The Bodyguard (33 page)

“You’ve hardly been here a day, Your Grace.”

“I’ve been in Scotland long enough,” Alex said. “I have two daughters I’m anxious to see again.”

In that instant, Alex saw himself in the library at Blackthorne Abbey the morning he had taken leave of his daughters before traveling to Scotland. He was stunned to discover himself smiling at them, since every previous memory of himself with the twin girls had involved him behaving like a stiff-legged, pompous ass.

This memory made him ache to hold the twins in his arms.

He was playfully swinging nine-year-old Rebecca high above him. He heard her shriek with mock fright before he pulled her close, then felt her small, cold nose pressed against his throat. She had always been
the more timid of the twins, and the more forgiving. He hugged her for a long time, long enough to smell the lilac-scented soap she used, then set her down beside a somber-looking Regina.

He could hardly blame Regina for looking so wary. He had kept his distance from her for a very long time. When he picked her up, she stared him right in the eye, defiant as always. Feeling her resistance, he merely braced her against his chest with his arm around her hips.

He willed her to trust him, to give him a chance. As though she had heard his unspoken plea, she laid her head against his shoulder. He held her tight, rocking her back and forth, and felt her hands steal around his neck to hug him tight.

He had needed to tug Regina’s arms free to set her down, and when he did, he watched as her chin wobbled, then firmed. He had not seen her cry since she was old enough to know it was a weakness, and she didn’t then, because Rebecca saw her distress and took her hand. The two of them stood united, waiting for him to admonish them, as he always did before he left.

“Be good,” he said.

It was all he had ever said, but this time he had wanted to say so much more.
I love you both. When I come back things will be so very different. We’ll spend more time together, and I’ll be a real father to you
.

Only, he had not come back. It had been a year since he had left them. A year in which they had believed him dead. A year in which Marcus had been
their father. Perhaps it was too late. Perhaps they had attached themselves to Marcus and would never learn to care for him the way they did for his brother.

But whether he had sired them or not, he was their father. And he loved them.

Alex felt a tickle at the back of his throat.
I want to be home. I need to be home
.

There was love waiting for him there.

“The roads in Scotland are dreadful at any time of year, but absolutely beastly in the spring,” Harper said. “You can expect rain every day and impossibly muddy, almost impassable roads. You might find the sea more hospitable, Your Grace.”

“How long before the next ship arrives?”

“A few weeks, a month. One never knows.”

“Overland, then.” He had to get home. There was a reason to go—joy to be found. And a reason to leave—unbearable pain to escape.

It was no surprise to Alex that he had trouble falling asleep that night. The bed in the master suite, with its three feather mattresses, was far too soft.

The fine brandy he had drunk after supper should have acted as a soporific, but he hadn’t indulged in enough of it to dent the anticipation of his happy reunion with his daughters.

And, of course, there was his wife.

Alex wasn’t sure what the procedure was to renounce a handfast wife, but he had done nothing, and surely nothing was not enough. There was the chance
he had gotten her with child during that final coupling. If she was with child, he would have to do something. He was not sure what. If she was with child …

But that was putting the cart before the horse. Nothing was certain yet, except that he knew who he was and who had tried to kill him and he was going home. On that thought, Alex closed his eyes.

In his dream, he was suffocating.

Alex fought the smothering cloth over his nose and mouth, clawing at his face with his hands. His eyes were open, but he could see nothing in the darkness. His wrists were caught in a viselike grip, so he kicked out with his feet. He heard someone cry out in pain, but by then he was gasping for breath and finding none.

“I thought you said this would put him to sleep!” a hushed male voice complained.

“He’s stronger than I thought,” a female voice whispered in reply.

That lying bitch! She’s making sure I don’t renounce the marriage. By God, Kitt, you’ll pay for this!

It was his last thought before he drifted into blackness.

Alex never saw his captors. He awoke in a small stone cell wearing the nightshirt he had slept in. A heavy chain had been clamped on one ankle and was attached to a ring on the stone wall. The chain allowed him to roam the cell, even to reach the door, which had a single barred window. He could hear the surf beating against the rocks, so he knew he was near the sea. And
it smelled musty, as if water had once upon a time seeped through the walls and grown a slimy mold, even though the hard-packed dirt floor was dry.

He did not know how long he had been unconscious before he awoke to a darkness so complete he could not see his hand before his face. He yelled until he was hoarse, but no one heard. Or, at least, no one answered his cries for help.

Alex suddenly remembered being in another dark cell. He was twelve years old, and he had snuck into the passageways that honeycombed the walls of Blackthorne Abbey. He had been drawn into the dungeon by the intriguing sight of a skeleton—and the door to the dungeon had slid closed and locked him inside.

He had yelled until he was hoarse for help that never came. He had soiled himself from fear when he tripped over the skeleton in the dark. He had long since given up hope of rescue when his father found him. He had been ashamed to be seen in such a condition, but his father had nevertheless picked him up and held him and loved him.

Years later, he could feel the tears on his face, and the warmth of his father’s arms. Alex realized that it was his determination never to be seen at such a disadvantage again that had made him such a proud man.

It was sobering to think he might not be rescued this time. That he might become just a skeleton in a dungeon. The thirst got so bad his tongue swelled, filling his mouth, and the hunger made his belly ache.

She must hate him very much, he thought, to end his life so cruelly.

His butler would likely believe he had arisen early and left for London. No one would think to look for him until the letter reached his brother saying that he was alive.

By then he would be a collection of bones.

Alex paced the confines of the cell, which was empty except for a slop bucket in the corner. He was cheered by the thought that he was expected to live long enough to need it. He searched for an avenue of escape, a means of overpowering his captors, but found nothing to aid him.

Despair was his enemy. The darkness was frightening, the isolation even more so. He fought the fear by focusing on his revenge. He went over everything in his head. Every lie his wife had told him. Every deceit she had committed. He used his hate to keep himself from giving up hope. He had to live, if only to have vengeance.

He wondered why Kitt had not killed him outright but realized she had probably kept him alive in case she had not conceived during their last coupling. How long before she would know? Long enough to miss her courses. A couple of weeks. Then someone must bring him water, he realized. And food.

Alex planned how he would attack his captor, finding the outline of the door in the wall, imagining how it would open, imagining how he would wrap the length
of chain around his jailer’s throat and squeeze until he died.

Who had been her accomplice? he wondered. He tried to imagine any of her clansmen helping her to murder him so foully and felt sick inside. Had his efforts over the past months meant nothing to Fletcher or Evan or Birk? To Angus or Cam or Duncan? Was he to be always and only the damnable Duke of Blackthorne?

He missed his daughters. He thought of all the times he could have held them and loved them and had not.

He wished he had forgiven his brother. Marcus had been so very young. And so very sorry.

On the third day, someone brought bread and water. The door never opened. The water-soaked bread was slid under the door on a tin plate.

Alex pounded on the wooden door with what little strength he had left and rasped, “Who’s there? Tell me who’s there!”

No one answered.

“Tell her I’ll come back from the grave to haunt her,” he grated past his parched throat. “Tell her my ghost will never let her rest.”

He heard nothing. He might as well have been talking to the wind.

The bread and water came regularly after that, once a day, with a piece of fruit once a week. It was obvious he was being kept alive—barely. But for what purpose?

He kept track of the passing days by scratching a mark in the stone wall with the sharp edge of one of the chain links. He made himself walk the distances from corner to corner to keep up his strength, but it was the hate in his heart that gave him the will to keep going.

When he had been confined for twenty-two days, and the food was still coming, he figured she would come to him at last. Surely she had need of his seed. Otherwise, why keep him alive?

But she did not come. It was a week more before the door opened for the first time since he had been imprisoned. He was too weak to attack. He was barely strong enough to stand. The lantern blinded him momentarily. When his eyes finally adjusted, he was not surprised by what he saw.

“Ian! I should have known. What is the plan? To put your bastard in her belly and call it mine?”

“Good morning, Your Grace. I must say you’re not looking at all well.”

“I have found the food and the accommodations not to my taste.”

Ian laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “You’ll have to put up with them a little longer. Unless you would prefer I end it here and now.”

“Given that alternative, I will manage,” he said. “When will I see my wife?”

“If you mean Lady Katherine, she’s to be mine, and the land, as well.”

“You’ll never get away with this, Ian. I’ve sent a
letter to my brother, telling him I’m alive. He’ll come looking—”

“I’m afraid those letters of yours never got beyond Mishnish. Couldna have the Runners nosing around now, could we, looking for a duke that’s already dead, or asking about contracts for land that’ll be coming to The MacKinnon.”

Alex struck out like the trapped animal he was. His fisted hands struck Ian in the jaw and the stomach before Ian’s powerful fist slammed into the side of his head, knocking him down.

Ian kicked him hard in the ribs. “Next time, I’ll kill you.”

He backed out of the cell, and Alex heard the key turning in the lock. He almost wished Ian had killed him. It was agonizing to live with the pain of Kitt’s betrayal.

“Alex, are ye in there?”

Alex thought he imagined the friendly voice, because he had so often wished for it. “Who’s there?”

“Alex? ’Tis Laddie. Are ye all right?”

Alex laughed, but the sound never got beyond his chest. “Oh, yes, I’m fit as a fiddle. Can you get me out of here?”

“I’ll have to find a way to jimmy the lock.”

“Watch out for Ian,” Alex warned.

“Dinna fash yerself. He’s gone.”

Alex tried to get up onto his feet. He didn’t want Mick to see him lying on the floor. But he couldn’t do it. Ian must have cracked one of his ribs.

“Alex, I canna get the lock open,” Mick cried. “I’ll need to go away and come back.”

“Where am I, Laddie? Do you have to go far?”

“Ye’re in the caves at the base of the cliff below Castle Carlisle.”

Castle Carlisle? Was it possible Kitt had not had him imprisoned? Was it possible Carlisle was the villain who had arranged to have Ian put him here?
“How did you know to look for me here, Laddie?”

“To be honest, I wasna looking for ye. The word from Blackthorne Hall was ye left for England a full month ago. I only wondered what Ian MacDougal was doing sneaking around down here. I thought maybe ’twas some buried treasure he had hidden.”

“I would have been buried soon enough, if you had not found me,” Alex muttered.

“I have to leave ye now, Alex, to get something to pick this lock.”

“Laddie—” Alex heard the panic in his voice and took a deep breath to calm himself. “Don’t forget where you left me.”

He heard the boy’s voice muffled against the door. “Are ye truly all right, Alex? Do ye need anything?”

“If you cannot get me out of here right away, I could use some food and water. And a weapon, if you can find one.”

“Sure, Alex. Dinna fear. I’ll send word to your wife where you are.”

“No!”

“But, Alex—”

“I think she may have put me here.”

“Surely not. She loves ye, Alex.”

Alex would have laughed, if it hadn’t been too painful to do so. “Do as I say, Laddie. Don’t speak with anyone.”

“All right, Alex. But I think ye’re making a mistake.”

“Someone wants me dead, and they nearly succeeded this time. I’m sure Ian is only a part of it. I want a chance to find out who is giving him orders.”

“Would you like me to follow him, Alex, to see where he goes? I can do that?”

Alex was torn. He was fairly certain Kitt had collaborated with Ian to have him imprisoned. But a part of him didn’t want to believe it. A part of him hoped Ian might have joined forces with Carlisle. That made some sense. Or with Mr. Ambleside, if he had not fled the environs. Though Alex believed he was long gone.

“If you can do it without getting caught, Laddie, go ahead and follow Ian. But be careful. I don’t want you to end up in here with me.”

“Dinna worry, Alex. I can take care of myself. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

Alex listened until Michael O’Malley’s footsteps succumbed to the sound of the surf. He was suddenly afraid that something would happen to Mick, that Ian would discover him and throw him over the cliffs into the sea or a horse in the stable would kick him in the head or he would eat a poisoned mushroom and die
without ever returning. He should have told Mick to tell someone else where he was. Just in case.