The Bodyguard (9 page)

He knew from the tortured expression on the young man’s face, he was likely contemplating the lady he had left behind in London when his fortunes had been changed by the sudden death of his brother, an accident Mr. Ambleside had also arranged when Charles was of
no further use to him. Carlisle had bemoaned the loss of his one true love more than once while foxed.

“Lady Marjorie is engaged to another,” Mr. Ambleside reminded the young man. “Marriage to Lady Katherine restores all you have lost.”

“Except the woman I love,” the earl said bitterly.

Mr. Ambleside was easily old enough to be the young man’s father, and he sometimes played the role for effect. He had learned that manipulating people simply involved saying the right things to achieve the response one wanted.

“What is done is done,” he said, crossing and putting a comforting hand on the earl’s shoulder. “The duke is dead. Your lady is lost. Lady Katherine is your destiny now.” He felt the young man shudder and hurried to say, “Gossip says the foolish female has agreed to marry any man in her clan who can win her heart. If you do not proceed with your courtship immediately, you may find the land stolen from your grasp by some poor Scots farmer.”

Mr. Ambleside thought again how unfair life was. It was sheer misfortune that he was a Blackthorne bastard rather than the legitimate firstborn son. Though gossip had long since revealed the secret of his birth to the neighborhood, no Blackthorne had ever publicly acknowledged his relationship to the family.

His mother had been an upstairs maid in the household of Alistair Wharton’s grandfather, an innocent when His Grace had taken her to his bed after a drunken party on the eve of his wedding.

His mother had been let go from her position, of course, but in payment for her silence, the duke had given her a cottage and quarterly allowance, and had promised, if the child were a boy, to educate him at the best schools in England. His mother had told him again and again how lucky he was, that if it had not been for the duke’s generosity, he might have grown up to be a shepherd or a farmer or a footman.

Cedric Ambleside had not thanked the duke for what he had; he had cursed the duke for what he had been denied: a legitimate birth, a father who acknowledged him, the right to the whole meat pie instead of crumbs from the table. He—not the present duke’s father—should have inherited Blackthorne Hall.

It should all have been his: the title, the lands in England and Scotland, the immense Blackthorne fortune.

Under Scottish law, the illegitimate son inherited equally with the legitimate one. At the very least, half of what Alastair Wharton owned in Scotland should have been his. Instead, he had nothing.

Cedric Ambleside was merely a steward for his nephew, the Duke of Blackthorne. Because Mr. Ambleside had always been kind to Alistair Wharton on his visits to Scotland as a child, the grown-up duke believed Mr. Ambleside to be a perfectly trustworthy guardian for his Scottish estates.

Was it any wonder Mr. Ambleside wanted something for himself? Was it any wonder he felt justified in scheming to get it?

“I will woo the girl,” the young earl said, interrupting Mr. Ambleside’s thoughts. “But after this, I want nothing more to do with you.”

“Very well, my lord. Marry the girl and win the castle and the land, and we are quits.”

“What is your reward when all is said and done, Mr. Ambleside?” the earl demanded. “I know you well enough by now to understand you give nothing for nothing.”

Mr. Ambleside smiled. It was almost as though he had produced a particularly bright child, or an obstinate pupil had finally learned his lesson. He willingly named his prize.

“What do I get? Why Blackthorne Hall, of course.”

Mick O’Malley shook his head and muttered, “Ye’re a nodcock, Laddie. Ye should’ve let the man go thirsty. Ye should’ve let him starve. At least then ye wouldna be going hungry yerself.”

It wasn’t the first time he had gone without supper, although Mick had gotten used to regular meals over the past year, and it was harder to do without. But the years he had spent with his belly gnawing at his back had given him enough in common with the stranger that he had not been able to resist helping. He hoped someone was offering a similar kindness to his brothers and sisters right now.

The last word he had heard from them had come six months ago. His sister Glenna had gone to work in the kitchen of a great house in Dublin, and the housekeeper had offered to write a letter for her. Glenna had taken advantage of the opportunity to send word to him
of how they all fared, but he had left the place where he had told her he would be, and following him from place to place, it had taken almost a year for the letter to find him.

Glenna worked long hours, she said, but had plenty to eat and a warm bed at night. The others, she feared, were not faring as well. He took out the letter, which he had read so often it had worn thin along the creases. He pored over the words that were all he had to connect him to his family.

Mick felt the tears well in his eyes and wiped them away, feeling even more sorely the loss of his job at the inn. He had not earned much, but at least it was work. He rocked his arch over the comforting lump in his shoe. He hadn’t nearly enough to send for his brothers and sisters. And with all the farmers being forced off their land by the clearances, there were fewer and fewer jobs to be had by a boy like him.

He had known full well the risk he was taking when he helped the unfortunate man at the inn. It was likely to delay his homecoming even longer. But he did not think Glenna would blame him for what he had done.

Come soon, Mick
.

Her plea brought a lump to his throat.
Oh, Glenna, I miss you all so much. I wish I could do more. I wish …

Wishing was a waste of time. Mick shoved himself to his feet and dusted the hay from his clothes, determined to do something about his situation. He had walked for a little more than an hour after he had left Alex Wheaton, which had brought him into the town of Mishnish. He had gone from the tavern to the smithy to the cooper without finding work, and then had found himself a soft bed of hay at a farm within sight of town. Surely he could find work in Mishnish today.

Blackthorne Hall is near Mishnish
.

“Why not?” he said aloud. “There might be a job for me at such a grand estate. Or at least some scraps to be begged for at the kitchen door. And maybe that poor gentleman really is someone of note, and he’ll have found a friend there who’d be willing to help such as me.”

Mick practiced a bow and said, “ ’Tis me, Laddie, come for my reward—a job, if ye please.” He grinned and shook his head. Mick O’Malley knew better than to believe in happily-ever-after endings. They only happened in fairy tales. But luck … Luck was something else altogether.

Mick spotted a hen roosting in a corner of the barn and smiled. “Breakfast.” He reached beneath her soft breast into the warmth of the nest and stole an egg from under the hen without so much as ruffling her feathers. He made a tiny hole in the shell with a small knife he carried in his pocket, then sucked out the contents.

It willna be long now, Glenna
, he thought as he sneaked out of the barn. He bathed his dirty face in sunshine as he headed down the rutted road toward Mishnish.
All I need is a bit of luck. And today … today I feel lucky
.

“Come inside,” Kitt invited her erstwhile knight. “The least I can do is offer you breakfast.”

The suggestion brought a delighted curve to her rescuer’s lips. He flinched and muttered “Bloody hell!” as he touched his middle finger to his bleeding lip, but the brief smile had been intriguing. She wondered if he was a handsome man. It was hard to tell beneath all the bumps and bruises and the broken nose.

“You’ve made a powerful enemy today,” she said. “The man you just struck down fancies himself the next Laird of Clan MacKinnon.”

“I have no intention of challenging him for the honor,” the stranger said.

Kitt saw where his eyes had come to rest and pulled her gaping blouse together with her free hand as her face flushed with a combination of anger and embarrassment. She gestured with the sword for the stranger
to go ahead of her, and he followed Moira into the cottage.

“Sit down,” she said, pulling the bench out from the table near the hearth with the toe of her shoe.

He almost collapsed onto the bench, and Kitt realized for the first time just what bad condition he must be in. Which only made his rescue all the more heroic.

“I’ll need some figwort for these bruises, Moira, and some of your goldenrod and valerian salve. And hot water. Lots of it to clean off all this dirt and blood.”

She set the claymore by the hearth where she could easily reach it, then turned to face the stranger.

He was staring at her as though he were privy to her innermost secrets, yet she knew they had never met before. She avoided his glance as she removed the plaid from across his shoulder. She leaned over and reached for the hem of his shirt where it was tied by a rope inside his trousers and began pulling it loose.

“What are you doing?” He caught her hands in his, holding her captive until she met his questioning gaze.

She looked into his eyes—at least the one that wasn’t swollen shut—and felt her stomach shift sideways. There it was again. That unwanted attraction. She allowed her face to reveal nothing of her inner turmoil. “There’s no sense getting your shirt all wet and dirty—dirtier than it is,” she amended, wrinkling her nose as she got a whiff of it, “when I’m cleaning your face. Let me take it off.”

He let her go and swiped at the front of his shirt. He
made a disgusted face and said, “ ’Tis filthy already. And I dinna think I should be undressing—”

The rest of his protest was muffled as she grabbed two handfuls of muslin and pulled the shirt off over his head.

Kitt stifled a gasp when she got a good look at him. Moira had not been wrong. He was brawny, all right. His body looked sculpted, and whoever had done the work had known what he was about. Powerful shoulders, a deep chest whorled with dark blond hair, corded muscle in his naked biceps and forearms, strong thighs visible through trousers snugged tightly over them, and large, capable hands. He was beautiful, if such a word could be applied to a man. Except for the bruises, of course.

Kitt admired the perfect dimensions of the stranger’s body as she would a glorious sunset or the sight of purple heather on the hillside. It gave her pleasure to see God’s work done so well.

“I need some water,” the man said.

“Yes, I know. I’ll clean you up,” she replied soothingly, brushing caked sand from his forehead and cheeks and picking not only straw, but what looked like seaweed, from his hair. He winced when she accidentally skimmed his broken nose.

He caught her wrist, groaning as his bruised knuckles protested even that much movement. “I need a drink,” he clarified. “Water.”

Kitt eyed him cautiously. “I’ll get it,” she said. “If you’ll let me go.”

“Pardon me,” he said, releasing her.