The Lady's Protector (Highland Bodyguards #1)

The Lady’s Protector

Highland Bodyguards, Book One

By

Emma Prince

The Lady’s Protector (Highland Bodyguards, Book 1) Copyright © 2016 by Emma Prince

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact [email protected]

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. V 1

Dunrobin Castle, Scottish Highlands

Late September, 1314

“A Sinclair approaches!”

Ansel Sutherland froze in mid-attack. His sword hung in the air between himself and his opponent, flashing in the late-afternoon sun.

With a flick of his wrist, he spun the sword around and tossed it hilt-first to the young Sutherland lad he’d been sparring with. The lad, Peter, fumbled with his own blade as Ansel’s sailed toward him. He dropped his sword just in time to catch Ansel’s weapon.

“What did I tell ye about respecting yer blade, Peter?” Ansel said over his shoulder as he strode toward Dunrobin’s thick stone wall.

The lad stammered in an attempt to form an answer, his tongue as clumsy as his hands. Perhaps Ansel would have to go back to the wooden practice sword with the boy.

As he mounted the stairs that rose from the yard up the inside of the wall, Ansel shoved all thoughts of Peter and his awkwardness aside.

“Show me,” he said tersely to the guard who stood atop the wall’s parapet.

The guard pointed off to the south, where the forest sheared away to provide long sightlines from the walls of the Sutherland clan’s defensive stronghold.

Ansel raised a hand to shield his eyes from the slanting afternoon sun. Sure enough, a rider approached—and he was cutting a resolute path directly toward Dunrobin Castle.

“Shall I call for the archers, my lord?” the guard asked, his voice tight.

Ansel squinted in the bright light. The lone rider did indeed bear the Sinclairs’ distinctive red and green patterned plaid over his shoulder. It made the man stand out like a sore thumb in Sutherland territory, where they wore their blue and green plaid with pride.

But the Sinclairs resided to the north of Dunrobin. Unease slid up his spine. Why would this man be riding with such determination from the south?

“Nay, no’ just yet,” Ansel said to the guard, never taking his gaze from the rider. There was something familiar about the dark-headed figure riding hard for Dunrobin’s gates.

Though the guard remained tense at his side, Ansel felt his apprehension dissipate with each stride of the warhorse beneath the Sinclair rider. By the time the abnormally curved bow over the rider’s shoulder came clearly into view, Ansel had called for the gates to be opened.

“Garrick Sinclair!” Ansel barked when the rider reined his warhorse within Dunrobin’s yard. He bounded down the stairs from the wall and strode toward Garrick.

The two embraced heartily, exchanging hard thumps on the back. But then Garrick tensed, his gaze locking on the wall behind Ansel.

Ansel glanced over his shoulder to find the guard who’d spotted Garrick, along with several others, watching their exchange warily, their hands resting on their weapons.

“Stand down, men,” Ansel snapped. “This is one of King Robert the Bruce’s most trusted warriors. He is an ally to Laird Sutherland and all within the clan.” Ansel turned back to Garrick and lifted a skeptical brow at the red plaid. “Sinclair or nay,” he added wryly.

The guards on the wall’s parapet relaxed somewhat, dropping their hands to their sides, but several still looked warily at Garrick’s Sinclair plaid.

“It’s no’ every day that we see the Sinclair colors tearing across our land, let alone flapping in the middle of Dunrobin’s yard,” Ansel said, eyeing his travel-worn friend.

Garrick snorted, though his steel-gray eyes flickered with merriment. “Trust me, I didnae come to this viper’s den willingly.”

Icy trepidation slid into Ansel’s veins. “What brings ye away from the King’s side? Is all well?”

“Aye,” Garrick said quickly. “Though there is a matter of some urgency I wished to discuss with ye.”

“Laird Sutherland isnae here, if that is who ye need.”

“Nay, it’s ye I came to see,” Garrick said.

That same cold unease pulsed stronger. What could possibly draw Garrick away from the Bruce and send him into Sutherland territory? And what did it have to do with Ansel?

With a curt wave, Ansel motioned Peter over. The lad had retrieved his blade from the ground and now held both his and Ansel’s swords in his hands. Though he was trying valiantly to stand up straight in the face of a Sinclair, Peter stared at Garrick with rounded eyes.

Although the Sinclairs and the Sutherlands had been united under Robert the Bruce and the fight for Scottish independence for nigh a decade, the centuries-old tension between the two clans wouldn’t fade so quickly. Peter’s face, along with the wary guards perched on the wall, told Ansel as much.

“See to Garrick’s horse, lad,” Ansel said sternly as he took his sword from Peter’s hand and re-sheathed it.

Peter could only manage a nod and another darting glance at Garrick before taking hold of the warhorse’s reins and leading the animal toward the stables.

“Come, friend,” Ansel said, motioning toward the stone keep at the far end of the yard. “Ye could likely do with some refreshment.”

As Ansel led Garrick into the keep, he called to one of the serving maids for ale.

“Aye, my lord,” the maid said, her wide-eyed stare at Garrick matching Peter’s.

They crossed through the great hall, but Ansel didn’t stop at the high table atop the raised dais where guests were normally entertained. Instead, he continued on to a small chamber that he and the Laird often used to discuss more delicate matters of strategy.

“So yer cousin isnae here?” Garrick asked as he stepped into the cramped chamber. He removed the unusually curved bow from his back and propped it against one of the few chairs that furnished the small space, then sat.

“Aye, Kenneth is with the McKays discussing our northwest border. Apparently the sheep stealing has started up again.”

Garrick snorted again, but this time there was no mirth in it. “Just a few bloody months after Bannockburn, and we Highlanders are nipping at each other once more. So much for a country united behind the Bruce.”

Ansel sat down across from Garrick. “It’s no’ so bad as that. Aye, we bicker amongst ourselves, but now that the English have their tails between their legs—”

Just then, the door opened and the serving maid ducked in with two pewter mugs of ale. Once she’d handed them to Ansel and Garrick, she scurried away, closing the door swiftly behind her.

“Ye were saying?” Garrick said dryly, setting the mug on a small table next to him. “I see the way ye Sutherlands look at me. We’ll be lucky if we can sustain the victory of Bannockburn another year before we turn on each other like we always do.”

Garrick’s words struck deep. Aye, the Battle of Bannockburn had only taken place this past June. Ansel had been at Garrick’s side, fighting under the Bruce for freedom. And yet now that he was back at Dunrobin, far from the battlefield and the Bruce’s camp, the petty squabbles between the clans were sprouting like weeds.

“Bloody hell,” Ansel said, suddenly weary. “I wonder at times if we will ever truly know peace.”

Garrick leaned back in his chair and considered Ansel for a long moment. “The news I bring may no’ be welcome, then.”

“Ye say all is well with the Bruce and the cause,” Ansel replied. “Yet I ken ye wouldnae ride across Sutherland territory simply for the view and the fresh air. Out with it, man.”

Garrick’s gray eyes filled with hard assessment as he continued to study Ansel for another moment. Ansel waited, unease knotting in the pit of his stomach. What in bloody hell did Garrick have to say that gave the man such pause?

At last Garrick spoke, seeming to choose his words carefully.

“A little over a sennight ago, the Bruce received a missive with a request for help. Someone may be in danger—someone of great import. The man who contacted the Bruce wished for one of the King’s best warriors to provide the protection and skill necessary to keep that someone safe.”

Ansel slowly leaned his elbows on the wooden arms of his chair. “And why does this request bring ye to Dunrobin?”

“The Bruce initially thought to put me on the mission, but he requires me at his side for the time being.”

“Ye are still in the Borderlands with him and his army, are ye no’?”

“Aye. With the English still off-kilter after Bannockburn, we are reclaiming much of what they have taken from us,” Garrick replied. His gray eyes flickered with a wolfish determination for a moment. “Though we are making great strides, the Bruce still needs my skills at his disposal.”

Garrick was known throughout the Highlands—and perhaps the Lowlands and England as well—as one of the deadliest archers to ever draw an arrow. He’d been serving the Bruce and the cause for Scottish freedom almost since the beginning of the Bruce’s quest for the crown. Ansel had fought alongside Garrick enough times to know just how valuable a warrior he was to their King.

“And so ye sought me, with the Bruce’s blessing?”

“Aye.”

“Why?”

Garrick’s mouth quirked in a lopsided smile. “Fishing for compliments?”

Ansel snorted. “If I were, ye’d be the last man I’d seek. I might as well be talking to Dunrobin’s curtain wall for all the information I’ve gotten out of ye since ye crossed into the keep.”

Garrick arched a dark brow for a moment, but then his hard features grew serious. “I’ll be honest with ye, then. Ye have been one of the Bruce’s most prized warriors since ye joined the cause all those years ago. Ye earned yer spot in his inner circle when ye helped him secure his ancestral home from Raef Warren and the English.”

Ansel felt pride curve his lips at the memory. Six years ago, he’d been called from Dunrobin in the Highlands to Loch Doon Castle in the southwest, the keep Robert the Bruce had built with his own two hands. Loch Doon had been dangerously close to falling into the hands of the English, yet they’d driven back their enemies and secured the castle. It had been Ansel’s first taste of victory in the Scottish battle for freedom—the sweetness of that success had seen him through many hard years since.

“No’ that ye needed to, but ye proved yerself yet again at Bannockburn. The Bruce is proud to call ye one of the finest warriors he’s ever known. Since I cannae offer the help requested of the King, the only other man I’d consider for the job was ye.”

“I thank ye for yer honeyed words, Garrick,” Ansel said wryly. “I know they dinnae come easily to ye. I still dinnae ken how Jossalyn puts up with ye.”

Garrick rolled his eyes at the mention of his wife, who worked as a healer in the Bruce’s camp. Though he enjoyed teasing Garrick, Ansel had spent enough time in the Bruce’s army to know just how deep Jossalyn and Garrick’s love ran.

He swiftly thrust aside such soft thoughts. Like Garrick, Ansel had dedicated his life to serving men more important than he was. They both worked under their respective Lairds—Laird Sinclair was Garrick’s older brother, and Laird Sutherland was Ansel’s cousin—and both had pledged themselves to Robert the Bruce, King of Scotland. Yet unlike Garrick, Ansel found little room for love or marriage in the midst of his duties to clan, King, and country.

“Who is this crucial person in need of protection?” Ansel asked, growing serious once more.

Garrick hesitated for one beat before answering.

“He is the bastard son of the Earl of Lancaster.”

The low level of unease that had been simmering in Ansel’s stomach flared suddenly. “Lancaster’s son? And who requested yer help in protecting him?” He feared he already knew the answer, but he had to hear it from Garrick’s mouth.

“Lancaster himself.”

Bloody hell.

Ansel stood so swiftly that his chair tipped back and clattered to the floor. Outrage ignited within him like a flame in dry kindling.

“Ye are saying,” he began, pinning Garrick with a hard stare, “that the Earl of Lancaster sent King Robert the Bruce a missive requesting that
ye
, a Scottish rebel, help
him
, a scheming English nobleman—and King Edward’s cousin, no less—by protecting his son?”

“Aye.”

“And ye are asking
me
to take yer place and watch over the man’s son—at Lancaster’s request?”

“Aye.”

“And why in bloody hell would I help some English noble do aught other than warm my blade with his blood? Last I checked, the English are still our enemies.”

Garrick actually had the nerve to throw back his dark head and laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

Ansel righted his chair but found he wasn’t ready to sit just yet, even though it took Garrick several long moments to regain control of himself.

“That is just what I said when the Bruce proposed this mission to me a sennight ago,” Garrick crowed when he was finally able to speak again.

“And what did the Bruce say to convince ye to ride to Dunrobin with such a preposterous task?” Ansel ground out through clenched teeth.

All mirth fell completely away from Garrick then. He leaned forward in his chair, pinning Ansel with stormy gray eyes.

“He reminded me that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Lancaster has been a thorn in King Edward’s side for years. But now with Edward’s defeat at Bannockburn, Lancaster stands to bring down Edward once and for all—and perhaps even become King of England himself.”