Her Highland Protector (Iron 0f The Highlands Series Book 2)

by Emilia Ferguson

  “And you are well, for someone who pleaded sickness.”

  Irmengarde shot him a look. “I was unwell,” she said, opening the chest where her clothes were stored. She tried to ignore the thud in her heart, the cramping of her stomach tensing up, and focus on the box where the clothes were stored. It opened reluctantly, showing purple and ocher velvet – far showier robes than those she stored in the room she considered hers only.

  “You were. It seems, you have experienced a miraculous recovery. Praise is due.”

  “I agree, my husband,” she said lightly. Inwardly, she gaped at his hypocrisy.

  I don’t think he has a pious thought in his head. And yet he’ll mouth the words, and put silver on the plate at a service if the priest is observing him.

  She turned away from him, focusing on shaking the folds out of the dress.

  Red velvet blossomed in the darkness. A fine dress, and the only thing she had ever truly requested, the riding dress was her escape, her identity.

  “I will accompany you on your ride.”

  “Why, milord, you are too kind,” Irmengarde said. Her voice was low and she tried to stop it trembling.

  “I’m sensible. With this intolerance and madness about, who knows but that some of our own men might choose to make you a target?”

  “I doubt they would,” she observed, heading towards where a screen divided the room, affording her a little privacy to dress. The thought of Clovis seeing her vulnerable right now was more than she could bear.

  “I don’t. You’re my wife, but you’re just the sort the rebels would choose to target.”

  Only the rebels who support the English interference in our lands.

  “If you say so,” she agreed mildly.

  He said nothing in reply, but she could almost sense his grim amusement at the prospect.

  That was, of course, the core of the trouble. The English king had just appointed a king in Scotland, choosing John Baliol – a man many saw simply as a puppet of England’s wielding. It was a forerunner of an invasion – Irmengarde knew that as well as anyone.

  And my husband, claiming descent from English nobility, will of course side with Baliol, and Edward of England.

  She wasn’t sure why he hated Scots so much, when his family had lived here for a hundred years, but the animosity ran deep.

  She undid the ties about her waist – a fine ocher kirtle, woven with metallic threads, imported from France – and slid the dress off her body. Then she lifted the riding dress and belted it, tying it closed with a wide sash in dark brown. She glanced in the mirror.

  She looked more like herself.

  “Are you ready, wife? Let us depart.”

  Swallowing hard, Irmengarde tried to still her beating heart. She could, she thought quickly, always outrace him. Her horse, Grayswift, was faster and lighter built than his Clydesdale. She had managed to lose him in the woodlands before and she had no reason to believe it wouldn’t work.

  “Yes, milord. We should go.”

  She followed him down the spiraling staircase to the entrance hall.

  “Keith…? Keep the gates closed while we are gone.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  The guardsmen bowed as they passed out of the arched entrance way. Irmengarde swallowed hard, wishing that she could trust more of the men who guarded the fort.

  If I could trust them, I’d have escaped.

  She walked across the cloud darkened courtyard, keeping her back stiff. The stables were near the gatehouse, and they went straight there. She ran a hand down Grayswift’s nose.

  “Restless, eh, my beauty?”

  The horse regarded her with inky black eyes, framed with long lashes. That look held infinite understanding, and Irmengarde felt comfort as she touched the velvety muzzle.

  “Let’s go for a ride.”

  The groom, Mr. Waite, lifted the light Spanish saddle onto her horse, and she waited while he adjusted the girth before stepping up into it. She heard Clovis snort in derision as she settled into the side-saddle, facing him.

  “Women and their fancies,” he said lightly. “Though, I suppose we couldn’t have you all riding astride now.” He gave a lewd laugh.

  Irmengarde felt her skin crawl. She looked at her hands and wished she was a thousand miles away, or invisible. He made her feel small and ill with shame.

  “And away we ride,” he said lightly, squeezing the flank of his horse, Camberwell. The horse snorted and plunged ahead valiantly. Irmengarde squeezed with her knees and her mount, a palfrey, lightly built for swiftness, shot ahead.

  The trees were dark here, growing close together over the path. She could hear the burne, and the sound of the wind as it raced past her ears. She felt her horse stretch her legs and heard the sound of hoofs and felt truly alive.

  She was smiling as she drew in alongside Clovis, twenty minutes or so afterward.

  “Still thinking you can keep up?” Clovis asked with grim amusement as she drew level, her back straight, the reins looped through her fingers.

  “My horse is fast,” she said mildly.

  “That beast’s intolerable,” Clovis spat.

  Irmengarde shuddered. He wouldn’t hurt Grayswift. He was giving them both such an evil glare she felt afraid.

  “My horse did nothing,” she said swiftly. “I made her run ahead.”

  “You did, did you?” he asked grimly. “Why did you so? To provoke me?”

  “Why, no,” Irmengarde said quickly. “I enjoy riding.”

  “You want to humiliate me,” he said. “Or why would you seek to keep pace so? A woman’s place is not beside her man, but behind him.”

  “I did not mean…”

  “You did,” he said.

  Irmengarde felt tears start to run down her cheeks. That wasn’t fair! Riding was her passion. It was the only thing she had left that she enjoyed.

  “Please, Clovis,” she whispered. “Please, don’t be vexed. I didn’t mean any disrespect. I just like riding. I didn’t…”

  “Be silent!” he roared. “Or I swear I’ll have that horse sold. It’s a menace.”

  “No,” Irmengarde whispered in horror. “No. Please. Please. I implore you…”

  He raised a brow. His face was turning purple with the beginnings of that violent, terrible rage. “You implore me! But you defy me. No. I’ll finish that horse off. She’s a danger to you.”

  “She isn’t,” Irmengarde whispered. She looked around in rank terror. He was raging at her and she could feel her horse starting to shift uncomfortably, ears flicking back as she became steadily more afraid.

  “I’ll tell you what is and isn’t good for you. I am your husband! You obey me!” Clovis roared.

  At that moment, Grayswift had enough. Irmengarde had no idea if the shouting alone frightened her, or if it was her own fear, communing with the horse. For whatever reason, though, she shot off like she’d been whipped and there was nothing Irmengarde could do to stop her.

  “Lass, stop,” she whispered into the horse’s ear. “If you don’t, he’ll kill you. Please.”

  However, her horse was running with a terror that reflected Irmengarde’s own. She knew there was nothing she could do, save let her run until she ran out of energy. She headed, headlong, into the woodlands.

  Clinging onto the saddle horn, it was all Irmengarde could do to simply stay on.

  After what seemed like an age, her horse stopped.

  “Whew.”

  Irmengarde leaned forward, lying against the horse’s neck. She was lathered with sweat – they both were – and their hearts both thumped with near exhaustion.

  “If we go back, he’ll kill you,” Irmengarde whispered into her horse’s ear. Somewhere, she could hear the sound of hoofs, crashing through the undergrowth. It was Clovis, she thought, or a party of guards, gone to take her back to misery.

  “Milady!”

  She turned. A man was in the clearing. He had long red hair and brown eyes, and a sensitive, strong face. He l
ooked at her curiously, then swept off his hat. He bowed low. He wore a long wool cloak and a loose, long tunic. His hat was a flat one with a design of stripes worked into the fabric.

  He smiled at her.

  “Milady? Can I be of assistance?”

  “Sir…” she said softly. Her throat closed on her words. He must have noticed her distress, because his eyes tensed in alarm.

  “Milady? Is aught amiss?”

  “He says he’ll kill my horse,” Irmengarde said, unable to keep the sorrow to herself. “He says she’s wicked, and that he’s going to get rid of her.”

  “Is that true?” the man raised a brow. “Well, then. It’s a grand thing we met here. I’m a horse trainer – Brogan Covell I am, and I’m honored to be addressing’ ye, milady.”

  MEETING A LADY

  Brogan stared up at the woman on horseback. He tried to be calm, but inside he was surprised he had managed to find his voice at all.

  My, but she’s bonny.

  He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Of all the beautiful women he had ever seen, this woman was unparalleled. Her skin was milky white, offset with black hair and dark eyes, lips like red velvet. He felt his body respond to the sight of her and blushed, embarrassed.

  Ye ought tae bow or something, ye great daft fool.

  He sketched a clumsy bow. A farm-raised lad from Dumfriesshire, he was about as good at addressing nobility as he was to riding in coaches, which was to say he’d never done either in his life.

  Above him, she made a slight huffing noise that could have been a laugh. He looked up and found that she smiled. Her eyes, above the smile, were cold. He took a step back, as if unsure what to do next.

  “You are polite, Mr. Covell,” she said. “And I am remiss. I almost ran you down.”

  He shrugged. “It happens, milady. It was not your fault the horse was running.”

  She raised a brow. “My horsemanship is usually better,” she said. She sounded like she was angry at being caught on the wrong foot.

  He grinned. “I’m sure it is. Begging your pardon, milady,” he added as she looked annoyed.

  Brogan Covell…you’re going tae talk yourself to a quick death.

  He took a step back again, wondering if he was being a complete fool, staying here to talk to her. He would do better to run back into the tree line, forgetting he’d ever laid eyes on her.

  He bowed again, and when he looked up, she was studying him with mild interest. It made his skin prickle. She was so unexpectedly beautiful that he wouldn’t have been surprised to discover she was some terrifying phantom, a beautiful demon who would like to bite off his head and drain his blood.

  My grandpa allus said it was dangerous to roam about in woodlands.

  He took another backwards step. This time, she laughed.

  “I suppose I am remiss in my manners. I am Lady Irmengarde, sirrah. The fortress and these lands are my home. My husband is the lord of these parts.”

  “Oh.”

  He felt his stomach tie in a knot. This was worse, not better. The thought that he was addressing a person of that much power scared him even more than the thought of demons, were that possible. At least a demon might just drink his blood. A baroness might have him thrown in jail for trespassing. He would probably not get out of that alive.

  “You mentioned you are a horse expert?” she asked. He could see a new expression on her face. An expression more than interest, it seemed one of hope.

  “Um…yes, milady,” he bowed. “I am. At your service, milady,” he added. His mouth was dry now and he swallowed hard, his heart thudding like a war drum in his chest.

  “I hope you will be,” she said dryly. “I think you may be the answer to my prayers.”

  “Oh?” His heart jolted with joy. Nobody had ever said anything like that to him, that much was certain.

  “Yes,” she began. At that moment, more hoofs sounded on the track.

  Brogan, having almost more than he could bear for one morning, fought the urge to bolt. He planted his feet on the path, scraped red hair out of his eyes and looked up at the fast approaching rider.

  Once he’d clapped eyes on the fellow, his every instinct screamed to run. The man was broad in the shoulder, tall and bulky with muscle. Brogan felt his own biceps flex instinctively, gripping the staff he held as if he was readying for battle. He was by no means slight, but the baron – and he was sure that was who this was, judging by the fine fur-trimmed cape he wore – was massive.

  It isn’t just his bulk…it’s his eyes. He has eyes like a killer.

  Hard, cold and soulless, those black eyes raked over Brogan and made him tense. He had seen eyes like that on a village lad who had killed two people in fistfights – the unfeeling eyes of somebody who was unmoved by anything, even death. Brogan flinched as that gaze crossed over him with bored disinterest. Then he turned to his wife.

  “Who in perdition’s name is this? And why’s he in my grounds? He’s trespassing here!”

  Here we go. Now’s the moment when I get it.

  Brogan felt his heart start to thump in earnest and he looked around, but sensed no escape. He heard the lady clear her throat.

  “This is Brogan Covell,” she said. Her tone was soft and firm. “He is a horse trainer and he has just agreed to take on the job of Grayswift.”

  Brogan, who had made no such commitment, stepped back until he almost collided a tree trunk.

  Two pairs of black eyes surveyed him. He wasn’t sure, straight away, which were more terrifying, her shining ones, earnest and intense, like black diamonds, or the slick, reflective ones.

  “Um,” he said. “Well…it’s been an honor meeting you, milord. Milady. But…really…I have tae get back along, and…”

  “Will you do it?” his lordship snapped.

  “If I must,” Brogan said. He heard the man laugh.

  “This one’s got all the spirit of a plate of neaps,” he said.

  Brogan stiffened at that, feeling his sword hand grip tight on the staff. He wished he had some sort of weapon handy, though he’d never learned to fight with anything besides a dagger. He had never been insulted to his face like this before, and never without the chance of fighting back!

  To his surprise, the baroness spoke again. “I think his amount of spirit is of no import to the job we offer. My horse is mild in nature and needs no great excess of training.”

  “I’ll have the thing poleaxed if he fails.”

  Brogan saw her ladyship go stiff, and saw, again, the terror in her eyes he’d seen at first. Somewhere inside him a black, sour rage started to build. He forced his hands to stay at his sides, gripping his cloak so that he didn’t attack the baron.

  “Milord, give me a month,” he said swiftly. “I assure you I will do all that is necessary by then.”

  “A month?” his brow went lazily upward. He smiled, amused. “I grant it.”

  Brogan swallowed hard. He saw the baroness fall forward, as if in relief. He noticed her husband chuckle, as if he was pleased to have set a neat trap for her.

  “Best start working then, stable lad,” he said, as he spun his horse in the clearing, ready to canter up the path out of there. “It’s a month before that horse is destroyed.”

  Brogan heard the baroness gasp, and his hand instinctively went out to her, as if he could offer her comfort. Her eyes, for one long moment, met his.

  “I am at your service,” he said softly. “I will do everything in my power, to be successful in it.”

  “Do that,” she hissed.

  Then, without warning, she spun the horse around and rode swiftly ahead, out of the clearing.

  Brogan stayed where he was, watching her until he saw her and the baron disappear into the tree line. He shook his head.

  What just happened to me?

  He blinked, trying to make sense of it all. He recalled that strange moment when he’d seen her first, when all he could read in those deep dark eyes was a sense of fear and anger. Then, as
they’d talked, her cooling off toward him.

  “What am I supposed tae do now?”

  He shrugged. It was about to rain – the clouds overhead were gray and ominous looking already – and he should take care of the immediacies, like staying dry.

  Gathering his bundle of sticks – he’d been here collecting kindling for the fire – he headed back up the path towards the woodsman’s cottage.

  “Well, if this isn’t the oddest thing that ever happened tae a feller…”

  He sighed. He had come here from his uncle’s farm in Dumfriesshires, seeking work. He’d planned to go all the way to Berwick, but the weather had trapped him here.

  Now, he mused, he had a job. Which was the one thing he had been worried for. So why was he worried now?

  “You’re never content, are ye, Covell?”

  He dropped the bundle of sticks at the entrance to the cottage, peering in to see if Lewes, the fellow who owned it, was in. He couldn’t see him, so he went inside and sat down on the floor. A lean-to made of sticks with a packed-earth floor coated with reeds, the place was a temporary dwelling. Lewes was a charcoal burner, somebody who spent their days in the woods collecting firewood and the nights letting it burn down to fine charcoal.

  “And I’m like tae make more money in a month at the castle than this poor soul in twice as long.”

  He sighed, blowing on his hands to cool them. He knew he was extremely fortunate – the offer had come at a time when he needed it most, and it was a good one. Yet all the same, he couldn’t quite shake off the feeling of foreboding.

  The baroness was terrifying.

  He laughed. “Why am I scared of her?”

  He had no idea. Of the two people he’d just met, the baron was a person anybody with a speck of sense in his head would avoid. He was dangerous. Yet the baroness?

  It’s her beauty, and not just that. It’s the way she is…so remote, so severe.

  He shivered. She reminded him of an icicle – exquisite, sharp and freezing inside. He wasn’t sure how he felt about her.

  Not that it mattered, he reminded himself, getting up to haul in the last of the sticks of firewood – it was highly unlikely he would have anything to do with her. Though she was frightening, that made him feel a little disappointed. He hoped he would see her, at least once or twice.