Jerome Munro’s arm tightened around the wide-eyed English lass in his lap. If he’d spotted the brigands chasing her a few moments earlier, he would have shifted her behind him in the saddle to free up both hands, but as it was, he would have to face the four bastards one-handed.

It was better than the alternative—simply continuing on his way to Trellham Keep and letting the lass fend for herself. Damn if he didn’t like the diversion from his mission, but he was a Highlander, which meant he couldn’t stand aside and ignore injustice.

Or a terror-filled pair of bonny blue eyes.

The way the lass had come tearing into the valley a moment before had nearly made him reach for his sword right then, but it had been the look of fright on the lass’s delicate features that had sent the warning bells ringing in his head. When her four pursuers had topped the hill above them, he’d acted on instinct to protect her.

Jerome squeezed his knees into Duff’s flanks, urging the animal to turn so that his side was exposed to the oncoming warriors. The stallion’s ears drew back and he nickered in protest at the position, for he was a trained warhorse and was used to facing battles head-on. But the angle would allow Jerome to shield the lass more with his own body and give him greater freedom with his sword arm.

“Steady,” he murmured as the four riders thundered closer, but he wasn’t sure if he was speaking to Duff, the lass, or himself.

“Nay, don’t—” the lass began, but one of the charging brigands shouted over her.

“Unhand her, you bloody bastard!” The riders reined in, and as with the lass’s arrival, their horses kicked up clumps of mud and grass as they fought for footing.

“And turn her over to the likes of ye scoundrels? Nay, I dinnae think so,” Jerome replied lowly.

The apparent leader snarled in anger and lifted his drawn sword. Jerome braced his own sword for the blade’s impact, but before the other man’s weapon descended, a high, clear voice sliced through the valley.

“Stop!”

Her attacker froze for half a heartbeat. “Fear not, Lady Elaine—”

“Brett, stand down.”

Lady Elaine? From the brief glimpse he’d gotten, Jerome had seen a simple-clad lass with muddy boots and wind-snarled copper hair, not an English noblewoman.

Before he could untangle that knot, another realization hit him. The outlaws knew the lass—and she knew them.

“Milady, this Scot is trying to—”

“Protect the lass from brigands,” Jerome cut it, comprehension beginning to dawn. He dared to lower his sword an inch, eyeing the four men. “And I take it ye are trying to do the same.”

The lass in his lap shifted, and Jerome was suddenly acutely aware of her slight, soft body in his hold.

“These are my guards,” she said, looking up at him.

Thick russet lashes framed eyes as bright blue as the Highland sky on a summer day.

“And the fear I saw written so clearly on yer face a moment ago…”

She held his stare. “…Was for you. But seeing as how you tried to protect me, I gather I was wrong.”

Jerome lowered his sword fully now, as did the lass’s guards. “Nay, ye were right to be wary of a stranger.” He couldn’t help himself as he gazed down at her bonny face—he let one side of his mouth lift in a smile. “Especially a Highlander.”

A fetching pink blush broke over her creamy cheeks, and Jerome nearly cursed himself for a fool. He wasn’t here to dally with a wee bonny English lady. He had a mission to complete.

He cleared his throat, willing himself to tear his gaze from the lass’s face. “I should have announced myself. I am Jerome Munro, and I travel with King Robert the Bruce’s express permission to Trellham Keep.”

She cocked her copper head at him. “Trellham? On what business?”

His assignment was no secret—in fact, quite the opposite. Like ripples over a loch’s surface, word of Jerome’s task had spread rapidly throughout Scotland. But this wasn’t Scotland. Though the Bruce had controlled this region for several years, it was still technically England, so he shouldn’t be surprised that he hadn’t been anticipated.

“I’ve come to collect Lord Henry Beaumore’s seal for the King’s declaration of freedom from the English.”

The lass stiffened in his hold. Jerome should have set her on her own horse by now, but instead he found himself loath to let her go. Damn it all, she was a noblewoman, despite what he’d first thought—an English noblewoman.

He dropped his gaze to her once more, expecting to find confusion at best or downright disgust at worst upon hearing his business. Despite the peace in the Borderlands of late, Scottish freedom was no doubt a sore subject for the English—even a noble lass who most likely knew not a single wisp about politics and war.

But to his shock, the lady’s rosy lips pulled wide in a radiant smile. Involuntarily, Jerome’s knees clenched around his horse in an attempt to keep from falling from the saddle at her blindingly becoming grin. The stallion sidestepped in annoyance at Jerome’s movement.

She didn’t seem to notice. “Henry Beaumore is my father.”

Bloody hell. Jerome had already acted the rogue for dragging the lass onto his lap when he thought her in danger. Worse, he’d kept her there despite the fact that the threat had evaporated—and her, a noblewoman.

But she was the daughter of the man with whom the Bruce had allied to secure this section of the Borderlands? That meant she was the sister-in-law of Finn Sutherland, one of the members of the King’s Bodyguard Corps—an elite group of warriors into which Jerome had just been admitted.

He hastily sheathed his sword and wrapped his hands around the lass’s waist, lifting her out of his lap. Thankfully, her gray mare had remained next to Duff despite all the turmoil a moment before.

As he set her in the saddle, she continued, staring at him wide-eyed. “You’re the one, then. The one the King sent for the Declaration of Arbroath.”

So word of his mission had reached this corner of Northern England. More surprising, though, was that the lass knew the declaration’s name. So much for his assumption that she knew naught of political affairs.

“Aye,” he replied. “Yer father’s seal is the last to be collected before the Bruce will send the declaration to the Pope.”

Lady Elaine’s face took on an awed expression that made an unwarranted knot of pride tighten in Jerome’s chest. Clearing his suddenly thick throat, Jerome attempted to lighten the mood. “I’m sure the Bruce will be honored to hear of Lord Beaumore’s welcoming party.”

Lady Elaine flushed and she opened her mouth to speak, but Brett cut in. “Aye, and Lord Beaumore will no doubt hear of this too, milady,” he said reprovingly. He cast a frown at Jerome, but then fixed a stern look on the lass.

Her blush deepened. “I-I apologize for giving everyone such a fright.”

Brett’s scowl remained as he and the others re-sheathed their swords. “Come, Munro. Lord Beaumore and Finn Sutherland will be eager to greet you.”

As Jerome nudged his horse into motion, the guards fell into a loose circle around Lady Elaine, leaving him to ride by her side. As they crested the nearest hill, he let himself glance surreptitiously at this most unusual English lady.

She rode the dappled mare well, sitting straight in the saddle with the reins held in a relaxed grip. Her russet hair flowed in loose waves down her slim back, and her lithe, lissome form rocked with the horse’s steps.

A jolt went through him as he remembered the feel of her, soft and light in his lap. Her blue gown was plain but well-cut enough to reveal the high, round swells of her breasts, the narrow swoop of her waist, and the flair of slim hips. The hem was muddy where it rose around her knee-high boots.

Not at all what he would have expected from a lord’s daughter. After nearly a month spent traveling to every corner of Scotland—and a few points in Northern England as well—Jerome had thought himself immune to surprises, yet Lady Elaine was the rarest gem he’d seen in quite a while.

As they topped a second rise, he tore his gaze away from her to take in the sight of Trellham Keep.

It was more of a glorified manor house than a stronghold. No curtain wall protected it, nor a moat or turrets. It was comprised simply of a central keep with two towers rising on either side, one on the east and one on the west. A small village of three dozen or so thatched cottages sat below the keep on the south side.

No wonder Lord Beaumore had struck up an alliance with the Bruce four years past. The keep would have fallen quickly to the kinds of sieges the Scots had laid against far more fortified castles. Jerome felt an unexpected stirring of relief at the thought of Lady Elaine being safe under Scottish protection here.

Brett lifted his hand in signal to the guards on the towers’ battlements as they mounted the hill atop which Trellham sat. By the time the small party reined their horses at the base of the west tower, the keep was aflutter with activity.

Jerome swung down from Duff’s back and moved instantly to Lady Elaine’s mare. Without thinking, he wrapped his hands around her waist—damn, but they fit well there—and lifted her from the saddle.

“What goes on here?”

Jerome turned to find a barrel-chested Englishman with the same bright blue eyes as Lady Elaine pushing his way through the keep’s double doors. His russet hair was faded with streaks of gray, but the family resemblance was undeniable.

“Lord Beaumore,” Jerome began, but before he could continue, a second man joined the English lord.

Despite never having met the man, Finn Sutherland was unmistakable. He wore the blue-and-green checked Sutherland plaid around his waist and over his shoulder, setting him apart from the breeches-clad Englishmen all around. Jerome found himself dipping his head in respect to Finn. He’d heard much of the man’s fierceness and loyalty to Scotland, two traits Jerome valued above all others.

Finn fixed him with dark, hard eyes, but when his gaze landed on Jerome’s plaid, the tension in his shoulders relaxed slightly.

“Munro. We heard we should be expecting ye.”

Jerome nodded again but kept himself rigid. Though they were practically family now that Jerome had joined the Corps, the man was still a Sutherland, and no self-respecting Munro could so easily overlook that. “Apologies for keeping ye waiting. The Bruce would like me to have already returned to Scone by now, but it’s been a damned tall order.”

Lord Beaumore’s wrinkled face eased somewhat as well, but his gaze locked on Lady Elaine. “And what are you doing with this man, daughter?”

Lady Elaine swallowed, but before she could speak, Finn cut in. “Inside,” he said brusquely. “Munro is no doubt weary from his travels, and tonight promises to be of great import.”

Lord Beaumore tilted his graying head and motioned everyone into the keep.