The Guardian Page 4

  “That is not acceptable, sir. Her ladyship is ready to leave now.” The lieutenant sniffed. “If you wish to incur her ladyship’s wrath, you may do so in person. I shall not be the errand boy for a Scot’s messages.”

  “I’m not a gutless worm afraid to inform her ladyship, I grant ye that.” Graham mounted his horse and nodded to his brother. “Are ye coming or no’? Could be a fine time for ye to meet our lovely charge.”

  Duncan grinned and saddled up. “I wouldna miss this for the world, brother.”

  The lieutenant took the lead. The main thoroughfares of London crisscrossed their paths, slowing their progress as they allowed buggies and carriages to pass. Graham urged his horse ahead when he spotted a group clustered in one corner of a rolling green field bereft of buildings or any of the city’s worrisome clutter.

  He easily picked out the esteemed Lady Mercy Claxton as she emerged from a colorful wagon. The woman had to have inherited her beauty from her mother. Thankfully, the Lord had blessed her with an absence of her father’s features. The lady’s attire today appeared more sensible—less lace and ribbons and more lightweight wool, linen, and cotton. It suited her, fitting her lithe figure in all the right places and giving the impression of a rare, willowy orchid.

  Rather than wearing the awkward fontange headwear Graham had seen women struggling to manage at court, Lady Mercy wore a simple straw hat with a wide brim bereft of useless plumage and held in place with a ribbon dyed the same deep purple as her skirt and coat. She carried another garment clenched in one gloved hand, a drab-colored thing that looked like it was made from the same material as a tent. With a scowl up at the overcast day, she shook out the strange looking, long-tailed coat and slipped it on over her clothing. The misting rain beaded up and rolled off her odd apparel.

  “Well, isn’t she the canny lass.” Duncan observed. “Shielding herself with that coat.”

  “Aye,” Graham agreed. But how odd for a lady of noble birth to be so sensible-minded. Most he’d met were more concerned with how they looked rather than the usefulness of their attire.

  Lady Mercy stepped forward, greeting them both with a shy curtsy. “Good day, Master MacCoinnich.” She motioned toward her servants, horses, and wagons. “As you can see, we are quite ready to begin our trip through the Highlands.”

  Graham propped his hands atop the saddle horn and leaned forward, studying all that Lady Mercy intended to bring along on the trip. A pair of flatbed wagons with low sides were parked side by side, filled and covered, their cargo secured with ropes across the tarps. On one of the wagon’s benches, perched an old man holding the reins of the two draft horses hitched to it. The flatbed wagon next to it had a driver that looked like a younger version of the other wagon’s driver. The horses shook their heads, rattling their harnesses and stomping in eagerness to pull. Each driver of the two, low-sided wagons was accompanied by a young man, servants more than likely. The lads looked to be at that gangly awkward age of not quite men but grown enough to provide some muscle for the more laborious chores the trip would entail.

  A scowling, white-capped, chunk-of-a-girl dressed in the drab attire provided for the personal maids of high-born ladies waited a few paces behind her ladyship. Beside the handmaid, an older woman stood with her thick arms folded across her middle. Behind the matron was the box wagon in which Lady Mercy had taken shelter from the rain. Smoke filtered up from the tiny, crooked chimney jutting out of its side. The house-like carriage was daubed with bright colors, blues and reds and had all manner of pots and buckets swinging from hooks screwed into the narrow eaves of its roof. The cluttered contraption resembled a shed fitted with wagon wheels. From the gear attached to it and the older woman’s stained apron, Graham assumed the scowling matron to be Lady Mercy’s private cook.

  A sleek, purebred horse stood tethered to the side of the cook’s wagon. It appeared Lady Mercy not only intended to ride rather than view Scotland from the bench of a wagon, but also intended to ride astride rather than sit sidesaddle.

  Lord Almighty. This wasn’t a tour of the Highlands. This was a blasted invasion.

  Her ladyship stood with gloved hands clasped in front of her waist and a demure smile aimed right at him. “I do hope you’ll appreciate how we’ve winnowed down our accoutrements so we might travel lighter and with more efficiency.”

  “Aye, I see ye’ve been a’ winnowing all right.” Graham shifted in the saddle, an impending sense of doom settling heavy in the pit of his stomach. He forced himself not to falter beneath the lovely woman’s golden-eyed gaze. “We should leave at dawn tomorrow rather than midday today. Makes for better traveling, ye ken? Gets more miles behind us afore we have to stop and make camp for the evening.” He shrugged toward Duncan. “Besides, my brother arrived this verra day. A night’s rest is needed for both himself and his mount.”

  Duncan snorted out a laugh as he made a dashing bow from his saddle. “Your ladyship. Duncan MacCoinnich, at your service.”

  Lady Mercy gave him a quick curtsy. “Master MacCoinnich,” she said, her tone polite but strained.

  “Your most welcome to call me Duncan, m’lady.” He grinned. “Might help keep the Master MacCoinnichs on the trip straight, aye? ’Course, I am the better looking one.” He gave Lady Mercy a knowing wink.

  Duncan’s familiarity with the lass, irritated Graham to no end. Before Lady Mercy could respond, Graham interrupted. “She’ll do no such thing.” He edged his horse a step forward. “Ye may call me, Graham, m’lady. Dinna fret about using Duncan’s Christian name, if ye dinna wish to do so. Ye can call him plain ole MacCoinnich if ye like—or boy’s a more apt title. ’Tis what the rest of us MacCoinnich brothers call him.”

  “Ye’re an arse,” Duncan observed with a belittling cut of his eyes in Graham’s direction.

  Lady Mercy’s nervous gaze flitted back and forth between the two men, her dark brows arched in an attractive display of confusion and subdued amusement. “Perhaps, while we are traveling, I should use both your given names to avoid confusion.” She cleared her throat with a light ahem and pressed her hands together in supplication. “But Graham,” she paused and rewarded him with a kind, placating look. “Did I understand you to say we shan’t be leaving today?”

  “That’s exactly what he said, your ladyship,” Lieutenant St. Johns interrupted. “This Scot appears to think of no one’s wishes but his own. I informed him such an attitude was not acceptable.”

  Graham almost laughed out loud at the cold haughtiness of Lady Mercy’s glare as she turned it on the lieutenant. He held his tongue and winked at Duncan to do the same.

  “Your name, sir?” Lady Mercy asked.

  The lieutenant’s Adam’s apple skittered up and down his throat in a hard swallow. “Lieutenant George St. Johns, ma’am. His Majesty’s guard—at your service.”

  “I shall thank you to refrain from commenting on questions not directed to you, sir, and everyone here will be treated with respect. Neither rudeness nor a troublesome nature will be tolerated on this trip. Is that understood?” Lady Mercy’s eyes narrowed, reminding Graham of a wild feline about to pounce on its prey.

  “Understood, ma’am.” The lieutenant straightened his shoulders, then stared straight ahead.

  Aye, now there’s the strength he’d heard in her earlier. What a lass. Graham grinned, secretly hoping for a continuation of the redcoat’s scolding.

  Lady Mercy’s attention returned to Graham, thankfully, with less ferocity than what she’d focused on the lieutenant. “I understand the soundness of your logic, sir, but I beg you reconsider.” A wariness shadowed her features, and Graham swore the enticing lass almost cringed as though she feared something—surely, she didn’t fear him? The thought gave him pause.

  “Master MacCoinnich… I mean, Graham—others of the king’s guard alerted us to your brother’s arrival today.” She clenched her gloved hands together in a sign of supplication. “I am quite certain you’re not surprised to learn that His Majesty takes measu
res to watch everything.”

  “Spies, ye mean.” Graham gritted his teeth. He’d thought as much, but he’d not expected the king to watch them so closely before they’d even left London. “Aye. I expected no less.”

  “I am sorry.” Lady Mercy turned aside, looking back toward her wagons. “At the king’s order, when your brother was sighted close to the city, we gathered here with all our equipment in tow. Might we not make our way into the countryside for a short distance today, then set up camp early so your brother and his mount could find their needed rest?” She faced him once more, her aura of grace, strength, and composure fully restored. After a quick glance at his horse and the packs strapped to his saddle, she nodded toward them. “You appear packed and ready to travel, are you not?”

  “I am packed and ready, but that isna the point, m’lady.” Graham distinctly heard Duncan chuckling under his breath and promised himself that he’d knock the wee fool on his arse at first opportunity.

  “I can live with the lady’s suggestion,” Duncan said with a benevolent look that made Graham want to shove him off his horse even more. “Ole Jock and I didna run all that hard getting here. I believe we’re good for a few more miles today.”

  “Ye couldha said that afore,” Graham said.

  “Ye didna ask,” Duncan replied with a wide grin.

  Duncan was supposed to be an ally not a thorn in his arse. He pulled in a deep breath and released it with a slow controlled hiss. He glanced up at the sky, then turned and studied the buildings lining the far side of the field. The position of the sun on the murky day escaped him, but mayhap he could estimate the time by the length of the shadows. Not only was it well into the afternoon, but an early fog was joining the dense misting rain blanketing everything with a cloying wetness.

  Lady Mercy stood there, patiently awaiting his decision, not even blinking as moisture beaded up on her hat’s brim and dripped off in front of her face. She shifted with a quiet sigh and gave him a tremulous smile.

  Saints’ bones, how could he refuse her? “Aye.” Graham made a jerking wave toward the caravan of servants, wagons, and horses. “Mount up, the lot of ye. We’ll be on our way.”

  “Oh, thank you, Master MacCoinnich!” Her smile no longer tremulous, Lady Mercy fair beamed up at him as she clapped her gloved hands.

  “Graham, aye?” he corrected. He’d not let Duncan have the honor of being the only one her ladyship called by their Christian name.

  “Yes. I shall strive to remember.” Lady Mercy gave him a genuine smile that stirred him more than it should. “Thank you, Graham. I do appreciate your understanding.”

  Time to show the lady he was just as gallant as Duncan. Graham dismounted and held out his hand. “Help you to your horse, m’lady?”

  “You are most kind, sir.” She slid her hand into his and permitted him to walk her to her horse.

  Rather than allow the muddiness to foil her attempt at the stirrup, Graham took the liberty of setting his hands on either side of her waist and lifted her up into the saddle.

  “My goodness!” Her cheeks reddened as she touched his chest.

  Graham chuckled to himself. What a delightful sound she made when startled. “Forgive me for taking such liberties, m’lady, but I didna wish ye to slip—not with your wee boot heels so glutted with turf and mud.”

  “Uhm… quite all right, Graham. Thank you,” she said in a breathless tone as she maneuvered her skirts and long coat to sit astride without baring her legs above her ankles.

  Graham hadn’t a clue how she managed it, but he did know he was disappointed at missing a peek that might reveal more of her legs. He studied her outfit closer. The woman’s skirt and petticoats were paneled, split down the center, and fashioned after a man’s breeches. “I’ll be damned. Your skirts and petticoats are made into trews.”

  Lady Mercy’s cheeks glowed even brighter. She briefly bowed her head, taking refuge in the wide brim of her hat.

  Remorse filled Graham. What was wrong with him? He shouldn’t have blurted out such a personal observation. He took hold of her horse’s reins and prevented her from moving away. “Forgive me,” he said in a low tone meant for her alone. “I’m no’ a gentleman, m’lady, and have never claimed such. I say whatever comes to mind, but please know I’d never shame ye on purpose.” He waited, gritting his teeth, hoping she’d accept his apology. Damn his thoughtless hide.

  She turned in the saddle, glancing back at him, her graceful demeanor seeming somehow saddened. “No offense taken, Graham. You cannot imagine how refreshing I find your honesty.” She settled her damp skirts over her ankles. “And you are quite correct, I had my seamstress alter my clothes for the journey. I thought them more sensible for the trip. Like my cover coat. Don’t you agree?”

  A sensible Sassenach and a high born one at that. Admiration for the woman filled him. Mayhap this trip wouldn’t be so wretched after all. “Aye, lass. I agree wholeheartedly.” He turned away, having sense enough to give the lady some privacy after embarrassing her.

  He slogged back across the muddy ground to his horse, mounted, then gave Duncan a warning look. “Dinna ye dare say a word about the lass’s clothes or I’ll string ye up by the short hairs of your ballocks. Understand?”

  “Aye, brother.” Duncan grinned, a smug, damning grin that threatened to get his arse kicked. “I understand more than ye know.”

  Chapter Four

  Graham appeared to be a decent man, and his brother seemed the same. Mama would have liked them both—maybe even liked them enough to trust them. Mercy pressed the flat of her hand to her middle. A warm fluttering—a strange excited sensation she’d never experienced before—made her swallow hard and pull in a quick breath. Such feelings would not do at all. She was bound for the abbey. A life of peace and solitude removed from the torture of a prejudiced society and a heartless father’s machinations. Yes. Such a life would be most welcome.

  God willing, by way of her own carefully laid out plan and not that of her father’s evil ploy, she would achieve the peace she craved. She snorted out a disgusted huff. She refused to deal with such wickedness. How her father lived with such loathsome tactics was beyond her. Although she knew little of the Highlander, from what she’d observed so far, Graham MacCoinnich possessed more honor in his little finger than her father had ever possessed. A satisfying sense of finality filled her. She would save Graham and his clan from her father’s despicable plot, as well as free herself.

  From her horse’s position several yards behind Graham, she studied him with an interest that bordered on rudeness. But she couldn’t help it. The man intrigued her. She’d never met anyone like him. He said what he thought, and his opinions were quite clear. He made no attempt to hide anything. Rare traits in this world, indeed.

  Remembered moments from earlier in the day triggered a smile. Graham detested the lieutenant and made his opinion quite obvious by forcing the king’s guard to travel separate from everyone else, bringing up the rear at his appointed station behind the wagons. St. Johns would be lucky if his mount didn’t founder in the muddy ruts and mucked out holes the horses and wagons left in their wake. Incessant rain and the spring thaw made for treacherous traveling through England’s countryside.

  Mercy warmed toward Graham even more when she thought back about his treatment of every individual in her circle. He interacted with them as though it was unnecessary to deal with them unless it risked the journey. He didn’t ignore them, he merely allowed them to go about their duties unless their actions somehow endangered them, and then advised her as to how to correct them.

  The thought suddenly occurred to her that the only individual to whom he’d given a direct command was the lieutenant. All other orders, he routed through her. She smiled. Did that mean he respected her intellect? Such respect was something she’d not experienced before. A satisfied sigh escaped her as she took in the dreary landscape and soggy surroundings. But she must remember to give him liberty to issue orders directly. After all, h
e knew the Highlands whereas she did not.

  She adjusted her hat to a better angle for deflecting the rain and swiped her damp glove across her even wetter cheek. Respect or not, at present, Graham MacCoinnich was ignoring her. He rode several yards in front of the group with his brother at his side. This observation pricked at her nerves. She made an impatient flicking away of the droplets gathered along her hat’s brim. What an irrational emotion. Why on earth should she expect his attention? Graham would never fawn over a woman. He was a far cry from the shallow courtiers. He was her guide, for heaven’s sake, and under no circumstances should she encourage him to behave otherwise. Both their lives depended on it.

  Concentrate on the abbey. That’s what she should do. Mercy sat taller in the saddle, lifting her chin to the proud tilt Mama had taught her to hold no matter her circumstances. She fixed her gaze on the broad backs of the two Scots riding in front of her, and a pang of worry hit her. Personal considerations aside, how could she protect these two men and their families from her father’s hellish plot to execute them?

  Graham held up a hand and reined in his horse, bringing the caravan to a stop. He turned and faced Mercy, waiting for her mount to catch up to his.

  As her horse plodded closer, Mercy blinked and struggled to control her breathing. How could a man look so…proper words escaped her. Wild? Rugged? Yes. Graham sat his mount like a god-king sitting a prized war horse as he watched over his kingdom. Rain drenched the man to the skin, and yet he looked none the worse for it. His long black hair looked all the blacker, pulled back in a braid that snaked down his back. The rest of them looked like drowned rats, but he looked…undefeatable. Yes. That was it.

  He looked strong, courageous, fearless even. She had never seen such a man. An appreciative sigh escaped her. Graham MacCoinnich personified what a real man should be. The excited fluttering in her middle strengthened, threatening to overcome the whole of her body.