Highland Protector

by Hannah Howell

  been one of the very few who had seen her more than once. The man had even called her by name. Ilsabeth had babbled something she could not recall in French, yanked her skirts out of the dog’s mouth, and hurried away. She was not surprised that the man had begun to follow her for she had acted in a way that would rouse anyone’s suspicions.

  As cautiously as she could, Ilsabeth peered into the street. Simon’s house was almost visible but she could not reach it without crossing the street. From what she could see in the fading light, the man hunting her was not on the road, but that did not reassure her much. Taking a deep breath, she touched her wimple to make certain it was still straight, and then crossed the road. Ilsabeth did her best to walk as if she had no cares yet fast enough to get out of the road as swiftly as possible, praying every step of the way that she would not hear that man’s voice hail her again.

  The moment her feet touched the ground on Simon’s side of the road, Ilsabeth gave up all pretense. She quickly looked around and then dashed into another alley. She was going to have to get to Simon’s house by the back way. For once, however, luck was with her, and she made it to the kitchen door without anyone else seeing her.

  “Here now, lass, just what are ye about?” demanded Old Bega as Ilsabeth stumbled into the kitchen and hastily shut the door behind her. “Ye shouldnae be outside and weel ye ken it. Ye promised Sir that ye wouldnae leave the house.”

  “Actually, I dinnae believe I e’er actually promised that.” Ilsabeth collapsed onto the bench by the old scarred table. “I needed to fetch something that will help to soothe Elen’s throat. Such things as a sore throat can easily turn deadly, ye ken.”

  “Aye, I ken that weel. Lost two bairns to it.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry.”

  “T’was years and years ago. As for wee Elen, I think she has just been talking too much.”

  Ilsabeth laughed as she removed her wimple. “That could be the truth of it. Talking and laughing.”

  “And ‘tis a lovely sound to hear those two bairns laughing. That it is. But, himself is going to be verra angry if he kens that ye left the house. Did anyone see ye? I mean, see ye and ken who ye are?”

  “Weel, one mon saw me. One brief look he got and I could see that he wasnae sure. He has only seen me a few times in the past.”

  “That would be enough, lass. Ye cannae hide them eyes.”

  Ilsabeth did not understand what the woman meant, but she did not argue. She may have known Old Bega for only a week but she had quickly learned that one did not argue with the woman. It was akin to banging one’s head against a very hard wall. She reminded Ilsabeth of some of the women at Aigballa.

  The thought of her home made her heart ache. Her family was still scattered and hiding, the only good news being that the soldiers did very little hunting for Armstrongs. Ilsabeth knew what soldiers could do to a place they had captured, however. Even if they did not destroy it, they would strip it clean of all valuables, food, and drink. Aigballa could easily be no more than a desolate wasteland before her family could return to it. At the very least, the loss of supplies could mean they suffered badly come the winter. She shook aside thoughts of home and tried to fix her mind on her current problem.

  “Aye,” Old Bega continued, and Ilsabeth realized the woman had not stopped talking while she had been lost in her thoughts, “if he discovers ye were out and that some fool may have recognized ye, weel,” Old Bega shook her head, “I wouldnae want to be ye when he gets home. Nay, I wouldnae.”

  Ilsabeth prayed that her little foray remained a secret and then got up to make a soothing herbal drink for Elen.

  Simon frowned as the usual whispering around the court suddenly increased. He looked toward the man who appeared to have started it all. A tall, thin man with wild red hair, his long arms waving about somewhat dangerously, stood talking to Hepbourn. Curious as to what the excitement was about, even though he knew it could all be just because some fool was seen crawling out the bedchamber window of some other fool’s wife, he moved a little closer to two women who were talking with their heads close together. Their postures implied that they had something they both considered important news.

  “Sir John is absolutely certain it was her,” said the brunette who Simon thought was Ida Chisholm, Sir Donald’s maiden sister. “Sir Walter isnae certain he believes the mon, however. But can ye imagine if ‘tis true? A murderess! Here!”

  A chill went through Simon but he forced himself to remain still and quiet. He needed to hear more. Ilsabeth could not possibly be so foolish as to go where she might be seen and recognized. Since her arrival at his home he had been so consumed with trying to prove her innocence and fighting her allure there could well have been a new crime committed that he was unaware of. The king certainly would not have interrupted his search for traitors just because someone was murdered.

  “But, Ida, why would she be dressed as a nun? Isnae that blasphemy?” asked Morag Beaton, a pretty young woman with blond curls who Simon knew was sweet but somewhat witless. “Father Maclean will be outraged when he hears of this.”

  “Morag, that doesnae matter. What matters is that the woman is a murderess, she killed that sweet boy Sir Ian Ogilvie, and she is running free in our town. Why, we could wake to find that she has cut our throats.”

  “Ye cannae wake up if your throat is cut, Ida.”

  If Simon had not become so knotted up with fear and anger, he knew he would have laughed, especially since the younger woman spoke with utter seriousness. “If ye will forgive the intrusion, m’ladies,” he said, stepping closer and bowing to them, “might I learn what news is this that near all here are so excited about?”

  “Why, ‘tis news of that Armstrong lass, Sir Innes,” replied Ida Chisholm, giving Simon what she must have believed was a flirtatious smile. “Sir Ian Graham is claiming that he saw her right here, in town, right out upon the road. Aye, met her on the street, he did, and she was dressed as a nun.”

  “Is that what the mon is saying? ‘Tis a verra strange tale.” Simon was a little surprised that he sounded so calm, even mildly amused, when inside he was raging with so many different emotions he doubted he could name them all even if he wanted to. “Why would the woman come here, right within the reach of those who hunt her for the crimes of murder and treason?” It was a question he was aching to ask Ilsabeth.

  “ ‘Tis said that she plots to kill our king so wouldnae she have to come here so that she could get close enough to him to do it?” asked Morag.

  “That is something to consider, Miss Beaton,” replied Simon. “Yet, with her plot already discovered, I cannae see what she would hope to gain by coming here. She has to ken that she would ne’er get within striking distance of our liege. That is, assuming that she is a killer and a traitor.”

  “Why do ye think it is an assumption? Her dagger was found in that poor man’s heart. The lass isnae right in the head, is what it is,” said Ida. “None of those Armstrongs are.”

  Simon found he was certainly questioning Ilsabeth’s sanity at the moment. “I have no proof save for the dagger and I didnae see her use it, nor does it make sense to me that someone who is clever enough to plot against our king would be foolish enough to leave her dagger in the heart of the mon she killed.” He was pleased to see both women frown in thought and decided it was past time to start working harder at sowing some doubt around the court. “I believe I shall go and speak to Sir Ian myself. If ye will be so kind as to excuse me, ladies?”

  With every step he took toward Sir Ian and Hepbourn,

  Simon fought to get his emotions back under tight control. Telling himself that Ilsabeth would not try to flee without the children, and there had been no mention of them, did not help much. He wanted to go home immediately to make certain that she was still there. And, if she was, he was seriously considering chaining her to the wall.

  “Ah, Sir Simon,” hailed Hepbourn. “Just the mon we need to speak to. My friend here"–Hepbourn hastily introduced Simo
n and Ian–"claims he saw Ilsabeth right here in the town and dressed as a nun.” He laughed and shook his head, but Simon could hear a false note in that laughter. “I cannae see why she would e’er come here, can ye? Nay right into the lion’s den.”

  “I tell ye, it was her,” snapped Ian. “A mon doesnae forget eyes like that lass has, nay once he has looked into them.”

  No he does not, Simon silently agreed. “There is naught here for her except the gallows. It makes no sense for her to come here and then go about the town as if none would see her, disguise or nay.”

  “There, Ian, isnae that what I have been saying?” Hepbourn patted the other man on the shoulder.

  “Then why did she run away from me?” asked Ian.

  “Ye probably frightened the poor lass. Nuns are e’er afraid of men.”

  Simon had the strongest feeling that Hepbourn did not believe a word he was saying. That could only mean that Hepbourn was not sure if Ian was right or not, but was determined to divert the man’s attention. All the reasons Simon could think of for the man to do that were bad ones. Nevertheless, he joined in the game. His objective, however, was to divert both men and as soon as he did he was headed home to either hunt down Ilsabeth or strangle her, or even both.

  “I find it difficult to believe the woman would come into the very heart of the enemy,” Simon said. “Whether she is guilty as accused or nay, she would have to ken that she is being hunted and, if caught, might not be given any chance to prove her innocence.”

  “Innocence?” Hepbourn laughed. “The woman’s dagger was found in Ian’s heart. How can ye think she is innocent?”

  “I didnae say that I thought her innocent or guilty, just that there is nay any proof to say she is guilty. Naught but that dagger and we all ken how easy it would be for someone to use her dagger to do the killing, kenning full weel that she would be blamed.”

  Ian nodded slowly. “True. Verra true.”

  “Ye are both just saying this because she is a woman,” snapped Hepbourn. “Women are capable of killing and plotting.”

  “Of course they are,” agreed Simon. “Sometimes with far more stealth and cunning than any mon. But ‘tis my way to look for the truth, Sir Walter, and I havenae found any proof that she or her clan are what everyone is claiming they are.”

  “Weel, ye just keep searching for your cursed proof. The rest of us will search for that traitorous killer.”

  “If ye feel ye must. I would suggest that ye bring her to the king alive. After all, if she is hastily executed and then proven to be innocent, ye would become the killer, now wouldnae ye?” As Hepbourn stood there speechless, Simon turned to Ian. “Good to meet ye, sir.”

  That last statement to Hepbourn probably had not been the wisest thing he had ever said, Simon thought as he made his way through the crowd. He did not regret it though. The man was working hard to get a young woman accused, tried, and convicted of crimes Simon was increasingly certain Hepbourn himself was guilty of. If Hepbourn was not so visible at the king’s court and so well liked, Simon would have grabbed him, dragged him to a private place and happily beaten the truth out of him. Now, however, he had to get back home and try to calmly talk some sense into a certain blue-eyed woman.

  Ilsabeth was just settling herself beneath the warm covers of her bed, mourning the fact that she was doing so alone again, when the door to her bedchamber slammed open. She barely smothered the scream that rushed to her throat as she thought the king’s soldiers had finally found her. Just as she leapt from the bed, she realized it was only one man and, in the dim flickering light from the fire that man looked to be a very angry Simon. Somehow he had discovered that she had left the protection of his house.

  “Have ye lost whae’er few wits ye may have had in that bonnie head?” he snapped as he shut the door behind him and advanced on the bed.

  Ilsabeth was so stunned by this display of hot anger from her cool, often cold, and very con trolled man that it took her a moment to understand what he had just said. “Are ye calling me witless?” Anger prodded her to leap back onto the bed and swiftly cross it until she knelt on the edge, meeting Simon’s glare with one of her own.

  “What else can one call a lass who goes wandering about the town e’en though she kens she is being hunted for the crimes of murder and treason?”

  “I needed to get some herbs for a potion.”

  “I pray it was one to make your wits keener or, at least, give ye some understanding of the danger ye are in.”

  “Elen had a soreness in her throat!”

  Despite a pinch of fear for the child who had quickly wound herself around his heart, Simon’s fury did not ease much. “If they only thought ye a murderess, it wouldnae be so dangerous, but they think ye are a traitor, too. Can ye nay understand that, if they get their hands on ye, I might nay be able to stop a swift execution? Not everyone cares that there be actual proof of a crime. The king has already suffered the bitter sting of betrayal. There will be little mercy to be found if ye are brought before him.”

  She knew that, but tried hard not to think of it too often. The terror it inspired chilled her to the very marrow of her bones. Instead, Ilsabeth settled all of her attention on Simon’s anger. He was a man who kept a tight rein on his emotions yet he was scolding and bellowing at her because he knew she had put her life in danger. She had to believe that it was more than a strong sense of responsibility for her that drove his fear and anger.

  The moment she placed her hands on his cheeks all his muttering about foolish women marching blindly into danger ceased. She leaned forward until her body was pressed against his and heard him catch his breath. The stormy gray of his eyes changed into the rich, dark gray of desire. He lifted his hands to grasp her arms, but his hold on her quickly turned into a caress, and Ilsabeth trembled.

  “I wore my nun’s garb,” she said, and brushed a kiss over his mouth. “It was but ill fate that put that fool there to see me.”

  “He not only saw ye; he recognized ye.” He had to struggle to keep his eyes open when she kissed his cheek. “The whole of the king’s court was whispering about it. Soldiers will now be looking for a blue-eyed nun.”

  “And they willnae find her for she willnae be skipping through town again nor at the nearest convent nor anywhere else they might look.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and smiled at him. “I wouldnae have done it at all if I had had any other choice. MacBean and Old Bega didnae ken what I needed, where to ask for it, or even which would be the best to select, and I couldnae ignore Elen’s sore throat. True, it now appears that it wasnae of much importance, but it could have been a sign of something more, of something deadly.”

  “I ken it.” Simon found it difficult to speak while she was kissing his neck. The warmth of her lips was rushing straight down to his groin. “Ilsabeth, ye should stop. I am nay at my strongest just now.”

  “Oh, good.” Ilsabeth nipped at his chin as she watched his face and nearly grinned when his eyes widened.

  “Honor demands...” “Bugger honor.”

  Simon laughed briefly at her crudity but quickly grew serious again. “Ye are a maid.”

  “Aye, I am. A maid of one and twenty years. A maid who was betrothed. A maid who suddenly is verra, verra tired of being a maid.”

  He groaned softly as she unlaced his shirt and kissed the hollow at the base of his throat. Simon ached to grab what she offered, to wallow mindlessly in the passion he knew they could share, but a few shredded tatters of good sense remained. It was enough to keep him from immediately hurling her to the bed, tearing off the thin linen nightgown she wore, and burying himself deep inside her. If he was going to become her lover, he was going to attempt to do so with some finesse. He may have lost the control to refuse what she offered, but he was determined to find enough control to make her first time with a man something she would recall with fondness and pleasure.

  “Are ye thinking of running away again?” she whispered by his ear before lightly biting his e
ar-lobe.

  “I should. Ye can ne’er return to being a maid.” “I should pray not.”

  Simon pushed her away. The disappointment and hurt upon her face decided him. He might not understand why she wanted him, but she did, and his running each time desire flared between them was hurting her. That he could not do. It shamed him to realize how little thought he had given to her feelings each time he had fled the desire she stirred within him. He started to shed his clothes and the way her eyes brightened with interest stroked his vanity. He just hoped the beautiful eyes considered to view him with favor when she saw his back.

  “No running this time?”

  Ilsabeth was not surprised to hear how husky her voice had grown, for the sight of Simon’s body had her panting like a hard-run hound. His shoulders and chest were broad enough to please any woman. The rest of his tall, lean body was all smooth skin and taut muscle. There was only a small patch of hair on his chest. Her gaze moved down his body until she saw the dark arrow of hair that began below his navel and thickened slightly around his groin. The long, hard jut of his manhood told her that he was more than ready to become her lover. He stood with his legs apart, the hair-roughened strength of those limbs making her palms itch with the urge to touch them.

  “Nay, no more running,” he said, and nearly grinned at the way her gaze settled on his groin. “Are ye about to run?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good.” His voice came out as almost a growl as he leapt onto the bed and pushed her down until she was sprawled beneath him. “I think I might just chase ye if ye did.”

  Simon kissed her, savoring the taste of her as he unlaced her nightgown. As soon as he undid the last tie, he pulled it off her and tossed it aside. Her body was far more lushly built than he had imagined during too many sleepless nights, her breast full and high, dark rose nipples hard and inviting. Her hips bowed out nicely from her small waist and her legs looked surprisingly long and well muscled. The sight of the tidy wedge of black curls between her pale thighs had him fighting the urge to bury his face in there. He placed his hands just beneath her breasts and slowly moved them upward until he held the soft flesh in both hands. Ilsabeth gasped and he kissed her again.