Alasdair cleared his throat. “If your highness would care to inspect her guard of honor?”
“I’m not anyone’s highness yet,” Miriam pointed out. “But if you insist . . .”
“Alasdair and his men will see to your security,” Brill repeated, as if she thought Miriam hadn’t already got the message. “Meanwhile, I must humbly beg you to excuse me. I’ve got to get all the servants bedded in and the caravan unloaded—”
“Olga said something about ladies-in-waiting,” Miriam interrupted. “Who did you pick?”
“Look no further.” Brill raised an eyebrow. “Do you think I would put you in the hands of amateurs? I will find suitable assistants as soon as time permits.”
“Oh, thank god.” Miriam mopped at her brow in barely feigned relief. “So, I can leave everything to you?”
“You are my highest priority,” Brill said drily. “You were, even before I swore to you. Now go and meet your guards.” She turned and swept back into the chaos in the entrance hall, leaving Miriam standing alone with Sir Alasdair.
“Your highness.” Alasdair rumbled quietly when he spoke. “Lady d’Ost has told me something of her time with you. I understand you were raised in America and have little experience of living in civilized manner here. In particular, she said you are unused to servants and bodyguards—is that correct?”
“Pretty much.” Miriam watched him sidelong as she took in the details of the room: dark, heavy furniture, tapestries on the walls, an unlit hearth, unpadded chairs built so ruggedly they might be intended to bear the weight of history. Sir Alasdair looked to be a part of these environs, save for the Glock holstered on the opposite side of his belt from his saber. “What, realistically, can your guards do for me? Other than get in my way?”
“What indeed?” Alasdair raised an eyebrow. “Well, there are eight of them, so two are on duty at all times. And when your highness is traveling, all of them will be on duty to cover your path, before and after. We will cover your movements without getting in your way if you but tell us where you wish to go. And when the assassins come, we’ll be ready for them.”
Assassins? Miriam blinked as Sir Alasdair paused for breath. “Charming,” she muttered.
“My Lady d’Ost told me that you have killed a man who tried to kill you. Our job is to see that you never have to do that again.”
“Well, that’s nice to know. And if I do?”
“Then it will be over our dead bodies,” Alasdair said placidly. “If your highness would care to follow me?”
“If you think—” She froze as Alasdair opened the door back onto the semi-organized chaos in the hall. “Wait, that man. I know him.”
She was fumbling with the pouch in her sleeve as Alasdair followed her gaze, tensed, and stepped sideways to place his body in front of her and pull the door closed. He turned to face her. “What about him? That’s Sir Gunnar; he’s an experienced bodyguard, used to work for—”
Miriam’s heart was thundering as if she were trying to run a marathon. She moved her hands behind her back, then tried again to slide her right hand into her left wristband. This time her fingers closed around the butt of her pistoclass="underline" The man whose true name she had just learned hadn’t seen her yet. Talking to another guard, he’d been distracted when Alasdair opened the door.
She swallowed, her mouth unaccountably dry. “Speaking hypothetically—if I ordered you to take that man outside and hang him from the nearest tree, would you do it?” The choking sense of panic was back with a vengeance. The Ferret, she’d called him. No-name. Gunnar.
“If he were a commoner, yes. But he’s one of us,” Alasdair rumbled. “A proven world-walker and thus a gentleman, even though he’s a by-blow of an outer family lass. You’d need to accuse him of something. Hold a trial.” There was an oddly apprehensive note in his voice. He’s afraid of me, she realized. It was like a bucket of cold water in her face: Sir Alasdair is afraid of me?
“Well, then I won’t ask you to do anything you can’t. But if I ordered you to send him a very long way away from me and make sure I never set eyes on him ever again, could you do that?”
“Of course.” The tension went out of his voice, replaced by something like mild amusement. “Do you want me to do that? May I ask why?”
“Yes. We have a history, him and me.” For a moment she’d been back in Henryk’s tower with the Ferret loitering outside her bedroom door, an unsleeping jailer—possibly an executioner-in-waiting, she had no doubt about his willingness to kill her if his master ordered it—cold-eyed and contemptuous. And her racing pulse and clammy skin told her that part of her, a part nobody else could see, would always be waiting in that cell for his key to turn and those pale eyes to flicker across her face without registering any emotion. She flexed her fingers and carefully drew her pistol, then lowered her arm to hide it in a fold of her skirts, careful to keep her eyes on Alasdair’s face as she did so. “Did you pick him? Is he a friend of yours?”
“He was on the list.” Alasdair’s nostrils flared. “One of the top three available bodyguards by ranking. I wouldn’t say I know him closely.” Miriam stared into his eyes. Wheels were turning there, slowly but surely. “You have relatives who dislike you, my lady, but do you really think they’d—”
“I think we should find out.” She took a deep breath. “In a moment you’re going to open the door and walk towards G-Gunnar. I’ll be behind you. Close and disarm him if he so much as blinks. If he draws, you may assume he’s an assassin—but if we can take him alive, I have questions I want answering.”
“Your highness.” Alasdair’s nod was cursory, but he looked worried. “Is this wise?”
“Very little I do is wise, but I’m afraid it’s necessary. If you’re going to be my bodyguard, you’d better get used to it: As you yourself noted, I’m a target. After you, my lord.”
Sir Alasdair turned back to face the door and pushed it ajar. Then he surprised her.
The front hall of the country house was roughly rectangular, perhaps forty feet long and twenty feet wide. The grand staircase started at one side, climbing the walls from landing to landing in turn, linking the two upper stories of the house. At the very moment the door opened, the floor held at least nine porters, servants, guards, cooks, maids, and other workers unpacking the small mountain of supplies that Lady d’Ost had rustled up seemingly out of nowhere to furnish the Countess Helge’s entourage. Gunnar was two-thirds of the way across the floor from the door to the blue room, deep in conversation with another fellow, both of them in the livery of guards of the royal household.
Miriam had expected Alasdair to approach his prey directly. Instead, he stood in the doorway for a couple of seconds, scanning the room: Then he broke into a run. But he didn’t run towards Gunnar—instead he ran at right-angles to the direct line. As he ran, he drew his sword, with a great shout of “Ho! Thief!” that echoed around the room.
Why did he—Miriam raised her pistol, bringing it to bear on the Ferret with both hands—oh, I see.
At the last moment, Alasdair spun on his heel before the porter he’d been threatening to skewer—the fellow was frozen in terror, his eyes the size of dinner plates—and rebounded towards the Ferret, who was only now beginning to react to the perceived threat, reaching for a side arm—
“Freeze!” Alasdair shouted. “She has the better of you! Don’t throw your life away!”