Cedric Ambleside had not thanked the duke for what he had; he had cursed the duke for what he had been denied: a legitimate birth, a father who acknowledged him, the right to the whole meat pie instead of crumbs from the table. He—not the present duke’s father—should have inherited Blackthorne Hall.
It should all have been his: the title, the lands in England and Scotland, the immense Blackthorne fortune.
Under Scottish law, the illegitimate son inherited equally with the legitimate one. At the very least, half of what Alastair Wharton owned in Scotland should have been his. Instead, he had nothing.
Cedric Ambleside was merely a steward for his nephew, the Duke of Blackthorne. Because Mr. Ambleside had always been kind to Alistair Wharton on his visits to Scotland as a child, the grown-up duke believed Mr. Ambleside to be a perfectly trustworthy guardian for his Scottish estates.
Was it any wonder Mr. Ambleside wanted something for himself? Was it any wonder he felt justified in scheming to get it?
“I will woo the girl,” the young earl said, interrupting Mr. Ambleside’s thoughts. “But after this, I want nothing more to do with you.”
“Very well, my lord. Marry the girl and win the castle and the land, and we are quits.”
“What is your reward when all is said and done, Mr. Ambleside?” the earl demanded. “I know you well enough by now to understand you give nothing for nothing.”
Mr. Ambleside smiled. It was almost as though he had produced a particularly bright child, or an obstinate pupil had finally learned his lesson. He willingly named his prize.
“What do I get? Why Blackthorne Hall, of course.”
Chapter 5
Mick O’Malley shook his head and muttered, “Ye’re a nodcock, Laddie. Ye should’ve let the man go thirsty. Ye should’ve let him starve. At least then ye wouldna be going hungry yerself.”
It wasn’t the first time he had gone without supper, although Mick had gotten used to regular meals over the past year, and it was harder to do without. But the years he had spent with his belly gnawing at his back had given him enough in common with the stranger that he had not been able to resist helping. He hoped someone was offering a similar kindness to his brothers and sisters right now.
The last word he had heard from them had come six months ago. His sister Glenna had gone to work in the kitchen of a great house in Dublin, and the housekeeper had offered to write a letter for her. Glenna had taken advantage of the opportunity to send word to him of how they all fared, but he had left the place where he had told her he would be, and following him from place to place, it had taken almost a year for the letter to find him.
Glenna worked long hours, she said, but had plenty to eat and a warm bed at night. The others, she feared, were not faring as well. He took out the letter, which he had read so often it had worn thin along the creases. He pored over the words that were all he had to connect him to his family.
Corey and Egan are chimney sweeps, but so far neither has been badly burnt in an accident. I worry about Corey. His master does not feed him well, in hopes he will stay small enough to fit into the tiniest chimneys. He is dreadfully thin. Egan cleans the great church chimneys. He says he is not afraid to climb to such enormous heights, but I think he only says that to comfort me.
The baby, Blinne, is still at the orphanage. They have put her to work scrubbing floors.
When are you coming home, Mick? I miss you. We all miss you. I visit Blinne on Sundays and tell her about you. How blue your eyes are and how black your hair. How you held me when I was scared and how you promised to come back for all of us.
You have not forgotten us, have you? Egan thinks he remembers you, but he is not sure.
Corey cries when I mention your name.
Come soon, Mick.
All our love,
Glenna
Mick felt the tears well in his eyes and wiped them away, feeling even more sorely the loss of his job at the inn. He had not earned much, but at least it was work. He rocked his arch over the comforting lump in his shoe. He hadn’t nearly enough to send for his brothers and sisters. And with all the farmers being forced off their land by the clearances, there were fewer and fewer jobs to be had by a boy like him.
He had known full well the risk he was taking when he helped the unfortunate man at the inn. It was likely to delay his homecoming even longer. But he did not think Glenna would blame him for what he had done.
Come soon, Mick.
Her plea brought a lump to his throat. Oh, Glenna, I miss you all so much. I wish I could do more. I wish …
Wishing was a waste of time. Mick shoved himself to his feet and dusted the hay from his clothes, determined to do something about his situation. He had walked for a little more than an hour after he had left Alex Wheaton, which had brought him into the town of Mishnish. He had gone from the tavern to the smithy to the cooper without finding work, and then had found himself a soft bed of hay at a farm within sight of town. Surely he could find work in Mishnish today.
Blackthorne Hall is near Mishnish.
“Why not?” he said aloud. “There might be a job for me at such a grand estate. Or at least some scraps to be begged for at the kitchen door. And maybe that poor gentleman really is someone of note, and he’ll have found a friend there who’d be willing to help such as me.”
Mick practiced a bow and said, “ ’Tis me, Laddie, come for my reward—a job, if ye please.” He grinned and shook his head. Mick O’Malley knew better than to believe in happily-ever-after endings. They only happened in fairy tales. But luck … Luck was something else altogether.
Mick spotted a hen roosting in a corner of the barn and smiled. “Breakfast.” He reached beneath her soft breast into the warmth of the nest and stole an egg from under the hen without so much as ruffling her feathers. He made a tiny hole in the shell with a small knife he carried in his pocket, then sucked out the contents.
It willna be long now, Glenna, he thought as he sneaked out of the barn. He bathed his dirty face in sunshine as he headed down the rutted road toward Mishnish. All I need is a bit of luck. And today … today I feel lucky.
Chapter 6
“Come inside,” Kitt invited her erstwhile knight. “The least I can do is offer you breakfast.”
The suggestion brought a delighted curve to her rescuer’s lips. He flinched and muttered “Bloody hell!” as he touched his middle finger to his bleeding lip, but the brief smile had been intriguing. She wondered if he was a handsome man. It was hard to tell beneath all the bumps and bruises and the broken nose.
“You’ve made a powerful enemy today,” she said. “The man you just struck down fancies himself the next Laird of Clan MacKinnon.”
“I have no intention of challenging him for the honor,” the stranger said.
Kitt saw where his eyes had come to rest and pulled her gaping blouse together with her free hand as her face flushed with a combination of anger and embarrassment. She gestured with the sword for the stranger to go ahead of her, and he followed Moira into the cottage.
“Sit down,” she said, pulling the bench out from the table near the hearth with the toe of her shoe.
He almost collapsed onto the bench, and Kitt realized for the first time just what bad condition he must be in. Which only made his rescue all the more heroic.
“I’ll need some figwort for these bruises, Moira, and some of your goldenrod and valerian salve. And hot water. Lots of it to clean off all this dirt and blood.”
She set the claymore by the hearth where she could easily reach it, then turned to face the stranger.
He was staring at her as though he were privy to her innermost secrets, yet she knew they had never met before. She avoided his glance as she removed the plaid from across his shoulder. She leaned over and reached for the hem of his shirt where it was tied by a rope inside his trousers and began pulling it loose.
“What are you doing?” He caught her hands in his, holding her captive until she met his questioning gaze.
She looked into his eyes—at least the one that wasn’t swollen shut—and felt her stomach shift sideways. There it was again. That unwanted attraction. She allowed her face to reveal nothing of her inner turmoil. “There’s no sense getting your shirt all wet and dirty—dirtier than it is,” she amended, wrinkling her nose as she got a whiff of it, “when I’m cleaning your face. Let me take it off.”
He let her go and swiped at the front of his shirt. He made a disgusted face and said, “ ’Tis filthy already. And I dinna think I should be undressing—”
The rest of his protest was muffled as she grabbed two handfuls of muslin and pulled the shirt off over his head.
Kitt stifled a gasp when she got a good look at him. Moira had not been wrong. He was brawny, all right. His body looked sculpted, and whoever had done the work had known what he was about. Powerful shoulders, a deep chest whorled with dark blond hair, corded muscle in his naked biceps and forearms, strong thighs visible through trousers snugged tightly over them, and large, capable hands. He was beautiful, if such a word could be applied to a man. Except for the bruises, of course.
Kitt admired the perfect dimensions of the stranger’s body as she would a glorious sunset or the sight of purple heather on the hillside. It gave her pleasure to see God’s work done so well.
“I need some water,” the man said.
“Yes, I know. I’ll clean you up,” she replied soothingly, brushing caked sand from his forehead and cheeks and picking not only straw, but what looked like seaweed, from his hair. He winced when she accidentally skimmed his broken nose.
He caught her wrist, groaning as his bruised knuckles protested even that much movement. “I need a drink,” he clarified. “Water.”
Kitt eyed him cautiously. “I’ll get it,” she said. “If you’ll let me go.”
“Pardon me,” he said, releasing her.
Kitt wondered at the stranger’s fine manners as she crossed to the other side of the room, dipped a cup of water into the bucket she had filled that morning, and brought it back to him. “Here. Drink your fill.”
Any pretense of fine manners disappeared once he had the water in his hands. He drank as though he had been walking in the desert for days, excess water streaming down either side of his mouth as he gulped thirstily. He emptied the cup and held it out to her with a gusty sigh. “More, please.”
“When was the last time you had something to drink?” she asked as she refilled the cup and handed it to him.
He emptied the cup a second time before he said, “Yesterday. At a cottage by the sea.”
“Is that where you live?”
“No. I … No.”
“Where are you from?”
“South of here,” he said. “A rather inhospitable place.”
Looking at his battered face, she was forced to agree. “Are you a farmer?”
“I’ve most recently been at sea.”
She focused her attention on the work at hand, dabbing at his blood-caked features and his torn knuckles with a warm, wet cloth. “I promised you breakfast,” she said. “Are you hungry?”
“A little.” He hesitated and said, “Actually, I’m famished.”
“Moira, a bowl of oatmeal, a bannock, and some tea for our guest.”
He reached for the cloth. “I can do that mysel—Ow!”
“Shh!” she said soothingly, blowing on a cut running through his eyebrow that had opened when she soaked out the sand that was ground into it. There was a knot the size of a goose egg on his forehead. One eye was merely a slit, while the other was surrounded by black-and-blue bruises. His nose was swollen so huge it was hard to tell what size it was intended to be, and if it had once been straight, it was no more. His lower lip was twice its size, and she noticed he licked at a cut on the edge that bled steadily.
“Your face looks as though you’ve been in a brawl. Did you win?” she asked.
The stranger looked at her through his one good eye, which she suddenly noticed was gray. “I’m alive to tell of it.”
“Perhaps you’d make a good bodyguard for The MacKinnon after all.”
“Bodyguard?” He sat up straight, then gasped and grabbed at his side.
She frowned. “Do you have broken ribs?”
“Only bruised, I think,” he gritted out between teeth clenched against the pain. “Why does The MacKinnon need a bodyguard?”
“Because she’s being plagued by all manner of suitors,” Moira said, setting a ceramic pot of greasy yellow salve on the table in front of him. “Like that idiot Ian MacDougal ye chased off this morning. Ever since my darling Kitty said she’d marry the man who could win her heart, we havna had a moment’s peace around here.”
The stranger stared at Moira for a moment longer, then turned his attention to Kitt. “You are The MacKinnon?”
She grinned and made a quick curtsy. “Lady Katherine MacKinnon at your service, sir. And what might your name be?”
He hesitated so long, Kitt wondered if one of the knocks on his head had stolen his senses. “Your name?” she reminded him.
“Alex Wheaton.”
“Tell me about yourself, Alex Wheaton,” Kitt said as she continued her labors on his bruised face.
“There’s not much to tell.”
Kitt applied the goldenrod and valerian salve as gently as she could with her fingertips, but he hissed and jerked away at even that slight touch. She realized the wounds must be very fresh, and she put a hand on his shoulder to keep him still. “Easy. It will make all well.”
She was curious to know more about this man who Moira thought would make a good bodyguard, especially because he was being so secretive about himself. “Do you have a family, Alex?”
His gaze moved away from hers. “I dinna … dinna wish to speak of them.”
He was unhappily married, Kitt decided. Or perhaps his wife had died. He wore no ring. Kitt realized the direction of her thoughts and brought herself up short. Surely she had not been entertaining ideas about the stranger as a prospective husband, not with an entire clan to choose from.
“What brings you here?” she asked.
“I … decided to do some traveling.”
“Why?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“If I’m to hire you as my bodyguard, I need to know a little bit about you.” She smiled and said, “You might be a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
She felt his shoulder tense beneath her hand.
“I have no designs on your person, Lady Katherine. I’m willing to be your bodyguard and fight to keep you safe. That’s all you need to know.”
Moira cackled. “Well, lass, there’s yer gille-coise.”
Kitt had balked at the idea of having someone to protect her. She could take good care of herself. But Ian had come very close to overwhelming her this morning. She did not relish the idea of having her choices taken away by some man’s brute strength.
And it was especially important that all her choices be left open now that her father’s plan seemed to have come to naught. With the Duke of Blackthorne drowned, she was going to have to find some other way to save her people that did not involve the duke. And soon.
“I canna pay you much,” she said.
“A roof and a bed and a meal now and then will be enough.”
She eyed him again and wondered why she trusted this stranger on such short acquaintance. It was hard to judge him by his face, which was badly battered, but his ready defense of her that morning, his quiet presence, and his obvious strength had all made a good impression. Whatever his past, whatever troubles had plagued him, he was here now and he was willing to help.
“Very well, Alex Wheaton. I appoint you bodyguard for The MacKinnon. ’Tis an ancient and honorable position. Do your duty well.”
He captured her hand in his, looked deep into her eyes, and said, “I shall guard you with my life.”
Kitt felt her breath catch as he made the solemn vow. She knew what such a promise might cost hi
m. There was at least one man who would stop at nothing to have her. Alex would earn the meager pay she had offered him. At least with a bodyguard to protect her, she had bought some time to think of another way to save her people.
She set the salve on the table and was about to put the lid back on it when Alex stopped her.
“Wait.” He took the salve and dipped a finger into it, then reached up and gently smoothed it across the bruise Ian had put on her cheek. “You have a wound of your own that needs tending.”
His fingertip was rough and not precisely clean, but she felt an ache in her throat at his thoughtful gesture.
“There,” he said, setting down the pot and wiping the excess salve off on his trousers. He looked up at her and said, “My first duty as bodyguard completed.”
Kitt shivered, but not from the cold. He was watching her again, and she found herself trapped by his gaze, unable to move. The more certain Kitt became that she should look away, the less willing—or able—she was to do so.
“Yer breakfast, Alex,” Moira said, breaking the spell.
“Thank you, Moira.” He dug in with relish, nearly swallowing the bannock whole. He must have felt Kitt watching him because he looked up abruptly, his cheek bulging with food, and reddened. He swallowed what was in his mouth and said, “I must confess I canna remember a time when I was so hungry. I thank you and your mother for—”
“Moira isna my mother,” Kitt interrupted. “She was my nurse. My mother died birthing me.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“ ’Twas a tragedy for my father, right enough,” Kitt said. “He found his one true love late in life and lost her when I was born. And I was not a son.”
“He was blessed to have you,” Alex said in a quiet voice.
Kitt wondered what he meant. Her father had never been happy with her. She had borne the double burden all her life of having killed the only woman her father could ever love and not being the son that might have mitigated her mother’s death.
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