The Lady's Protector ~ Highland Bodyguards Book 1 by Emma Prince

Author:Emma Prince [Prince, Emma]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-05-19T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

Ansel dragged his hair back and fastened it with a bit of leather as he descended the inn’s wooden stairs. He could only hope that the small act of smoothing his hair would hide any traces of the turmoil that raged inside.

Christ, what had he almost done? He had never failed to put his duty and honor before all else, yet his desire for Isolda threatened to undo that. He was supposed to be serving his King, not tumbling with some Englishwoman whose son he was meant to protect. For some reason, Isolda made him feel like the wild barbarian she’d called him all those days past.

Ansel slid into a chair in the corner farthest from the door, hoping to go unnoticed. A few of the inn’s patrons had already taken up tables and chairs as they waited for their breakfast. They were all quiet and kept their eyes down, some likely as uninterested as he in being questioned, and others slumping wearily from too much ale the night before.

Just then, the inn’s door opened and a tall, thick-set man entered.

“Margery!” he bellowed.

The woman came bustling out of the kitchen that was attached to the inn’s main room.

“Well it’s about blooming time!” she snapped.

Ansel glanced casually at the large man who’d just entered. A scraggly blond beard obscured the lower half of his face. He stood easily as tall as Ansel, who towered over most Lowlanders and Englishmen, but was several stones heavier. His eyes were red-rimmed and as he stomped toward Margery, Ansel caught a whiff of stale ale.

“I dinnae need yer sharp tongue this morning, woman.”

“Woman?” Margery squawked, planting her fists on her wide, aproned hips. “That’s wife to ye, Fagan!”

Fagan, apparently the other keeper of the Rose and Thistle, slumped into a stool next to the kitchen. Margery resumed stirring a caldron of porridge over the hearth, not bothering to close the door between the inn’s main room and the kitchen.

“And what kept ye all night?” she demanded over her shoulder, though she lowered her voice so as not to disturb the other patrons. Ansel strained to listen without being noticed.

“Mowbray refused to hear the petition,” Fagan grumbled, crossing his meaty arms over his chest. “All fifteen of us waited until the guards turned us away, but we never even saw the English bugger’s hide.”

Margery straightened and darted her head around the room. Ansel studiously pretended to be engrossed in picking at his nails, but he didn’t miss Margery’s furtive looks.

“Dinnae speak of Sir Philip that way,” she hissed, dropping her voice even lower. “He may have sided with King Edward, but he is a Scot, and he is with King Robert now.”

Ansel clamped his teeth together to prevent from snapping an oath. Aye, Philip Mowbray was a Scot—and a traitor. The man had sided with Edward and held Stirling Castle for the English. When the Battle of Bannockburn had forced him to turn over the castle to Robert the Bruce, for some reason Mowbray had been allowed to stay on as the castle’s keeper, this time for the Scots.

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