The Bodyguard

by Joan Johnston

  “When I come down out of the mountains and marry Lady Katherine, I’ll be The MacKinnon,” Alex said. “I must be ready for whatever challenges are thrown my way.”

  “In other words, ye’ve got to be ready to fight Ian MacDougal.”

  Alex laughed aloud. “That’s plain speaking, Laddie. It may not come to that, but I’m not taking any chances.”

  “I dinna understand why ye insist on marrying when ye dinna know who ye are,” Mick muttered.

  “We’ve been through this before. I’m sure ’tis only coincidence that I bear some resemblance to the duke. If I were such a grand personage I wouldna be likely to enjoy your company, now would I? ’Tis just as likely I’m a nobody from nowhere.” Alex thought it was entirely possible he was a thief. He seemed to have some skill at the trade. “Mayhap when my memory does return, I’ll wish it to Hades.”

  “Shouldn’t ye at least go to Blackthorne Hall and let the steward get a look at you?” Mick said. “Then ye’d know for certain one way or the other.”

  “I’ll see Mr. Ambleside once I’m The MacKinnon,” Alex said in a hard voice. “To tell him what I think of the bloody Duke of Blackthorne. Any man who could ignore the plight of his tenants is a greedy bastard, and I intend to say so.”

  “There you are!”

  “Here I am,” Alex said with a smile, holding out a hand to Kitt, who had just come over a rise and was headed straight for him. She was dressed in a simple skirt and blouse and had a woolen shawl wrapped around her shoulders for warmth. A gust of wind rustled her skirt and treated him to a glimpse of her trim ankles. Her coal-black hair whipped wildly around her face, and it was all he could do not to reach out and grasp a handful of it.

  Her delicate black brows were set in a worried frown. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  “I’ve been walking.” Before Kitt could drop to the ground beside Mick, he grasped her hand and pulled her into his lap. “This will be more comfortable than the hard ground,” he assured her.

  “Alex, you canna be acting like this in front of Laddie,” she protested.

  “I’ll be taking myself off,” Mick said, jumping to his feet.

  “Dinna go,” Alex said. “I want to hear the latest news about Carlisle. Kitt doesna really mind, do you, Kitt?”

  Alex watched the boy look to Kitt for permission to stay, then drop back onto his haunches. “What is it ye want to know, Alex?”

  “Is it true the earl’s gone to London to see the duke’s solicitor about purchasing Blackthorne Hall?”

  Alex felt Kitt tense in his lap. They both knew the chance she’d taken when she committed herself to him instead of the earl. All might be lost, if Carlisle was successful.

  “Aye,” Mick said. “But I dinna think even the earl expects his journey will end in success, milady.” Mick said. “He scowled something fierce when he got the last correspondence from Lord Marcus. It seems the duke’s brother was badly wounded at Waterloo and has gone into seclusion. Lord Marcus said he would do nothing for a year at least.”

  “There, you see? You have no worries, for a year at least,” Alex said to Kitt.

  She wriggled in his lap, angling herself to face him, and he suddenly wished he hadn’t encouraged Mick to stay. He clamped a hand on her thigh to keep her still.

  “What if Lord Marcus has authorized his solicitor to act in his stead?” she asked. “What if Carlisle convinces the solicitor that the contract is valid and should be honored?”

  “Then we have a problem,” Alex conceded. “How is your lawsuit against the duke faring? When was the last time you heard from your solicitor?”

  “Two months ago, at least,” Kitt said.

  “Then perhaps ’tis time the laird of Clan MacKinnon and his lady paid him a visit to see what is causing the delay.”

  “You mean go all the way to London ourselves?” Kitt said.

  “Why not?” Alex said. “We can leave as soon as we’re married.”

  “That means three weeks for the banns to be read,” Kitt reminded him.

  “So be it. In three weeks we’ll be off for London.”

  “We canna afford such a trip,” Kitt said.

  “The lord provides for those in need,” Alex replied with a grin.

  “You’re planning to play Robin Hood again.”

  “Can I come with you?” Mick asked, his blue eyes sparkling with excitement.

  “To London?” Alex asked.

  “No, to rob the duke!”

  Alex laughed. “Down, Laddie. This time I’m not even taking Kitt with me.”

  “You canna leave me behind,” Kitt protested. “I am—” She cut herself off and met his eyes. She was no longer The MacKinnon. She no longer needed to jump into the fray. Alex was there to lead. He was there to serve her every need. Especially her most urgent need to provide an heir who could inherit Blackthorne Hall.

  Kitt looked so disappointed that Alex almost offered to include her. But that was foolish. He knew his way around the castle now, and it was bound to be more dangerous since the house was alerted to the possibility of a thief in the night.

  “What if Mr. Ambleside is no longer keeping the duke’s funds in the same place?” Kitt said.

  Alex stroked his chin. “Perhaps you can be of some use to me, Laddie.”

  “What can I do?” Mick asked.

  “Who’s most likely, besides Mr. Ambleside himself, to know where the duke’s funds are kept?”

  “The duke’s steward would not bother hiding his business from the maid-of-all-work, since she’s of no account to him. And ’tis likely she does some work in every part of the house. She may know,” Mick said.

  “Shall we see how charming you can be with the young lady?” Alex said with a teasing smile.

  Mick flushed. “I’m—” His voice broke and the flush intensified to something like a scarlet rash on his face. “I’m up to the task.”

  “Good,” Alex said. “As soon as you find out where the funds are hidden, let me know. Off with you now.”

  Mick bounced to his feet as though they were loaded with springs. Alex couldn’t even imagine that kind of energy.

  “The next time I see you will be at the bottom of the mountain,” Alex said. “We’ll be leaving here tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure ye’re well enough?” Mick asked.

  “I’m well enough.”

  Once Mick was gone, Alex turned his attention to the woman in his arms. “You’re awfully quiet.”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “I’m afraid to ask,” he said with a smile. “But I will. What’s on your mind?”

  “I’m thinking I canna wait to make love to you until we get back to the cave,” Kitt said, caressing the hair at his nape.

  Alex felt a jolt of sexual awareness. It seemed he was not as tired from his morning walk as he’d thought. “There’s no privacy here, lass,” he said in a husky voice.

  She slid off his lap, took his hand, and pulled him down onto the cool grass beside her. “ ’Tis shaded from the sun here. The grass is soft. Ouch! Mostly soft,” she corrected, as she laid her shawl over an offending thistle. “And the stone will hide us from prying eyes.”

  She placed his hand on her breast so Alex could feel the pebbled tip against his palm.

  “If we keep this up, ’tis likely we’ll have people counting on their fingers when our first child comes,” he said with a grin.

  “I dinna care.”

  “ ’Tis only three weeks to have the banns—”

  “I canna wait even three hours, Alex. I want you now.”

  There was no more argument, no more teasing delay. Over the past few days, Kitt had had cause to wish there was a way she could detach her mind from her body so she could allow Alex to use her body without the rest of her being present. But body and soul—a very anguished soul—lay beneath him now.

  It seemed she could hate everything Blackthorne was and still want Alex. The problem was, this idyllic interlude could not last fore
ver. Eventually his memory would come back, or someone would recognize him. And then she would have to pay the price for the pleasure she took now.

  Kitt kept her eyes closed, but it was impossible not to feel the heat of Alex’s body as he spread her legs with his knees and settled himself between her thighs.

  “Am I too heavy?” he asked.

  “No.” It felt good. Wonderful. She did not feel like the martyr she had expected to become. She forced herself to relax, to welcome Alex’s touches, to feel them and respond. She did not have to try very hard.

  The duke was a very good lover.

  Apparently there were some things that were not forgotten even when one’s memory was for all intents and purposes gone. Alex had told her he couldn’t remember being with another woman. But he must have known the exquisite sensations she would feel when his mouth closed over her breast, when his teeth nipped and his tongue teased. He must have known that if he suckled her throat, her insides would draw up tight in such an exquisitely lovely way.

  Kit moaned, an animal sound of rage and frustration and desire. She felt too much. Wanted too much. And despised herself more every moment because of it. “Hurry, Alex,” she begged.

  “Patience, love,” he said, his voice roughened by desire.

  She gripped him tightly at the waist as he lowered his head, kissing his way down her stomach. She felt his silky hair against her thighs before his mouth closed over her, his lips and tongue creating new and unbearably exquisite feelings.

  “Alex,” she gasped. “What are you doing?”

  “Loving you.”

  Oh, dinna love me. Dinna add that guilt to all the rest. Dinna add that wrong to all the others I will have to pay for.

  She planted her feet and arched her body high, higher, until she thought her back would break, reaching for satisfaction that seemed beyond her grasp.

  And then the waves broke over her, painful and wonderful. “Alex,” she cried. “Oh, Alex.”

  Alex exulted in the rapture he saw on Kitt’s face. He had been afraid of offending her, but he had wanted to taste her, and it had been as wonderful as …

  He remembered wanting to do this with a woman, but he could never remember doing it. Perhaps he had not. Perhaps this was the first time. Any other time could not have been as exciting, could not have brought him this much joy and pleasure. A man could not feel more than he was feeling right now, could he?

  Alex had waited to take his own pleasure, waited to put himself inside her. He could wait no longer. She was still slick when he slid inside her. He saw the surprise in her eyes and said, “There is more pleasure to be had. Much more.” He withdrew and thrust again. And again.

  He watched Kitt’s face as she began to arch into him, press against him, thrust with him. He knew there must be a way to slow everything down, to give her more pleasure and take more himself, but he could not think what it was. His body had taken over and was driving toward relief. He drew his head back and gave a cry of triumph and joy as he spilled his seed within her.

  He slid to her side and pulled her into his arms and held her close. “You’re shivering,” he said. “Are you all right?” He was sinking into sleep when she finally whispered a reply.

  “I’m fine, Alex,” she said. As fine as any woman could be when she was deceiving a man who loved her.

  Chapter 15

  Mr. Ambleside heard the library door open, but didn’t look up from the account books he was perusing. He had told Harper he didn’t want to be disturbed. He waited a full two minutes, but when the butler didn’t remove himself, he heaved a sigh and said, “I said no interruptions, Harper.”

  “There’s a man at the door claiming he’s soon to be the new laird of Clan MacKinnon,” the butler replied.

  Mr. Ambleside didn’t reveal by so much as a twitch how astonishing he found this announcement. Before the earl had left for London, he had assured Mr. Ambleside that Lady Katherine seemed amenable to his suit. It seemed Carlisle had been wrong.

  Mr. Ambleside chided himself for being so complacent. The lady had delayed so long in making her choice, he had assumed she found no particular man among her clansmen to her liking. He would need to take the man’s measure, and if he was going to be trouble, the situation would need to be handled immediately.

  The actual meaning of Harper’s words dawned on him then: “Soon to be laird.” The wedding was still in the future, which meant all was not lost.

  “Show him in, Harper.” Mr. Ambleside dipped his pen in the crystal inkwell and marked a notation in one of the columns of figures. He intended to let this Scotsman stand and wait to be recognized, much as he had done with Harper. It would put the man in his place without having to say a word. He heard the library door open and close but didn’t look up to see his newest nemesis.

  “I’m Alex Wheaton.”

  Mr. Ambleside recognized the name and immediately made the connection. Alex Wheaton. Alastair Wharton. Good God. Was it the duke?

  He looked up and found himself staring into the merciless gray eyes of the Duke of Blackthorne. He came out of his chair as though he’d discovered his ass was perched on an anthill.

  “Your—” He couldn’t even get out the words Your Grace. He had to stop to swallow down the vomit that was threatening to erupt from his belly. Acid burned the back of his throat. He had not seen Blackthorne since the duke’s marriage, eleven years ago. But it was not a face one forgot. “Your visit is a surprise,” he managed to say.

  “I expect so,” the duke replied.

  Blackthorne’s eyes were cold and unfriendly, and Mr. Ambleside summoned all of his inner strength to keep from visibly trembling.

  “I’ve come to speak with you about the rents.”

  “The rents?” Mr. Ambleside didn’t recognize his own voice. It was the constriction in his throat, of course, that made it sound like the squeal of a mouse being crushed in a cat’s jaws.

  “They’re too high,” the duke said. “Much too high.”

  “I can explain that.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Would you like to sit down?” Mr. Ambleside asked, gesturing toward the two wing chairs before the fire. Perhaps His Grace would look less intimidating if he wasn’t towering over him by a full head.

  “No,” the duke replied. “This isna a social visit.”

  For the first time, Mr. Ambleside noticed the accent. He had been too frightened at first to hear much of anything but the pounding of his own blood in his ears. But English dukes did not go around saying isna. His brain was scrambling for an explanation for that oddity when it dawned on him that the duke had announced himself as Alex Wheaton, not Alastair Wharton, or even Blackthorne.

  Mr. Ambleside stared hard at the man standing before him. Maybe it was not the duke. Maybe it was someone with a similar name who looked a great deal like him. Enough like him to be his twin, except for the broken nose and the scar through his right eyebrow and the clothes. He wore belted trousers and a blousy shirt and a dirk, and had wrapped himself in the MacKinnon plaid.

  But the duke had been severely beaten, and his own clothes, as Mr. Ambleside had cause to know, had been stolen. And the name, Alex Wheaton, so very close to Alastair Wharton? No. There were too many coincidences. The man had to be the duke.

  But if so, where had he been all this time? Why hadn’t the Bow Street Runner found him? And why arrive at Blackthorne Hall speaking like a Scotsman and calling himself Alex Wheaton and claiming to be the new laird of Clan MacKinnon? A game played by a bored aristocrat? Or something more sinister. A trick to make his steward betray himself?

  Mr. Ambleside didn’t understand what was going on, but decided he might as well err on the side of caution and delay pleading for mercy until he had asked a few more questions.

  “I’m waiting,” the duke said.

  For an explanation of the high rents, Mr. Ambleside realized. Well, he might as well cover his tracks now as later. He reached into the fob pocket of his waistcoat and retri
eved a key on a short chain, then crossed to the bookcase closest to the windows. He pushed a lever on the inside of the third shelf and the entire bookcase moved outward. He pulled it fully away from the wall, revealing a false wall that contained a tall iron safe.

  He used the key to open the safe and pulled out a sheaf of papers from one of the shelves, letters he’d previously forged with the duke’s signature in the event anyone, including the duke himself, ever inquired about the exorbitant rents. If questioned, he planned to plead his strict obedience to duty. They were very good forgeries.

  He methodically closed and relocked the safe, then realigned the bookcase and turned to the duke. “Here are the letters I received authorizing the latest increases,” he said, handing the letters to the man standing before him.

  He watched the duke page through the letters one by one, his features becoming more and more fierce.

  The game is up, Mr. Ambleside realized. He knows the signatures are forged. Even if I escape responsibility for the forgeries, he’s going to want an accounting of the extra rent money. At least I’ve kept that in the library safe. I can say I never forwarded the money because I intended to make improvements.

  He had come so close to having it all! Mr. Ambleside clamped his jaws tight to keep from giving away his rage and frustration. He had learned in all those miserable English boarding schools where he had studied hard to become a proper Englishman, how to keep his feelings hidden, how to look serene and unruffled, when inside his heart ached and bled.

  “So the duke authorized the increases. You had nothing to do with it yourself?”

  Why doesn’t he recognize the letters as forgeries? Mr. Ambleside wondered. Why does he refer to the duke as though he were someone else? “I’m merely the steward here,” he said. “I merely follow orders.”

  “How can I get a message to the new duke?”

  Mr. Ambleside’s knees nearly gave him away. They buckled quite without warning, and if he hadn’t been close enough to brace himself on the desk, he would have landed in a heap on the floor. He stared hard at the man before him. It was the duke. He was sure of it. But the man genuinely did not seem to know he was the duke.