The Bodyguard

by Joan Johnston

  “Foolish woman. You’ve hurt yourself.” His voice was low and husky and sounded more like a caress than a scold.

  She pressed her forehead against his chest and gritted her teeth to keep from crying out as he freed one thorn at a time.

  He was breathing as heavily as she was by the time he was done. “You’re free.”

  Tears of pain sparkled in her eyes when she turned her face up to his. “Thank you, Alex.”

  “I wish I hadna brought you,” he said curtly.

  “I brought you,” she retorted, feeling the frustration that always simmered beneath the surface when anyone suggested she was less capable than she knew herself to be—merely because she was female. “Anyone could have backed up into the roses,” she said. “Even a man.”

  “ ’Tis a crime to mar something so precious,” he said. “You should not be taking such risks.”

  “I am The MacKinnon, Alex. ’Tis my responsibility to take such risks. Now check the door to see if ’tis unlocked,” she ordered.

  He hesitated, then turned away from her and moved the few steps to the kitchen door, which opened when he applied pressure to it. “ ’Tis open.”

  She followed him into the quiet kitchen. The fire in the kitchen hearth had been banked for the night but still provided enough light to make sinister shadows. Kitt froze in the doorway, and Alex had to grab her hand to pull her inside and shut the door behind her.

  Kitt shook her head in chagrin when she recognized the things that had frightened her. The dark goblins she had seen in the corner turned out to be pots hanging from hooks on the wall. The ghostly silhouettes above her were cooking herbs, rosemary and thyme, hanging from the ceiling.

  “If we hurry, we might be able to get in and out before Mr. Ambleside returns,” Alex said. “Which way is the study or the library or wherever it is Mr. Ambleside conducts his business affairs?”

  “When I was here last, the butler went to find Mr. Ambleside in a room beyond the Great Hall,” she replied. “I canna be more specific than that.”

  “Come on,” he urged. “Hurry!”

  Kitt followed quickly after Alex, keeping her back to the stone wall and stopping when Alex stopped. He suddenly backed up into her and turned and clapped a hand over her mouth.

  She instinctively fought his hold, but he wrapped his free arm around her, using his body to shield her from whatever he had seen. She was aware of his height and the breadth of his chest and, because her nose was pressed against the open throat of his shirt, the masculine smell of him.

  It was ridiculous to be noticing such things when she ought to be fearing for her life. But perhaps it was as well that his presence kept her distracted. Otherwise she might have gone running craven from the castle. And proved everything he had ever believed about her feminine frailty.

  Kitt’s heart pounded in a racketing tattoo from fear … and from the feel of Alex’s body pressed against her own. It was wretched to feel so much, when she did not want to feel anything.

  When she heard footsteps moving away, Kitt reached up to push at the hand Alex held against her mouth. “Who was it?” she whispered.

  “One of the servants. No wonder there are no guards outside. The place is crawling with people even at this late hour. Come on.”

  He hurried away without another word, and she followed him down the hall toward a set of heavy doors. He opened one and peered inside. It was obvious from the crystal glasses on the table between the two wing chairs facing the fireplace, that this was where Mr. Ambleside had entertained the earl. The fire crackled cheerfully and noisily, and several lamps had been lit to brighten the room.

  Alex headed for the Sheraton desk angled in the corner. “I’ll look here. You check for a hidden safe.”

  “A safe? Where?”

  “In the wall behind the pictures, perhaps. Or in the floor.”

  Kitt did as Alex instructed, pushing aside several framed landscapes, but found nothing behind them but the stone wall. She lifted the corners of the heavy rug and peered underneath, but the stone floor appeared solid.

  “Have you found anything?” she asked.

  Alex’s attention was focused on a document he was reading.

  Kitt crossed to him and asked, “What do you have there?”

  “I found it on the desk. It appears to be a contract between the Duke of Blackthorne and the Earl of Carlisle, entitling the earl to purchase any or all of Blackthorne’s unentailed property in Scotland, including Blackthorne Hall, upon the duke’s death.”

  Kitt stared at Alex uncomprehendingly for a moment before she realized the significance of such a document. “That’s impossible! Blackthorne Hall is entailed.”

  “Apparently not,” Alex replied. “From what I see here, the castle can be included in the sale.”

  “Carlisle was left destitute. There’s no way he could afford to purchase the land and the castle.”

  “Apparently credit may be extended. Read it for yourself,” Alex said, shoving the paper at her and returning to his examination of the desk drawers.

  Kitt was feeling very sick to her stomach. Apparently this was the contract Mr. Ambleside had spoken of outside, the one Blackthorne’s brother refused to act on until the duke’s body was found. What if Carlisle should manage to persuade Lord Marcus to let him take possession before she was able to win back the land in court? Would she still have a case for ownership if the land had been sold to a third party?

  Alex interrupted her thoughts when he held up a leather purse and said, “A small stash of coins. This cannot be all the funds Mr. Ambleside has in the house. We will need to go upstairs and search his bedroom.”

  “Surely not.” Going upstairs would immensely increase their danger of getting caught.

  “Have you another suggestion?” Alex said.

  “The bookcase,” she said, pointing at an entire wall of bookshelves.

  Alex frowned. “ ’Tis worth a look,” he agreed as he began pulling books out, then shoving them back when he did not find anything concealed within them or behind them.

  Kitt dropped the unbelievable contract on the desk where Alex had found it and joined in the search. Her heart was stuck in her throat for the next ten minutes. Every moment it seemed Mr. Ambleside must surely return and they would be caught. But they had to find where he had hidden the duke’s household funds. It would do no good to save Patrick Simpson if she could not help him escape to America with his wife and family.

  “Let’s go,” Alex said at last.

  “Upstairs?” Kitt said in a faint voice.

  “Unless you’re willing to admit failure.”

  “We could steal the candelabra,” she said.

  “Do you know someone willing and able to buy stolen silver?”

  Kitt shook her head.

  “Neither do I. Upstairs, my lady. Quickly, before Mr. Ambleside returns.”

  The stone staircase was narrow and wound upward precipitously to the second floor. There was no rail to protect one from falling off the edge. Kitt clung to the stone wall with one hand and held out a candle to light the way, as she led them upstairs. They were terribly vulnerable to discovery at this point, and Kitt made herself hurry despite the narrowness of the stairs.

  Kitt paused to wait for Alex at the top. Fortunately, Mr. Ambleside was the only one living on the second floor, where the rooms were intended for the duke and his family. The servants slept in rooms above them on the third floor. “Which way?” Kitt asked.

  Alex looked from one end of the long hall to the other, then turned to the left. “Follow me.”

  Chapter 9

  Alex walked on tiptoe past the first door and the second. As he did so, a picture flashed in his mind of what was behind the second door. It was disconcerting to say the least. Had he been here before? Did he know the detestable duke? Had they been friends?

  He did not think he could have been friends with someone so cruel as the duke seemed to be. A memory of the gaunt faces, the hollow, hopeless eyes
of Patrick Simpson’s children flashed behind his gray eyes. No. He was not a man who could stand by and watch children starve.

  Nevertheless, he could easily picture the room behind the door. It was a nursery, with two small beds, a rocking horse, and two wooden desks side by side. An arched window looked out onto the sea where it crashed against the cliffs below.

  He had a glimpse so brief he thought he might have imagined it of two small, fair-haired boys playing on the floor with painted metal figures of knights on horseback. Who were the children? he wondered. Was one of them himself? Were they mere acquaintances, or someone he knew intimately?

  It was the second time tonight he had experienced such bewildering familiarity. Alex thought back to his first moments in the castle, when he had entered the kitchen and encountered the smell of cinnamon and cooked apples. He had searched the sideboard and found a plateful of apple tarts. His mouth had watered at the sight, and he could almost taste the cinnamon and feel the crunch of the pastry. He knew he loved apple tarts, though he had not tasted any such thing since coming out of the sea.

  It worried him to think of the two incidents—the familiarity of the smells in the kitchen, and the certain knowledge of what was behind that second door—when he did not know how he fit into such a picture. He had spoken first with an English accent. And he had apparently come off an English ship—very likely the same ship that had sent the duke to a watery grave.

  If the duke is indeed dead, he thought. Which was a matter in doubt if he were to believe the conversation between Mr. Ambleside and the earl.

  Alex stopped in front of the door at the end of the hall. “I asked my friend Laddie to talk with some of the servants and discover, without raising suspicion, which room is the steward’s,” he admitted. “Shall we go inside?”

  The duke’s steward lived very well, Alex thought as he perused the room. No plain wooden furniture, no simple wooden bed. Everything was of the best quality, the finest workmanship, the richest fabric. But why not? The duke could easily afford such luxury, considering what he took from his tenants. He met Kitt’s eyes across the silk-canopied bed.

  Her lips were curved in a bitter parody of a smile as she set the candle she carried in its pewter dish on the table beside the bed. “It seems the duke is not so parsimonious with his steward as he is with his tenants.”

  “Apparently not,” Alex agreed. “Come, let us begin our search. We havna much time.”

  A wooden chest sat at the foot of the bed, but that seemed too obvious a hiding place. The funds would be accessible to whatever servants came into the room to attend the steward’s needs. A second look revealed a large padlock. “How are you at picking locks?” he asked Lady Katherine.

  The unholy grin on her face made him smile.

  “ ’Twas very nearly the first thing my father taught me,” she said.

  “I thought the Scots only reived cattle.”

  “I dinna know that my father ever used the gift,” she said. “But he nevertheless taught it to me. He said the day might come when I would need the knowledge.”

  “And so it has,” Alex said.

  He watched as she reached under the man’s bonnet and took two hairpins from her hair, straightening them to make a lock pick. She chewed on her lower lip the whole time she worked the lock, so it glistened in the candlelight. Alex found himself wishing he was the one nibbling at her lips, tasting her, kissing her.

  What was the matter with him? She had made it clear what she thought of his attentions. They were not welcome.

  He had tried not to be aware of her as a woman. He did not even know if he was free to want her. What if he had a wife? He rubbed at his ring finger with his thumb. There was no telltale mark where a ring might have been. He did not seem to have the habit of adjusting a ring with his other fingers. But that did not necessarily mean he was free. He simply did not feel married. He laughed inwardly. He knew very little about himself, certainly not enough to be able to discern such a thing for certain one way or the other.

  But could he want Lady Katherine so much if, in another life, he was committed to some other woman? Would his heart not yearn for that other person? Perhaps his attraction to her was merely lust. He had no idea how long it had been since he had lain with a woman. Perhaps it had been a very long time. Perhaps his body needed her.

  He watched her tongue lick her lower lip and felt his body tighten with need. He desired her. There was no question of that. But it was more than that. He could not help admiring her adventuresome spirit, her courage, and … her talent as a lockpick.

  As the lock sprang open she turned to him with a brilliant smile that made his body harden to rock. “ ’Tis open!”

  “Well done, my lady,” he said, bending on one knee beside her to hide the evidence of his arousal. He resisted the urge to take her in his arms and concentrated on removing the lock and opening the lid. At first he was disappointed by what he saw. It seemed the trunk had been locked to protect Mr. Ambleside’s personal treasures, not the duke’s.

  He moved each item aside as he found it: a fine shaving kit with a silver-handled razor, a leather-bound copy of The Merchant of Venice, a pair of furlined leather gloves, three enameled snuffboxes, a jar of tobacco that—he sniffed—smelled bitter, a heavy woolen blanket, and a box that, when opened, revealed an exquisite pair of dueling pistols.

  “There doesna seem to be anything here,” he said, unable to hide his disappointment.

  “Look,” Kitt said, reaching inside the lid of the trunk. “Look here.”

  A small flap showed at the corner. She pulled on it, and it flopped open, revealing a secret compartment.

  “How did you know that was there?” Alex asked in amazement.

  “The trunk looked too shallow.”

  To Alex’s delight, the hidden compartment was filled with crowns and guineas and pound notes. It also held the duke’s record books and several other important-looking documents. Alex would have loved to examine them, but he was aware that time must be running out. He began stuffing sheaves of bills into a cloth bag they had brought along for just such a purpose.

  He paused and said, “How much shall we take?”

  “Only so much as we will need for the Simpsons’ passage to America.”

  “How much is that?” Alex persisted.

  “I dinna know,” Kitt admitted. “Take it all, Alex,” she said, grabbing a handful of gold and silver coins and dropping them into the bag. “We’ll use the rest to feed the hungry.”

  “Very well, my lady.”

  The sound of footsteps in the hall was all the warning they got that someone was coming. Alex tried closing the trunk, but the inner lid caught and left a gap. He had no time to replace the lock, not if they were to have any hope of escape. He rose, tying the drawstring bag full of money securely to his belt.

  It was then Alex realized there was no way out except the door through which they had come in. And Mr. Ambleside likely stood on the other side of it. Lady Katherine would surely be recognized. And imprisoned.

  He met her eyes across the room and saw the terror there. “Blow out the candle!” he ordered. In the dark they might stand a chance. If he could surprise Mr. Ambleside. If the steward did not cry out an alarm to the other servants doubtless sleeping on the floor above them. And if they could flee down the steep flight of stairs without falling to their deaths or being caught at the bottom by waiting minions of the duke.

  How were they going to escape?

  Alex saw the stream of moonlight through the window and suddenly knew what to do. “Come with me!” he urged, grabbing Lady Katherine’s hand, giving her no choice whatsoever about following his command. He headed straight for the window.

  “Where are you going? What are you doing?” she whispered anxiously.

  “Trust me.”

  She glanced at the door, where the latch was already moving, and hurried after him when he tugged on her hand. The second floor of the castle was high above the ground. There
should have been no escape by that route, not without a great many sheets tied together, at any rate.

  But Alex had known, as he had known what was behind the door in the hall, that he would find a ledge outside the window, and that the ledge would lead to a spot where the cliff angled up so that the drop from the second floor was not so steep.

  He stepped out confidently onto the ledge, only realizing at the last second that his large feet barely fit on it. He did not remember the ledge being so small.

  Or perhaps you were smaller when you stood on it.

  He angled his toes sideways to find a better purchase and leaned back, the sweat beading on his brow and above his lip.

  I have done this before, he thought. And been frightened before, he admitted ruefully. But he had obviously negotiated the escapade successfully, he deduced with a wry smile, or he would not be here to remember it.

  “The ledge is quite narrow, Lady Katherine,” he said in a calm voice that belied the chaos he felt inside. “Lean back against the wall and dinna look down,” he instructed. “A few steps more will bring us to a place where the cliff angles up and the drop to the ground is not so great.”

  “How did you know, Alex? About the ledge, I mean, and the spot where we can jump off?”

  He could not tell her the truth. It would have meant too many questions he could not yet answer even for himself. “Did you never reconnoiter the field of battle, my lady?”

  She laughed very softly. “I have never been to battle, Alex. But yes, I was taught to do so. ’Tis fortunate you were so thorough. I will know next time.”

  “This is it,” Alex said, coming to a halt. “The spot I told you about.”

  “It is farther to the ground than I imagined,” she whispered.

  “I’ll go first,” Alex volunteered as he shoved himself away from the wall and into thin air. The drop couldn’t have been more than a dozen feet, but it felt like a great deal more. He rolled to break his fall and came up grinning. “Hurry! It canna be long before Mr. Ambleside discovers the theft.”

  He could see the whites of her eyes in the moonlight. “Dinna be afraid. I’ll catch you.”