The Bodyguard (5 page)

“Why not?” Moira retorted. “ ’Twould solve so many problems.”

Before Culloden, the clan chieftain would have had a household that contained his courtiers, a bard and a seneschal, a piper and a sword-bearer, a quartermaster,
a cup-bearer, a warder, and, of course, a personal bodyguard who stood fully armed behind the chair of his master.

Those days were gone. The existence of such a household presumed the laird had a castle in which to house them. Castle MacKinnon had become Blackthorne Hall, and the chief’s advisors—and the chief herself—now lived in simple stone-and-thatch cottages on land surrounding the castle, paying exorbitant rents to the detestable Duke of Blackthorne, sixth of that name.

Kit found the suggestion tempting. If only there were some man she could trust. She shook her head. “Whoever I chose as my bodyguard would likely open the door to his friends and welcome them in.”

“ ’Tis worth considering,” Moira said. “ ’Twould mean the end of night raids on yer bed, at least. And a body could get some sleep.”

Kitt laughed. “I see. I need a bodyguard so you can get a full night’s rest.”

Another knock on the door set Kitt’s heart to galloping again. She glanced at Moira, who stared at the door in alarm.

“Not another one,” Kitt snapped, grabbing the basket-hilted claymore in both hands. “Two in one night is—”

Moira crossed to the window and peered out. “Hold, child. ’Tis only Dara Simpson, Patrick’s wife.”

Kitt breathed a sigh of relief and lifted the broadsword as though to set it back in its resting place. She
suddenly began to tremble again. Her arms felt so weak she could barely hold the weight of the weapon.

What’s wrong with me?

Kitt set the claymore beside the hearth as though that was what she had intended all along and wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of her father’s shirt.

She stared into the fireplace, feeling the acid burn in the pit of her stomach. It was not her kinsmen she feared, but the revenge she must take on the Duke of Blackthorne. Marriage to her bitterest enemy. That was the crux of her father’s plan. Kitt wasn’t sure she could go through with it. She was afraid that in the end she would fail him … and her clan.

Kitt took a shuddery breath and let it out.
I will do what I must, Father. Somehow
.

She went to the door and opened it.

“Come in, Dara,” she said with a hard-won smile, reaching for Dara’s hand and drawing her inside. “Sit and have a cup of tea.”

“I canna stay,” Dara said, stepping inside and curtsying. She adjusted the woolen arisard around her shoulders and clutched it beneath her chin, but she was visibly shivering. “Patrick would beat me senseless if he knew I’d come,” she whispered. “But I dinna see who else I can ask for help. You’re The MacKinnon, whether Patrick likes it or no.”

“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?

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.