Protector's Honor. Kit Wilkinson

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      “You still believe my brother was in on this?

      “Every time I think I can trust you, you remind me why I shouldn’t. We’re not on the same side.” Tabitha stood abruptly and started for the door.

      Rory grabbed her hand. “We are absolutely on the same side,” he whispered. “Tabitha, face the facts. Somehow, you and your brother are involved in this mess. Only your brother can tell us if he was a willing participant or not. I know that you are not. I want to find your brother and make sure he has the chance to tell us his side of things.”

      Her anger abated somewhat. “So what do we do now?” she asked.

      “We need to go back to the safe house. Let me see what I can dig up. All you have to do is follow my lead.”

      “What else is new?”

      MILLS & BOON

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      KIT WILKINSON

      is a Phi Kappa Phi graduate, holding multiple degrees from the University of Virginia, the University of Tennessee and the University of Lausanne, Switzerland. After teaching for many years, she became a stay-home mom and started writing romantic fiction while her kids were napping. Besides writing, Kit loves hanging out with friends and family, cooking for lots of people and participating in almost any sport. She and her wonderful husband reside in Virginia with their two young children and one extremely large Labrador named Ernie.

      Protector’s Honor

      Kit Wilkinson

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      In this world you will have trouble.

       But take heart! I have overcome the world.

      —John 16:33

      To David, for loving me always, in sickness

       and in health. I love you this much.

      And to my mother, for all her gifts,

       guidance and graciousness.

      Acknowledgments

      Thanks to my fabulous editor for shaping this story into its current state. Thanks to Donna, Ron and Charlotte for their many hours of help. Thanks also to Darin Riedlinger for technical support, to Steve Bracciodieta of the Chesterfield County Police Department for his savvy on procedure, to Brendan Conroy for his Navy knowhow, and to the art department for the perfectly fitting cover design.

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      CHAPTER NINETEEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY

      CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

      CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

      CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

      QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

      ONE

      Just three more miles.

      Tabitha Beaumont struggled with each new step. After swimming one mile through a cold mountain lake then biking twenty-six through the Carolina Blue Ridge, her legs felt more like weighted anchors than lean stretches of muscle. Still, she trudged on.

      For over three miles, she’d emulated the long, steady strides of the two seasoned competitors beside her—just as her brother, Max, had coached her. But when passing the little crowd on Hendersonville’s Main Street, she hit “the wall.” Her body could no longer maintain the unvarying clip of the other runners. When they started up the final mountain trail to the finish, she slowed and watched as the two runners pulled farther and farther ahead, leaving her to battle the mountain alone.

      Just three more miles.

      She needed to focus. But her mind refused. Every muscle in her body screamed to stop. Her lungs ached for air. Her heart pounded against her chest. Her legs felt limp and numb. The dark, steep path loomed ahead invincibly.

      Come on, Tabby. You can do this.

      Following a sharp rise in the path as it curved around patches of evergreens, she continued to grind her way upward. The August air lay dense under the canopy of foliage. Sweat dripped from every strand of her hair, down into her eyes, the back of her neck and the front of her chest. Slowly, she progressed.

      “Beaumont.”

      The whisper jump-started her tired senses. She looked around, but there was no one in sight. She must have imagined her name being called. Her eyes sifted nervously through the thick forest. Her legs continued to churn over the mulched trail.

      “Ms. Beaumont!”

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