Hi! This is an adaptation of Joan Jonston’s The Bodyguard, please email me with any comments or ideas on how to fix any
mistakes, this is my first fan fic so I need help!!!! My email address is [email protected], I hope you enjoy it and with no
further ado…

The Bodyguard
Prologue

From childhood, Brenda Barrett had been taught to reive cattle, how to disappear like mist into the Highlands, and how to hate
the English. Even so, she was shocked and appalled by her father’s deathbed request.

“You canna mean what you’re asking, Father,” she said, adjusting her plaid scarf with trembling fingers.

“ ’Twas the fourth Duke of Jacks who struck the mortal blow that killed your grandfather at Culloden,” he reminded her. “The
fifth of that name enforced the ban against the plaid and the playing of the pipes. And the latest Jacks bastard, sixth of his line,
has raised the rents to starve us out.”

“I know, Father, but-”

“They couldna kill us off,” he interrupted her. They couldna break our spirit. But a man canna watch his bairns starve.”

“Father-”

“I’m dying, Brenn. ‘Tis up to you to carry on the fight when I am gone. You must do what I ask.”

As Brenda looked on at her father’s emaciated form, a beam of sunlight danced through the window of the stone-and-thatch
where she had spent the whole of her two and twenty years. The sun should not be shining on such a sad day such as this, she
thought. Suddenly Brenda felt all of the grief and anguish and disbelief anew. Her mother had died shortly after giving birth to
her. Now her father was threatening to leave her…forever. She refused to accept it.

“Dinna speak of dying, Father,” she cajoled. “I’m not ready to let you go.”

“I’m done for, lass. I willna live another day. I give you the care of our people. I trust their lives and the future of our clan to
you. I name you Chief of Clan Barrett and hereditary laird-lady I suppose it must be-of Castle Barrett, lately called Jacks Hall.”
 

A shudder passed through her as she acknowledged the enormous weight of responsibility her father was lying upon her
shoulders. Her father’s closest advisor, Luke Spencer, who stood nearby, gasped in dismay at her father’s pronouncement.

“You canna name a women The Barrett, Harlan!” Luke said heatedly. “The men willna follow her.”

“For my own sake I ask it, Luke,” her father replied. “For the love that Clan Barrett bears for my father, I demand it.”

Brenda’s grandfather, Jamie Barrett, was revered by his clansmen because, though mortally wounded himself, he had helped
Bonnie Prince Charlie escape to Mallaig, after the disastrous Battle of Culloden. As a final punishment for his treason against
the English king, Castle Barrett and the surrounding land had been awarded as a prize of war to the Duke of Jacks-“There
being no living male heir to The Barrett.”

Of course, the grant had been in error. But who could blame her grandmother for remaining silent about the child growing in her
womb? She would likely have been put to the sword herself. Why take the risk when the child might be female? And she had
bitten her tongue when Harlan Barrett was born, fearing her tiny son would be dispatched by the blood thirsty duke before his
claim could be recognized.

Luke Spencer had stepped into the breach caused by Jamie’s death and had watched out for Harlan Barrett, making certain
that he took his rightful place as The Barrett when he was a young man. But no claim had been made against the English for the
return of the castle or the land.

Now Luke was bent with age, and her father was dying of it. Someone must lead, and there was no firstborn son to follow as
chief. Only a daughter.

“ ‘Tis folly to name a woman as chief,” Luke insisted. “ ‘Tis never been done in my memory. But if you wish it-.”

“I do,” Harlan rasped. “Leave us, Luke. I have words to speak to my daughter.”

Once Luke had left the bedroom, her father said, “Step closer, lass. There’s a way to reclaim the castle and the land, if only
you have the courage to follow through with it.”

“Shouldna Luke hear this?” Brenda asked.

“My plan is for your ears alone, lass. Now lean close. I havna, much strength to say what must be said.”

As Brenda bent her head close to her father’s, a thick lock of her long dark hair fell over his chest. Quickly, she tucked it
behind her ear and wiped away the tears on her face. Trying to hide her fear of the future with a wobbly smile. As her father
whispered his plan, the blood drained from her face, leaving her ashen.

“I canna do it!” she cried, stunned at what he’d suggested. I willna do it!”

Once upon a time, the gnarled hand that grasped her wrist could have crushed her bones, but age and illness had stolen her
father’s strength. She could have easily pulled away, but her respect and love for him held her in place.

“Swear to me you’ll do as I ask…for the sake of our clansmen.”

“You ask too much!” Brenn protested. “There must be some other way.” Her blood pounded in her ears like surf against the
rocky Scottish coast. “Let me get Luke-.”

“Nay, lass. Luke willna approve. Nor will the others. ‘Tis likely they will hate you for it. But ‘tis the only way. Swear,” he
rasped, his eyes beseeching her.

If she had hesitated a moment longer, his spirit would have flown, and the promise would not have been made. But Brenn saw
the light dying in his eyes and in an effort to keep him with her she blurted, “I swear, on my honor as The Barrett, to do what I
must to win back the castle and the land.”

“That’s a good lass.” The air soughed from his lungs, but he did not struggle for more. He merely closed his eyes and gave in to
death.

“No, Father!” she cried. “Dinna leave me!” a sob welled up like a giant wave inside her and became an lamenting cry of pain.
“Father! Father, dinna go!”
She felt Luke’s firm hand on her shoulder, urging her away. “He’s gone, child. He canna hear you.”

Brenn shook off his touch. “Go away, old man, and leave me be.” She stared at him defiantly. She was The Barrett now who
must be obeyed.

Once Luke was gone, she threw herself across her father’s broad chest, held tight to his neck, and wept like the woman she
was. Her ragged, keening moans quieted the mockingbirds and found an echo in the whispering wind from the sea. She wept
until her throat was raw and no more sound came out, until there was only an ache in her throat and in the place where her heart
should be. It was dark when her old nurse, Ruby, came in and told her it was time to let the women take her father and lay him
out. She let herself be led away and sat down at the table near the hearth and stared sightlessly at the bowl of sheep’s-head
broth that Ruby put before her.

At long last, she folded her hands, said a prayer for her father’s soul, and accepted her fate. She would do as her father had
instructed. She would make a claim in both the English and Scottish courts for the castle and the land.

“You must claim the grant is defective because there was indeed a male heir-living in your grandmother’s womb,” her father had
explained. “The duke willna be able to resist coming to Scotland. He will want to see who dares lay claim to what he thinks is
his. He will try to buy you off. He will try to frighten you away. You mustn’t let yourself be swayed, lass. When he comes, this
is what you will do…”
Brenda’s stomach clenched with dread as she recalled her father’s instructions. She was resigned to do what she must, though
every proper sense revolted against it
Father, you ask too much of me.

But what other hope did her people have?

When the duke came, she would act. The clan would have its revenge, the land and the castle would once again belong to The
Barrett, and her people’s suffering would end.

She has sworn an oath to her dying father, and
no force in heaven or on earth could make her break that vow.
 

Ch 1

The sea was vicious, intent on killing him, but Jasper Jacks, sixth Duke of Jacks, was not ready to die. He was too young-a
mere three and thirty years-and had too many sins upon his soul to meet his maker.

“Strike the mainsail!” he shouted. The sound was lost in the howling wind that tore at the canvas, driving his ship, the Twin
Ladies, toward the rugged coast to be. There had been no sight of land before the storm had broken at sunset, and now, in the
breaking light of day, there was still nothing but dark, high seas surrounding them.

He could make out three sailors clustered together and yelled, “You there! Get that sail down!”

The sailors turned their backs on him, ignoring his order. They were talking heatedly, gesturing wildly, obviously frightened by
the storm. It was his own fault that such unreliable seamen were on board. He did not sail often, and it was easier to hire the
men he needed, rather than keep a regular crew. Those three were the last to be brought on board in London, and they had
been malingerers from the start.

I cannot die now, he raged silently. Not now.

It was too great an irony to die now, when he had just taken the first steps to reconcile with his nine-year-old twin daughters,
Lady Robin and Lady Emily. All those years he had wasted! All those years he could have been loving them, but for Miranda’s
malevolent declaration that the twins were not his. Jasper had lately had the urge to strangle her. But Miranda, Duchess of
Jacks, was already three years in her grave from a drunken fall down the stairs of Jacks Abbey.

Once upon a time, he had loved her more than life itself. It was hard to remember the naïve boy he had been all those years ago
when he had wooed Lady Miranda Jameson and wed her. He had been eight and ten, but determined to have the belle of the
Season-the same exotic beauty who had reigned the previous Season.

His father’s untimely death had forced Jasper into a ducal role far sooner than he was ready, and beneath the façade of
confidence was a young man unsure he could carry off the part. With Lady Miranda by his side, Jasper knew he could face the
ton and pretend to be duke until the guise became more natural.

He’d had a great deal to offer her. Beside being a duke, he was as rich as Croesus and breathtakingly handsome. His height
was impressive and his bronzed face was set off by sun-kissed hair. Staring out from beneath blond hair were mesmerizing
crystal aquamarine eyes above a Roman nose and above a luscious full mouth. He had broad shoulders that tapered to a
narrow waist. He was a fine specimen of a man, there were none who could match the Beau for looks.

In his pursuit of Lady Miranda, he had concealed his youthful eagerness, his yearning to hold her, his thundering,
head-over-heels heart, behind a façade of ducal regality. Jasper could still remember the first time he had managed to get her
alone in the garden at Viscount Quartermaine’s ball.

The night air had been surprisingly warm and heavily perfumed by the viscount’s rose garden. He has walked arm in arm with
Lady Miranda along a gravel path, unable to breath, feeling the heat of her gloved hand through his jacket and shirt, the weight
and warmth of her breast against his sleeve.

His heart fluttered against his ribs with excitement and fear. He intended to kiss her. He had been planing it for weeks. He had
heard enough of his younger brother’s exploits-Jerry was considerably more into the petticoat line than he was-to know what
he must do. He stopped near a tall hedge that concealed them from the party inside, released Lady Miranda’s arm, and angled
himself to face her.

“I-” His voice came out as a croak. He was grateful for the darkness that hid his painful flush. He cleared his throat and tried
again. “I find you more beautiful than words.”

Somehow she had come a step closer, and he could feel her breast pressing against his waistcoat. “Do you, Your Grace?” she
said in a sultry voice that lifted the hairs on his arms.

He stuck a finger beneath the perfect trone d’amour his valet, Ashton, had tied with his neck cloth, to give himself a little more
room to breathe.

She looked up at him shyly from beneath lowered lashes, and his heart skipped once before it began beating frantically within
his ribs, like a bird bent on escape from a cage. The blood thundered in his ears, and he spook too loudly when he said, “May I
kiss you?”

Lady Miranda laughed, a gentle sound that nevertheless communicated her amusement.

He should not have asked, he realized too late. A real rake, a true rogue-his brother-would simply have taken the kiss. The
humiliating flush once again raced up his throat to sit on his cheeks.

“I should not have asked,” he said, meaning he should not have presumed so far.

“But of course you should,” she murmured.

To his amazement, she went up on tiptoes and leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. His arms circled round her-hard
enough to crush her-because she laughed again and pushed him away and said, “So eager, Your Grace? Let me catch my
breath.”

He made himself loosen his hold, but he did not let her go. He pressed his mouth against hers and gave back the kiss she had
given him. He was tentative at first, having kissed only a few tavern wenches and willing dairymaids when he was at Oxford. A
widow in the town of Comarty near Jacks Abbey had taught him most of what he knew about satisfying a women in bed, but
his lessons had not included much kissing.

His body trembled when Lady Miranda’s hands twisted in the hair at his nape. He wanted desperately to taste her, to put his
tongue inside her mouth, but he knew that was not the sort of behavior one forced upon one’s future wife.

She made a sound in her throat, more pleasure than protest, but Jasper knew he had already held her longer than he should. He
felt almost dizzy when he let her go. His body had hardened revealingly so it would have been impossible to go directly back
inside, even if that had been his desire. But he was not finished. There was something else he wanted to accomplish.

He opened his mouth to offer for her, but the words got stuck in his throat. It was, quite simply, fear that she would refuse him.
“Shall we walk?” he said, practically dragging her beside him as he strode along the gravel path. He thought he saw a flash of
irritation on her face, but decided it must be his imagination when she smiled prettily up at him and said, “Will you speak with
my father tonight?”

He stopped and stared down at her. Well. He had not needed to say the words after all. She had assumed the proposal. And
why not? He had taken her into the dark and kept her too long-he could hear the music had stopped-and kissed her and held
her in his arms.

Except, somewhere inside him a voice said, “The offer should have come from you.”

Another voice reminded him that he had what he wanted. She was his. He felt a swell of pride, a feeling of pride, a feeling of
triumph that overrode that other, less certain voice. “I shall call at Jameson House tomorrow morning to speak with your father.
Shall we go inside now?”

“You will not fail me?” she asked, her eyes anxious.

“I shall not fail you.”

When Jasper paid his addresses to Lady Miranda in her father’s drawing room at the town house on Berkley Square, he did so
knowing that he had her father’s delighted approval for the match.

It was not until his wedding night that Jasper realized his bride was not quite so pure as she had led him to believe. He would
never have known, except that he had swallowed his pride and gone to the widow in Comarty and asked her what he could do
to make the wedding night easier for his bride. Mrs. Jensen had explained in great detail what he must do, and he had followed
her instructions explicitly.

But there had been no barrier.

His pride had kept him from asking his lady
wife who had come before him. But he began to look askance at her when she flirted with other men. And he noticed how
often she teased his brother, who was obviously infatuated with her.

The real trouble began hen they left London and returned to Jacks Abbey, his estate in Kent. There was little in the country to
interest Miranda, yet that was were he felt most comfortable. He trusted his neighbors not to steal his wife, and he was not so
sure she could not be stolen by another man. It became plain she was dissatisfied with him, that she had none of the feelings for
him that he held for her, and that she tolerated his attentions at night because it was her duty.

He rejoiced at learning his wife was expecting a happy event within a year of their nuptials. But the partnership he had
envisioned marriage to be was nothing like the actual estrangement from his wife he lived from day to day.

“There is no need for you to come any longer to my bed,” she said at the same time she announced she was with child.

He had been more than willing to return to the widow. She, at least, seemed to enjoy his touch.
He consoled himself with the thought of having a child to love in Miranda’s place. He spent time with his brother and his friends
and gave his wife the public courtesy that concealed his personal discontent with their relationship. And in fact, his life found
new meaning the night his wife was delivered of twin girls, Lady Robin and Lady Emily. Miranda was furious she had not borne
him an heir, but Jasper was content that his position go to Jerry if his wife gave him no son. He had taken one look at the two
identical little girls with their tiny noses and rosebud mouths, their blue eyes and black hair, and promptly lost his heart.

He had spent far more time in the nursery than any gentleman should. He had delighted in their first smiles, their first teeth, their
first unsteady steps. His life would have been perfect if only Miranda could have joined his pleasure in the twins. She wanted to
return to London for the Season, but he would not leave the girls to go with her, and he did not trust her to go alone.

He had woken one violent, stormy night with the branches of a giant oak cracking against the windowpanes and the wind
whistling eerily in the ancient Abbey, and thought to look in his wife’s room to see if she was frightened by the storm.

A rugged streak of lightning revealed her empty bed, the sheets tousled, the imprint of her head on the pillow. He had pulled on
a pair of buckskins and his Hessians and gone searching for her, unsure what might have happened to her. He looked in the
kitchen, in the drawing room, in the library, a sense of foreboding growing in his breast. He had finally gone to the crumbling
east wing of the Abbey, where Jerry had his rooms, to enlist his brother’s help in searching for his wife.

And found them together in Jerry’s bed.

His wife had been naked, her breast glistening in the candlelight where his brother’s mouth had just released it. Thunder clapped
overhead, a deafening ovation for his foolish love. Jasper would never forget the terrified look on Jerry’s face or the defiant
glare in Miranda’s blue eyes.

“Why?” he had asked, the word torn from his throat.

“I wanted him,” she said.

“Jerry?” he rasped.

“Jax, I …she …I …”

He had seen the tears of regret in Jerry’s eyes and looked away before he could forgive his brother. It was an unforgivable act.
He had turned and left, his Hessians echoing on the stone floor as he escaped the wretched scene.

No one would ever know the effort it had taken to remain civil to his wife and brother before the world, when inside him
burned a rage so hot, a hurt so painful, he was eaten up with it.

Jerry had seen his rage and pain and come to him, his eyes full of misery, wanting to explain, wanting absolution. Jasper had cut
him off.

“There will be no discussion of what happened. Ever.”

Jerry had left Jacks Abbey shortly thereafter to join the army, and Jasper had turned to his daughters for solace. With them he
could forget the pain for a little while. Robin and Emily were one bright light in his otherwise bleak existence. He loved them
with his whole being, and they returned his love in full measure. He had been able to bear the pain of his failed marriage and his
brother’s betrayel because he’d had his daughters.

Until Miranda robbed him of even that joy.
She had began to drink in excess not long after Jerry left Jacks Abbey. Jasper had stopped inviting company to the Abbey,
because she embarrassed him and herself. He had thought she could do him no further harm, that she could not sink lower, until
the night she came to the children’s nursery and found him holding one-year-old Robin in his arms, rocking her to sleep, while
Emily lay in her crib nearby.

“You love those bloody twins more than you do your own wife,” she accused in a drunken slur.

“I loved you once, Miranda,” he replied.

“I never loved you!” she spat back. “I wanted to be a duchess. And I am. Duchess of Jacks. Hah! Duchess of some moldy old
abbey. I hate it here! I hate you! And I hate those bloody twins!”

He did not know why she was so intent on hurting him, had not even realized he could still be hurt. “Go away, Miranda,” he
said, putting Robin up over his shoulder and patting her back to quiet her agitation at her mother’s angry voice.

“Put that brat down, Jax, and attend to me,” Miranda demanded. “I am your wife.”

“You’re foxed, Miranda. Get yourself to bed.”

“I said get rid of that bloody brat!” She threw her empty crystal wineglass at him but missed, and the splintering glass ricocheted
off the stone wall behind the rocker.

Robin let out a howl of pain.

Jasper lurched to his feet and felt his insides clench when he saw blood streaming from the child’s lip where a shard of glass had
cut it.
His gray eyes glittered dangerously when he raised them to his wife. “Get out, Miranda. Before I put my hands around that
lovely little neck of yours and squeeze the life out of you.”

“The brat’s barely scratched!”

“A drop of my daughter’s blood means more to me than your whole miserable life.”

Miranda’s face flushed with rage. “No blood of yours runs through her.”

“What?”

“Robin is not your child,” she said in a voice laced with malice. “The twins are not yours.”

“I don’t believe you,” he said in a deadly
voice.

She hesitated, her eyes narrowing, her features hardening before she added, “No? Then ask your brother.”

Jasper gave an agonized cry, as though he had been stabbed, and stared down at the wailing child in his arms. It was not
possible that Robin was not his. He had not found Jerry with Miranda until after the twins were born. “You’re lying,” he said.

She smirked. “Am I? You’ll always wonder now. Are they mine? Or not? Look at their eyes, Jasper. Not an aquamarine like
yours, but ice blue, like Jerry’s. Because they’re your brother’s children.”

“Get out of my sight, Miranda. Leave now or I swear I will shut that lying mouth of yours forever.”
She lurched drunkenly for the door, shoved it open, and left the room.

Jasper daubed at the blood on Robin’s upper lip with a soft, lace-edged muslin handkerchief monogrammed with the letter J,
for Jacks, until the flow stopped, and she had quieted in his arms. He settled back into the rocker and pulled her close and
kissed her forehead. He laid his head back against the wooden rocker and felt the sting in his nose and the quiver in his chin. He
gritted his teeth, and squeezed his eyes shut against the threat of tears, but felt the hot wetness on his cheek as one spilled.

Through a blur of tears, he stares down at the drowsy child in his arms and realized the effects of the slow-working poison
Miranda had administered.
This child is not flesh of my flesh. My blood does not run in her veins. My wife lay with my brother and created her. She is no
part of me.

He stood and laid the child in the crib next to her sister. He could not kill the love inside him for the tiny beings. But his pride
would no longer allow him to display it. How could he show love-for all to see-when these children were proof of his wife’s
betrayal?

From that day forward, he had kept his distance from Robin and Emily. He had not stopped loving them. He merely stopped
wearing his heart on his sleeve. From that day forward, a drunken Miranda had delighted in telling anyone who would listen that
the duke’s children were not his…they were his brother’s.

He had never confronted Jerry and demanded the truth. He had not wanted to know for sure. But he and his brother had
become more estranged after Miranda’s accusation. And because he refused to deny his brother access to the children-his
children-“Uncle Jerry” had a relationship with Robin and Emily that was far more loving than the one they shared with their
“father.”

Recently, when they had been in London, the nine-year-old twins had stolen away to go sightseeing and vanished somewhere
within the shadowed streets and crooked alleys. Jasper had admitted to himself, when he thought they might be lost to him
forever, how foolish he had been. Even if they were not his flesh and blood, they would always be the Duke of Jacks’
daughters. And he loved them.

When the twins were found unharmed, he had surrendered his pride and held Robin and Emily and felt their small arms around
his neck and realized he no longer wanted to keep his distance from them.
But his transformation from distant parent to proud papa had occurred only days before he left for Scotland. If he died at sea,
their memories of him would more likely be of the stern and unloving father he had been for the past eight years than of the
joyful and loving man he had been for the past nine days.

If he survived, he would put the past behind him once and for all. He would be the sort of father he had always planned to be.
And he would forgive his brother. If only the sea did not claim him first.

“Land ho!”

In the great light of dawn, a rocky shore could be seen in the distance. Jasper grinned. He was going to survive. He was going
to have a second chance at life.

“The mainmast is giving way!” a sailor shrieked.

A tremendous gust of wind had grabbed the sail and broken the mainmast in two as though it were a twig. The falling mast was
headed straight for Jasper, and he dove out of the way as it crashed into the ship’s wheel.

There was no way to control the ship now. The wind and waves were driving them toward the rocks, where the ship would
certainly be broken into pieces.
Above the howling wind he heard a man yell, “Git ‘im, Danny!”

Jasper instinctively ducked, and the blow that would have brained him landed on his shoulder instead. He whirled to find himself
surrounded by the three malingering sailors. “What’s this?” he shouted.

“Someone wants you dead,” one of the sailors yelled with a grin that displayed his toothless gums.
They attacked him all at once, and although Jasper gave a good account of himself, he had no chance, not with the wooden pin
one of them was using to bang away at his head and shoulders. He felt the knot forming on his forehead, felt his eye swelling
closed, felt his lip splitting and the blood pouring freely from his flattened nose. Once they had him pinned down on the deck,
Gums said, “Let’s finish ‘im ‘ere.”

“We was told to throw ‘im overboard and let ‘im drown,” the one called Danny reminded him. “And that’s wot we’re goin’ to
do.”

“I’ll take those fine boots first,” Gums said, yanking at Jasper’s Hessians. “And that jacket.”

“Wot’s left for me?” Danny protested.

“Help yerself to that waistcoat with the silvery threads and his shirt and trousers,” Gums said as the sailors proceeded to strip
him to his smalls and tied his hands.

“Hurry! We’ll be lucky to outlive ‘im,” Danny muttered, squinting up at the rain pounding down on them from the cloud-ridden
sky.

“Wait!” Jasper yelled over the wind. “Why are you doing this? Who wants me-” He felt a rush of terror as they picked him up
and threw him over the side. A scream built in his throat as he started to fall, but the air exploded from his lungs in a grunting
oof! when he hit the icy surface, and his mouth and nose filled with salt water as the sea closed over his head.

Jasper experienced a moment of sheer panic before he realized the stupid ruffians had tied his hands in front of him. As he sank
farther into the depths, he kicked wildly. When his lungs seemed ready to burst, he broke the surface, gasping for air. A huge
wave immediately closed over his head and twisted him back underwater.

Jasper forced himself not to fight the wave, and when it had gone, his body floated back to the surface, but much closer to
shore. He had to get his hands free, or he would be dashed against the rocks, where the wind and tide were inexorably taking
him.
Jasper heard a terrible crunching sound and turned to watch his ship sinking far beyond the shoreline. It must have hit some
submerged rock farther out in the bay. He saw the three sailors heaving some barrels and a wooden crate over the side and
then jumping in after them.

“I hope you make it to shore,” he sputtered, teeth chattering with cold. “I’ll make sure you hang, along with whosoever hired
you to kill me.”

As he swam as best as he could with his hands tied through the choppy, icy sea, his mind kept returning to the question of who
wanted him dead. The only person with whom he was in enmity was his brother. He could not believe Jerry…

Then it dawned on him who might want him dead.
After the Battle of Culloden, Jasper’s grandfather had been rewarded for his valor with Castle Barrett and the rich property that
surrounded the stone castle in Scotland. The land and the castle, renamed Jacks Hall, had belonged to the Dukes of Jacks ever
since.

Six months ago a young Scotswoman, Lady Brenda Barrett-obviously an imposter-had claimed to being The Barrett of Castle
Barrett. She had challenged the original patent from the English king to his grandfather on the grounds there had been a living
heir to The Barrett at the time the “conditional” grant was made. She had made no secret of her hatred for all things English,
especially the Dukes of Jacks.
Jasper had been contesting the woman’s claim through his London solicitor without much success and had decided to go to
Scotland himself. He had been on his way to meet the imposter when he was thrown into the sea.

Perhaps Lady Brenda had decided to eliminate him in hopes that his brother would be less likely to fight her claim. If so, she
was in for a rude surprise. He had no intention of dying. He would have his revenge on the lady and the three cutthroats who
had done her dastardly work for her.

As soon as he saved himself from the sea.
end chapter 1
 

Posted by shirley on July 07, 2000 at 16:57:08:

Hi, again! This is ch2 in an adaptation of Joan Johnston’s The Bodyguard, please email me with any comments or ideas on how
to fix any mistakes, again this is my first fan fic so I need help!!!! My email address is [email protected], Thank you so
much to all of you who have written back that u are in fact enjoying this. Especially Lindsay, Debbie, LaQuana, Amy,Roseanne
and Janice for sticking up for me u didnt have to but did it anyway thanx so much to all of you! ~~~~~~~~~~shirley
 
 

The Bodyguard
Ch 2

Brenn was just about to fall asleep again, after being awoken by the howling winds of a storm racing inland from the sea, when
she heard the sound of straw crackling. Fearing an intruder, she had placed the seemingly innocent straw on the dirt floor of her
bedroom to warn her. It was no comfort to be right. The danger was real, and to her chagrin, she was as frightened as any
virgin of what she knew her clansman intended.

From the moment six months ago when Luke had announced at a meeting at the kirk that she had been named The Barrett, her
clansmen had opposed the idea of a woman as chief.

“Harlan should have chosen one of us to lead,” AJ MacDougal had ranted. “ ‘Tis not proper for a wee bit of a lass to be telling
men what to do.”

“Aye. She ought to have a husband, and he should be chief,” another argued.

"Would you deny my father the right to name his successor?" she challenged.

"He was too old and sick at the end to realize what he was doing," AJ retorted. "You should be married and holding a bairn in
your arms, not standing before us giving orders!"

Brenn fought back the grief that threatened to overwhelm her. She was very much aware of her empty arms, empty of the
bairns she should have born with Stone. But her father had refused to let her marry Stone, and then a tragedy had taken Stone
from her. In the end, she had agreed to carry out her father's foolhardy-and ignoble-scheme.

Brenn saw the mutinous expressions of her clansmen and knew what she said in the next few minutes would make all the
difference.

"Would you be willing to choose a husband from among your clansmen, Lady Brenda?" Luke asked.

I will agree to anything temporarily... until I can put my father's plan into action.

"Aye," Brenn said, her hands on her hips as she surveyed the motley crowd gathered at the kirk. She was willing to play such
games-for the moment. Her father had forbidden her to tell her clansmen of his plan, believing they would try to stop her. But he
had not told her how to make them accept her as The Barrett long enough to fulfill her oath to him. She had to work that out for
herself.

"I am willing to be wooed," she said cautiously.

"Well, then," AJ said. "Tis settled. The man who wins the lady's heart-the man she takes to her bed-becomes chief."

The man she takes to her bed. Brenn met AJ's gaze and saw the threat there. The man who forced her to his bed, Brenn
thought with a shudder of dread.

AJ was not so much clever as shrewd. He often won his fights, but not always fairly. Brenn recognized him as a dangerous
opponent. Nevertheless, AJ's idea had merit. It would keep her clansmen distracted while she settled her business with the
Duke of Jacks. None could complain because it gave every man equal chance in the contest. And she was happy because it
gave her the final choice of a winner, and she knew she would never choose any of them. Especially not AJ.

“I agree,” she said. “Whoever wins my heart becomes laird.”

Looking back to that day, Brenn realized it had been a mistake to pit her clansmen against each other. Over the past six months
there had been numerous fights, and she had found herself in more than one precarious situation with an unrequited suitor. Her
clansmen were increasingly impatient with her failure to choose one of them, and she had begun to fear they would soon take
matters into their own hands.

One of them finally had.
end chapter 2