When he had nearly reached it, a small voice said, “Sir, here’s a cup of ale and a bannock to fill the emptiness inside.”
He found himself staring down into the sympathetic blue eyes of a narrow-shouldered boy dressed in a too-small shirt that exposed his wrists and too-short trousers that exposed his bare ankles, which stuck out of a pair of too-large shoes. He guessed the child was nine or ten.
“What’re ye doing, brat?” the innkeeper demanded.
The child held out the pewter mug. “Here, sir. Drink it quickly.”
He reached for the mug, surprised by the kind gesture from one whose circumstances did not appear to be much better than his own. “Thank you.”
The innkeeper crossed quickly, his hand raised to knock the mug aside, but thought better of it when he turned to confront him. Instead, the innkeeper took out his wrath on the boy who had offered succor.
“That’s the last of yer defiance I’ll suffer,” the innkeeper said as his open palm landed on the boy’s cheek, leaving a stark red welt. He yanked the bannock out of the boy’s hand and crushed it in his fist. The boy cowered as the innkeeper poised his fisted hand for another blow.
“Enough!” he roared, dropping the mug and catching the innkeeper’s wrist with a grip strong enough to make the man cry out. He knew he could not hold on for very long. His strength was nearly gone.
The innkeeper was clearly furious at being said nay in his own establishment. “If ye want the care of the lad, then take him,” the innkeeper said, easily jerking himself free. “I’ve no more use of him.”
“Oh, please, sir, dinna throw me out,” the lad pleaded, grabbing the innkeeper’s apron with both hands and hanging on.
“I’m the one you’re angry with,” he said, realizing the trouble he had caused. “Don’t blame the boy.”
“Be gone with the both of ye,” the innkeeper said menacingly. “Or I’ll have the lads throw ye out.”
He looked around the room and saw several of the innkeeper’s burly friends rising from their seats. “Come with me, boy,” he said.
The boy eyed him askance. “Ye can give me work, sir?”
“I currently find myself traveling without my valet,” he said with a wry—and painful—twist of his mouth. Do I really have a valet somewhere? he wondered. “Would you care to take service with me?”
“I would, sir,” the boy said, a quick grin flashing.
“You will not suffer for your kindness. I promise it.”
“Thank ye, sir.”
The raucous laughter of the patrons showed what they thought of his job and his promise.
“Ye’ll be wantin’ food for yer journey,” the innkeeper said. “Take this!” He threw the crumbled bannock at the boy, but nearly half the oatmeal biscuit hit the battered stranger in the chest.
Something inside him broke at that final insult.
“Enough,” he said in a feral voice. “That is quite enough.” He would have attacked the next thing that moved, like some crazed animal, but the boy grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the door.
“Come, sir. ’Tis time we take our leave.”
“Ye’ll be lucky if ye dinna starve workin’ for such as him, Laddie,” one of the patrons said. “Here’s a little somethin’ to help ye on yer way.” The man threw the remnants of a lamb chop at the boy, missed, and hit the stranger in the shoulder.
He snarled and would have leapt, but the boy pulled him back. “Please, sir. There are too many of them.”
For the boy’s sake, he reined the beast inside.
“Ye’ll be lucky if they dinna put ye away with that madman,” another patron said, hurling a handful of peas.
As they left the inn, he was pelted with all manner of food. Potatoes stuck in his hair, and savory gravies from bones and stews stained his borrowed shirt. The delicious smells wafting from his clothes made his mouth water. He saw a joint of lamb land on the floor at his feet and very nearly stooped to pick it up.
Pride—he seemed to have a damnable lot of it—held him back.
“Come, sir,” the boy said, tugging hard on his hand. “Please come.”
He stared at the small, grimy fingers that had wrapped themselves around his own filthy hand and allowed himself to be led from the inn, surprised at the boy’s unexpected kindness and his belief in his promises. He hoped he would be able to repay the child in some way.
Once they were on the road, the boy let go of his hand and wrapped his arm around his waist to help hold him upright. “ ’Tisna necessary to keep up the act with me, sir. I’ll not leave ye.”
“The act?” he said as he limped along beside the boy, ashamed he had to lean on him, but unable to do otherwise.
“I know ye’re not the Quality, sir. If ye’d like to find a ride, ’tis best ye come up with a better disguise. These Highland Scots hate the English—and with good reason.”
Just then, a carter with a wagonload of cabbages drew alongside them.
“You there, sir,” he said in a voice that sounded condescending even to his own ears. “I would like a ride—”
The carter mumbled something, crossed himself, and applied the whip to his team of oxen, which moved steadily away from them.
“I warned ye, sir. That bird willna sing for ye.”
“What?”
“That English nobleman disguise doesna work.”
He did not bother explaining the truth. “What would you suggest?”
“Ye might be a shipwrecked sailor. The sand and the seaweed in yer hair will help the story.”
“I see,” he said.
“And get rid of that English accent,” the boy advised. “ ’Twould be better if ye spoke like a Scotsman. At least give it a try,” the boy said. “There’s another wagon coming.”
He turned to see two dray horses pulling a wagon.
“Quick, what’s yer name?” the boy said.
“Al … Al …” A light flickered and was gone. That was as much as he could remember.
“Alfred? Alan? Alex?” the boy questioned.
The cart was drawing closer. “Alex,” he said, choosing the last name the boy had given. It was as good as any. “Alex Wheaton,” he said, staring at the bags of wheat on the wagon that was rapidly approaching.
“I’m a sailor home from the sea,” he said, trying out a Scottish accent and realizing even as he rolled the r on sailor that he knew how to do it. If I’m Scots, why was I speaking with an English accent? And if I’m English, how do I know how to speak like a Scotsman?
The boy laughed and clapped. “Yer accent’s perfect!” He gave a dignified bow and said in perfect King’s English, “Michael O’Malley, at your service, sir.”
“That’s an Irish name! And what happened to your Scottish accent?”
The boy grinned. “Ye can call me Laddie,” he said with a thick Scottish accent. “ ’Tis my own disguise.”
Why would a boy of Michael O’Malley’s age need a disguise? Who was he hiding from so far from Ireland? Alex opened his mouth to ask and closed it again. There would be time enough to discover everything later. It was good to have a name. Alex Wheaton. He needed rest and something to eat and drink. And a ride would not be unwelcome.
“Well, Laddie, let’s see if you can charm a ride for us from that farmer.”
“Where are we headed, Alex?”
“Blackthorne Hall,” he said. Maybe someone in that English stronghold would recognize him.
“Very well.” The boy ran alongside the wagon and said, “Please, sir, can ye give my poor brother a ride? His ship was wrecked, and I’ve come to take him home to our mother. I’ll be glad to walk myself.”
“Where ye headed, lad?”
“To Mishnish,” the boy replied, naming the town closest to Blackthorne Hall. “But we’ll be glad of a ride as far as ye can take us.”
“The both of ye hop on,” the farmer said. “Beau and Belle can take yer weight.” He flicked his whip lightly over the rumps of the two huge horses, and they nodde
d their heads as though in agreement.
Mick shot Alex a triumphant look before helping him onto the moving wagon.
Alex bit his lip to keep from crying out at the pain.
“We’re on our way, sir,” Mick whispered.
“To Blackthorne Hall?”
“To wherever fortune takes us.”
The first thought he had upon waking was that he must have indulged to excess the night before on some very bad port. His second thought was that his feather mattress was in great need of a beating to smooth out the lumps. It felt like he’d been sleeping on a pile of—it was straw!
He sat up too quickly and groaned as every wretched ache and irritating pain in his body made itself known. He remembered he was calling himself Alex Wheaton, but a great deal of the previous day was a blur.
Where am I? How did I get here?
Thankfully, the memories were there. He recalled the farmer had taken them within a few miles of their destination before letting them off. During the day’s ride, he had learned a little more about Michael O’Malley.
The boy came from Dublin, where he had two younger brothers and two younger sisters, all with different fathers. “My mother made her living with the gents,” Mick said with a too-casual shrug that revealed how very much he had minded. “Having babies was a part of the job. The last one killed her, is all.”
Do I have a family of my own? Are they even now missing me? “What happened to the rest of your family?” Alex asked.
“We all went to a home for orphans. But it was more of a workhouse, which I found out pretty quick. I crawled out through the bars in the window one night and ran away. I promised the others I’d make my way in the world and come back to get them.”
The boy shrugged again, an insouciant, devil-may-care gesture that made Alex’s throat constrict. “How long ago did you leave them?”
Mick looked him in the eye and said, “Two years.”
“How old were you then?”
“Ten.”
That made the boy twelve. Starvation had kept him small, Alex supposed. He tried to imagine what a child like Mick must have had to do to survive these past two years. He did not like the dire pictures that formed in his mind.
The boy’s story had not provided any reason why he would need to disguise himself. Alex did not think the poorhouse spent much time searching for runaways. It should not have been necessary to flee the country to escape detection. Which meant there was more to Mick’s story than he had told.
“Why did you help me?” Alex asked the boy. “You must have known you would make trouble for yourself.”
Mick shrugged again. “I’ve been hungry a time or two myself.”
The simple but eloquent answer silenced Alex. The youth possessed an excess of courage and kindness, and Alex hoped he would one day be in a position to reward both.
To his shame, Alex slept most of the ride. Mick woke him when the farmer stopped at a crossroad where he planned to turn off.
“End of the line,” Mick said.
“How close are we to Mishnish?”
“About two miles. Maybe a little more.”
Alex discovered his muscles had tightened while he had been asleep, and he could barely move. It was mortifying to ask for help, but he had no choice. “Can you give me your hand, Laddie?” he said, reaching out to the boy.
Mick extended a small, callused hand and helped him off the wagon, then stood beside him while he caught his balance, waiting for a bend in the road to take the farmer out of sight.
“I’ll be leaving ye here,” Mick said.
“What? Why not stay together?”
“ ’Tis easier for one to find work than two. Besides, I canna take care of ye. I’ve promises to keep.”
“Maybe once we reach Blackthorne Hall—I mean, if I am an Englishman—”
Mick put a hand on his arm—it was intended as comfort, Alex realized—and said gently, “ ’Tis plain you canna walk any farther today. My advice, Alex, is to find the nearest barn and sleep until morning. There are farms all up and down this road. You willna have trouble finding one.”
The boy took off at a brisk pace on the narrow, rutted road.
“Where are you bound for, Laddie?” Alex called after him. “How can I discover your direction if my circumstances change for the better?” If I find out who I am …
“Find a barn, Alex. Rest,” Mick called back to him.
“I’m bound for Blackthorne Hall,” Alex said. “Ask for me there.”
The boy did not stop or turn to acknowledge him.
Alex was too weak to walk very far—certainly not the two miles to Mishnish that Mick apparently intended—and darkness had fallen by the time he slipped inside the first barn he found and shoved a small pile of straw into a bed. Despite his awful thirst, the gnawing hunger, and the discomfort of his lodgings, he had instantly fallen asleep.
Alex stretched to get out the kinks from a night spent on a hay bed. His body ached worse than it had the previous day, but he felt a great deal more hopeful this morning. He was only two miles from Blackthorne Hall. Two miles from an English stronghold where he might very well be recognized. Two miles from the promise of a good claret and any mouthwatering dish he desired. Two miles from the offer of a hot bath and clean clothes.
He was drawn from his musing by the sound of a slap—a hand meeting flesh—and a woman’s angry voice outside the barn.
“I thought you learned your lesson yesterday, Ian. But I suppose some are slower than others.”
He heard another slap and a woman’s outraged cry of pain.
“I learned not to give you warning,” a rough male voice replied. “That is what I learned. Your father’s sword is no use to you now.”
“Stay away!” the woman cried. “Dinna touch me!”
“I intend to have you, Katherine,” the man said. “Whether you will or no.”
“I think not,” Alex said, stepping out of the barn. As knights in shining armor went, he supposed he left a great deal to be desired. But he did not see anyone else stepping in to help.
One look at the woman’s attacker made him question whether one of the blows to his head had not left him slightly deranged. The thickset man towered over him and had beefy arms that strained the seams of his shirt. Black hair half-covered his dark eyes, and an unkempt black beard hid the lower half of his face. He held a broadsword in his large-knuckled hand and looked like he knew how to wield it.
When the giant turned to confront him, Alex got his first look at the woman backed up against the stone wall of the barn. If it had not already been parched, his mouth would have gone dry—she was that beautiful. His body tightened viscerally. It was as though they were attached by some invisible cord that vibrated between them, plucking every sensitive nerve in his body.
She looked at him with worried eyes—intriguing eyes, he thought, as green as … as a fresh-hewn lawn … somewhere … Where? Alex frowned as the brief glimpse of a long expanse of manicured green lawn disappeared from his mind’s eye.
He could see the white swell of her breasts, where the oaf had torn her muslin blouse—half-concealed by her long, tangled black hair—and the lush curve of her hip, where her brown skirt was bunched in the villain’s fist.
Alex’s gut tightened.
He wanted her. Might even have taken the villain’s place if he had been the sort of man willing to use force on a woman. It seemed he was not.
His eyes met hers and an ancient flare of recognition sparked between them, before the look in her eyes changed to something much less inviting. He could see, even from where he stood, that she wanted nothing to do with him.
But he could not leave her to be raped. He must at least protect her from harm. Chivalry demanded it.
The pair were frozen in a violent tableau, staring at him.
The man recovered first and demanded, “Who are you?”
“A knight in shining armor,” Alex replied. “Come to rescue the fair maiden.” To hi
s surprise, it had not come out sounding flippant, as he had intended. His parched, gravelly voice was entirely serious.
The brute laughed aloud. “Go away,” he said, using the claymore to wave Alex away as though he were a fly on a dung heap.
“Let the lady go,” Alex said, his shoulders squaring, his stance widening, as anger lent him strength he had not known he still possessed.
“Or what?” the villain demanded in a menacing voice, brandishing the broadsword in Alex’s face.
The whole situation was ludicrous in the extreme, Alex thought, seeing it as though from a distance. A man without any memory of who or what he was, dressed in a shepherd’s shirt and trousers and shoes with holes in the toes, was about to fight a ruffian over a bit of fluff who probably gave herself to men for a coin every day of the week.
His glance slid to the growing bruise on the young woman’s cheek where the lout had slapped her, and he realized, as the hairs rose on the back of his neck, that if the brute did not release her forthwith he could easily be persuaded to kill him.
“Let her go. Now.”
“She’s mine,” the villain said. “I claim her by right of possession. What do you say to that?”
Alex did not bother to reply. He simply balled one of his bruised and torn hands into a fist and, using every ounce of strength he had left, planted the brute a facer.
It was a lucky hit, and the man crumpled to the ground.
He nearly crumpled himself. He cried out at the agony he’d caused himself with the blow and cradled his wounded hand against his chest.
The woman wrenched the claymore out of the fallen man’s hand and stood holding it in both of her own, her back to the stone wall, watching Alex warily. “Stay away,” she warned.
Alex decided this was not the time to explain he only wanted to get to Blackthorne Hall in hopes that someone there might recognize him. Considering how the locals felt about the English, she was as likely to spit him on her sword as to thank him for her rescue. It was easier to pretend to be Alex Wheaton.
The Bodyguard Page 5