The Lady's Protector (Highland Bodyguards #1) (9 page)

Ansel’s words didn’t seem to penetrate through Isolda’s fear, for her eyes remained wide on the daggers in his arm and upper chest.

“It is all right, lass,” he said again, willing his voice to soften despite the fear that still hammered in his body. “Did he hurt ye?”

She blinked, her pale eyes clouding with confusion. “I am fine, but you…you are going to…”

He glanced down for the first time at the daggers. Aye, they hurt like the bloody Devil now that the adrenaline had ebbed in his veins. One was buried in the thick muscle of his upper arm—his sword arm, no less. The other jutted just below the outer edge of his collarbone, almost in his shoulder.

He reached up and took hold of the blade in his arm. The movement reminded him that his left shoulder would need tending to as well. He had ignored the slice he’d received earlier when he’d put his shoulder to Isolda’s door and broke it down.

She gasped, and her hands flew to her mouth as he removed the first dagger with a swift tug. He grunted, but blessedly the blade was only as long as his little finger.

“I’m no’ goin’ tae die, lass,” he bit out as he gripped the other dagger. “These are flesh wounds, naught more. Dinnae fash yerself.”

“W-what?”

He jerked the second dagger free, warm blood trickling from the wound. “What do ye mean, what?”

“I…I can’t understand you.”

He would have laughed if he wasn’t bleeding from at least three spots on his aching body. Without realizing it, he’d slipped into a thicker Highland brogue that she couldn’t parse.

“Dinnae worry,” he said, attempting to give her a smile. “I’ll be fine.”

She reached out a shaky, bloody hand toward him, her eyes filling with tears. But though she sought to comfort him, the sight of blood on her pale, perfect skin had him seeing red.

“Did he hurt ye?” he repeated, but this time he couldn’t keep the hard edge from his voice.

She looked at her hand as if seeing it for the first time. She brought the other to join it in front of her eyes. Her fingertips were scraped raw, and one of her palms was smeared liberally with blood.

“I-I think most of it was…
his
.”

As she lowered her trembling fingers, Ansel’s gaze shifted to her neck. The delicate skin there was red, with the promise of deep bruises already showing.

Suddenly he had her by the shoulders, holding her still. Slowly, he lifted a hand and tilted her chin so that he could see her neck.

“I should have followed him out that window,” he bit out. “I shouldnae have let him get away.”

Her eyes latched on to his. “He…he wanted to know where John is.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks, silvered by the moonlight. Something cracked in Ansel’s chest and he breathed another curse.

He dragged Isolda into his arms, pain and blood be damned. Her fingers twined in his tunic as sobs shook her slim frame. Her voice was ragged from that bastard’s grip on her neck.

Suddenly she shoved herself upright, her eyes wide and shimmering.

“Bertram!”

Ansel jerked to his feet, snatching his sword from the floor along the way. He gritted his teeth against the bolt of fresh pain in his sword arm, but he forced his bloodied fingers to grip the hilt.

“Stay behind me,” he said, helping Isolda up. Though his warrior’s instinct told him the threat had passed, he didn’t want Isolda to see the yard—or Bertram. He’d watched the man go down. He might still live, but it wouldn’t be pretty.

He wrapped his hand around hers as he led her through the destroyed door and down the winding stairs. When they came to the ground floor chamber, he pulled her to the side of the open doorway.

“Wait here. And dinnae look, lass,” he said gently, releasing her hand. He crossed through the door and moved carefully past the bodies to where he’d seen Bertram last. As he scanned the yard, the moon caught on the copper-gray of the old guard’s hair.

Ansel fell to one knee, his hand flying to Bertram’s chest. Though weak, a heartbeat still thumped there. Ansel exhaled slowly through his teeth, then re-sheathed his sword to free both of his hands.

His wounds screamed in protest, but he lifted Bertram with a grunt. Bertram groaned as well when Ansel hoisted him over his shoulder and picked his way back to the tower. When he entered the tower and lowered Bertram carefully to the floor, Isolda covered a cry of distress with her hands.

“He lives,” Ansel said. “But he needs all the help we can give him.”

Isolda’s eyes darted up to his as realization flooded her features. “Oh God. Mary!”

Before he could stop her, she rushed past him and streaked up the stairs. He could hear Isolda calling to Mary abovestairs. Mary’s panic-stricken voice replied in a barrage of terrified questions.

“I’ll explain later, Mary,” Isolda said, her voice growing more distinct as she once again descended the stairs. “But right now, Bertram needs us.”

As Mary stepped into the main chamber, her eyes rounded with the scene before her. Ansel stood over Bertram, both men bloodied and Bertram lying prone and unconscious.

Before Mary could dissolve into hysteria, Isolda took her firmly by the shoulders.

“The castle was attacked. Bertram has been wounded. We must see to him.”

Admiration for Isolda swelled in Ansel’s chest. What sort of lady could put aside her own fear, confusion, and physical pain to take charge of the situation as she just had? Behind her normally cool, regal exterior lay a greater well of strength than he’d realized.

“Get water boiling. And see if you can find some linen to use as bandages. I’ll check his wounds.”

As Isolda spoke to Mary, a flicker of movement outside had Ansel’s head snapping around.

Suddenly tense once more, Ansel eased back out into the yard. A wet cough drew his gaze to the middle of the grassy expanse, where a tuft of pale hair ruffled in the moonlight.

He approached the man who lay on his side in the yard, a weak cough making his shoulders shudder. It was the last man who’d stood against him, the blond-headed one whom Ansel had taken down so swiftly.

The man had somehow managed to roll from his stomach to his side. As Ansel crouched next to him, he flipped him onto his bloody, sliced back. The man groaned and panted in pain, his face contorted into a grimace.

Something clicked into place as Ansel looked down at the man’s face.

“I’ve seen ye before,” he breathed, dread sinking like a stone in his stomach. “Ye are one of the laborers from the village. Henry.”

Blood tinged the young man’s lips as he drew his mouth into a vicious smile.

“Aye.”

Icy hatred replaced surprise as he stared at the dying man. “Why?” he ground out between clenched teeth. “Why would ye attack Lady Isolda?”

“Coin—more of it that a Scottish bastard like you will ever lay eyes on,” Henry sneered.

“Who paid ye? Answer me!”

Henry coughed again, and this time, his mouth filled with blood. “Someone far more powerful that you. Someone…who will never…stop…”

Ansel shook the man’s shoulder, but he had already slipped from this world. With a curse, Ansel straightened. Unease that had nothing to do with his aching, bloodied body spread through him.

Systematically, he went over each body strewn in the yard, checking to make sure they were dead, and then squinting in the moonlight to see if any of the others were from the village. Besides Henry, though, he didn’t recognize any of the twelve men lying in the grass.

But there were thirteen attackers, counting the man who escaped. Ansel cursed himself once again for not killing the man for laying a finger on Isolda.

He retrieved Eachann, who stood faithfully next to the wall where he’d first given the warning of intruders. Ansel secured the animal in the stables, then strode to the tower.

Isolda was already shaken from the night’s events. Now he’d have to tell her about Henry and somehow convince her that they must flee.

They were no longer safe here.

Isolda jumped as Ansel closed the tower door behind him with a soft thud. She hadn’t noticed him slip back inside at first, and for a horrifying moment, his movement and the sound of the door closing sent panic twisting like a knife in her belly.

Mary started as well where she crouched on the stone floor, cleaning a red gash across Bertram’s chest.

Isolda’s raw, shaking fingers fumbled with the needle she was trying to thread by the light of the kitchen fire. When at last she managed to thread the needle, she rose from the fire and turned toward Bertram, but when she stood, Ansel breathed a curse.

“Yer gown.”

She looked down. The fine green brocade of her surcoat was blotched with dark blood, some her attacker’s, some Bertram’s, and some from Ansel when he’d embraced her.

She involuntarily smoothed one hand down the silk brocade, but it only left another smear of blood. Aye, the expensive garment was ruined, but she still had her life—thanks to the grim-faced Highlander before her.

“It is naught,” she said softly, kneeling across from Mary on Bertram’s other side.

“How does he fare?” Ansel asked, coming to stand over her.

“The wound is deep but clean.”

“Do ye have any yarrow?”

She blinked up at him, but then turned to Mary in askance.

“Aye, I think so,” Mary said, rising and moving to the small kitchen.

“What does it do?” Isolda asked, shifting her gaze back to Bertram. His skin was white and his eyes were closed tight, but his chest still rose and fell gently beneath the vicious cut. She sent up another silent prayer for him.

“It will stop the bleeding and ward off infection,” Ansel replied.

Again, she found herself blinking up at him in numbed surprise. “How do you know about healing herbs and medicines?”

A weary darkness settled over Ansel’s hard features as he met Isolda’s searching gaze.

“I’ve been in many a battle. I’ve seen men bleed out from wounds, or die of infection from small scratches. I’ve also seen men’s lives saved by a few herbs or dried flowers.”

Though his face was set rigidly, his dark brown eyes flickered with a deeper pain for a moment before he shuttered them. Something stirred in Isolda’s chest, displacing her own fear and pain briefly. What had this man lived through? What had made him into the hardened warrior before her, and what old wounds still scarred him?

“Here is some,” Mary interjected, holding up a dried bundle of the little white blossoms.

“Add those to the boiling water ye have in that caldron,” Ansel directed. “Then soak the linen bandages in the yarrow water before applying them.”

Mary set about the task silently, her shock likely still buffering her from what was now settling over Isolda. Bertram clung to life. The castle had been attacked. There was no more denying that some powerful force was still hunting John—and now her.

She dragged in a fortifying breath. She could not let the emotions barraging her sweep her away. Yet as she raised the threaded needle over Bertram’s chest, her shaking fingers betrayed her.

Ansel crouched beside her, lowering his voice so that Mary might not overhear. “Have ye ever done that before, lass?” he asked, nodding toward the needle she held.

“Nay, not on a man,” she blurted. “But I’ve spent all my life stitching.” Just as she was about to say more, she caught herself. She sank her teeth into her lower lip. Noblewomen spent much of their time embroidering, an easy enough explanation for her words. It wasn’t the same as the sewing of coarser fabrics she’d spent most of her life working on, but hopefully Ansel wouldn’t notice the slip.

“I have stitched men on the battlefield. I can do it again if ye wish.”

“I can do it,” she said quickly. “I want to help.”

He eyed her for a moment, but at last nodded.

With a steeling breath, she lowered the needle to Bertram’s chest and began to set the stitches. To her relief, they were neat and small despite her nerves.

When at last she tied off the final stitch, Mary stood waiting with a damp, steaming strip of linen. Isolda rose, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. Mary set to work placing the yarrow-soaked bandages across Bertram’s chest. Isolda didn’t know if it was a blessing or a bad sign, but Bertram remained unconscious throughout.

“He has a good chance, thanks to ye both,” Ansel said softly as Mary laid the last of the bandages on Bertram’s long wound.

Mary let out a shaky exhale, bringing trembling fingers to her face. The maid looked suddenly older than Isolda had ever seen. She went to where Mary still crouched next to Bertram and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Rest now, Mary.”

Mary looked up at her with wide, tired eyes. “Nay, my lady. I cannot leave Bertram.”

“Then rest here at his side, but we must make sure we are well enough to tend to him,” Isolda said gently.

“But what about you, my lady? You must rest as well.”

“Nay,” she said, her gaze shifting to Ansel, who seemed so tall and large in the small chamber. “I’ll tend to Ansel’s wounds. You rest, and I’ll rouse you when I need you.”

It was a testament to just how exhausted and overwrought Mary was, for the steadfast maid didn’t muster another protest. Instead, she nodded wearily and lowered herself directly onto the rushes next to Bertram. Within moments, her breathing slipped into the even rhythm of sleep.

Isolda moved toward Ansel, but he held up a hand.

“Dinnae concern yerself over me, lass—Lady Isolda.”

She smiled weakly. “And you needn’t concern yourself over my title. But as you said, men can die of small injuries left untended. Please.” Her voice dropped to barely more than a whisper. “Allow me to see to your wounds.”

Perhaps it was because they had to keep their voices low for Mary’s sake, or perhaps it was her softly spoken plea, but suddenly a delicate intimacy hung in the air around them.

He nodded, then pulled a stool from the little dining table and positioned it in front of the kitchen hearth. He sat and slowly began peeling off his bloodied and torn tunic.

The fire cast dancing shadows over first the stacked muscles on his stomach, then the curving slabs of strength on his chest as he slowly lifted the tunic. His head disappeared into the garment for a moment as he lifted his arms with a grunt. Then he was entirely free of the tattered tunic, his skin glowing softly beneath the blood and grime of battle.

Isolda averted her gaze and moved to the caldron over the fire. She fumbled with a spoon to remove another strip of linen from the yarrow-soaked water. Her hands felt like wooden blocks once more, but it had less to do with the blood and cuts marring Ansel’s flesh than the disconcerting intimacy of being so close to his hard, honed form.

She wrung out one of the rags and turned toward him, fortifying herself with a breath. As carefully as she could, she began dabbing the dagger wound on his right arm. At her first touch, he started slightly but didn’t make a sound.

“I ken ye likely dinnae want to think on it, but I need to know more about the man who attacked ye,” he said at last, his voice a low murmur.

Her hand stilled for a moment on his arm before she renewed her ministrations. “What do you wish to know?”

“What specifically did he say about John?”

She had to force her lungs to draw in air as the scene played out in her mind.

“He asked where ‘the boy’ was.”

“So he kens yer son is a lad, but he may no’ ken his name. That is good. What else?”

She shifted the yarrow-damp rag to the dagger wound on Ansel’s chest. This time, he flinched slightly, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“I…I told him he wasn’t here, and that I would never tell where he was. The man said ‘We’ll see about that,’ and then…then he grabbed me and—”

“Shhh,” Ansel soothed. His large hand came up and enfolded hers where she held the damp linen to his chest. His face softened as he looked up and held her gaze. Her vision wobbled as fresh tears sprang to her eyes.

“Forgive me, Isolda, but just a few more questions.” His voice was like a dark, silken caress. Through her tears, she saw his eyes pinch with compassion.

She nodded, blinking the tears back and swallowing the lump of fear that had risen in her throat.

“Did ye get a good look at him?”

“Nay,” she said, mining her memory with a slow shake of her head. “It was so dark and the moon was behind him. But his hair was likely brown or black.”

“Good. What else? What about his voice? Was he Scottish? English? A Borderlander?”

“English,” she replied. “He spoke…well. Not a Northerner’s inflection.”

“Aught else that ye can remember?”

Another tidbit floated to the surface of her mind. “His clothes…he wore no armor, but he did have on a fine leather doublet.”

“How do ye ken it was fine if it was dark?”

Her fingertips tingled as she concentrated on the memory of plunging the dagger into the man’s side. “The leather—it was soft and supple, and with tight, small stitches running down the side seam.”

Ansel’s hand dropped from hers and his gaze narrowed on the floor in thought. “No armor, likely so that he could move quickly and quietly. But a finely made doublet means he is no commoner.” He muttered a curse beneath his breath. “I cannae imagine it would be anyone other than one of Edward’s men or the right hand of some other noble set against Lancaster.”

It was all true, then—everything that Ansel had said was true, despite her desperate longing for it not to be so. A leaden knot of dread tightened her stomach.

Suddenly needing to busy herself, she moved around to his left shoulder, where blood dripped down his arm.

“There is something else I must tell ye,” Ansel said, his low voice filled with reluctance.

Just then her eyes landed fully on the wound. She inhaled sharply. He must have driven that shoulder into her chamber door to split it open, for several large shards of wood protruded from the still-bleeding gash.

“I should have seen to this first,” she breathed.

“Isolda, listen to me.”

She shook her head.
Nay
, a voice whispered in the back of her mind,
no more bad news. I can’t take any more.
She reached for one of the large splinters jutting from the wound, but he caught her wrist mid-air.

“Isolda.”

“At least let me busy my hands while you tell me,” she whispered, her voice cracking with a sudden rush of vulnerability. She was strong, she reminded herself as she clung to her composure. She’d survived worse than this—she had to, for John.

He nodded and released her wrist, his eyes flashing with understanding.

She reached out and gingerly took hold of the largest of the shards of wood protruding from Ansel’s bloodied shoulder. With a swift tug, she pulled it free. Ansel grunted through clenched teeth.

As she took hold of another sliver of wood, he spoke.

“One of the attackers…he was…” He had to pause as she tore the wood from his flesh. “He was a laborer from the village. His name was Henry.”

Her fingers froze on another splinter. Ice slammed through her veins. Although she only vaguely recognized the name, the thought of someone who’d been working so close to her for so long attacking the castle made bile rise in the back of her throat.

“He was the only one I recognized,” Ansel went on quietly. “But it means that there may be more in the village who’ve been hired to work against ye.”

She yanked the wood shard free, then nodded stiffly. A blessed numbness was descending over her mind like the fog that so often clung to the rocks of the Rumble Churn in the mornings.

“Ye are no’ safe here anymore, Isolda. Even with all I’ve tried to do in the last sennight, there is no way to secure Dunstanburgh against another attack.” Ansel’s voice, though firm, was like a velvety balm, low and compassionate. Yet it barely reached her through the haze of detachment.

“But this is my home.” The words sounded distant to her ears, like someone else’s voice.

He turned suddenly so that his back was to the fire and he fully faced her. His thighs spread slightly so that she stood between them, his legs encasing her protectively.

Backlit by the fire, she couldn’t read the emotion flitting across his features or the flicker of something dark in his eyes.

“I almost lost ye tonight,” he said, his voice no more than a low breath. “I willnae take that risk again. We must leave here.”

Just then, Mary shifted on the ground behind Isolda.

“And what of Bertram and Mary?” she said, glancing over her shoulder at her sleeping maid and the prone form of her loyal guard. “I cannot simply leave them here. It isn’t safe. And Bertram isn’t out of danger from that wound yet.”

“We will ken by tomorrow morning if a fever has taken hold of Bertram. If it doesnae, I will send both him and Mary away. And we’ll ride out as well.”

“Tomorrow morning? But that isn’t enough time! I cannot—”