly at the mention of her son’s name.

“I mean no offense, Bertram,” Ansel said with a shrug to the aging guard. “But ye dinnae understand what ye’re up against—neither of ye.”

Bertram came to stand by his lady’s side, still slightly out of breath from his earlier exertion. Even still, Bertram’s shoulders squared indignantly. “And what do you think you can do to make us…
understand
?”

Though Bertram had been willing to train without complaint, Ansel had found the edge of his willingness to go along with a Scottish outsider’s plans.
Good
. Bertram would benefit from this demonstration just as much as Lady Isolda, then.

“I’m going to attack the keep—tonight. Put up yer best defense, and I’ll prove to ye that it is past time ye get behind me in my efforts to shore this place up.”

Lady Isolda blinked up at him. “You are going to
attack
the keep? What do you intend to do?”

“As I told Bertram earlier,” Ansel said, re-sheathing his sword, “ye can never be prepared enough. Ye already have the benefit of the knowledge that I plan to attack tonight. If I was one of Edward’s men, what would ye do to stop me?”

As Lady Isolda sputtered for the words to no doubt set him down a peg or two, he strode toward the gatehouse, where his tunic still lay in the entryway.