The Bodyguard (23 page)

“That’s looking at the bright side, lass,” Moira said with a cackle.

“How is Fletcher?”

“He’ll be well enough in a day or two, with a scar to brag about in the tavern.”

Kitt closed her eyes and gripped her hands together as though in prayer. “Thank God.”

“I’ll fix us some breakfast,” Moira said as she retreated, leaving Kitt alone with Alex.

Kitt brought the rocker from the corner and put it beside the bed where she could watch her patient closely. As the morning sun hit her eyes from her bedroom
window, she reached out her fingertips and laid them on his throat. His pulse was thready, barely there.

“Someone’s coming,” Moira called from the other room.

Kitt froze. Where could she run? There was no escape from the house except through the door, and no way to hide Alex’s presence.

She was already out of the rocker by the time Moira said, “ ’Tis the boy. The one who works for Carlisle. Alex’s friend Laddie.”

The boy had said he knew Alex, that they had grown up on neighboring farms. Was he in on the hoax? Did he know Alex was the duke? Kitt hurried to the door.

“Milady,” the boy said, touching his forelock as he greeted her. “The earl has sent me with a note for you.”

“Come inside,” Kitt said. She did not want the boy to leave before she had the answers she needed. He took only a couple of steps inside before she purposefully closed the door behind him.

She took the note, broke the wax seal, and almost sighed aloud with relief when she read it.

Kitt looked up at Moira and said, “Carlisle is going to London on business. He doesna expect to be back next week to ride with me.”

“There’s a bit of luck,” Moira replied.

The boy suddenly pointed and stuttered, “W-what’s happened to Alex?”

Kitt looked where Laddie was pointing and saw the remnants of the shirt and trousers Alex had been wearing. She had left them on the floor beside the hearth because she had not yet decided whether they could be salvaged or whether she should simply burn them.

“Was Alex hurt on the raid?” the boy asked.

Kitt gasped in alarm. “How do you know about the raid?”

“You canna keep such a thing secret, milady. Fletcher’s wife’s cousin works in the earl’s stable. He told me you planned to free Patrick Simpson from jail, and of course if you went, Alex must go too. Is he hurt badly? Can I see him?”

“What is Alex Wheaton to you?” Kitt demanded. “And dinna lie again and tell me you grew up on neighboring farms.”

The boy turned toward the door, but Moira was standing in front of it. He shifted from foot to foot until Kitt pinned him in place with her stare.

“I met Alex by chance at the Ramshead Inn,” he blurted.

“Why did you lie for him?”

He shrugged. “He was a stranger who needed my help. I gave it to him.”

“He’s English,” Kitt said flatly. What kind of Scotsman willingly aided the English in these terrible days? And trusted him not to betray them.

The boy pursed his lips. “ ’Tis true he spoke with an English accent at first.”

“Who is he?” Kitt asked. “What is he doing here?”

“I dinna know,” the boy replied earnestly. “Truly. I’m not sure he knows himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“When Alex first came to the inn, he came as a beggar. He had no coin to buy food or drink. He promised to pay later, when he could, but when he was questioned, he said he didna know who he was, that he couldna remember.”

Kitt looked to Moira. “Is such a thing possible?”

“ ’Tis possible to lose one’s memory,” Moira said. “A blow to the head might cause it.”

Kitt stared at Moira, remembering how Alex had looked the first time she’d seen him, recalling the cut on his temple and the lump on his forehead. “How long before his memory returns?”

“It could return in a matter of days, or weeks, or mayhap not at all,” Moira said.

“Can I see Alex?” the boy pleaded. “Is he all right?”

“Why do you care?” Kitt asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “If he’s a stranger to you?”

“I feel responsible,” the boy said. “I was the one who suggested he pretend to be a Scotsman. And I left him on the road to fend for himself. Perhaps if I had taken him directly to Blackthorne Hall, as he asked—”

“He was headed for Blackthorne Hall?” Kitt asked, aghast.

“Because he hoped someone there—some Englishman—might know him,” the boy explained.

And well they might have, Kitt thought, if he really was the duke.

“Please, can I see him?” the boy repeated.

“Of course,” Kitt agreed. “Come with me.”

She led him into the bedroom. The sheets were twisted around Alex, revealing his injured back and leg, leaving him barely covered.

Kitt was surprised at the sudden tears in the boy’s eyes. There must be more to his relationship with Alex than he’d admitted. “Tears for a stranger?” she questioned.

He met her gaze and said, “I was only thinking how we can never know from one moment to the next what misadventure might turn our lives in another direction. When I helped Alex, I was thinking of my own brothers and sisters. They might be needing a stranger’s help someday.”

She watched him clench his teeth to keep from breaking down altogether. “Can you tell me anything more about Alex?”

“He could remember having monogrammed handkerchiefs,” he said with a half smile. “And he offered me a job as his valet.”

“Oh, my God,” Kitt whispered.
He must be the duke
.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She dared not reveal what she knew to
Laddie. He worked for the earl, and he was the duke’s friend.

“Did you ever notice that Alex matches the description of the duke?” the boy mused.

“He does?” she said, her heart caught in her throat.

“The Runner described Blackthorne as a tall man with gray eyes, a fine, straight nose, and blond hair.”

Kitt stared at Alex. “He fits the description, all right. Except for the nose.”
It will never be straight again
, she thought as she eased her finger along the new ridge where it had been broken.

“But he canna be the duke,” the boy said, shaking his head.

“Why not?” Kitt asked.

“Who would dare give such a beating to a duke?” the boy wondered aloud. “Who would want him dead?”

Kitt stood stunned for a moment. She had never thought of the duke’s situation in those terms. Perhaps he had taken an assumed identity because he was hiding from whoever had tried to kill him the first time. “Perhaps his brother wants him dead. Or his wife.”

“The duke is a widower.”

She felt a surge of relief. “How do you know?”

“I had it from the underfootman who had it from Cook at Blackthorne Hall. The duchess was foxed and fell down the stairs at Blackthorne Abbey three years ago.”

Or was pushed?
Kitt thought with a shudder. She stared at the man lying in her bed. No, she would not believe it of him. But what should she do with him?
Did she dare give him back into the hands of whoever might want him dead? She could not leave him so unprotected. But what if he lived, and he really was the duke? What revenge would he be likely to take against her, knowing she had intended to trick him into marriage?

“Is there a place you can keep Alex safe until he’s well?” the boy asked.

Kitt met Laddie’s worried eyes. “I could take him to a cave in the mountains where my grandfather hid from the English. But I couldna stay there long without raising suspicion.”

“I can say you went to visit your aunt Louisa,” Moira suggested.

“I suppose that would work,” Kitt said, “Since the earl canceled our riding engagement for next week.” Now she felt sorry that he had done so. She needed to be married to him before the duke recovered … if he recovered.

“I’ll carry messages for you,” the boy volunteered, “and bring you whatever supplies you need until Alex is well enough to resume his duties.”

“We cannot simply disappear overnight like this,” Kitt protested.

“Why not?” Laddie said. “ ’Twould be the safest thing for both of you. The soldiers are out and about today, looking for whoever broke Patrick Simpson out of jail. They’re sure to come searching here eventually, and if they find Alex …”

“How can I move him? I have no horse, no cart—”

“I’ll manage that, milady. Give me time enough to return to the earl’s stable. Fletcher’s wife’s cousin will loan me a nag and a cart if I say I have errands to run for his lordship. You be ready to go when I return.”

Kitt opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. Laddie was right. The safest thing to do was to disappear. That way she would be alone with Alex when he regained consciousness. She could find out the truth without anyone there to know what she did when Alex told her who he really was.

She put a hand to Alex’s head. “He’s burning up with fever.”

“Mayhap he’ll not last until ye can move him,” Moira said.

“He must live!” Kitt said fiercely.

“Why?”

“Because I made a vow to my father. And, one way or another, I intend to keep it.”

“That Bow Street Runner was asking questions again,” the earl said, pacing the stone floor of the library at Blackthorne Hall. “I’m sure he believes there was some foul play involved in the duke’s disappearance. I have canceled my riding engagement with Lady Katherine. Nothing else holds me here. I believe it would be best if I returned, at least temporarily, to London.”

“The Runner can know nothing for sure,” Mr. Ambleside said from his seat behind the Sheraton desk in the corner.

“He’s heard the stories about The MacKinnon’s bodyguard. The man is a stranger to the neighborhood, and he matches the duke’s description.”

“You’ve seen the bodyguard. You’ve spoken to him. Was it the duke?” Mr. Ambleside asked with an arched brow.

“He was arrogant enough!” Carlisle retorted. He shook his head. “But he sounded like a Scotsman.”

“What did he look like?”

“Like he’d been in a mill. He had a bump on his nose and a yellowing bruise around his eye and a scab through his eyebrow. Oh, dear God. Why did I not make the connection sooner? He must have been badly beaten. Those idiots! They did not finish the job. It must be the duke!”

“Now, now,” Mr. Ambleside said in a soothing voice. “We must not panic, my lord.”

“Panic? I am far beyond panic, sir. I am ready to throw myself on the mercy—”

Mr. Ambleside rose and stepped in front of the earl, who was forced to stop pacing. “The Runner can prove nothing without talking to this mysterious stranger, and the man has disappeared entirely from the neighborhood.”

“Along with Lady Katherine,” the earl interjected. “Do you not find that suspicious?”

“The Runner could not find them where they said they were going,” Mr. Ambleside said calmly. “That does not mean they may not show up here at any moment.”

“If the duke is alive, I shall confess everything and—”

Mr. Ambleside had kept the pistol behind his back, not wishing to alarm the earl unduly or prematurely. But sometimes it was necessary to make one’s point with something more threatening than words. He brought the
pistol out from behind his back and aimed it at the earl’s heart. “I would not advise baring your soul to anyone, my lord.”

“You would not dare to shoot a peer of the realm. How would you explain yourself?” the earl said contemptuously.

“I would say I had caught the mysterious thief of Blackthorne Hall in the act and was forced to defend myself.”

Mr. Ambleside had never seen such a comical expression as the one that appeared on Carlisle’s face. Shock, of course. Incredulity. And then such fury that he feared the young man would expire of an apoplexy.

“You could not—You would not—”

“I can and I will,” Mr. Ambleside said. “I have planned for too many years, and my goal is too close, to lose everything now. There is no reason why we cannot continue exactly as we planned. Blackthorne is dead. You will insist Lord Marcus honor your contract to purchase the land.”

“I won’t do it.”

Mr. Ambleside bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing aloud at the puppy’s performance. But he had to admire the lad’s bottom. Not many men would shout defiance in the face of a loaded pistol. There was more to Clay Bannister than he had at first thought. Which, he admitted to himself with a sigh, only complicated matters.

“It seems we will have to find the stranger ourselves,” he said. “If only to confirm he is not the duke.”

He watched hope light the earl’s despairing eyes.

“Do you think there is any chance he is
not
the duke?” Carlisle asked.

“I think there is every chance he is merely a stranger who arrived in the neighborhood at a propitious moment,” Mr. Ambleside said. “Now, what else can you tell me about him?”

“What was it Lady Katherine said his name was?” the earl muttered. “Walton? Weldon? Warden?”