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

by Emilia Ferguson

  I don’t want him to think me weak.

  She swallowed hard. “We should go back,” she said.

  “Yes, milady.”

  They walked side by side through the woods. Lady Irmengarde took the lead, and she led them onto the main path way. As if by common agreement – though neither of them had actually said anything – they fell silent as they drew in sight of the fortress again.

  “Have you…”

  “Will it…”

  They spoke at once as they dismounted by the mounting steps in the courtyard. He scuffed his boot sole on the paved area, clearly feeling awkward.

  “Beg your pardon, milady.”

  “No matter,” she said. “I was going to ask, have you dined yet? It’s getting late.”

  He frowned. “Reckon there’ll be aught for me in the kitchens. There’s always aught to be had.”

  Irmengarde bit back a grin. It was one person’s job, organizing the supplies that were kept in the castle, and how they were divided, such that, should there be a siege, no man would starve. It was her job. As the castle’s mistress, she oversaw the collection of wool, food and hay.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” she said. She started walking away towards the kitchens – his comment had been a reminder that she needed to check the supply of cheese was still high. Then she stopped. “What were you going to say?” she asked.

  He lifted a shoulder. “I was going to ask if you planned to go out riding tomorrow?” he said. “We could try the route I spotted on the way back – the one that goes up to the hillside.”

  Irmengarde raised a brow. “I shall be preoccupied with organizing the collection of winter supplies tomorrow,” she said carefully. “But, mayhap on Friday.”

  “Until then, milady!” he called as she slid from the horse’s back and walked across the flagstones.

  She said nothing in return – she was nearing the gates, and she could see Greer on duty there – an unpleasant guardsman, he was someone she suspected DeWarren set to report back on her whereabouts.

  All the same, the sound of his enthusiasm warmed her heart.

  Until then, Covell, she thought fondly. She walked briskly into the castle, feeling her heart lift with lightness that she had not felt in a long time.

  She was looking forward to the outing already.

  GETTING THE WORK DONE

  Brogan felt the rough wood of the door press against his back as he leaned against it. He sighed. It was cold outside, but he was perspiring, the wind chilling him as it ruffled his hair. He looked across the sands of the stable yard and towards the horse who stood there, breath like fog in the cold air.

  “Good lass!” he nodded. “Must be tired, though.”

  The horse looked at him. Her eyes, remote and implacable, reminded him of her mistress. Lady Irmengarde had the same way of regarding him, with apparently no real interest. He shrugged.

  “She’s an odd one.”

  He drew his cloak about him, feeling the cold settle into his bones now that his work was at a close for the afternoon. He ran a hand through his hair and headed, boots crunching, across the sand.

  “Come on, lass. We both need a rub down. And a bite o’ food.”

  He could feel his stomach growling already. He patted the horse companionably, and huffed a reply.

  “Here we are,” he said, leading her into the stable. Built on the leeward side of the gate, the place was sheltered enough to be less than overly cold. With the wooden shutters across the stable windows, the place was actually fairly warm. It was one advantage to be had from having so many horses. He counted seven in all – eight, counting the one his lordship had taken from the stable for a ride.

  “Poor thing,” he said aloud.

  He heard the horse snort and recalled the warm mash he’d promised, heading over to the store room to find it. As he worked, he considered the ride he’d taken with Lady Irmengarde, three – almost four – days ago. He’d not seen her since. The unpleasant weather might have been a factor in that, but he suspected there was more at play.

  She was bothered by something. And not surprisingly. The baron seems a bad sort.

  He glanced over at Grayswift, the dappled riding horse, where she stood with her head over the stall’s gate, tranquilly chewing some hay. She was a gentle horse – good-tempered, trusting and kind-hearted. He couldn’t imagine how the man had taken umbrage at her. There was absolutely nothing wrong with the horse, and nothing to teach her.

  “There’s more to this than simply needing a horse to be taught.”

  There had to be. He’d spent hours working with her, but there was nothing to be improved, and very little he could think of, to teach her. He’d taken her over a few jumps, since she seemed to shy away from them at first, but if that was ill behavior, he couldn’t understand what his lordship expected.

  “It’s not like he’s nae seen horses before.”

  Far from it. While he was about as graceless as a stone door jamb, the fellow seemed comfortable on horseback. He was a baron, and owned eight horses Brogan knew of. He was clearly more than used to their behavior. He could not have been mistaken.

  “It’s no’ about the horse’s manner.”

  He didn’t want to think it, but he felt as if this had some bearing on Lady Irmengarde’s manner. She was so stiff, so polite, as if she feared saying aught that could be misrepresented. At the same time, she seemed to sparkle, like a bright lamp that threw off little dazzling dust motes into the air.

  He mixed the mash in a bucket, and carried it to the metal barrel that housed some coals for heating. He set it over the top and waited as the mix started to warm. Here, by the coals, it was warm enough to stand still. He stretched his hands over the apparatus and watched.

  “Hey! You!” he heard, as two stable hands fought in the yard outside. “It’s my turn. You go and get the bridle.”

  “No! I said I’d do it. You can get it.”

  He shook his head. It was his two apprentices. It was about time he went out to instill some sense in to the pair of them. He heard them scamper through the entrance, into the stables themselves.

  “Keep it down,” he admonished them, as they raced up the path between the horse stalls, still arguing at full steam. “The horses are restless enough without you lot and your rowdiness! You can keep your voices down, or go outside, like decent sorts.”

  They stopped dead and looked up at him. Aged somewhere between eight and twelve, the boys looked up at him in alarm.

  “Sorry, Mr. Covell.”

  “We did nae ken you were here.”

  He sighed. “All the more reason for sensible manners,” he said. “Imagine if I was nae! If one of this lot decided to kick in the stable house, who’d be here to calm them down?” he gestured at the barn of horses. Some of them were restless already, stamping and snorting. When they heard he was there, they seemed somewhat calmer.

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  The two lads looked up at him, eyes round with contrition. He just shook his head. “Go on and do whatever you’re here for, lads. But do it quietly. Ye ken why.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They headed off into the tack room. As the argument continued in heated whispers, Brogan, curiosity fueling him, stuck his head out into the yard. He had to know who had sent them.

  His heart sank as Lord DeWarren drew into view, striding through the gray mist. He stamped the rain drops off his boots and halted near the stables.

  “Are you coming?” he called over his shoulder. His tone was so disparaging that Brogan thought he spoke to a servant. He stared in horror as the figure appeared from the gloom.

  Dressed in a long cloak of some color between red and brown, the wide folds gathered in at her waist, Lady Irmengarde seemed like something conjured from air and embers, something out of one of his more fantastic dreams. He watched as she slipped a hand under the hood to tuck a strand of dark hair away carefully. He knew her well enough by now to know the gestu
re was a nervous one, and that she was afraid.

  “Wife? Must you disgrace me with your disobedience? I called you.”

  Brogan felt his arms tighten, hands balling into fists as he heard the tone – desultory, dismissive, as if the whole world were an audience that sided with him against this disgraceful woman.

  “I heard, milord,” she said softly. Brogan, who had only spoken with her twice, could sense her rage and fear.

  “Come, then! And, if you must ride…pick a beast with more spirited ways! Russet is well past his better years.”

  Brogan gripped the handle of a shovel, feeling the rage inside him twist and become something more unstoppable still. How could he say something so inane! That made no sense! First, he’d stated that her ladyship’s mount was too feckless for her to be trusted carrying his wife, and now he was urging her to ride a livelier mount again?

  “I will take Blackburne,” she said levelly. Brogan could hear how she fought to keep the emotion from her voice.

  “A man’s horse! You know nothing, do you?”

  “Blackburne is a well-tempered horse, suited for anybody to ride. Beg your pardon, sir.” Brogan added this last as he saw his lordship’s dark eyes narrow with fury.

  “It is for me to say what my wife does. Not you, scoundrel. Take Snowstorm.”

  Brogan looked at Lady Irmengarde. He saw her blink and knew that she suspected what he also thought – of all the horses in the stables, Snowstorm – a jennet – was the only one, despite his size, who had a dangerous temperament. He saw her nod, briskly.

  “As you wish, milord.”

  Brogan shot her a glance, but she had floated calmly into the stables. He sensed that she was confident, and so he went to fetch the bridles. He passed her on the way.

  “Excuse me, milady,” he murmured as he almost stepped on the train of her cloak. Her eyes met his.

  “I am dressed for the weather today – I have plenty of experience, taking horses out in this condition, to inform me what best to wear.”

  He nodded. He saw her eyes hold his for a moment, and felt as if she was reassuring him.

  I know what I’m doing. I have plenty of experience of riding in these woodlands.

  He let his head bow swiftly, an acknowledgment. “Yes, milady. Your experience is great, your skill attesting it.”

  He murmured it, being rather afraid the baron would overhear. He heard somebody turn sharply on the stone thoroughfare between the stalls, as if he’d heard and was about to take offense.

  “Wife? Are you ready to depart?”

  “I am, milord.”

  Brogan, alone in the tack room at the far end of the barn, out of view, fought the urge to kick over a metal bucket. He needed to do something to express his rage! What he would have wanted to do was to confront the baron, but that, of course, he couldn’t do. So he just seethed in unexpressed fury as his apprentices got the job of tacking out the horses finished swiftly.

  “We will ride, now,” his lordship said loftily. He was holding the bridle of his horse, Camberwell. The creature looked anything but pleased, and Brogan restrained himself from a protest. There was no sense in taking him out for another ride! His lordship had only just returned home, and the weather outside was bitterly adverse.

  “Will your lordship ride far?” he asked instead.

  “Just a jaunt,” he sniffed distastefully. “My wife needed to go out.”

  She’s not a hound, to be taken hunting when it pleases you, sir. The words were almost on Brogan’s lips and he had to turn away before he spoke them, not wanting to raise the man’s anger. It was bad enough he seemed to enjoy putting Lady Irmengarde in torment as it is. If he had any reason to suspect she’d befriended him, her life would become intolerable.

  He stood back and let his lordship lead the weary horse out into the yard. He drew up behind him, walking beside Lady Irmengarde.

  “I think it will be foggy later,” he said to her in a low voice. He was trying to warn her, so she would not stay out too long. The fog could make even experienced travelers lose their way, and the cold damp of it stole a person’s body warmth.

  “I am certain we will return if it grows denser,” she said.

  They were out in the yard then. Brogan positioned himself at her horse’s foreleg, ready to assist by holding him steady, should she need him to do it, but without insulting her by assuming it necessary.

  “Off we go,” Lord DeWarren said, with no apparent sense of irony, as he swung up into the saddle, and headed out into the forest.

  Brogan stood and watched until he and Lady Irmengarde were out of sight. He turned back to the stable with fury in his heart.

  “Curse him,” he swore. In the tack room, the bucket flew across the flagging, making a terrible noise. His toe hurt, where he’d kicked it, hard towards the wall. He didn’t care.

  “Sir?” One of his apprentices appeared at the door, eyes huge. It was too dark for Brogan to see if it was Keith or Grantham, but he knew without looking how frightened the lad must feel.

  “Just knocked it over,” he said levelly. “Lads, go and find a meal.”

  “The kitchen’s shut,” the dismayed voice continued distractedly. Brogan still couldn’t tell which of the youths he addressed. He turned around, giving him a level stare.

  “I’m also hungry,” he said. “I’ll come with ye.”

  “You would?”

  Brogan felt a fresh flare-up of anger as the boy spoke so incredulously. What was the matter with Mr. Miller? Would he not have cared whether or not the boys were able to live?

  “Aye, I will,” he said. Rolling up his sleeves, despite the growing cold, he strode out into the evening. It was already growing dark, and he felt a sudden worry for Lady Irmengarde. Would she be safe, out there? The fog was about to start falling – he’d noticed it tended to settle over the hills about this time.

  He headed across the yard to the kitchen. The door was, indeed, shut. He hammered on it, annoyed.

  “Mrs. Waite?”

  “Yes, what is it?” a voice said with some strain. The door shot open and Mrs. Waite appeared. “Mr. Covell!”

  “Aye. I’m hungry,” he said. “Why’s this door closed?”

  “Only to keep out the chill,” she said. She glanced at the lads, who leaned against the side of the door, trying, he thought, very hard to be invisible.

  “They are also hungry,” he said mildly. “I take it there’s a place for anyone who’s hungry, to eat here? They work at the castle too.”

  He saw a look of unprovoked surprise cross her face. It seemed like caring for apprentices was another thing nobody was supposed to do around here. He waited until the lads were sitting on the hearth mat. Then he shut the door. It closed with a click. He turned to look at the cook.

  “Not my fault the lads are here,” she muttered. “You try asking Mrs. McNeal why they’re no’ at the cottages with that feckless daughter o’ hers.”

  “Mrs. McNeal?” he frowned.

  “Aye. Works upstairs. Came here with the mistress. Word’s said she’s not too popular round here.”

  “I see,” Brogan frowned, wondering what exactly it was he was hearing. Everything that sided with Lady Irmengarde seemed to be torn down in this place. Was it possible the neglect of his two apprentices was also not accidental?

  “Aye. Only yesterday, I heard that she was accused of using the wrong herbs in the strewing bunches. I di' nae like tae think what he’d do to her, if he reckoned she’d done it purposefully.”

  “Who, Mrs. Waite?”

  “Him.” She jerked her head at the doorway to the main house, as if it was clearly evident who she meant. It was – she meant his lordship, and Brogan understood at once why she couldn’t say.

  “I see,” he frowned.

  “Stew’s in the pot,” she said. “It’s got parsnips and onions in it. Bread’s on the counter top. It’s still warm, though not as fresh as when it were baked.”

  Brogan nodded. “I see,” he said.


  He heard Mrs. Waite muttering something to herself as she went to check on pies in the oven, but he didn’t know what it was. He picked up a bowl off the table where the servants ate – it was clean, at least – and went to join the lads by the fireside.

  “Take some stew, sir. It’s good. Lots of parsnips.”

  “And onions!” the other lad encouraged. “I’d take loads of it, if I was you.”

  Brogan filled his bowl with the ladle, collected some bread from the pile – she was right, it was still warm, and deliciously dense – and sat eating, listening with a distracted ear to the boys, talking with one another.

  “And Granny said it’s going to be snowing soon,” one of them said.

  The mention of their grandmother wove into Brogan’s thoughts. He wished he could meet Mrs. McNeal. She was clearly on the side of Lady Irmengarde, and she would know more about her than almost anyone else. She had come with her from her former home when, presumably, she moved here following her marriage with the baron.

  Brogan wondered, idly, what her home was like. Where she came from. How it was for her, to come here? He recalled how she’d tucked a strand of hair back behind her ear as she stood in the doorway, a strangely delicate gesture.

  He felt impatient with himself. He shouldn’t think of her like that.

  She was his employer’s wife, and too far above him for words. Yet what could he do? His body couldn’t help its response to her, any more than his mind could hold back from its queries about her, which played through his thoughts endlessly.

  Where was she now? He had no knowledge of that. All he knew was that he would worry about her until she returned from this ride.

  “Alright, lads,” he said, standing and feeling how his injured knee clicked as it took his weight. “We’re needed outside.”

  “Aw…Mr. Covell…” Keith pleaded.

  “I’m going out,” he said shortly. “I di' nae ken what ye lads are doing.”

  With that, he went out to the stables. The sky was black, the air cutting like a knife. He shivered and drew his cloak tight about him, wishing he was still indoors by the fireside. However, Lady Irmengarde was out there, and he didn’t want to think of the danger she was in.