The Bodyguard Read online

  “ ’TIS FORBIDDEN FOR YOU TO TOUCH ME, ALEX,”

  Kitt reminded her bodyguard. She felt a stab of alarm when her warning had no effect. But she refused to be the one to back away. Her flashing eyes dared him to come closer. Dared him to try and kiss her.

  He gave her a wolfish smile. “You let go first.”

  She realized her hands were twined in the hair at his nape and snatched them away. “Now you let go,” she said.

  The feel of his breath on her flesh had already sent an expectant shiver down her spine when he finally stepped back. “You’re safe from me, my lady,” he said, though his eyes sent a different, dangerous message. “I will keep my promise. No matter how great the temptation.”

  Kitt could not deny she had wondered what it might be like to kiss him. Perhaps she had even let him see it in her eyes. But she knew better. To succumb to mere physical desire was disaster, plain and simple.

  You must get rid of Alex and hire someone else as your bodyguard. Someone safe …

  HIGH PRAISE FOR AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR JOAN JOHNSTON AND HER PREVIOUS BESTSELLING NOVELS

  AFTER THE KISS

  “A MESMERIZING, MOVING AND POWERFULLY EMOTIONAL LOVE STORY.”

  —Mary Balogh

  “ABSOLUTELY CAPTIVATING. Full of wonderful, intriguing and sinfully wicked characters. Johnston has written an excellent Beauty and the Beast scenario.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “EXCEPTIONAL … Ms. Johnston does a terrific job of developing unexpected events and her marvelous characters will keep you involved in every one.”

  —Rendezvous

  “CHARMINGLY WRITTEN.”

  —Romantic Times

  “AN UNFORGETTABLE ROMANCE … Ms. Johnston again shows her excellent writing skills … the characters are captivating and memorable.”

  —Old Book Barn Gazette

  CAPTIVE

  “Captive is guaranteed to hold you in its thrall … a lovely reminder of what romance is all about. The author’s talent brings everything to vivid life.”

  —The Romance Reader

  “LIVELY AND WELL-WRITTEN … PERFECTLY ENCHANTING.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “JOAN JOHNSTON CONTINUALLY GIVES US EVERYTHING WE WANT.… A fast-paced Regency farce and a delightful change of pace from this multitalented author.”

  —Romantic Times

  MAVERICK HEART

  “A STUNNING LOOK AT HUMAN FOIBLES AND FERVOR. This adventurous, passionate read is first-rate from first to last page. Ms. Johnston’s tale is brimming with poignant emotions and exciting action blended into a sensuous, tension-filled romance that is impossible to put down.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “Joan Johnston gives us a double dose of romance with a mature love story and one of young love. Readers will find themselves truly captivated by both romances and the excitement of the chase and the passion.”

  —Romantic Times

  THE BODYGUARD

  A Dell Book

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Dell mass market edition published April 1998

  Dell mass market reissue / March 2008

  Published by

  Bantam Dell

  A Division of Random House, Inc.

  New York, New York

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 1998 by Joan Mertens Johnston, Inc.

  Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  ISBN 978-0-440-24474-5

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-8041-5290-7

  www.bantamdell.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  A Note to Readers

  Dedication

  Other Books by This Author

  About the Author

  Prologue

  From childhood Katherine MacKinnon had been taught how to reive cattle, how to disappear like mist into the Highlands, and how to hate the English. Even so, she was shocked and appalled by her father’s deathbed request.

  “You canna mean what you’re asking, Father,” she said, adjusting her plaid scarf with trembling fingers.

  “ ’Twas the fourth Duke of Blackthorne who struck the mortal blow that killed your grandfather at Culloden,” he reminded her. “The fifth of that name enforced the ban against the plaid and the playing of the pipes. And the latest Blackthorne bastard, sixth of his line, has raised the rents to starve us out.”

  “I know, Father, but—”

  “They couldna kill us off,” he interrupted her. “They couldna break our spirit. But a man canna watch his bairns starve.”

  “Father—”

  “I’m dying, Kitt. ’Tis up to you to carry on the fight when I am gone. You must do what I ask.”

  As Kitt looked down at her father’s nearly emaciated form, a beam of sunlight danced through the window of the stone-and-thatch cottage where she had spent the whole of her two and twenty years. The sun should not be shining on such a sad day as this, she thought.

  Suddenly Kitt felt all of the grief and anguish and disbelief anew. Her mother had died shortly after giving birth to her. Now her father was threatening to leave her … forever. She refused to accept it.

  “Dinna speak of dying, Father,” she cajoled. “I’m not ready to let you go.”

  “I’m done for, lass. I willna live another day. I give you the care of our people. I trust their lives and the future of the clan to you. I name you Chief of Clan MacKinnon and hereditary Laird—Lady, I suppose it must be—of Castle MacKinnon, lately called Blackthorne Hall.”

  A shudder passed through her as she acknowledged the enormous weight of responsibility her father was laying upon her shoulders. Her father’s closest advisor, Duncan Fraser, who stood nearby, gasped in dismay at her father’s pronouncement.

  “You canna name a woman The MacKinnon, Rob!” Duncan said. “The men willna follow her.”

  “For my own sake I ask it, Duncan,” her father replied. “For the love that Clan MacKinnon bears my father, I demand it.”

  Kitt’s grandfather, Jamie MacKinnon, was revered by his clansmen because, though mortally wounded himself, he had helped Bonnie Prince Charlie escape to Mallaig after the disastrous Battle of Culloden. As a final punishment for his treason against the English king, Castle MacKinnon and the surrounding land had been awarded as a prize of war to the Duke of Blackthorne—“There being no living male heir to The MacKinnon.”

  Of course, the grant had been in error. But who could blame her grandmother for remaining silent about the child growing in her womb? She would likely have been put to the sword herself. Why take the risk when the child might be female? And she had bitten her tongue when Robert MacKinnon was born, fearing her tiny son would be dispatched by the bloodthirsty duke before his claim could be recogniz
ed.

  Duncan Fraser had stepped into the breach caused by Jamie’s death and had watched out for Robert MacKinnon, making certain that he took his rightful place as The MacKinnon when he was a young man. But no claim had ever been made against the English for the return of the castle or the land.

  Now Duncan was bent with age, and her father was dying of it. Someone must lead, and there was no firstborn son to follow as chief. Only a daughter.

  “ ’Tis folly to name a woman as chief,” Duncan said. “ ’Tis never been done in my memory. But if you wish it—”

  “I do,” Rob said. “Leave us, Duncan. I have words to speak to my daughter.”

  Once Duncan had left the bedroom, her father said, “Step closer, lass. There’s a way to reclaim the castle and the land, if only you have the courage to follow through with it.”

  “Shouldna Duncan hear this?” Kitt asked.

  “My plan is for your ears alone, lass. Now lean close. I havna much strength to say what must be said.”

  Kitt bent her head close to her father’s, a thick lock of her long dark hair falling over his chest. Quickly, she tucked it behind her ear and knuckled away the womanish tears on her face, masking her fear of the future with a wobbly smile. As her father whispered his plan, the blood drained from her face, leaving her ashen.

  “I canna do it!” she cried, stunned at what he’d suggested. “I willna do it!”

  Once upon a time, the gnarled hand that grasped her wrist could have crushed her bones, but age and illness had stolen her father’s strength. She could easily have pulled away, but respect and love for him held her in place.

  “Swear to me you’ll do as I ask … for the sake of our clansmen.”

  “You ask too much!” Kitt protested. “There must be some other way.” Her blood pounded in her ears like surf against the rocky Scottish coast. “Let me get Duncan—”

  “Nay, lass. Duncan willna approve. Nor will the others. ’Tis likely they will hate you for it. But ’tis the only way. Swear,” he rasped, his breath rattling in his chest.

  If she had hesitated a moment longer, his spirit would have flown, and the promise would not have been made. But Kitt saw the light dying in his eyes and in an effort to keep him with her she blurted, “I swear, on my honor as The MacKinnon, to do what I must to win back the castle and the land.”

  “That’s a good lass.” The air soughed from his lungs, but he did not struggle for more. He merely closed his eyes and gave in to death.

  “No, Father!” she cried. “Dinna leave me!” A sob welled up like a giant wave inside her and became an ululating cry of pain. “Father! Father, dinna go!”

  She felt Duncan’s firm hand on her shoulder, urging her away. “He’s gone, child. He canna hear you.”

  Kitt shook off his touch and snarled, “Go away, old man, and leave me be.” She stared at him defiantly, The MacKinnon who must be obeyed.

  Once Duncan was gone, she threw herself across her father’s broad chest, held tight to his neck, and wept like the woman she was. Her ragged, keening moans quieted the mockingbirds and found an echo in the whispering wind from the sea. She wept until her throat was raw and no more sound came out, until there was only an ache in her throat and in the place where her heart should be.

  It was dark when her old nurse, Moira, came in and told her it was time to let the women take her father and lay him out. She let herself be led away and sat down at the table near the hearth and stared sightlessly at the bowl of sheep’s-head broth with leeks and carrots that Moira put before her.

  At long last, she folded her hands, said a prayer for her father’s soul, and accepted her fate. She would do as her father had instructed. She would make a claim in both the English and Scottish courts for the castle and the land.

  “You must claim the grant is defective because there was indeed a male heir—living in your grandmother’s womb,” her father had explained. “The duke willna be able to resist coming to Scotland. He will want to see who dares lay claim to what he thinks is his. He will try to buy you off. He will try to frighten you away. You mustn’t let yourself be swayed, lass. When he comes, this is what you will do …”

  Kitt’s stomach clenched with dread as she recalled her father’s instructions. She was resigned to do what she must, though every proper sense revolted against it.

  Father, you ask too much of me.

  But what other hope did her people have? When the duke came, she would act. The clan would have its revenge, the land and the castle would once again belong to The MacKinnon, and her people’s suffering would end.

  She had sworn an oath to her dying father, and no force in heaven or on earth could make her break that vow.

  Chapter 1

  The sea was vicious, intent on killing him, but Alastair Wharton, sixth Duke of Blackthorne, was not ready to die. He was too young—a mere three and thirty years—and had too many sins upon his soul to meet his maker.

  “Strike the mainsail!” he shouted. The sound was lost in the howling wind that tore at the canvas, driving his ship, the Twin Ladies, toward the rugged coast of Scotland. Or at least, where he supposed the coast to be. There had been no sight of land before the storm had broken at sunset, and the inky darkness was so complete, it was as though the ship lay wallowing in the belly of a whale.

  In the light of a swaying lantern, he could make out three sailors clustered together and yelled, “You there! Get that sail down!”

  The sailors turned their backs on him, ignoring the order. They were talking heatedly, gesturing wildly, obviously frightened by the storm. It was his own fault that such unreliable seamen were on board. He did not sail often, and it was easier to hire the men he needed, rather than keep a regular crew. Those three were the last to be brought on board in London, and they had been malingerers from the start.

  A twenty-foot wave of icy saltwater crashed onto the deck, making it slick as an eel, drenching Alastair and chilling him to the bone. Shivering, teeth chattering, he clung to the ship’s wheel, determined not to give in to the sea.

  I cannot die now, he raged silently. Not now.

  It was too great an irony to die now, when he had just taken the first steps to reconcile with his nine-year-old twin daughters, Lady Regina and Lady Rebecca. All those years he had wasted! All those years he could have been loving them, but for Penthia’s malevolent declaration that the twins were not his. Alastair had lately had the urge to strangle her. But Penthia, Duchess of Blackthorne, was already three years in her grave from a drunken fall down the stairs of Blackthorne Abbey.

  Once upon a time, he had loved her more than life itself. It was hard to remember the naive boy he had been all those years ago when he had wooed Lady Penthia Straith and wed her. He had been two and twenty, without a bit of Town bronze, but determined to have the belle of the Season—the same exotic beauty who had reigned the previous four Seasons.

  Lady Penthia Straith had reached the age of one and twenty without accepting an offer. It was rumored that over the past four years she had refused all the most eligible partis. The first time he saw Penthia, Alastair had found her striking blue eyes and alabaster skin and raven-black hair breathtaking. He had found her worldliness and sophistication even more attractive. He had made up his mind on the instant to have her to wife.

  His father’s untimely death had forced Alastair into a ducal role far sooner than he was ready, and beneath the facade of confidence was a young man unsure he could carry off the part. With Lady Penthia by his side, Alastair knew he could face the ton and pretend to be duke until the guise became more natural.

  He’d had a great deal to offer her. Besides being a duke, he was as rich as Croesus and handsome as well. Not quite so good-looking as his younger brother Marcus, perhaps. His hair was not so perfectly blond, and his eyes were a troubled gray, not the uncommon blue of his brother’s. But there were not many who could match the Beau for looks.

  In his pursuit of Lady Penthia, he had concealed his youthful eagerness,
his yearning to hold her, his thundering, head-over-heels heart, behind a facade of ducal regality. Alastair could still remember the first time he had managed to get her alone in the garden at Viscount Raleigh’s ball.

  The night air had been surprisingly warm and heavily perfumed by the viscount’s rose garden. He had walked arm in arm with Lady Penthia along a gravel path, unable to breathe, feeling the heat of her gloved hand through his jacket and shirt, the weight and warmth of her breast against his sleeve.

  His heart fluttered against his ribs with excitement and fear. He intended to kiss her. He had been planning it for weeks. He had heard enough of his brother’s exploits—Marcus was considerably more into the petticoat line than he was—to know what he must do. He stopped near a tall hedge that concealed them from the party inside, released Lady Penthia’s arm, and angled himself to face her.

  “I—” His voice came out as a croak. He was grateful for the darkness that hid his painful flush. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I find you more beautiful than words.”

  Somehow she had come a step closer, and he could feel her breasts pressing against his waistcoat. “Do you, Your Grace?” she said in a sultry voice that lifted the hairs on his arms.

  He stuck a finger beneath the perfect trône d’amour his valet, Stubbins, had tied with his neck cloth, to give himself a little more room to breathe.

  She looked up at him shyly from beneath lowered lashes, and his heart skipped once before it began beating frantically within his ribs, like a bird bent on escape from a cage. The blood thundered in his ears, and he spoke too loudly when he said, “May I kiss you?”

  Lady Penthia laughed, a gentle sound that nevertheless communicated her amusement.

  He should not have asked, he realized too late. A real rake, a true rogue—his brother—would simply have taken the kiss. The humiliating flush once again raced up his throat to sit on his cheeks.

  “I should not have asked,” he said, meaning he should not have presumed so far.