The Bodyguard

by Joan Johnston

  “Yes.”

  “Let me help you dress—”

  She pulled away from him. She didn’t want him to be so considerate; it only made her feel more guilty. It took a great deal of effort to keep her voice even as she said, “I can take care of myself. You should tuck in your shirt.”

  He turned to unbuckle her father’s belt and to readjust himself in her father’s trousers. By the time he turned back, she had retied her underclothes and had bent down to search for the hairpins that had fallen to the floor.

  He picked one up and handed it to her. “You should leave your hair down.”

  “It gets tangled in the wind.”

  “ ’Tis beautiful when ’tis tangled.”

  She didn’t want him to make love to her with words, either. It was even worse than when he touched her. She crossed to stir the pot on the fire and asked, “What kept you so long?”

  “I ran into Fletcher on the way back.”

  Kitt tensed. “Is he well?”

  “Very well. He thanked me for saving his life … and congratulated me on becoming The MacKinnon. I told him I was not The MacKinnon yet, that the banns had not been read at the church.”

  Kitt bit her lower lip. She had been foolish to think Alex would not find out the truth, but she had hoped she would have a bit longer before he did. “What did Fletcher say?”

  “He was surprised to hear we planned to stand before the preacher, but he was glad of it, because he said there were sometimes problems when children were born of a handfast marriage.”

  “What did you say?” Kitt asked warily.

  “I asked him how he’d learned we were handfast.”

  “And?” Kitt asked, her body knotted with tension, her eyed focused on the bubbling brew.

  “He said Ian had announced it to the clan. How he and Duncan had visited us at the cave. How you told them I was your husband, and I confirmed it before witnesses. It seems that is all it takes for a couple to be wed in Scotland. No preacher is necessary.”

  Kitt said nothing, but she felt Alex’s eyes boring into her. And she realized his Scottish accent was gone.

  “And no child of ours would ever have anyone counting the months on his fingers, since we have been wed from the first time I took you.”

  Kitt looked at Alex from beneath lowered lashes. His gray eyes looked dangerous. His hands stayed by his sides, though they were balled into fists.

  “So, my darling wife,” he said in a quiet voice. “When were you planning to tell me about our handfast marriage.”

  “I didna think it would matter to you, since ’tis only a Scottish custom.”

  “And I am English?”

  “Well, you are.” She lifted her chin and added, “A handfast marriage isna legal in England.”

  “I see. And you wanted to make sure our union would be legal in both Scotland and England. Why is that, Kitt?”

  Kitt tried to think of a logical reason and blurted the first thing that came to mind. “If your memory ever returns, you may want to return to England. I’d want to go with you as your wife.”

  “I see,” he said in that same enigmatic, very English tone of voice. “So you would be willing to leave your clan and come home with me to—wherever home is?”

  Kitt swallowed hard. “For a visit anyway.”

  “I see.”

  Kitt was afraid he saw entirely too much.

  “Perhaps it would be best if I wait until my memory returns before I marry you in the kirk,” he said.

  “You mean postpone the wedding?” Kitt asked, aghast.

  “I mean precisely that.”

  “But you canna do that!”

  “Why not? A handfast marriage is perfectly legal in Scotland. I have no plans at present to leave the country. Do you?”

  “You know I dinna. But what if you should get me with child?”

  “When the time comes, we can have the banns read. If ’tis still what we both want.”

  “But—”

  “We’re handfast,” he said, his voice suddenly hard. “That will have to do for now.”

  There was not much Kitt could say to that.

  Alex had been caught off guard by his anger at Kitt. From the moment he realized how she had tricked him into the handfast marriage, some sleeping black dragon had awoken inside him, determined to devour the not-so-innocent maiden.

  He wished he knew more about himself. It had been disturbing to feel the urge to hurt someone weaker than himself. And yet, despite his feelings of betrayal, he had managed not to raise his hand to her. He was not, in fact, a savage beast without control of his impulses.

  “How did your visit go with Mr. Ambleside?” Kitt asked.

  “Better than I could have hoped,” Alex said. He had no intention of telling her that he had learned where Mr. Ambleside kept Blackthorne’s Scottish fortune. If he really was Blackthorne, he would be giving her the information she needed to steal from him.

  Alex sighed in frustration. If only he knew who to trust. He had thought he could trust Kitt, but he had been proved woefully wrong. And Mr. Ambleside was clearly suspect, since he had pretended not to recognize him. The best policy was clearly not to trust anyone. Except perhaps Michael O’Malley, whom he had met by accident and who had already proved his goodhearted nature by helping Alex when he had seemed to be a nobody from nowhere.

  “I need to see Laddie,” he said, “and find out what he’s been able to discover about the location of the duke’s funds.”

  Alex was out the door before his wife had a chance to protest or complain. It was a fair walk to Castle Carlisle, and as Alex approached the crumbling castle overgrown with vines he had another vision—of a three-story edifice with mullioned windows overgrown with ivy.

  My home.

  But where was it? If he was Blackthorne, then it was in Kent. He could simply go there …

  What if it was his brother who wanted him dead? Were they friends? Did they like each other? He tried hard to remember but was frustrated by the blackness where his memories should be.

  “Alex! What brings you here?” Mick asked.

  Alex realized he had walked directly to the stable, where Mick worked mucking out the stalls. “Is anyone else here?”

  Mick gestured with the pitchfork toward the two Thoroughbreds. “Just me and what’s left of the earl’s cattle.”

  “Good, then I can speak freely.” It felt good to abandon the Scottish accent. “I need to talk privately with you.”

  “I’ve not found out the location of the duke’s money, Alex.” He flushed. “Though Jane, the maid, said she would tell me if she knew it.”

  “That holds no interest for me right now,” Alex said. “I want to concentrate on finding out as much as I can about Blackthorne.”

  “Why?”

  “I believe I am Blackthorne,” Alex announced with a wry twist of his mouth.

  Michael O’Malley leaned his elbow on his pitchfork and grimaced. “Ye’re not going to pretend to be the Quality again, are ye, Alex?”

  “I was recognized by someone at Blackthorne Hall.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Cook fainted when she laid eyes on me. Said I was the spitting image of the duke.” Alex reached up to touch the bump on his nose. “Except for this. And there is more I haven’t told you. I found myself cast up on shore the same night the duke’s ship was lost at sea. And I have been to Blackthorne Hall before. I’ve had visions—memories, I suppose they must be—of myself playing as a child in a room upstairs and of myself with Mr. Ambleside.

  “And just now as I was walking up to Castle Carlisle, I saw in my mind’s eye another stone house, much grander than this one, which I think must be my home in England.”

  Mick shook his head. “I canna believe it, Alex. I mean, no duke consorts with the likes of me.”

  “I suppose not,” Alex said with a rueful smile. “But I think I must be the duke, Laddie. There was a moment, at the Ramshead Inn, when the innkeeper refused to serve me, tha
t I considered his behavior insolent. Would a common sailor expect such deference?

  “And look at my hands.” Despite the newly made calluses, his fingers were long and fine. “Are these the hands of a sailor? Or a Corinthian?

  “And I have more than once found myself plagued by an excess of pride. That is something a duke would have a great deal of, wouldn’t you say? And my English accent wasn’t faked, Laddie. It is far more natural to me than the Scots burr.”

  “But you speak as though you were born to it.”

  “I think I must have spent time at Blackthorne Hall as a child. I must have learned the speech then.”

  “If you are the duke, why not just present yourself at Blackthorne Hall, and see if Mr. Ambleside recognizes you?” Mick said.

  “I was at the Hall this morning. Mr. Ambleside pretended not to know me.”

  “Pretended?”

  “I’m sure we’ve met before, when I was a child,” Alex said, rubbing the smooth, graying jaw of the cart mare who’d stuck her head over a stall door. “According to Cook, I’m the spitting image of the duke. Shouldn’t Mr. Ambleside at least have remarked on the similarity?”

  Mick pursed his lips. “Maybe Cook was mistaken.”

  “I don’t think so, Laddie. The problem is, I don’t know who to trust. It’s obvious someone tried to have me killed. The question is, who wanted me dead? And why?”

  “Are ye asking for suggestions?” Mick said.

  Alex thrust a hand through his hair. “I suppose I am.”

  “I think it must have been someone in England,” Mick said. “The attack came on board ship before ye ever got to Scotland. The duke has a brother—”

  “If Lord Marcus wanted me dead, why would he send a Runner to search for me?”

  “Maybe the Runner came to make sure the job was done right,” Mick said. “Maybe he came to make sure ye were never found.”

  “Perhaps. There is someone else who has something very definite to gain by my—by the duke’s—death.”

  “And who might that be?” Mick asked.

  “Carlisle.”

  “I dinna understand,” Mick said. “What does Carlisle have to do with the duke?”

  “Carlisle has a contract to buy Blackthorne Hall and the land surrounding it, which he can exercise only when the duke is dead.”

  “The devil you say!”

  “It’s true. I’ve seen for myself how anxious Carlisle is to recover the lands his brother sold to the duke. And he’s gone to London to see the new duke’s solicitor—” Alex stopped himself because another thought had occurred to him. A rather unpalatable thought.

  “What are ye thinking, Alex?” Mick asked.

  “I’m thinking that perhaps Carlisle made a deal with my brother. I’m thinking they planned my demise, each for his own reasons. My brother inherits the title, and Carlisle gets the Blackthorne land in Scotland.”

  “Do ye really think so?”

  “Anything is possible,” Alex said irritably. “The question is how to prove it one way or the other. I need to find out what my relationship was with my brother, whether we were close.”

  “Ye dinna know?”

  “I cannot remember,” Alex said.

  “Is there anything that can be done to help ye remember?”

  “Now there’s a good question. I suppose I must ask Moira if she has any remedies that might work.”

  “Alex … I mean, Your Grace …”

  Alex put a hand on Mick’s shoulder. “I must always be Alex to you, Laddie. If it hadn’t been for you, I might have found myself jailed as a madman or starving in the street. When I’m able to take my rightful place as the duke, I intend to reward you—”

  “I didna help ye to help myself, Alex,” Mick said, freeing himself from Alex’s grasp by forking a load of dung into a nearby wheelbarrow. “Ye dinna owe me anything.”

  “Laddie, I—”

  “I’ll visit the kitchen at Blackthorne Hall this evening and talk to Cook. She has a soft spot for me,” Mick said with a crooked grin. “I’ll ask her what she knows of Blackthorne. Will that help?”

  “It’s a good start,” Alex said. “Perhaps something she says will jog my memory.”

  “Are ye sure about all this, Alex?” Mick asked, his brow furrowed.

  “I must be Blackthorne, Laddie. Everything points to it. Like it or not, I am the richest man in Scotland and England.”

  “Oh, Lord!” Mick exclaimed. “What is Lady Katherine going to say when she finds out she’s marrying the bloody Duke of Blackthorne?”

  Alex frowned. “There is a chance she already knows.”

  “What?”

  “I think she suspected who I was and tricked me into a handfast marriage.”

  “Why?”

  “To conceive a child to inherit Blackthorne Hall.”

  “A handfast marriage can be broken anytime within a year and a day of its beginning. Will ye deny her?”

  “I don’t know, Laddie. I haven’t decided yet what I want to do.”

  “Do ye love her, Alex?”

  Alex looked sharply at the boy, but did not answer.

  “Do ye like her?”

  “I cannot help it,” Alex admitted. “I started liking her before I knew to protect myself from such feelings.”

  “Well, dinna wait too long to make up your mind whether to keep her,” Mick advised. “ ’Tis not fair.”

  “Fair to whom?” Alex demanded.

  “Fair to the bairn that may be born,” Mick said softly. “ ’Tis no easy thing to go through life as a bastard.”

  Chapter 17

  Kitt stared at the man sleeping beside her, wondering how a few bumps on the head could have turned the detestable Duke of Blackthorne into an entirely different person. Everything she knew about the duke suggested he was a despicable character. And yet, the man she had been living handfast with for the past six months could not bear the sight of starving children. The man she knew had bent his back to work beside the crofters. The man she knew was a successful reiver who cheerfully shared his ill-gotten gains with her people.

  Ever since the day Alex had confronted her about her deception, he had seemed perfectly content to live with her, to share her bed and her life. But he hadn’t renewed his suggestion that they travel to London to discuss her claim with a solicitor. He hadn’t suggested they be married in the kirk. And he hadn’t hinted by word or deed that he remembered anything more of his past.

  And yet, some nights when they sat by the fire together, his brow would furrow and his gray eyes would get a distant look and he would go away from her, even though he was sitting very close. It had happened again last night.

  She had touched his chin and turned his face toward hers and said, “Alex, where are you?”

  “Hmm?” It took a moment for his clouded gray eyes to focus, and when they did, he seemed surprised to see her.

  “Where were you?” she asked.

  “I was thinking … about whether some modern machinery might improve the yield on the farms.”

  He was lying. Not that Alex had not suggested changes to her clansmen to modernize their farming methods. But Kitt felt sure that was not what had put the troubled frown on his brow. Only, how could she confront him without admitting that she knew more about his past than he seemed to know himself?

  Curiosity was a powerful prod, and she found herself saying, “I dinna believe you, Alex. Tell me the truth.”

  “What makes you think—”

  She smoothed his brow. “I dinna think farm machinery put these lines here.”

  He sighed and tightened his hold around her shoulder. “Did you ever wish you could live your life over and do everything right the second time around?”

  It was an odd question, but perhaps not, if he had been remembering who he was. That thought frightened her, but Kitt put it aside and addressed herself to his question. “How could one know whether a different choice might not turn out just as badly?”

  “Surely
some bad outcomes could be avoided,” he insisted.

  “If I had known what would happen to Leith,” she murmured, “I might have—” Kitt flushed when she realized what she had almost said, but to her surprise, Alex looked understanding, rather than jealous or angry. “The point is, we dinna have second chances,” she said. “Once the damage is done, ’tis done.”

  Leith could not be brought back from the dead. And she had found pleasure lying with the man who had caused his death.

  “Some wrongs cannot be undone,” he conceded. “It must be equally true that some bad choices have led to good results that one might not wish undone.”

  Kitt wondered if Alex was remembering the wife who had betrayed him but given him twin daughters. She could not believe he knew that much. Otherwise, why would he still be here with her? “Did you have some particular example in mind?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “Nothing in particular.”

  At least, nothing he wished to share with her, Kitt thought. Which made her even more suspicious that he might be remembering more of his past than he was willing to admit. She had been ready to quiz him further, when he had silenced her by lowering his mouth to cover her own. She had caught fire, as she always did when he touched her, and by the time she was capable of coherent thought again, the subject had been forgotten.

  Kitt reached across the pillow to brush a wisp of hair from Alex’s forehead and felt an ache in her chest. She had tried hard to keep herself from falling in love with him all these months, but she was losing the battle. If only he had gotten her with child, she could have kept her distance from him—at least physically.

  But she had not been lucky enough to conceive in the first month, or the second, or any of the months after that. She had recently ended the courses that meant she had not conceived for the sixth month since they had become handfast.

  Kitt felt the tickle at the back of her throat and the burning in her nose. She closed her stinging eyes to keep the tears from falling. The worst part was, she wasn’t sure whether they were tears of regret or relief. Regret was understandable. The longer she went without conceiving, the more dangerous was her position and that of her clan. Feelings of relief were purely selfish. Quite simply, she didn’t want the closeness she and Alex shared to end.