Page 15 of The Laird’s Guardian Angel (Highland Lairds #3)

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T he lass sitting on his lap was deadly quiet. Too quiet.

Alistair had been certain it would take an act of God to keep her lips sealed shut, but apparently, she was listening to him. Which didn't actually make him feel at ease. The lass, though she had tried at first to appear meek, was anything but. Though she tried to hide her true nature, there was no hiding the fire in her eyes. There was an underlying strength that, for some reason, she wanted to keep hidden.

The sun was starting to rise as they neared the border of his lands. A swath of orange was on the ridged horizon, dotted with the trees from the forest. Despite the chaos of night and what they would soon face, a certain peace came over him, knowing he'd soon be home.

Every time the lass started to fall asleep, she jerked herself awake, nearly launching herself off the horse. Alistair had to hold tight to her so she didn't fall, settling her back in place against him. He was keenly aware of her soft bottom, which pressed against his thighs, mere inches from his groin. The feminine waist beneath his arm, and the breasts that were just an inch from touching him.

It'd been a while since he'd lain with a woman. And though the Ramsey chit looked like she'd walked through hell and had the smudges to prove it, something about her was all too appealing. Not just the lushness of her body but something deeper and more spiritual.

Alistair shifted back in the saddle, hoping the movement would get him further from her, but it was no use. She only scooted back, seeking his warmth, no doubt. Thankfully, the struggle for relief from her touch was short-lived as his castle came into view.

"Is that your castle?" she asked, her voice soft, tired.

"Aye. Dunbais."

"'Tis massive."

Alistair grinned as he studied the thick walls topped with sentries, the high tower of his keep, where smoke filtered through the chimneys. The place he felt most himself. "Aye."

"Impressive," she said.

"Thank ye." The pride in his voice was thick. He was damned proud. When he'd inherited the keep, it had been large, this fortification central to protecting Scotland's border, but the walls had been weak and the surrounding outbuildings half. Alistair and his clan had built it up to where it was today. A force to be reckoned with, yet still a home to many.

As they crossed over his drawbridge and the people stared in their direction, curious no doubt at who sat on his lap, Lady Ramsey scooted back, an unconscious sign she did, in fact, trust him to keep her safe. Or else, she thought him the lesser of two evils, which, in her circumstances, he would take as a win.

Either way, the press of her arse on the junction of his thighs was a stark reminder of his male prowess, a lusty hunger he normally kept buried. Beneath the smudges of dirt on her face and the bulkiness of her damp and torn gown, Alistair could tell that she was beautiful, lush, and soft. And he couldn't stop thinking about it. A near-constant stream of consciousness surrounding her.

He pushed her forward with a barely disguised grunt and urged his horse toward the courtyard's center, where a groom was waiting to take the reins.

"Thank ye, Prannsa," he murmured to his mount as he practically leaped from his back and gave him a nice stroke on his neck.

Before he had a chance to lift the lass, she swung her leg over the side of Prannsa's flank and dropped to her feet on the ground. Rather more graceful than he would have expected, she showed that she was used to riding and could handle a horse as large as his mighty stallion.

Now, that was impressive. Then again, Lady Ramsey had shown feats of strength that many men wouldn't have. Escaping the enemy, running down the road, wielding a dagger in his direction. The more he got to know the lass, the more he liked her. And that just wouldn't do.

"Follow me," he said.

Alistair turned away from her, expecting her to follow as he made his way through the crowd toward the stairs up into the keep. More than anything, he wanted to sink into his favorite chair before the hearth, guzzle a cold ale, eat a warm meat pie, and nap for the day.

But she was nowhere to be seen when he reached the wide oak double doors, opening one for her. Alistair turned around, expecting maybe she'd gone behind him, but the space was clear. She wasn't on the steps either. Bloody hell.

"What the devil?" he muttered, whirling around, prepared to bellow her name when he remembered he only knew her clan's name, not her given name. Why had he not asked? Too busy thinking of her arse. Her breasts. Her eyes. Lord, but he was rogue.

Alistair spotted her, still standing beside the horse, his clans' people caging her in, no doubt trying to figure out why their laird, who'd gone away to do his duty on the border, had come home with a bedraggled woman. He couldn't blame them for their curiosity, especially when he'd made it clear for so many years that he had no plans to take a wife.

"Let her be," Alistair ordered as he made his way back through the crowd. He was certain he'd told her to stay with him. Why had she hesitated?

The men and women, children too, who'd been staring at her, backed away, allowing a path for the lass to move forward. She stood regal beside his horse, not even the faintest hint of fear on her features. In fact, she looked almost serene. Her head was held high, her hands folded in front of her. Despite the mud on her face, she looked beautiful. A ravaged vision that would make anyone look twice. The image was powerful. This ragged-looking woman had a straight spine, fire in her eyes, and the ability to appear strikingly beautiful despite all that appeared to have happened to her.

Alistair found his breath halted. His muscles stiffened. No wonder his people had quickly gathered around her. No wonder they seemed as mesmerized as he did.

"She's under my protection," he said, his voice sounding almost strangled as he added, "Mine." The possessive word rolled off his tongue in a way that startled him. In no way had he intended to claim her, and then, at the same time, apparently, he did.

Nods rippled through the crowd at his declaration, and the significance of what he had just said hit a few of them, causing gasps to ripple through the crowd.

Alistair beckoned her, and she walked serenely forward, eyes on him, her head held high when he would have expected any other woman to bow. He instructed her to walk toward the stairs ahead of him. Alistair followed her up, trying to avoid looking at the gentle sway of her hips.

When they reached the top, he held open the door for her, and she nodded once, then she ducked under his arm into the dimly lit castle. The scents of cooking filled him at once, his stomach growling. It'd been weeks since he'd had a warm meal.

They were met inside the great hall by his seneschal and housekeeper, who eyed the lass up and down as though she were an interloper. Alaric sat at the table in the same place he'd been when Alistair left as if he'd been waiting in the chair this entire time. He sipped on something steaming in a mug; no doubt the morning broth Cook made the old man help with his hands.

"The lass is under my protection," Alistair instructed his servants. "Ye're no' to speak to her. If ye have a need to say something, ye can tell it to me. She'll need a bath and to be cleaned up."

The Ramsey chit looked up at him sharply, and he could tell she had a mind to disobey his order for silence, but he narrowed his eyes, willing to wait her out. The glower she gave him could have wilted fresh spring flowers. But it only made Alistair grin. Better for her to be mad than spark the ire of anyone in his clan when they found out she was English. Eventually, they'd find out, but he wanted them to get to know her first.

They had a hearty hatred for anyone English, given what they went through monthly on the border. There were only two English women they seemed to love and respect, and those were his brothers' wives. Gentle lasses, they were, and quite endearing.

Gentle might have been a word the Ramsey lass wished to portray, but he could fairly feel her vibrating beside him with unspent energy and anger. However, despite the bristle, there was something about her that he was positive his people would come to find endearing.

He leaned down, feeling like she might need a soft word from him. She didn't lean away as his mouth came close to her ear.

"I promise ye, lass. Ye're safe here. Follow my orders, and all will be well."

She was nodding until the last part, and then she snorted.

The housekeeper and seneschal narrowed their eyes, but Alistair only grinned, pretending she had said something amusing, and not as if the woman had just laughed in his face about following his orders.

"Off with ye now," he said to the housekeeper, giving the lass a wee nudge to follow. "Alice will see that ye're cleaned up proper and fitted with a more suitable gown."

"Wh—" she started to speak, but he cut her off with a sharp hiss.

"Later, lass, we shall discuss everything later."

She stomped her foot and marched after Alice, hands fisted at her sides, and he dared to think that if he were to follow her, she'd wallop him on the side of the head.

Once she was out of sight, he nodded to his seneschal. "Give me the updates quickly."

Duncan and Broderick joined him as the seneschal listed what had happened while they were gone. Mostly, it was the usual things: a few skirmishes amongst the people, a leaky roof. But what disturbed Alistair the most was that there appeared to be someone pilfering sheep.

"Think ye they're reivers, or outlaws?"

"I'm no' certain, my laird. Could be either. But I know it's no' any of our people as we did a search. ''Tis no' coming from within."

There was another, more sinister idea of where the sheep were going—to whoever had raided the Ramsey lands. They'd want to be far enough away from them both not to be noticed, and since they were about to attack the Ramseys, they wouldn't have wanted to alert them by stealing.

"I'll ride out with Duncan and Broderick to the moors and see if we can find a camp or evidence of who it might be."

"Aye, my laird, verra good. And…"

"Aye?"

"The lass, my laird… is she… staying?" The seneschal tried to keep his face placid, but his curiosity made his eyes pinch.

Alistair might have laughed if he wasn't so horrified by the prospect. "She's no' my mistress."

The seneschal breathed out a sigh of relief. Would it have been bad if she was? Alistair almost asked, but his seneschal spoke again, "Shall I prepare a feast then, for ye and your lady wife?"

Alistair choked on the very air he was breathing. "Wife?" he croaked between coughs, and Duncan slapped him on the back while laughing.

"She is no' your wife, laird?"

"Nay," Alistair thundered. "Merely a lass under my protection." He filled the seneschal in on what had transpired on Ramsey's lands. "We'll need reinforcements and will ride out on the morrow. But for now, Duncan, Broderick, let's ride to the sheep pastures to see what we can."

"Aye, my laird."

As they were walking out, Alistair turned around and pointed at the seneschal. "No one is to speak to the lass. My orders."

"Aye, laird. No one will." Given the bizarre order, he gave Alistair the oddest look, totally warranted.

"How long do ye expect that to last?" Duncan asked.

"No' long at all."

"Aye, the lass seems to have her mind set on how she does things," Broderick added. "I only had to deal with her for a few minutes before she tried to escape."

Alistair turned around to stare up at the keep, his gaze searching out the precise window where the lady in question might be. They weren't wrong. And he didn't trust her as far as he could throw her, which, given her slight build, was probably at least a dozen feet. Far enough that she was out of reach if he did.

"'Haps, I should have a guard outside her room," he mused.

"Ye thinking she'll try to escape?"

"'Tis a certainty. Wouldna put it past her to be shooing our housekeeper out of her chamber now in order to shimmy out the window."

And just as he said it, Alistair saw it—a boot sliding out of the window on the fourth floor.

"My God." Was the lass mad? Why was he even asking—he was sure she was.

"She's bloody climbing out the window," Duncan said, awestruck eyes on the keep windows.

"Ramsey, ye put your foot back through that window, or I swear to all that's holy…" Alistair's bellow echoed through the courtyard, but it seemed to have worked.

The foot went back through and popped a pretty, still dirty, head. Even from the height of the window, he could see her glower. He half expected to see her shaking her fist, too.

And by all that was holy—or rather unholy—he wanted to kiss the hellion, for if she was filled with so much fire already, to put his lips on hers would be like tasting sweet brimstone.