Highland Protector

by Hannah Howell

  Especially since she had come up with no other plan herself, Ilsabeth mused. She continued to try and think of one as she walked but facing the end of her journey inspired her no more than all the rest of the hours she had traveled to reach her destination.

  By the time she stood before the door to Sir Simon Innes’s home, she gave up all hope of coming up with something clever and started fervently praying that the man would help her.

  Simon Innes sprawled in a chair before the fire, a goblet of fine wine in his hand, and frowned down at the cat in his lap. It had been a mistake to give in to that spark of charity and feed the huge black and white tom. The animal had finished off the scraps he had given it and then moved in. He glanced down at his dog Bonegnasher, spread out gracelessly at his feet, a fresh set of scratch marks on his nose. Who would have thought his large, fierce dog would turn coward when slapped on the nose by a cat?

  He sighed and lightly stroked the cat, causing it to rumble with a deep, raspy purr. It was, at least, a more pleasant noise than the animal’s snoring. The beast also looked and smelled better since Old Bega had got her hands on it. The cat had endured her scrubbing, combing, and rubbing some oil on him to kill fleas with a quiet, injured dignity.

  “Of course, for that small inconvenience, ye are now set in front of a warm fire, your belly full of chicken,” he drawled, and then sipped at his wine. “I cannae believe I have let ye sit on me. Men dinnae keep cats, ye ken.” The cat turned its head so that Simon could better scratch behind one of its tattered ears.

  He was behaving like an old man, he thought crossly. Thirty years of living was just around the corner. Thirty was not old in his opinion, despite

  the fact that far too many people never reached that age. It was definitely too young to be spending nights sitting before the fire talking to his dog, or cat. Yet, it had been many months since he had done anything else. The only change in his new habit for far too long was the presence of an ugly cat. Simon winced. He was becoming a pathetic recluse.

  It was time to get himself a wife, he mused, and fought to quell the curdling in his gut. Not every woman was faithless. Not every marriage was hell on earth. He had seen the good in such arrangements lately during his time helping the Murrays. The part of him that was still bitter and bruised from the past wanted to doubt, shuddered at the mere thought of marriage, but he told himself it was past time he overcame that dread. If Tormand Murray, a man who had seduced half the women in Scotland, could find a wife like Morainn, a loyal, loving woman with wit and spirit, Simon suspected there had to be one out there for him, too. Even James Drummond, a Murray foster son, a man accused of murdering his first wife, had found a good woman even as he fought to prove his innocence.

  “So why am I sitting here stroking an ugly cat instead of a fulsome wife?” he muttered.

  The cat briefly dug its claws into Simon’s thighs as if to protest the unflattering adjective.

  Simon winced but resisted the urge to shove the cat off his lap. He would never admit it aloud but he found the warmth, the soft fur, and the raspy purr of the animal oddly comforting. It was probably why some women favored the beasts despite all the superstitions swirling around the creatures.

  Just as Simon was wondering if he should simply accept his fate and name the cat there was a rap at the door. He sighed in resignation as his man MacBean walked in immediately after the knock sounded. The man stubbornly refused to wait until he was told to enter. It had taken far too long just to get the man to knock at all.

  “So, that cursed beastie is still about, I see,” said MacBean, glaring at the cat. “Want me to toss it out?”

  “I dinnae think it will stay out,” Simon replied.

  MacBean grunted. “The old woman shouldnae have wasted food and water on it. Beast is more tattered than my old aunt’s blankets. Got more scars, too.”

  Simon gently bit his tongue to stifle the urge to ask MacBean about his old aunt’s scars. Too much curiosity was one of his besetting sins. The craving he had for uncovering secrets and lies made it difficult to make and keep friends, although he could not fully regret that. He also admitted to himself that he had a few secrets of his own that he would prefer to keep buried deep in his past. Old Bega knew them for she had traveled with him from his boyhood home, but, despite how much she loved to talk, the woman held fast to them.

  “What good is a cat when it’s all fat and happy, I ask ye?” MacBean asked, obviously expecting no answer. “Only purpose the creatures have to be alive at all is to catch vermin. Beastie there isnae going to do that if the old lady keeps his belly full.”

  “MacBean,” Simon said a little sharply to interrupt the man’s tirade before it went any further, “did ye come in here only to speak of this cat?”

  “Nay. Ye have a message from the king.”

  “I would think that something like that would take precedence over a discussion of this cat,” Simon said as he took the message MacBean thrust toward him.

  “King isnae trying to live here, is he? And he doesnae have fleas.”

  “I wouldnae be too sure of that and this beast has none since Bega tended to it.”

  “He will be getting them again.”

  Simon ignored the man as MacBean entered into a staring contest with the cat. The message held dire news, bad in so many ways that Simon swiftly finished off his wine and held the goblet out for MacBean to refill. A king’s man had been murdered. Worse that man had been the king’s own cousin, and one the king had been fond of. Young Ian Ogilvie had been following whispers of treasonous activities, of plots against his royal cousin and benefactor. The name of the clan held responsible was not familiar to Simon except for the fact that everyone knew of the Armstrongs, a border clan well known for its reiving ways. What chilled him to the bone was that this particular branch of the Armstrongs was connected through marriage to the Murrays. If the Murrays were not already in hiding, they might soon need to be.

  “Bad news?” asked MacBean.

  “Nay good. Murder, treason, accusations being flung about that have already cast a shadow on the Murrays.” Simon drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “The Armstrongs involved are kin to the Murrays through marriage. A close enough bond to cause our king to wonder if they, too, now plot against him.”

  “The king and his advisors are forever seeing plots.”

  “True, but this one may nay be born of naught but suspicious minds. Sir Ian Ogilvie was certain there was a plot afoot and went in search of some answers. What he got was a dagger in the heart, an Armstrong dagger.”

  MacBean frowned and then shook his head, his thick, graying, brown hair shifting wildly with the movement. “Nay. Dinnae see that clan troubling itself much with treason and plots and all that. They dinnae follow many of the king’s laws nay matter who sits on the throne so why bother plotting against the mon they dinnae listen to anyway? Now, if ye said they stole the king’s cattle? Weel, I wouldnae doubt that. But treasonous plots? Nay.”

  “I feel the same. And, Sir Cormac Armstrong has appeared to be trying to rise above the reiving ways of so many of his kinsmen.”

  “Is the king asking ye to hunt down the killer?”

  “Aye, that and to discover who else plots treason against him. I but wish he had asked that I prove who truly is the guilty one for the lack of that question makes me think he has decided the Armstrongs of Aigballa are guilty. That is worrisome.”

  Before MacBean could express his sour opinion about getting tangled up in uncovering plots for the king, there was a knock at the front door. He cursed and hurried away to see who was there. Simon smiled faintly over his man’s ill temper and then frowned down at the message he still held.

  He was going to have to answer the king’s command, but he did not like it despite his recent craving for a puzzle to solve. This time he was not only trying to find the truth, he was going to have to try and protect his friends as he did so. Simon doubted Sir Cormac Armstrong’s family had anything to do with tre
ason, but that did not mean there was not one of his family who might play such a dangerous game. Pulling out that one rotten tooth could easily cost Simon some of the few friends he had.

  MacBean’s return drew him from his dark thoughts, and Simon looked at the man. “Weel, who was at the door? Was there another message?”

  “Nay. There is a nun and two bairns,” replied MacBean in a tone that would have better suited announcing death itself.

  “A nun?”

  “Aye, and she says she must speak with ye now. Have ye been breeding and nay told the old woman? That crone willnae be pleased with ye if ye have.”

  “Nay, I havenae been breeding and, if I had done so, Bega would already ken it for she would be helping me care for the child. Mayhap the nun wishes my help in finding the ones who should take responsibility for the children. Show her in, MacBean, and fetch us something to drink and eat.”

  The moment a grumbling MacBean left, Simon struggled to get the cat off his lap and stand up. He ignored the animal’s growl of displeasure and tried to brush the cat hair from his clothes. MacBean clearing his throat caused him to look up and he slowly straightened. A slight wave of his hand sent the man off to get drink and food for his guests.

  “Sir Simon Innes?” asked the nun.

  “Aye,” he replied, bowing to her. “How can I help ye, Sister?”

  “I have need of your ability to find the truth.”

  The low, husky voice of the woman tickled to life feelings he should never have for a nun. To distract himself, he glanced at the two children who clutched at her skirts. They looked hungry and their clothes were mere rags, but he saw nothing of anyone he knew in their looks. “Ye seek the kin of these children?”

  “Nay, for they have told me they have none. The only one they have who should be caring for them is the one who cast them aside, and some day, I will see that he repents that. Nay, I seek help for myself for I am in trouble as is my family.”

  “And who are ye?”

  “My name is Ilsabeth Armstrong. I am the daughter of Sir Cormac Armstrong of Aigballa and Elspeth Murray.”

  Chapter 3

  The first clear thought Simon had was that he was very glad that woman was not a nun. It made no sense since she was swathed in a nun’s clothing so he shook that thought right out of his head. It was not as easy as it should have been to do so as he stared into her wide, bright blue eyes. There was innocence in those eyes, an innocence he was not sure he should put his trust in. There was also an odd mix of fear and determination to be read in her expression.

  “I believe I was just reading about you,” he said, and held up the message from the king, the royal seal easy to recognize.

  For a moment he feared she would faint as all the color fled her heart-shaped face. Simon took a step toward her and then hesitated. Instead of swaying, she stiffened, her shoulders going back and her faintly pointed chin lifting. Some of the color began to seep back into her soft cheeks. There was a glint of anger in her beautiful eyes now. But, was the anger due to lies being told about her or the fact that he had already been told the truth? Simon wished he could trust his judgment when it came to women, trust it without indulging in a long time of subtle testing and spying. He had once and it had cost him dearly. Now it always took a lot more than a fine pair of eyes and full, tempting lips to win his trust.

  “Your bairns?” he asked, and nodded at the two children, even as he decided she was far too young to be the boy’s mother.

  “Now,” she replied. “Elen and Reid. Are ye willing to hear my tale or do ye take me straight to the king?”

  He should, Simon thought. He should see her well secured in a prison while he searched for the truth. Good sense told him to hear her tale and then have her imprisoned while he verified all she told him. Instinct told him she was no more than a pawn caught up in someone else’s deadly games. If she was a he, Simon knew he would trust his instinct. It was enough, however, to make him hesitate to hand her over to the king’s soldiers, who would not treat her kindly. After so many betrayals, the king might not let her live long enough for Simon to find the truth and that would not only be a tragic waste but wrong.

  “Sit,” he said. “I will listen to what ye have to say and then decide.”

  Ilsabeth studied the man her family had sent her to. He was tall, six feet in length or more, and almost too lean, nearly lanky, but she did not doubt the strength in those slender limbs. His face was not one to make anyone expect any mercy from the man. It was all sharp lines from the high cheek bones to the firm jaw. Even his nose was a sharp angle and nearly too big for his face. Thick black hair was tied back and she suspected it was longer than many men wore their hair. Straight black brows and long dark lashes did nothing to soften the hard cold steel color of his eyes. The only softness she could see on his face was in the touch of fullness in his bottom lip. There was certainly no hint of it in his deep, cold voice.

  So why was she thinking of nipping at that lip? she asked herself. Something about the man had her blood singing in her veins. Ilsabeth began to fear that her mother and cousins had not been simply fanciful when they had spoken of meeting the man meant just for them, of pounding hearts and heated blood. A part of her mind was almost purring in delight as she stared at this cold man who held her life in his elegant, long-fingered hands.

  Shaking free of her bemusement, she ushered the children toward a settee near the fire. She sat down and the children huddled close to her on the seat. Ilsabeth watched Simon turn his seat to face her squarely and found herself fascinated by the graceful way he moved. She inwardly cursed herself for that. Now was a very poor time to go all dewy-eyed over a man, especially since she had been so horribly betrayed by one only days before. It did, however, prove that she had not been in love with Walter and she found a small comfort in that.

  “Ah, your confession will have to wait a moment,” Simon said when MacBean and Old Bega entered the room with trays of food and drink.

  Ilsabeth glared at him, annoyed by the word confession, but her attention was quickly taken up with the woman Sir Simon introduced as Old Bega. Plump, gray-haired, and plainly not intimidated by her stern master, the woman fussed over the children. The bone-thin man named MacBean just scowled at them.

  “Och, look at these wee beauties,” said Old Bega, almost cooing at the children. “They need washing and some clean clothes. Aye, they do.” She grasped Elen, picking the little girl up in her arms, and took Reid by the hand. “You two just come with me and I will see to that right now. Then ye can come back and join in this feast.”

  “But–” began Ilsabeth, not sure she wanted to be left alone with Sir Simon.

  “Wheesht, dinnae fret,” Old Bega said as she began to walk away. “I will bring them back to ye as soon as they are clean and out of these rags. Come, MacBean.”

  “Come, MacBean,” grumbled that man, but he followed her. “Fetch this, do that. Wheesht, ye do ken that I dinnae work for ye, old woman.”

  The door shut firmly behind them and Ilsabeth stared at it, fighting the strong urge to follow the group. She then looked at Sir Simon with suspicion. It was difficult to see how he could have planned such a thing, yet the removal of the children from the room was very convenient for him.

  “I had naught to do with that,” he said. “Bega cannae abide dirt and loves bairns. ‘Tis all that was. It is, however, verra convenient and I willnae deny I would have done it if I had had time to think of it. ‘Tis best if we discuss this matter without the bairns here.”

  “Mayhap.” Ilsabeth helped herself to a drink of cider and a honey-sweetened oatcake. “So, ye wish me to begin my confession right now, do ye?”

  “That stung, did it?” He pushed aside the strong urge to kiss away the scowl that twisted her soft, full lips.

  She rolled her eyes and then asked, “Do ye want me to start from the moment I began to sink into this mire? Or, do ye wish to just ask me questions?”

  “Just start at the beginning and
ye can take that thing off your head first. Ye dinnae need to play the nun any longer.”

  The moment she took off the wimple, Simon wished he had not told her to do so. In taking it off, she had loosened whatever had kept her hair pinned up beneath it. Thick waves of hair so black the fire’s light bounced off hints of blue in its depths fell to her waist. His hand tightened on his goblet of wine as he fought the urge to touch it. When she idly ran her fingers through her hair, obviously relieved to be rid of the headdress, his body tightened with a rush of lust so strong he almost groaned aloud. He was relieved when she began to speak despite the allure of her husky voice for it gave him something to concentrate on, something aside from his need to feel all that glorious hair brushing against his naked skin.

  “I now see that it all began when Sir Walter Hepbourn began to court me.” She scowled. “I should have been more wary, looked more closely, for no one of his ilk had ever done so before, but I am one and twenty and didnae wish to miss my chance to have my own household and some bairns.”

  Simon wondered how such a tempting armful of woman could ever fear becoming a spinster. She was small and the nun’s attire hid a lot but not enough. He could see that she had softness enough to please a man.

  “So, we soon became betrothed. Then, as the time to marry drew nearer, I sensed a change in the mon. I thought he might have gotten himself a mistress.” She blushed. “He is a virile mon and, weel–”

  “Wasnae being verra virile with you?”

  “Nay, he wasnae. He tried once and I pushed him away. After that he ne’er tried again. ‘Tis why I began to think he had a mistress. So, after I visited his home for a wee while, I said my fareweels, walked away, and then, after hiding away for an hour, mayhap longer, I crept back. Instead of a mistress, I heard him talking to his cousin David. David was praising Walter for his great sacrifice.” She knew bitterness and anger were seeping into her voice but could not help it. “Walter declared that his sacrifice would be short-lived. What David said next told me what had happened.”