His Lass to Protect (Highland Bodyguards, Book 9)

by Emma Prince

  Thus far, Lancaster had been unsuccessful in dethroning his cousin, and the Bruce had held his cards close to the chest about his position in relation to the English Earl. It seemed that was about to change.

  “I am only delivering the Bruce’s orders,” Logan said tightly. “I dinnae agree with his reasoning, but I can at least explain it.”

  “Do,” Ansel snapped.

  “Lancaster has fostered discontent amongst King Edward’s nobles for nigh on a decade,” Logan began. “An all-out civil war has been brewing for a year now.”

  “And it’s been the quietest, calmest year for Scotland since Bannockburn,” Kirk said softly. “We havenae kenned peace like this since before Longshanks’s reign.”

  Logan nodded. “As the Bruce wants it. The longer the English fight amongst themselves, the less time and resources they have to battle us.”

  “Then why the hell is the Bruce involving us in England’s squabbles?” Ansel demanded. “Why no’ let Lancaster and Edward carry on posturing and threatening one another indefinitely?”

  “It seems Lancaster is finally ready to make a move for the throne. He’s been gathering an army in the north.”

  “Hasnae he been doing that for the last year?” Will asked.

  “Aye, but now Lancaster has taken to sieging castles held by Englishmen loyal to Edward,” Logan replied. “Lancaster overpowered Tickhill Castle less than a fortnight past. Apparently, the Earl nearly took an arrow to the head from one of the archers on Tickhill’s wall, but it ricocheted off his helmet.”

  Ansel crossed his arms over his chest. “I ask again, why is this our concern? If Lancaster wishes to siege every last one of Edward’s castles, more’s the better for us.”

  Logan shook his head slowly. “The Bruce has been fanning the flames of discontent between Edward and Lancaster, encouraging this civil war for nigh on a year, but subtly so. He’s been sending missives and gathering information via Sabine MacKay’s network of spies and messengers in order to sow discontent, to keep dissatisfaction at a low simmer between the two factions. But things are reaching a boil now. Thanks to Lancaster’s latest siege, Edward is mobilizing an army of his own in the south.”

  The pieces came together in Niall’s mind as Logan spoke. “But if either Lancaster or Edward wins in a direct conflict, the civil war will be over. And what’s more, if Lancaster dies in the process, his rebellion will come to an end—leaving Edward free to resume his assault on Scotland.”

  “So the Bruce wants to keep Lancaster alive. He intends to send bodyguards to ensure Lancaster’s safety, guaranteeing that the rebellion is drawn out as long as possible,” Mairin concluded, her gray eyes flashing as she, too, connected the parts of the Bruce’s plan.

  “Aye,” Logan said grimly. “But as with all of the Bruce’s plans, it’s more complicated than that.”

  “There’s more?” Ansel grumbled.

  Ignoring him, Logan continued. “The Bruce is apparently entertaining the possibility of an alliance with Lancaster.”

  Isolda sucked in a breath. “Would the Bruce truly ally with the likes of that man?”

  “That I cannae say with certainty,” Logan replied. “They both share Edward as an enemy. And Lancaster has publicly announced that when he becomes King of England, he will cease all military engagement with Scotland. But the Bruce is also a man of principle. He doesnae take Lancaster’s atrocities lightly.”

  Ansel took Isolda’s hand in his and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “The Bruce allowed Lancaster to believe that I was dead and ye and John were in the wind to protect us all. He let Lancaster think he had a secret ally in Scotland then. Mayhap that is what he intends now as well.”

  “And we all ken what elaborate webs the Bruce weaves,” Logan added, glancing around the table. “He always thinks several moves ahead, and has more than one piece in motion across the board at any given time.”

  Kirk pursed his lips and ran a hand over the dark stubble on his jaw. “True enough. If the Bruce is considering an alliance with Lancaster—either in earnest, or as a mere posture—it would make sense to send a bodyguard to protect the Earl. He must want someone he can trust to get close to Lancaster.”

  “Aye, exactly,” Logan said. “Whomever is sent from the Corps will be in charge of no’ only keeping Lancaster and his rebellion alive, but also sending reports on Lancaster’s position and plans.”

  “The pigeons,” Mairin interjected. “Ye said they arenae for my dovecote. They are homing pigeons, arenae they? For delivering missives back to the Bruce at Scone Palace?”

  “Ye have it, Little Bird,” Logan replied, yet all the warmth had suddenly drained from his voice. “The Bruce has heard that ye’ve taken an interest in raising and caring for pigeons here at the camp. He…” Logan swallowed hard, his eyes pinching with frustration. “He wishes for ye to be the one to infiltrate Lancaster’s inner circle.”

  “Nay.” Niall stood up so abruptly that his chair clattered to the ground behind him. He hadn’t even realized he’d spoken until all eyes fixed on him—except for Mairin’s.

  She stared at Logan, her lips slowly parting in shock.

  “W-what?” she breathed.

  “It’s too dangerous,” Niall said almost on top of her.

  “I agree, English,” Logan ground out, his gaze remaining on Mairin. “And I told the Bruce as much. But he wouldnae listen. He insisted that she must go to look after the birds.”

  “Look after the…” Mairin shook her head, her brows lowering. Niall saw a storm of emotion rising in her eyes. Anger. Fear. Confusion. Frustration.

  “Then another member of the Corps will need to accompany her to guard Lancaster,” Ansel said, pinning Logan with a fierce look. “I’ll go.”

  “Nay,” Logan said, at last tearing his eyes from Mairin. “The Bruce gave an explicit order regarding ye. He said ye are too close to the situation, too emotionally volatile when it comes to Lancaster.”

  “Ye’re damn right I am,” Ansel barked, pounding his fist into the table.

  “Ye arenae going,” Logan said flatly. “But I agree, someone else ought to—I’ll no’ have my sister heading to England alone.” Logan turned back to Mairin, dropping his voice. “I practically ordered the King to let me come with ye, Little Bird, but he insisted that I return to Scone Palace after delivering his directive.”

  “I’ll go,” Niall blurted. At the skeptical silence that met his declaration, he clenched his fists.

  “No offense, English,” Will said after a moment, apparently speaking for all of them, “but it doesnae seem wise to send ye to England as a representative of the Bruce and Scotland.”

  “Why?” Niall said, his voice deceptively calm even while anger flared hot within his gut. “Because you think I’ll turn traitor to the cause? Because I’m English, and therefore I cannot be trusted on a mission in England?”

  Despite six long years training alongside these men, dedicating his life to Scotland’s cause for freedom, they still didn’t trust him. That knowledge burned Niall’s pride, his honor.

  “I’ll go,” Will replied, blatantly ignoring Niall’s questions. He turned to Logan. “I can keep an eye on Lancaster without being compromised by my emotions. And I’ll ensure Mairin’s safety.”

  “I dinnae need protecting,” Mairin hissed.

  No one seemed to hear her, though. “I dinnae like aught about this damn mission,” Logan murmured. “But if Mairin must go, then I would be glad to have ye watch her back, Will.”

  Ansel began to grumble once more, but Logan cut him off.

  “Lancaster has apparently turned Pontefract Castle into his base of operations,” he said. “It is less than a fortnight’s ride from here.”

  Will nodded. “We’ll leave at first light tomorrow and ride to England with all haste.”

  Mairin made a soft sound in the back of her throat, part gasp, part moan. Abruptly, she jerked up from the table and hurried out of the dining hall, snatching a lit candlestick as she went.
The cottage door clicked behind her as she slipped out into the night.

  Logan muttered a curse, his gaze filled with pain as it lingered where Mairin had just been sitting.

  “I warned the Bruce that this would be too much for her,” he muttered. “She is a skilled fighter, aye, but returning to England…”

  He pushed up from the table and began to trudge after her, but Niall caught his arm as he passed.

  “I know where she’s headed,” Niall said. “Let me talk to her.”

  Surprise, followed by suspicion, flashed in Logan’s steely eyes. “I think I ken my sister better than ye, English.”

  The moniker was a reminder that Mairin had never warmed to Niall—would never warm to him, for he would always represent what she’d suffered in his home country all those years ago.

  Still, if this was to be the last night Niall had with Mairin for God knew how long, the last opportunity to talk to her, he needed to take it.

  “Please,” he said simply.

  Logan scrutinized him for a long moment. At last, he relented with a single nod.

  A heartbeat later, Niall was striding from the keep and into the frigid night—toward Mairin.

  Chapter Four

  Mairin stumbled through the snow on her way to the dovecote. She knew the path well—the conical stone structure had been erected not far from her hut—but the shadows seemed to loom around her, reaching out for her.

  She held the candle higher in her shaking hand. Nay. She couldn’t succumb to fear now. Not when her mind already swirled with a maelstrom of tangled emotion. She needed to think, to breath. And to do both, she needed the safety of the dovecote.

  As she passed her hut, the dovecote’s stone siding came into view. She hurried the last few steps, yanking open the wooden door and ducking inside.

  Though the air was sharp with cold outside, it was surprisingly warm within the dovecote. The familiar, soothing sounds of coos and ruffling feathers hit her, and instantly the knot in her chest loosened a fraction. It smelled of straw and animals, and faintly of bird droppings.

  She lifted the candle, counting the pigeons in each little cubby hole nestled in the mortar between the stones. All twelve pairs were tucked away for the night, though they could always leave if they wished through the opening at the top of the domed stone ceiling.

  The dovecote had been Lillian’s idea. She’d seen the strides Mairin had made over the years in the camp. Training with the others, building strength, and learning the power of her own body had given Mairin more confidence than she’d ever experienced since those terrible years of captivity. Yet Lillian had also observed the dark shadows under Mairin’s eyes from the nightmares that still haunted her and the way Mairin still struggled with feeling cornered or trapped.

  It had taken a while for Mairin to open up to the Englishwoman, but they enjoyed a game of chess many evenings after training. Kirk would make himself busy chopping wood, giving the two an opportunity to talk.

  Mairin wasn’t one to speak of her past and the invisible scars that marked her mind, but Lillian was both gentle and clever, a good listener but also inventive when it came to solutions. She’d read about the practice of keeping pigeons somewhere, and had suggested it as a method to help calm Mairin and chase away some of her demons.

  Of course outwardly, having a dovecote at the training camp appeared to be purely practical. When the few chickens the camp boasted didn’t produce eggs, the pigeons’ eggs and squabs could be collected for food. Their feathers filled pillows and mattresses, and their droppings could be taken to the village at Roslin and traded to the farmers as fertilizer for their crops.

  But the true purpose of the dovecote was for Mairin’s wellbeing. Lillian had directed the men as they’d placed the stones for the dovecote to leave an opening at the top of the structure. They’d left a hole, then positioned a large rock over it, propping it up on sticks like a little hat. It kept most of the weather out, but allowed the birds to enter and exit at their will. They weren’t imprisoned. They could come and go as they pleased.

  It was a reminder to Mairin that she was no longer trapped in that damp, dark root cellar in the middle of England. She could move freely now, settling where she chose and leaving when she wished—just like the birds.

  Mairin had taken to coming to the dovecote in the middle of the night when the memories came back—always with a candle to chase away the darkness. She needed the light to beat back the deeper shadows, which had come to represent everything she feared. Captivity. Torture.

  England.

  And now she was to return to the place of her greatest suffering, the heart of her lingering terror.

  She clapped a hand over her mouth, but a sob still escaped. She squeezed her eyes shut against the burn of tears. Oh God. How would she survive?

  A soft tap sounded against the wooden door behind her. Mairin sucked in a hard breath and swiped her sleeve over her eyes.

  “What?” she demanded, making her voice hard to mask the thickness in her throat.

  “It’s Niall. May I come in?”

  Mairin barely managed to bite off a curse. The last thing she wanted was Niall to see her, blubbering and frightened as a bairn. He already thought her no more than a weak lass, judging from the way he was always going easy on her in training and insisting that she never do aught dangerous.

  She racked her brain for some excuse to send him away, a sharp word or two to make him leave, but her thoughts were already such a tangled mess that naught came.

  She let a shaky exhale go. “A-aye. Come in.”

  The door swung open and there he was. He had to duck low to clear the doorframe. Though he’d already been tall when she’d first arrived at the camp, in the four years since, he’d grown nearly as big as the other strapping Highland men. His muscular shoulders wouldn’t fit through the frame, either, so he had to angle in sideways.

  His russet hair glowed like polished copper in the candlelight as he straightened, closing the door behind him. Inside, the dovecote was plenty tall enough for him to stand upright, but it was only four or so feet in diameter, forcing them to inch together.

  This was exactly what Mairin didn’t need. She felt an unnatural warmth spread up her neck and into her face. She normally did everything she could to avoid being in close quarters with Niall. He was English, a reminder of everything she hated. Worse, his nearness caused an uncomfortable pinch in her stomach—and an unwelcome spike of heat that she didn’t fully understand.

  “What are ye doing here?” she said harshly.

  Her tone apparently didn’t daunt him. “You seemed upset when you left the keep. I wanted to check on you.”

  “I am just angry, is all,” she lied, toeing a bit of the straw on the ground with the tip of her boot.

  “Why?” he asked gently.

  “This could have been my first mission on my own, but I am apparently in need of a chaperone. The Bruce and my brother both think I require a nursemaid to look after me.” The flood of words caught her off guard—she wasn’t normally one to open up, especially not to an Englishman—but his gaze was so earnest and searching.

  He huffed a breath, lifting one corner of his mouth. “At least you get to go.”

  “Aye, but it seems I am only good for tending the pigeons. Little Bird, looking after the birds.”

  Niall crossed his arms and leaned against the stones where no birds roosted. “Why does Logan call you that? Have you always liked birds?” He made a little circle with his chin, as if to take in the dovecote.

  She sighed, but surprised herself by answering. “Nay, I feel no particular affinity with birds. My brothers gave me the nickname when I was a wee lass. They said I had the big, round eyes of an owl, the bones of a sparrow, and the appetite—and table manners—of a hawk.”

  His brows winged at that. “Then your love of the dovecote is just a coincidence.”

  He’d noticed how often she came here? Befuddled, she blurted, “Aye, it’s only because it
makes me feel safe, and—”

  Mairin managed to cut herself off before she revealed the embarrassing truth.

  She wasn’t sure how much the others in the camp knew of her past. Kirk likely knew all, for Logan had probably confessed his reasons for working in the Order of the Shadow, and explained why Mairin had acted so strange her first few months in the camp. And Lillian knew, both from what Mairin had shared with her and what Kirk likely confided within the privacy of their marriage.

  The others probably had varying degrees of knowledge, which Mairin wasn’t eager to fill in. She was already the youngest member of the Corps, and the only woman. She didn’t need to give them another reason to feel sorry for her, or to coddle her.

  Niall was watching her with those keen blue eyes that seemed to cut past all her defenses. She swallowed.

  “It doesnae matter,” she muttered. “It seems all is decided already. I am to see to the pigeons while Will gets to do the fighting.”

  “But they trust you,” Niall said, his voice low yet hard-edged. “That is more than I can say.”

  “Do they, though? I work just as hard as any of ye. I’m better with daggers or a bow than Will is. Havenae I proven myself yet?”

  To her surprise, Niall didn’t hesitate. “Aye.”

  She eyed him suspiciously, expecting him to continue with a …but.

  Instead, he met her gaze, his features unguarded. “You are more than capable, Mairin.”

  She was so stunned that she stood there in silence while he continued to hold her stare.

  “You’re a damn fine warrior,” he said. After a pause, he went on, more carefully now. “And being scared wouldn’t make you any less so.”

  He knew. Her throat pinched. Despite her angry façade, he knew what lurked under the surface. Terror.

  She opened her mouth to declare that she wasn’t scared, but the lie wouldn’t come out. Instead, the memories stormed her, choking her voice and blurring her vision.

  The darkness. The smell. The blinding light when one of her captors would open the door and toss her a scrap of food or hurl vulgar taunts at her.