His Lass to Protect (Highland Bodyguards, Book 9)

by Emma Prince

  “I…” She managed to swallow a sob, shaking her head to clear it. “I’m no’…” She squeezed her eyes shut once more as she fought for control.

  “I’m scared, too.” Niall’s voice was low and close. He hadn’t touched her, and yet she felt his presence before her, around her, as if she were mere inches from being folded into his embrace.

  Confusingly, the idea of his arms closing around her didn’t make her feel panicked or trapped, nor did his English-accented voice send a pang of fear through her. Of its own volition, her body rocked ever so slightly forward, toward the warm solidity of his form.

  “Why would ye be scared,” she mumbled. “Ye arenae the one being sent on a mission.”

  “I’m scared for you.”

  At that, her eyes snapped open. Sure enough, they only stood a hair’s breadth apart now. He loomed over her, his russet head bent close and his eyes dark with intensity.

  “Why?” she asked, heat rising in her veins once more. It was from anger only, she told herself, not Niall’s nearness. “Because I am only a wee lass?”

  “Nay,” he replied, his mouth turning down. His lips were surprisingly full, yet they were so often set in a serious line, as they were now. “Because I…” A muscle flexed in his jaw. “Because I wouldn’t want you to be hurt,” he said softly. “And because I know you hate all things English. Being in England, surrounded by Englishmen, will not be easy.”

  Mairin grasped for her anger once more, but it wouldn’t come. It would be so much easier to be furious with Niall, with this damned mission, with everything. But instead her thoughts swirled in a confused jumble.

  Niall had said he believed in her. But also that he was worried for her. And he knew she was afraid, though she prayed he didn’t know the whole of why.

  “I only wish…” he murmured, his gaze softening as it drifted over her face. “I only wish I could be the one to go with you.”

  Abruptly, he cleared his throat, straightening. “As it is, I suppose this is goodbye for a time. You’ll be away from the camp for several sennights—mayhap months, if you succeed in drawing out this rebellion as the Bruce wishes.”

  Mairin bit the inside of her cheek. Months spent in England?

  She must have blanched, for Niall fixed her with his gaze.

  “Just remember, Mairin. You are braver than you may think, and stronger.”

  “How do ye know?” she murmured, silently chiding herself for the way warmth spread through her at his words.

  “Because I’ve witnessed it with my own two eyes,” he replied, one corner of his mouth curving. “I’ve watched you train, seen the way you never give up. You are a fighter—and I don’t just mean your ability to kick my arse.”

  She made a sound that was half-snort, half-chuckle. “And dinnae ye forget it.”

  But instead of grinning back, Niall’s features grew serious, his gaze intent on her. “This is farewell, then.”

  Yet Niall remained rooted in place, his eyes dropping to her mouth. Her lips began to tingle. Would he…would he kiss her? The thought should have been abhorrent, but for some reason Mairin remained frozen as well, staring up at him like a startled doe.

  Niall was handsome, there was no denying it. He was tall and broad of shoulder, his large frame filled out with lean strength. His eyes, bright as a summer sky, shone with keen intelligence. His hair was cut short in the back and on the sides in the style of the English, yet the locks on top were long enough to curl in tousled copper waves above his honed features.

  Yet Mairin had never allowed herself to contemplate him in such a light.

  At first, it had been a struggle to be in the camp with him. He was a constant reminder of all she’d fought to put behind her.

  With time, she’d come to trust that he was nothing like the Englishmen who’d held her captive. Niall was quiet, earnest, and hardworking, not cruel.

  But he’d always treated her strangely. His gaze followed her everywhere she went. He was constantly close by to lend her a hand down from a horse, or help her carry buckets of water from the stream behind the camp.

  And he was protective of her. Today wasn’t the first time he’d instinctively stepped in front of her when a stranger approached or a noise came from the woods while they were training.

  Mairin had taken his watchfulness and attentions as a sign of one of two things—either he saw her as a younger sister requiring coddling, the same as the others in the camp, or he thought her incapable of taking care of herself.

  Neither option pleased her. She told herself it was because it chafed her pride to be thought of as a wee lass in need of help, but the truth lurked somewhere in the dark heat that bloomed in her gut whenever Niall was near.

  But now here in the close intimacy of the dovecote, with the candle she still held casting them both in a soft golden glow, uncertainty trickled through her. The way he was staring at her, with a mixture of hunger and sadness, left her thoughts muddled.

  Tension hung thick as smoke in the air around them for a long moment. Abruptly, the strange spell was shattered by the distant whinny of a horse.

  Niall frowned. “Would Logan return to Craigmoor in the dark?”

  “Nay, he would wait for morning’s first light. And he wouldnae leave without saying goodbye to me.”

  The rumble of hooves grew louder outside the dovecote.

  “Stay behind me,” Niall ordered, yanking a dagger from his boot. Before Mairin could protest, he’d opened the dovecote door, but his large body blocked the entire frame, forcing her to do as he said.

  Blasted man. All her earlier uncertainty fled now that he’d demonstrated yet again that he thought she needed protecting.

  Mairin was about to demand that Niall move aside when a horse and rider suddenly emerged from the shadows outside the dovecote, riding hard into camp.

  “Halt,” Niall barked. His back tensed as the rider reined in at the sound of his voice.

  “English?”

  Mairin recognized the voice. She shoved against Niall’s back, managing to squeeze around him and through the door. She held her candle aloft, casting light over the rider.

  “Angus? What are ye doing here?”

  The old warrior’s face was a mask of worry behind his bushy, graying beard.

  “I have urgent news, wee Mackenzie,” he huffed, his breath a white fog before him. “Where is Will?”

  Chapter Five

  When Niall burst into the keep, he found Ansel, Logan, Kirk, and Will all talking quietly around the table. Isolda must have retired for the evening with Lillian and the children, for she was gone.

  Logan lifted his head at Niall’s abrupt arrival, his brows lowering with concern.

  “Mairin?”

  “She is well. But Angus just arrived.” Niall’s gaze shifted to Will, his chest pinching. “With news.”

  Will jerked to his feet, but even before he could form a question, Angus and Mairin filled the doorway behind Niall. Angus moved straight to Will, not even greeting the others.

  “Angus, is—”

  “Yer father,” Angus said, his voice gruff. “He passed on a few hours ago.”

  Will exhaled and sat down, hard.

  “It was peaceful,” Angus went on. “He slipped away in his sleep. I only wish I had realized sooner that he would depart this night, for I would have fetched ye earlier, lad.”

  Kirk rose slowly. “Rest and warm yerself, Uncle,” he said to Angus. “I’ll get ye some stew.”

  As Angus settled in Kirk’s chair and began quietly recounting William Sinclair’s final hours, a somber hush fell over the others at the table.

  From what Niall had gleaned, Will’s father had been injured years ago in a horseback riding accident. William had lived, but he’d been an invalid ever since. Before joining the Bodyguard Corps, Will had been learning how to run his father’s keep, a holding on the western edge of Sinclair lands.

  When Will had begun training at the camp not long before Niall, he’d left
the day-to-day operations of the keep in the hands of the castle’s seneschal and chatelaine, both of whom had capably managed things when Will was too young to do so himself.

  Angus had joined the seneschal and the chatelaine more than a year ago, partly to help keep Will abreast of the castle’s management, but also because he’d declared he was too old to live and train in the camp with the “wee laddies—and the one wee lassie,” as he called them all.

  But now that Will’s father had passed, the castle would be entirely his responsibility.

  Will lifted his head as Angus concluded speaking, his features pulled taut.

  “I’ll need to see my father laid to rest,” he said, his blue-green eye unfocused in thought. “And ensure the castle is in order before returning.”

  “Ye’re needed for more than that, laddie,” Angus said softly. His eyebrows, more white than red now, drew together and down. “The staff will need direction from ye. They’ve been holding steady all these years, but that willnae be enough forever. And yer father couldnae deal with even the most basic matters by the end. Things have been piling up.”

  Will swore quietly. “I am to depart on a mission for the Bruce come first light tomorrow morn, Angus.”

  Angus glanced uncertainly at Ansel. Ansel closed a hand over Will’s shoulder and squeezed. “Yer family must come first from time to time, lad.”

  “But what of the mission?”

  The room fell silent, and Niall felt several pairs of eyes shift slowly to him.

  His heart hammered hard against his ribs. “I’ll go.”

  Logan began to protest, but Niall cut him off. “I have fought for the Bruce’s cause for six years now. I have trained beside each of you, sweated and bled along with you. And when the Bruce called us all to Scone Palace a year and a half ago, I fought and killed for the King—didn’t I, Will?”

  Will nodded grudgingly. “Aye, ye did.”

  “But that was on Scottish soil, and against Scottish enemies,” Logan inserted. “Ye havenae ever been asked to fight against yer own countrymen, and on yer home soil.”

  “Mayhap the laddie deserves a chance to try,” Angus said, casting Niall an assessing look.

  Niall gave Angus a nod of thanks, then drew in a deep breath. “You’ll always doubt me, see me as an outsider, unless I prove myself. But I cannot do that without being given a chance.”

  “And ye think ye should get this chance when Mairin’s life hangs in the balance as well?” Logan’s voice was quiet but cold as ice, his eyes flashing like sharpened blades.

  “I can look after myself, brother,” Mairin said. Logan’s gaze flicked to her, but then he pinned Niall with his stare once again.

  Niall didn’t flinch under Logan’s steely glare. Naught he could say would set the men’s minds at ease—either they trusted him, or they didn’t—especially not Logan, who was more protective of Mairin than even Niall was.

  At last, Logan tilted his head in the barest of nods. “Verra well. Beaumore will take Will’s place. Naught else has changed.”

  Those at the table began to rise slowly. Will and Angus murmured about preparations for Will’s father’s burial as they slipped out the door at the other end of the keep’s hall. Kirk cleared away Angus’s half-eaten bowl of stew, then ducked out into the night, presumably headed toward his hut to share the news with Lillian.

  Ansel, too, stood in preparation to depart for the hut he and Isolda used when they opted to stay in the camp instead of making the ride back to their own cottage in Roslin. Ansel murmured a word of encouragement to Mairin as he passed, then gripped Niall’s shoulder in a quick, wordless show of encouragement before setting out into the darkness.

  Niall turned to go, but Logan caught his arm in a vise-like grip, halting him.

  “A word, if ye please, Beaumore.”

  “Logan,” Mairin said, eyeing her brother. “What are ye about?”

  “Ye’d best start preparing for yer journey, Little Bird,” Logan murmured, fixing Mairin with a pointed look.

  It was an obvious dismissal—one meant to leave Logan alone with Niall.

  Mairin frowned, clearly annoyed at being sent away so blatantly. But instead of arguing, she sank her teeth into her lower lip—a gesture Niall knew she made out of nervousness—and nodded.

  Once she’d slipped out, taking her candle with her, Logan’s grip eased a hair’s breadth, but he fixed Niall with a deadly look.

  “We need to talk.”

  Chapter Six

  “What do you wish to discuss, Mackenzie?” Niall asked cautiously.

  “It is rather fitting, is it no’?”

  Niall felt his brows lower in confusion at Logan’s deceptively relaxed tone.

  “What is?”

  “That I endangered yer sister’s life all those years ago, and now it seems that my sister’s safety rests in yer hands.”

  Niall stiffened, the familiar, twin stabs of rage and shame slicing through his gut. He wrenched his arm from Logan’s hold, meeting the man’s glare with his own.

  “You think I would make Mairin pay for what you did to Rosamond?”

  Logan watched him steadily. “Nay. Ye arenae that sort of man. Though I ken ye still hold a grudge against me.”

  Niall clenched his jaw against the desire to growl. “You kidnapped my sister. What do you expect?”

  “Naught less than yer rage, Beaumore,” Logan replied evenly. “Which is why I assume ye can understand the position I find myself in now. Ye ken how it feels to have yer sister’s life in danger, to be helpless to protect her.”

  Sour bile rose in the back of Niall’s throat. He swallowed hard against it. Logan was far too keen, too knowing. He was coming dangerously close to Niall’s deepest shame.

  “Aye,” he replied, his voice low and tight. “I do.”

  “And if aught had befallen Rosamond thanks to me, ye wouldnae have rested until ye had my head on a platter, aye? Ye would have searched every mountain and every valley, turned over every rock until ye found my sorry arse.”

  “Aye.”

  “Good. Then ye’ll understand this warning.” Logan took a step closer, until only a sliver of air separated them. “If Mairin is harmed in any way on this mission—if one wee hair on her head is out of place, if a single scratch marks her skin, if she so much as stubs her toe—I’ll hold ye personally responsible, Beaumore. And I willnae rest until ye pay for her suffering tenfold.”

  Niall realized belatedly that his fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles ached. “I comprehend your desire to protect Mairin quite well. But your threats are misplaced.”

  “Oh?”

  “Mairin is a warrior, a member of the Corps. You are lucky she isn’t here to overhear you, for she’d likely make you pay for assuming she can’t protect herself.”

  To Niall’s surprise, Logan’s mouth curled into a reluctant smile. Some of the tension dissipated in the air around them.

  “Aye, ye have the right of that. She’d hand me my arse twice over, no doubt.” Logan’s face dropped into serious lines once more, but instead of directing his glare at Niall, his eyes grew distant. “But this is different.”

  “Aye. Because the mission is in England.”

  Logan’s gaze snapped back to Niall, his eyes narrowing. “How much do ye ken?”

  “Only what is plain to observe,” Niall replied. “When you and Mairin arrived at the camp four years past, she was more ghost than girl. She was half-starved, pale, and could barely speak. I knew you’d just escaped the Order, which operated in England, and that she flinched whenever she heard Lillian or me speak. It was obvious she had been harmed in some way. Even now, all things English take her back to her pain.”

  Niall worked his jaw for a moment, fighting back the rage that surged through him at the thought of Mairin being hurt. All these years, his mind had tormented him with fears of what she’d endured. She’d never offered him information, and he’d never asked, though he dreaded the possibility that even his imag
ination couldn’t conjure all she’d suffered.

  Logan muttered a curse and rubbed a hand over his face. “No’ all of it is my story to tell,” he said. “But some is. No’ long after I joined the Order, Roland Gervais, the man who ran the organization, had Mairin kidnapped from Eilean Donan, the Mackenzie clan keep. She was only ten summers old.”

  A sharp exhale hissed past Niall’s lips. Logan continued.

  “Roland held her captive in a cottage in central England—in the cottage’s root cellar, more precisely. He used her as leverage over me, ensuring that I would stay in line and do as I was ordered—including kidnapping innocents like yer sister.”

  Abruptly, some of Niall’s animosity toward Logan drained away.

  Logan had tried to make amends for the wrongs he’d done as a bounty hunter with the Order when he’d first joined the Bodyguard Corps. But Niall had been too filled with fury and shame over the fact that he’d failed to defend his family to accept Logan’s apology. Yet Logan had only been acting to protect his own family—Mairin.

  “When Kirk and I destroyed Roland—and the Order along with him—I went searching for Mairin. With Roland dead, the coin he’d been paying the men who were watching her dried up, and they abandoned her, still locked in that damned root cellar.”

  Logan’s lips curled back in a feral growl.

  “She was almost dead by the time I found her,” he said. “She was too weak to stand, too weak even to cry. I dinnae ken how long she’d been without food, but the only way she survived was to lick the moisture from the walls and eat whatever vermin crawled by.”

  Now it was Niall’s turn to curse. It felt as though a boulder rested on his chest, crushing his lungs and heart. Mairin. Good God, how had she endured?

  “It took me three months to nurse her into good enough health to get her the hell out of England. That was when we came to the camp.”

  “She was sixteen, nearly seventeen, when you arrived,” Niall said slowly.