The Lady's Protector (Highland Bodyguards #1) (7 page)

“I’ll give ye an hour,” he said, pulling his tunic over his head. “Then I’ll come for ye.”

He almost laughed as Lady Isolda indignantly planted her fists on her hips.

“Come, my lady,” Bertram said, guiding her back toward her tower. “Don’t concern yourself with this game. He’s just trying to prove a point, but we can prove one as well.”

Ansel strode past the already-closed gate and toward a particularly low section of the curtain wall. He hoisted himself atop the thick stones, holding his sword in place on his hip.

“Good luck,” he taunted before slipping down to the outside of the unfinished wall.

He caught a glimpse of Lady Isolda’s face turning back toward him just before Bertram closed the tower’s wooden door behind her and positioned himself in front of it.

This would be too easy.

This would be too easy.

Isolda paced the length of her chamber, then turned in front of the shuttered window and walked back toward her barred door. She pressed her lips together to prevent an unladylike curse of frustration from slipping out.

Had it been an hour yet?

Bertram had eaten a quick and simple meal with her and Mary, as was his habit, but then he’d returned to stand guard outside the tower. Mary had been in a flap about the prospect of Ansel attacking the castle, even if it was only to prove a point. Isolda had instructed her to take to her own chamber for the rest of the evening, knowing that the maid wasn’t Ansel’s target.

She was.

I’ll come for ye
.

For some reason, his words had sent a shiver down her spine. Even now they echoed in her mind, twisting her stomach into a hot knot that wasn’t entirely accounted for by her trepidation for this little
test
, as he’d called it.

Of course, behind her bluster, she knew from the moment he proposed his plan that they couldn’t withstand his assault on the castle. She’d watched him work alongside the village laborers for the last sennight and spied on him as he trained with Bertram every evening. His body was stacked with hard-earned strength, his muscles coiled and taut under his sun-bronzed skin. The way he moved with his sword, it was as if the blade was an extension of his body. And his sharp gaze seemed to miss nothing—even her foolish staring.

But some part of her still didn’t want to believe what he said was true—that John’s life was in graver danger than she ever could have imagined, and now hers was, too. She longed to cling to her isolation here at Dunstanburgh, for even though John’s absence was painful, at least she could pretend that sending him away had marked the end of the threat they faced.

But nay, this Highland rogue with a foul tongue and an even fouler mood insisted on proving just how vulnerable she was.

No matter, she told herself firmly, straightening her spine though her chamber was empty. She had a few tricks to show him yet.

She crossed to the window for the hundredth time that evening. A sliver of moonlight slid through the shutters. Night had fallen in earnest. Ansel was coming.

As she stood before the shuttered window, her curiosity bested her. Slowly, she unlatched the shutters. Just a peek into the yard, she promised herself. Careful to keep the motion as small and unnoticeable as possible, she cracked the shutters and peered down.

The half-moon hung brightly in the cloudless night sky. Its light bathed the yard in a silvery glow, though the gatehouse and parts of the curtain wall cast deep shadows. Her eyes scanned quickly for any hint of movement, but all was still.

If she angled her head just right, she could see Bertram where he stood at the tower’s door. She almost smiled. Bertram normally slept in the wooden stables along the wall between her tower and the gatehouse. But at least for the sake of Ansel’s game, he was a valiant guard this evening.

Isolda’s mirth evaporated with that thought. Bertram had been with her since the moment she’d left Clitheroe, a crying newborn in her arms and not a friend in the world besides Mary.

It had seemed like an insult on Lancaster’s part—or an afterthought—to send Bertram to watch over Isolda and little John. Whatever his intent, or lack of it, Lancaster had given her an angel in the form of the aging soldier. Bertram had protected John from the village drunkard wielding a knife. But compared to Ansel, Bertram seemed more suited to be a kindly companion rather than her sole protector.

Just then a shadow shifted ever so slightly near the stables. She inhaled sharply. From her angle looking down on the yard, she could see the faintly darker shadow moving along the wall, but the sight was blocked to Bertram where he stood at the tower’s door.

She opened her mouth to give him warning, but then clamped it shut. How often did she stand guard from her chamber, scanning the yard for intruders? Nay, Bertram would have to meet the threat on his own.

The shadow disappeared behind the stables. A moment later, the stable doors burst open and a large form dashed out into the yard.

Isolda had to clamp a hand over her mouth to prevent from crying out in surprise. Her eyes darted after the huge blob darting across the yard. As the moonlight fell on it, she realized it was a horse, not a man.

She jerked her gaze to Bertram, who’d started at the sudden appearance of the horse as well. He had his sword drawn, and his gaze followed the animal.

Suddenly she saw the first shadow move again. It sprang from the cover of darkness along the curtain wall right next to the tower. Bertram, distracted by the horse, didn’t see the attack until it was too late. A blade flashed in the moonlight, settling directly against his throat.

Bertram froze, his body tense under the blade.

“Ye’re dead.” Ansel’s gruff, low whisper barely made it to Isolda’s ears where she crouched in front of the cracked shutters.

The blade disappeared from Bertram’s neck, and he visibly relaxed.

“Give me the key to the tower door.”

“Nay!” Bertram shot back in a raised whisper.

She faintly heard Ansel’s snort. “If I were a real attacker, I’d simply take the keys off yer dead body. Give them.”

After a long pause, Isolda heard the key ring jangle as Bertram removed it from the pouch on his belt.

“Wait here,” Ansel said. “And dinnae interfere—remember, ye’re dead.”

Now it was Bertram’s turn to snort indignantly.

The key turned in the tower door’s lock, and then she heard the soft squeak of the hinges as the door swung open.

Her heart hitched into her throat. Aye, it was only a game, but her stomach fluttered with anticipation. Ansel had made it into the tower, but that didn’t mean the game was over.

She stood and stepped toward her chamber’s door. With trembling fingers, she plucked the bejeweled dagger from her desk and took up her position. The dagger was ornamental, yet because it was never used, the blade was as sharp as ever.

Time stretched as she waited. Ansel must be slowly and systematically sweeping the tower, small as it was. How long would it take him to reach her chamber? It was on the first landing up the stairs from the ground floor, yet he seemed to be taking his time.

She nigh jumped out of her skin when her door rattled. He pulled and pushed for a moment, then cursed quietly in the stairwell on the other side of the thick door. Isolda pressed her lips together against the combination of anticipation and glee. He’d be realizing just now that her door didn’t have a lock, which meant that his key ring wouldn’t help him a whit.

The solid oak beam across her door vibrated as he tried to ram his way through, but both the door and the beam didn’t budge.

Just as smug satisfaction began curling her lips, the tip of his sword slid through the thin gap between the door and the wall. Slowly, the blade worked farther inside as he carefully threaded it in the narrow space.

She almost cried out again as the blade abruptly jammed upward into the beam. The beam jostled but remained in place. Again, the sword whacked the slab of wood. After several more tries, the blade finally dislodged the oak beam, sending it tumbling to the stone floor.

The door swung open slowly, but she’d positioned herself so that the wood now hid her from the rest of the room, casting her in shadow. She gripped her dagger, willing her heart to slow and her feet to stay rooted until the moment to strike arrived.

At first, all she could see was Ansel’s blade, illuminated weakly by the beam of moonlight slicing into the chamber from the cracked shutters. As he stepped cautiously into the room, his hand and then his arm came into her line of sight. At last, his broad back filled her vision.

“Ye can come out now, Lady Isolda,” he said softly, his gaze focused on her shadowy bed. She held her breath. He took another step closer to the bed, lowering his sword and re-sheathing it.

“I hope this little exercise has shown ye just how helpless ye are here.”

Still he didn’t turn toward her. Instead, he took another step toward the lumpy bed. She’d piled several pillows under the covers to make it appear as though she lay there. Her ruse had worked.

With two swift, silent steps on slippered feet, she closed the distance between them. Raising the dagger, she thrust it forward until it pinned the material of his tunic to his back.

Instantly, he tensed. She pressed the dagger ever so slightly harder.

“Not entirely helpless,” she said, her voice swelling with triumph.

Like lightning, he spun around, catching her wrist in his large hand. In one smooth move, he torqued her arm so that her elbow bent and the dagger slipped behind her. She collided into the hard wall of his chest, her wrist restrained behind her back and her body flush with his. He squeezed the hand that was wrapped around her wrist ever so slightly, and despite her resistance, the dagger was suddenly pinned against
her
lower back.

All her triumph vaporized, to be replaced by a flood of hot panic. But it wasn’t fear for her safety that made her squirm in Ansel’s unyielding hold. Nay, it was the sudden and overwhelming contact with his body that turned her stomach into a scorching knot.

Her free hand rose to shove at his chest, but he caught her other wrist as well and bent it behind her. Impossibly, he bound both of her wrists with just one large, warm hand. His other hand plucked the dagger from her grasp. He tossed it casually on the bed behind him.

“Do ye intend to stand in hiding behind yer door while yer pillows take yer place in bed every night for the foreseeable future?” His voice was a low rumble that vibrated through her breasts where they were plastered against his chest.

She writhed in a redoubled effort to free herself, but it seemed to have no effect.

Nay, that wasn’t entirely true. Ansel suddenly hissed a curse. Her head snapped up to find his face tight, a muscle ticking in his jaw. His eyes were a dark storm, but there was no trace of his usual ire there. Instead, raw, pure lust lay in their shadowy depths.

She inhaled sharply, but all it did was compress her breasts all the more fully to his chest. With each of his breaths, she could feel every corded muscle straining against his thin linen tunic.

He stared down at her, his heated gaze tearing through every last one of her defenses. She felt her regal façade crumbling. In his hard embrace, all that was left was the truth. She was just a woman. A woman who desperately wanted him.

The hand that bound both her wrists loosened ever so slightly. If she had wanted to, she realized distantly, she could have broken free with a swift yank. But she was mesmerized by the hunger in his gaze. What did he see reflected in her eyes? Did he see a longing that matched his own?

His free hand slowly rose toward her face. Callused fingertips brushed her neck, sending goose bumps racing down her arms and tightening her nipples beneath all the layers of fabric she wore like armor. His hand slipped to her nape, his fingers burying themselves in the base of her braid.

With slow determination, he tilted her head back. His hungry eyes dipped to her lips, which parted as she fought to control her breathing. Even though she knew what he intended, still she did not break free. Instead, her tongue slid across her lower lip involuntarily.

His fingers tightened in her hair at the unconscious act. He lowered his head to hers, his breath whispering across her lips for the faintest moment of hesitation. It was her last out, but she would not take it.

Instead, she lifted her chin ever so slightly, giving him all that he sought.

His mouth descended on hers then, no more hesitancy left. His lips were soft yet his kiss was demanding, claiming her with savage fierceness.

He tilted his head, fusing them together more fully. With a flick of his tongue, he tasted her lips.

And she opened to him.

At the first brush of his tongue against hers, a shudder tore through her all the way to her toes.

Their tongues entwined in silken heat, dancing and caressing. Somehow he pressed his body even closer until his warmth and scent completely engulfed her. Every angle and plane of him was hard and hot except for his velvety tongue.

She suddenly became aware of the rigid column of his manhood pressing against her belly. Passion-drunk, she arched her back, pressing into his hard shaft.

A groan ripped from his throat, sending tingles through her lips where they were fused together.

Suddenly he tore his mouth away, leaving them both taut and panting. Her lips and chin felt raw from his lust-filled kiss and the scrape of his stubble. Her nipples tingled from rubbing against his chest. Liquid heat pooled between her legs, unfulfilled need pulsing there.

She’d been kissed before, but never like that—never so demanding, so scalding with pent-up desire.

Suddenly shame mixed hotly with lust in her veins. Aye, she’d kissed before—and more. What had happened to her vow never again to let passion rule her? How could she have forgotten the consequences with a mere look from this rugged Highlander?