The Lady's Protector (Highland Bodyguards #1) Read Online Free Page B

out.
    Perhaps if he hadn’t been operating with only a few hours’ sleep each night for nigh a sennight, he would have modified his tone. Perhaps if he weren’t soaking wet and saddle-weary, he would have chosen his words more carefully. And perhaps if every sign didn’t indicate that this was a fool’s errand, he would have observed more decorum. As it was, he didn’t much care.
    The Englishwoman’s lips tightened ever so slightly. Her gaze swept over him, but he detected more than just disdain in her eyes. Was that…fear?
    As her gaze traveled back up his length, her eyes flickered ever so slightly over his left shoulder. It was all the warning he had.
    He spun instinctively, yanking his sword free of its scabbard. The blade whirred through the air, flashing against the overcast sky. Just before his sword made contact with the person who’d snuck up behind him, Ansel snapped his arm to a halt. The blade vibrated an inch away from the neck of an aging man.
    The man’s dark blue eyes rounded as he took in the sword at his neck. Ansel held the blade steady, his body nevertheless tense and ready to strike. Slowly, the man raised his hands to indicate that he hadn’t drawn a weapon.
    With a quick glance, Ansel took in the sword on the man’s waist. Though the weapon looked to be in good condition, the man’s middle was thick from advanced years and inactivity. His coppery head, which was dashed liberally with white streaks, was held proudly aloft, like his lady’s was.
    The Englishwoman’s gasp behind him broke through his battle-taut mind.
    “Nay, do not harm him!”
    Ansel lowered his blade slowly, keeping his gaze trained on the older man.
    “Who the bloody hell are ye?” Ansel snapped.
    “I am Bertram, Lady Isolda’s personal guard,” the man said, blinking at Ansel.
    So the Englishwoman had a name. Ansel pivoted and took several steps backward so that he could bring both the woman and her guard into his line of sight.
    “I dinnae ken what yer role is in all this, Lady Isolda,” Ansel said, re-sheathing his sword. “But I suggest ye keep yer man from attempting to attack me from behind again. I’m no’ always so eager to let my blade go unused.”
    He shifted his gaze to Lady Isolda. Confusion now mingled with fear in her eyes as she watched his sword slide back into its sheath. Then as if consciously fortifying herself, she drew her chin up and straightened her spine. She met his gaze, and he realized suddenly that her eyes were the palest green imaginable.
    “Who are you?” she demanded, taking another step toward him.
    Ansel let himself truly look at her for the first time.
    Though she carried herself with an air of regality, she was a petite woman. If she stood directly in front of him, the top of her head likely wouldn’t clear his chin. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a braid, though wild wisps had come loose around her face.
    Those pale green eyes were framed by dark lashes and gently arching eyebrows the same rich color as her hair. Though the skin of her neck and hands was creamy, her cheeks were rosy, either from the salty breeze rushing through the yard or from the intensity of his scrutiny, he knew not which.
    Under the plain shawl around her shoulders, she was clad in a dark crimson surcoat with intricate designs of flowers and leaves stitched onto it. The surcoat fit snugly over the soft curve of her breasts and tapered around her narrow waist. Now that she stood closer, he noticed that the surcoat ended at her elbows, revealing a gown underneath of a similar dark red. The gown’s sleeves stopped just above her wrists, where a creamy chemise showed.
    Though Ansel didn’t bother to follow English fashion, he knew what her garb was meant to convey—wealth. No commoner ever wore a surcoat, for fabric of the kind Lady Isolda wore was far too expensive. To show three layers of such rich material spoke of coin, and a great deal of it.
    Bloody hell .
    A rich English noblewoman