The Bodyguard Read online

  “Come sit by the fire,” Kitt urged. While Moira put water on the hob to heat for tea, Kitt pressed the young woman onto the bench by the fire, pleased that at least Dara had sought her counsel. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

  “We canna afford to pay the rent and feed the wee ones both. So Patrick has taken to fishing the duke’s streams and hunting his forest,” Dara blurted.

  Moira, who was heating a pot of water for tea, crossed herself and muttered a prayer.

  “I’m afraid for him,” Dara said, her eyes filling with tears. “But I canna let my bairns go hungry, can I?”

  Kitt stared grim-lipped at the despairing woman sitting before her. Dara was not so different from the rest of the clan. They all suffered terribly from rents that had been raised thrice in the past year, so that only enough was left after the rent was paid to put food in the children’s mouths and buy more seed to plant.

  “ ’Tis only a matter of time before Patrick is caught,” Dara continued. “He’ll be transported … or worse. And what will become of my wee bairns then?”

  Kitt’s stomach clenched with memories of what had happened to Leith. She wanted to tell Dara she had already taken the first steps toward saving them all, but she could not take the chance that word of what she intended would spread to the others.

  “I’ll speak with the duke’s steward,” Kitt said, laying a comforting hand on Dara’s shoulder. “Surely Mr. Ambleside will give you a temporary reprieve on the rents, at least until the crops are harvested.”

  “Patrick’s already asked. Mr. Ambleside said no.”

  Kitt felt the knot growing in her stomach. “Perhaps I can be more persuasive.”

  “Please help us,” Dara begged. “Please.”

  “I’ll do what I can. In the meantime, tell Patrick I forbid him to hunt or fish on the duke’s property.”

  At the word forbid Moira grunted, but Kitt shot her a look that silenced her.

  “What shall I feed my bairns?”

  “Moira will give you some smoked haddock and some leeks and carrots and a plum cake she made yesterday.” But as Kitt watched Moira gather the meager offerings in a basket for the woman to carry home, she realized it would not be enough to keep Dara’s five children fed for very long.

  “Have faith,” she told the woman. “I will find a way to make all well.”

  Dara looked doubtful and grateful at the same time. She bobbed a curtsy and said, “Thank you, Lady Katherine.”

  As Kitt closed the door behind Dara, she turned, took one look at Moira’s expression, and said, “Spit it out.”

  “ ’Tisna yer place to forbid a man to feed his family.”

  “Patrick will surely be caught, Moira. If he’s caught, ’tis transportation to Australia for sure. Then what will become of Dara’s bairns? ’Twas good advice I gave her.”

  “Except it comes from a woman.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Patrick Simpson must be shamed enough that he canna feed his family. Think what he will feel when his wife tells him ye’ve forbidden him to steal what he canna earn. ’Tis likely to send him right back out the door.”

  “I canna help it if he acts the fool.”

  “A poor man hasna much but his pride, Kitty. Will ye take that too?”

  “Pride willna do him much good if he’s dead!”

  Moira held her tongue, but Kitt felt the older woman’s censure. She wished she could confide in Moira and seek comfort and advice. But her father had warned her not to tell the old nurse anything. She had never felt so alone.

  Kitt quickly put on a cambric dress and her polished leather half boots and wrapped herself in a plaid woolen shawl against the cold of the June morning. She sat near the fire while Moira brushed the tangles from her waist-length black hair before plaiting it and pinning it at her crown. The curls refused to be tamed and several escaped at her temples and nape.

  She had risen to leave when Moira said, “Sit and eat, Kitty. ’Tis a long walk to Blackthorne Hall.”

  The concerned look on Moira’s face had her sitting again to eat an oatmeal bannock and drink a cup of tea before she left the cottage.

  It was mid-morning by the time she arrived at the entrance to the castle, hot and sweaty from the vigorous trek along the rutted dirt road. She had taken off her shawl, knotting it around her hip. She hailed several crofters working in the wheat fields outside the castle, then crossed the drawbridge that was always down over the drained moat and made her way to the double wooden doors that led into the keep.

  In medieval days, the stone castle had guarded against raiders from ships along the coast. She could hear the waves crashing against the rocks at the base of the cliff and smell the tang of salt from the sea. Before she knocked on the thick wooden door, Kitt unknotted the shawl from her waist and resettled the MacKinnon plaid around her shoulders to add what consequence she could to her appearance.

  A butler answered the door dressed in red-and-black livery trimmed in gold braid, the cost of which would have fed Dara and Patrick’s children for a year.

  “Servants to the back door.”

  His disdainful order in clipped English made her temper flare. She put the flat of her palm on the door before he could shut it. “I am no servant, sir. As you would know if you had lived here long.”

  The butler raised a supercilious brow as he looked her up and down. “What is your business, miss?”

  “Tell Mr. Ambleside that The MacKinnon is here to see him.”

  The butler looked dubious. “The MacKinnon?”

  She took advantage of his lax pose to push the door farther open and to step inside. “I will wait here in the main hall,” she said firmly. “While you tell Mr. Ambleside I am here.”

  The butler hesitated, then did as she bid.

  Kitt’s father had described Castle MacKinnon to her many times, from tales his mother had told him of the years she had lived there. But her first glimpse of the inside revealed a sort of grandeur she had not expected.

  The Great Hall had a forty-foot-high vaulted ceiling and a mammoth stone fireplace guarded by two chain-mail figures. Large tapestries and portraits of the duke’s ancestors decorated the walls. Through the door to the drawing room she could see the carved lion’s paw legs on a sofa covered with a red velvet so rich she ached to touch it.

  The butler returned moments later, out of breath and agitated. “Mr. Ambleside is too upset to see you now,” the man said. “There’s been an accident, a terrible tragedy.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. What’s happened?” Kitt asked.

  “It’s His Grace, miss. His ship was caught in last night’s storm and broke up on the rocks. The duke’s drowned!”

  Kitt felt as though someone had struck a hard blow to her stomach. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath.

  No. ’Tisna possible. He canna be dead.

  She put a hand on the closest stone wall to hold herself upright and was surprised by its roughness. There was nothing elegant about the castle walls. They had been built of stone to house generations of MacKinnons.

  But the castle was lost to her now, along with all hope for her people.

  “Are you all right, miss?”

  “I’m fine.” But her voice sounded as though it were echoing from a seabound cave. “I’ll return another time,” she said, forcing herself to put one foot in front of the other.

  She squinted her eyes against the bright sun as the butler ushered her outside. She heard the heavy wooden door close behind her with a groan of hinges and fought not to let her knees buckle.

  Kitt had thought nothing could keep her from fulfilling the vow she had made to her father. But neither of them had anticipated this turn of events. The Duke of Blackthorne was dead, drowned in the sea.

  Oh, dear God, she thought. What do I do now?

  Chapter 3

  He came awake shivering with cold. His head ached, his throat felt raw, and his body felt battered. He reached toward his throbbing
forehead and realized his hands were bound. Blood seeped from a wound at his temple. I must have hit my head on the rocks as I came ashore.

  He tried to free his hands, but the knots were too tight. The skin around the rough hemp was bloodied, suggesting he had striven in vain to free himself.

  Why am I bound? He struggled to remember, but could not.

  The sun was barely up, the sky a dreary gray, but there was enough light to show him he lay on a rocky shore, with a cold spray from the sea misting him as the tide came in. The little he wore—sopping-wet smalls—had been torn to shreds by whatever misadventure had befallen him.

  Who am I? How did I get here?

  He found no answers inside his head. He fought back the fear squeezing his insides and looked around him for something familiar. The barren, craggy rock and the grassy verge beyond meant nothing to him. He tried to sit up, but his ribs protested the movement. He hissed in a breath as he fell back prone on the stabbing rock.

  “Bloody hell!”

  His voice sounded strange to his ears, bitter and angry.

  Bitter about what? he wondered. Angry with whom?

  Bitter at his obviously meager circumstances, he thought wryly. Angry about being tied up and thrown into the sea. He smiled, then groaned as the upward curve of flesh broke open a cut on his lip.

  “Bloody hell!” He barked a laugh at himself. It seemed he had a sense of humor. And a very small vocabulary.

  He was also a man of action, because he had the driving urge, despite the pain, to get away from here.

  Did someone try to kill me? Or was I the villain? Am I on the run from the law? Is that why I feel the need to get away?

  He did not waste time thinking because there were no coherent thoughts to be had, simply gritted his teeth against the agony in his ribs and forced himself upright. It quickly became apparent that the first thing he needed to do was free his hands. The rocks were sharp enough to provide an edge, and after some time, and several more gouges in his flesh, he was free.

  “Bloody hell!” he said as he dipped his wounded wrists into the sea to clean off the worst of the sand and blood.

  His bare feet were tender, and he winced as he made his way cautiously over the rocks to the grass beyond. The grass was still damp with dew but a welcome relief nevertheless.

  “Which way now?” he said aloud.

  The surf crashed against the rocks, but otherwise there was no sound, not even a bird’s cry. It was as though he were completely alone on some deserted island.

  “Not bloody likely,” he said, the sound of his own voice reassuring in the silence. “I was headed for … I was going to … I had to be …”

  He did not understand why he knew the rocks were rocks and the sea was the sea and the grass was grass, but not who he was or where he was bound or why.

  “First things first,” he muttered, perusing his pitiful attire. “I need some clothes.”

  He looked north, then south, unsure which way to walk, since there seemed no sign of life in either direction. He tore some blades of grass and threw them into the air and saw the wind was blowing to the north. “North it is,” he said. At least that way he would have the wind to his back.

  The sun was well up in the sky when he saw the first sign of human habitation—a simple stone cottage with a thatched roof with smoke coming from the chimney. He almost hailed those inside, but realized he did not want to be seen in this condition.

  I am also a proud man, he deduced. And apparently unbothered by the prospect of stealing what I need, he realized as he grabbed a pair of muddy boots from beside the door and stole a shirt and trousers and a length of plaid from oleander bushes where they had been spread out to dry.

  The boots were too small for him. That hadn’t stopped the previous owner from wearing them, as evidenced by the hole worn through the leather where his big toe now stuck out. He quickly donned the large shirt and even larger trousers, using the rope that had tied his hands, which he’d saved, to bind the too-large trousers around his waist.

  His nose pinched at the sharp stench of … sheep … he thought, identifying the unpleasant smell. He ignored the odor and wrapped the rough plaid around him, blessing the woolen warmth.

  “Thank you, kind sir,” he murmured, nodding his head to the unseen owner of the cottage. “I will repay you when I can.” Did that mean he was not normally a thief? he wondered. Or simply that he was an honorable thief who paid his debts?

  He realized the fact that this cottage was here meant there were probably others. He needed something to eat and drink and a bed, preferably a soft one. A soft bed. Am I used to such luxury, then? Or is it only that I have dreamed of it?

  He had plenty of time to ponder the matter, since the sun was nearly overhead by the time he reached the outskirts of a village. As he stepped inside the taproom of the Ramshead Inn, he felt almost giddy with relief. I made it.

  He started to grin, but winced as the cut on his lip split open again. He reached up to dab at the blood with a scratched and filthy hand. What I would not give for one monogrammed handkerchief.

  The thought was stunning, suggesting as it did that he was a person of some note, at least enough note to have monogrammed handkerchiefs. Whoever he was—had been—right now he was only a man whose jaw ached and whose head throbbed and whose every breath was an agony to his sore ribs. His nose was broken, he thought, and so swollen and tender he walked in measured steps in order not to jolt it.

  All he wanted was something wet to soothe his parched throat, a warm bath, and a soft bed, in that order. A warm bath. Surely that is a luxury, too. I must be a person of distinction. Or a thief with rich tastes, he thought wryly.

  The too-small boots had raised blisters on his heels, and after the morning’s walk, he was limping badly. With one eye swollen shut, his balance was none too good, and as he reeled unsteadily into the tavern, the men seated at the tables eyed him as though he were some bumble-witted looby.

  And I’m not? He didn’t think so. His sense of humor rose again to rescue him. He imagined he must be quite a sight, wearing such ill-fitted clothing and with his face having endured such a beating from the rocks. Or someone’s fists. He could not discount that possibility.

  He sank into a chair at the best table he could find and looked around with his one good eye for the innkeeper. His stomach growled noisily, and embarrassingly, with hunger. He felt certain he could implore the man for what he needed.

  A few snickers and more than one blatantly curious look from his fellow patrons brought the innkeeper to his table. “What is it ye want?”

  “Good day,” he said. The effort suffered somewhat from the night just past, sounding more like a frog than a man. He cleared his throat and continued, “I would appreciate a cup of your best ale.”

  “I’ll see yer coppers first,” the innkeeper replied.

  “Unfortunately, I have nary a farthing with me.”

  “No coppers, no ale,” the innkeeper said flatly.

  How dare he refuse to serve me! The feeling of disbelief that he was not to be served was real enough. But why should he think himself entitled to be served without presenting any coins first? Who am I? He realized his hands were shaking beneath the table from a combination of weakness and rage.

  He placed his palms flat on the table to push himself upright, but both his head and his ribs protested. He was so exhausted, he gave up the effort and settled for spearing the man with his one good eye. Maybe the fellow recognized him. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Ye look like a flat to me,” the innkeeper said, “what maybe used to be a sharp.”

  The patrons in the taproom laughed at the innkeeper’s clever play on words.

  “I would like some food and drink, please. I will gladly pay you when I have the coin. You see, I seem to have lost track of … things.” He took a deep breath, hesitated, then plunged in. “To be frank, I cannot remember who I am.” He frowned and added, “Except I am quite sure I used to have monogr
ammed handkerchiefs. That must mean I am a man of some consequence, wouldn’t you agree?”

  The innkeeper guffawed and slapped him on the shoulder so hard he let out an unwilling moan.

  “That’s a good one, lad,” the innkeeper said. “Yer English accent’s not half bad. ’Tis the sand and seaweed in yer hair and the lumps on yer face and o’ course them boots with the holes in the toes, that give ye away. Ye need a better costume if ye’re going to play the Quality.”

  “I am not pretending,” he said, forcing himself painfully to his feet. His voice hardened. “And I would like a cup of ale. Now.”

  The innkeeper’s faced turned ugly. “Ye’ve picked the wrong sort to impersonate, lad. I hate the puking English as I hate the plague. If ye were one of ’em, I’d throw ye out on yer arse. So count yer blessings and be on yer way.”

  He felt the heat of humiliation on his face, felt the anger building along with it, but was not sure how to contend with either emotion. Pride—he seemed to have no end of it—forced him to stand his ground. “You seem to be a fair man,” he began.

  “Fair?” the innkeeper spat back. “Life isna fair, lad. My only sister and her husband were forced from their home by a greedy English landlord. I’ve the support of them now and the bairn that’s on the way. If ye’re English like ye say, ye can rot in hell for all I care. Now get out!”

  He opened his mouth to plead at least for a drink of water before he began his journey but shut it again. He would die of thirst before he would beg. It was plain he would get a better reception at an English tavern. “How far to the closest English stronghold from here?”

  “That’d be Blackthorne Hall near Mishnish. ’Tis a wee bit of a walk. Ten miles or so, if ye follow the road.”

  “Ten miles!”

  “Ye’d best get started if ye expect to lay yer head on a fine pillow tonight,” the innkeeper said.

  He considered asking if anyone might be headed in that direction who could give him a ride but decided he would likely be refused. He did not need another humbling. He swayed on his feet and grabbed at chairs along the way to hold himself upright as he struggled toward the door.