The Highlander Who Protected Me (Clan Kendrick #1)

by Vanessa Kelly

  “Doesna look like a polite conversation to me.”

  When Angus unbuttoned his coat, Ainsley caught a glimpse of the pistol shoved into the waistband of his breeches.

  “You and the wee lassie wait here.”

  “Maybe we should just go back to the house instead.”

  “Nae, that carriage is too close for my comfort. Stay here.”

  “Angus . . . oh, blast,” she muttered.

  With his usual spryness, the old fellow hurried across the lawn to confront the man. “Here now,” he called out. “What is it ye be needin’ from—”

  Without hesitation, the greatcoated man spun around and drilled Angus in the chin. Ainsley let out a strangled shriek as the old man dropped to his knees. William leapt forward to attack, but another stranger appeared from behind the coach. He smashed the butt of a flintlock into William’s skull. The footman collapsed onto the grass like he’d been shot.

  Horrified, Ainsley backed away, clutching Tira to her chest. The attackers were between her and Kendrick House, and she couldn’t depend on any of the servants looking out the window and rushing to help. She could scream, but even then it was unlikely that aid would arrive in time.

  She pivoted and scurried toward the opposite side of the park. If she could make one of the other streets, she could slip into one of the back alleys running behind the houses and—

  Ainsley skidded to a halt when another man in a greatcoat dashed toward her across the lawn. Where had he come from?

  Tira, finally jolted awake, let out a wail. Ainsley hoisted her higher on her shoulder and turned back toward Kendrick House. But when she tried to dart around the men who’d attacked Angus and William, her leather boots slipped on the grass. Tira, her cries rising in volume, shot up a hand and grabbed the edge of Ainsley’s poke bonnet, yanking it down over her eyes.

  “Give it up, missus,” came a low growl. “There ain’t no way you’re getting away from us.”

  Ainsley pushed her bonnet from her eyes to see the man who’d cut off her escape to the side streets. Despite his rough speech, he was dressed in a well-tailored greatcoat and a beaver hat. He looked more like a prosperous shopkeeper than a thug, except for the pistol that was half-concealed by his coat.

  “What do you want?” she demanded. Her daughter squirmed, and it was all Ainsley could do to keep hold of her.

  “Lord Cringlewood sent us to fetch the brat.” The man grinned, revealing a mouthful of broken teeth. “Looks like you can’t manage her anyway, missus, so you might as well hand her over.”

  Ainsley took a step back. “I’ll kill you if you touch my daughter.”

  The man scoffed. “We ain’t gonna hurt the kid, but we have our orders. We’re to bring her, no matter what.”

  She cast a wild glance around. The other two men, both hulking brutes, stood only a few feet away and blocked her path. William was still flat-out on the grass, while Angus was struggling to get up.

  Think.

  “Hand her over, missus,” snapped the man with the gun. “We ain’t got all day.”

  Ainsley squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, praying for strength. Then she met the man’s gaze with her own challenge. “You’re taking her to his lordship now?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then I’m coming too.”

  He nodded. “Cringlewood thought you might say that. Come along with you, then.”

  When the man reached to take her arm, she jerked away. “Don’t touch me.”

  He shrugged, briefly flashing his pistol. “Suit yourself. But get a move on it, if you know what’s good for you.”

  They started off toward the carriage, which had moved toward them.

  “My husband will go to the magistrate. You won’t get away with this,” she said.

  “His lordship ain’t worried about that. She’s his kid, isn’t she?”

  “But you’re kidnapping me.”

  “I ain’t. You’re comin’ of your own free will. Now shut your damn mouth, else I’ll shut it for you.”

  Ainsley clamped her lips shut and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Tira cuddled against her, now quietly sobbing into the lace trim of her pelisse.

  “Hush, darling,” she whispered. “Mamma won’t leave you, no matter what. No one will ever take you away from me again.”

  At this point, that was all that mattered.

  They’d almost reached the carriage when Angus finally managed to stagger toward them. “Stop, ye bastards,” he shouted.

  “He ain’t no threat,” said one of the men. “We got his pistol.”

  The brute beside her cocked his own pistol, even though the old man was unarmed.

  “Angus, stop,” she called out. “Think of Tira. She might get hurt.”

  He stumbled to a halt, his bloodied features pulled tight with anguish.

  “They’re going to take her either way,” she said to him. “So I’m going with her.”

  “Lass, you canna do this,” he choked out. “Ye’ll make it harder for Royal to get the wee one back.”

  “I’m sorry, Angus. But I will not be separated from her ever again.”

  Her captor jabbed her in the shoulder. “Get in the bloody coach.”

  She looked Angus straight in the eye. The old man was in tears. “Tell Royal I love him.”

  “Lass—”

  “Angus, go home, now.”

  She turned and climbed into the carriage that would take her to the man about to ruin her life.

  Again.

  * * *

  “It’s my fault.” Royal braced himself as the town coach swung hard around a corner. “I never should have left the house.”

  “The marquess would have gotten his hands on Tira sooner or later,” Logan said from the opposite bench. “The law would have seen to that.”

  Angus, seated next to Logan, scowled. “To hell with the law. We’ll take care of the English bastards ourselves.”

  In the dim light of the carriage lamps, the old fellow’s bruised and swollen features looked gruesome.

  “Are you sure you’re up to this?” Royal asked.

  The side of his grandfather’s mouth that wasn’t swollen lifted in an attempt at a ferocious smile. “Dinna fash yerself, lad. I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine. You were almost—” He clamped his mouth shut against the rage and fear that threatened to swamp him.

  Angus divined his thoughts. “That Sassenach codpiece has no reason to hurt our lasses. He’s got what he wants. For now.”

  “He doesn’t give a hang about Tira, but he will punish Ainsley.” It was driving him mad just thinking about it.

  “It’s been less than two hours,” Logan said. “Your wife is a smart, capable woman. She can take care of herself and Tira until we rescue them.”

  Royal would lay waste to Cringlewood’s entire life and kill him, if necessary. But without Ainsley and Tira, his life would be a hollow shell. No matter what he had to do, he would get them back.

  “Logan’s right,” Angus said. “Your lady is a canny one. And she’ll know we’re coming for her.”

  Royal hoped so, but her last words to Angus had suggested exactly the opposite. He wouldn’t blame her for doubting his loyalty. Yesterday, he’d been angry and critical when he should have been reassuring her. Ainsley knew Cringlewood better than anyone, and she knew what he was capable of doing. Every action she took—even the lies she told—was to protect herself and Tira.

  But Royal’s pride had been wounded by what he saw as her lack of faith in him. So he’d cut her off, leaving her alone and vulnerable when she needed him the most.

  As usual, Logan also deduced what he was thinking. “Stop beating yourself up. We’ll get them back, and then we’ll get you all out of town. We have a plan, so let’s just stick to it and get the job done.”

  Royal managed a smile. “Have I told you lately how happy I am that you’re back in Scotland?”

  “We’re Clan Kendrick, lad,” Angus said. �
�We dinna give up on each other, and we never back down from a fight.”

  “True, Grandda,” Logan said, “but I share Royal’s concerns about you. You got quite the knock on the head.”

  “Och, I’ve had worse. And I want my own piece of that bastard.”

  “Cringlewood is mine,” Royal said. “No one touches him but me.”

  Angus bristled before Logan shut him down. “Grandda, from what you told us, there will be plenty of heads to knock about. Just do what Royal tells you, all right?”

  The old man harrumphed. “I dinna ken about this plan of yers. Seems a mite risky.”

  “You’re not the one taking the risk,” Royal said.

  “Exactly my point,” Angus said. “That leg of yers isn’t up to it.”

  “I just need to buy us the time for Logan and the other men to get into the house. It shouldn’t take long, if everything goes well.”

  “And everything always goes so well in this family, ye ken,” Angus retorted.

  “We don’t have a choice,” Royal said. “If Cringlewood gets them out of Scotland, it’ll be almost impossible to get Tira back.”

  And that meant he would never get Ainsley back. She would never leave her daughter again.

  “I’d feel better if Nick were here,” Angus said. “His bloody lordship would have to pay heed to the Earl of Arnprior.”

  “We’d all feel better if Nick were here,” Royal said. “But he should be in town tomorrow, so he can take care of the cleanup.”

  Logan peered out the window. “We’re close enough, I think. Best signal the coachman.”

  After Royal thumped on the roof of the carriage, it slowed to a stop. Logan opened the door and jumped down to the side of the deserted road. Royal followed more carefully—he couldn’t afford to aggravate his bad leg, with everything that was at stake.

  “Angus isn’t wrong,” Logan quietly said. “That leg of yours could be our undoing.”

  “I’ll manage. I have to. They’d never let me keep a pistol, for one thing. And we also need a gambit that gives you enough time to get into the house and take control.”

  His older brother sighed. “Aye, well, I suppose a half-baked plan is better than no plan at all, given the lack of time.”

  When Royal and Logan returned from their offices, they’d found the household in chaos. William was barely conscious and Angus was staggering about, raging and bloody. The several minutes it had taken to get a clear measure of the situation had been the longest of Royal’s life. If not for Logan holding him back, he would have charged out of the house like a maniac, tearing Glasgow apart in a fruitless effort to find Ainsley and Tira.

  Fortunately, Henderson had recalled that Ainsley’s mother had stayed with a cousin, Lady Montgomery, in her manor house just on the outskirts of town. Logan had saddled a horse and ridden there, sneaking through the gardens and peering into windows until he spotted Ainsley in one of the drawing rooms. She appeared unharmed. As Cringlewood and two of his men were also present, Logan had little choice but to return to Kendrick House with the news.

  That delay, as nerve-racking as it was, had given Royal the time needed to put a plan in place.

  Henderson hurried over from the second carriage, now pulled up behind them. The butler had been included in their foray because he was friendly with Lady Montgomery’s butler and housekeeper. Royal thought his presence—along with four well-armed Kendrick footmen and grooms—should be enough to give Logan the support he needed in both convincing Lady Montgomery’s servants to stand down and neutralizing Cringlewood’s hired thugs.

  “All right, let’s do this,” Logan said as he extracted a pistol from his greatcoat pocket. He pulled Royal into a brief hug. “Good luck, lad. Be careful, and be safe.”

  “You too,” Royal gruffly replied.

  The small band of men climbed over the short wall between the manor house gardens and the road, then disappeared into the evening gloom. With a nod to the coachman, Royal climbed back in and braced himself as the vehicle rattled forward. The second carriage would remain where it was, out of sight but close enough for a nimble retreat.

  A few minutes later, the coach turned into a gravel drive and wheeled up to the front portico of the manor house.

  “Ready, laddie?” Angus asked.

  Royal leaned forward and gripped his shoulder. “Thank you, Grandda. Whatever happens, I know I can depend on you to keep Ainsley and Tira safe.”

  “Ye’ll be doin’ that, son. Never fear.”

  “I know, but if anything happens to me, I want you to take care of them. Ainsley will be . . . vulnerable without me.”

  A flash of anxiety darted across his grandfather’s face. “Then don’t let anything happen to ye, or I’ll paddle yer bum. Yer not too old for me to do that, ye ken.”

  Royal smiled. “All right, Grandda. Just follow my lead and don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Now, when do I ever do anything stupid?”

  Royal was spared the need to reply when the door opened. He stepped down, Angus right behind him.

  They gazed up at the imposing mansion, where many of the windows were dark. Royal had suspected that Lady Montgomery was currently not in residence. Cringlewood’s cousin was a respectable, well-regarded woman who would never participate in something as heinous as a kidnapping. Her absence meant that the household would likely be running a skeleton staff.

  Of course, it also meant there was no voice of reason to serve as a check on Cringlewood’s obsessive behavior. He would no doubt be bordering on the irrational by now, and would respond aggressively to any attempts to take Ainsley away from him.

  Royal was counting on that.

  The black double doors swung open before they knocked.

  “May I ask who ye be callin’ for?” a footman cautiously asked.

  “Royal and Angus Kendrick, here to see Lord Cringlewood,” Royal said.

  “Aye, sir. I’ll just—”

  “Let them in, you barmy fool,” barked a rough voice.

  The footman gave Royal a slight, apologetic grimace as he stepped aside. He was a local man, obviously, and a possible ally.

  They stepped into a tiled reception hall, decorated with elegant plasterwork in shades of blue and cream. A spiral staircase with elaborate ironwork curled up from the right side of the hall to the upper floors.

  “Is her ladyship at home?” Royal murmured as he handed the footman his hat.

  “That she is not, sir,” the young man grimly replied.

  “Stop your jawin’ and get over here,” ordered a massively built man at the bottom of the staircase.

  The fellow had a smashed-in nose and a pugilist’s ears, a former boxer—most likely. But despite his rough appearance, he carried himself well and dressed with a certain amount of style. He was obviously not a common street thug.

  Another man stood next to him, however, looking very much like a street thug. He held a flintlock pistol, which did nothing to dispel that impression.

  “His lordship is expectin’ you,” said the well-tailored man.

  “Told ye the bastard would want to see ye,” Angus murmured. “He wants to rub it in yer face.”

  Royal moved to the staircase, his grandfather close on his heels.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  The man obviously in charge sneered at Royal, revealing an execrable set of teeth. “Don’t matter who I am, but you can call me Mr. Smith.”

  “How original,” Royal said.

  “Ain’t it just. Now, open your coats. Both of you.”

  Royal complied, as did Angus.

  Smith’s eyebrows shot up when he saw what Royal had strapped to his waist. “A short sword? What the hell do you think you’re gonna do with that?”

  “Kill your master.”

  Smith shook his head. “Bloody Highlanders, stupid as the day is long. No wonder we beat your arses at Culloden.”

  “Ye won’t be beatin’ us this time, ye Sassenach scrub,” Angus said.

&nb
sp; “Hand it over.” Smith jerked his head at his compatriot. “Search them for other weapons.”

  Royal unstrapped the blade, and then submitted to an exceedingly rough search, which certainly didn’t help the pain radiating down his leg. The thug then did the same to Angus, removing the pistol from the waistband of the old man’s breeches.

  “Yer the bully boy who gave me the topper, aren’t ye?” Angus asked in a conversational tone.

  “And a good one, from the looks of your ugly mug,” the brute smirked.

  “Then I’ll be blowin’ your brains out before the night is over, I ken,” Angus said, rubbing his hands as if anticipating a treat.

  Grandda did tend to overplay things, but the thug actually looked a little disconcerted by the cheerful threat.

  Smith led the way up the staircase, with the other man following behind, his pistol leveled at their backs. Royal strained to hear sounds from other parts of the house but heard nothing but their own footsteps. He couldn’t decide whether that was a good or bad thing.

  As they followed Smith down a corridor, Royal sized him up. The man truly was massive, as was his companion. Royal wasn’t worried about handling Cringlewood, and he could probably take on Smith, too. But if the other thug stayed in the room, he and Angus would have their hands full. If Logan was delayed, events could swiftly go south.

  They stopped outside a door and Smith shot Royal a warning glance. “Try anything funny, and your missus will suffer for it. I’ll see to that myself, if his lordship don’t.”

  Royal’s fury, barely under control, flared to life. “Touch my wife and you’re a dead man.”

  “If not for my orders, I’d be doin’ more than touchin’ her.”

  “She’s a prime article, that one,” said the other man with obvious regret.

  Royal was torn between a burning desire to rip their heads off and relief that Ainsley was unharmed.

  Angus shook his head. “Yer both dead now, lads. Best start saying yer prayers.”

  “Shut up, you old fool,” Smith growled. He rapped on the door, then opened it and shoved them through.

  “Remember what I said,” he warned.

  Royal cast a swift glance around. When he saw Ainsley, huddled in an armchair by the fireplace, clutching her reticule, his heartbeat stuttered. She was still clad in her pelisse and gloves, but her bonnet had disappeared. Her hair had tumbled down from its pins, as if someone had manhandled her.