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

by Emilia Ferguson

  “It’s been many years since I sat at so fine a feast. Many years!” Lord Dougal continued. “You’re a grand baroness. A feller’s lucky tae have you.”

  She swallowed, her joy in the compliments a special secret. She felt Clovis shift uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Musicians!” he bellowed. “Start playing!”

  The sound of pipes and drumming began. Lady Irmengarde listened as the sound of talk intensified, increasing in fervor as the food started to circulate among the benches, and the drink.

  “I reckon I should speak to Bonnie in the alehouse,” she murmured to nobody in particular. “The ale this month is particularly strong.”

  The men along the benches were laughing and cheering, and everyone was clearly having a good time. She wondered idly if it was not too good – more than one person was a little flushed, the din appalling.

  “A grand dinner!” Lord Dougal said from the opposite side. He, too, was drinking freely, and his cheeks were red. His eyes shone. “I name a toast! To Lady Irmengarde, the grandest castle lady.”

  As the laird stood to shout the toast, Irmengarde felt sick. She could feel Clovis stiffen at her side, and could almost smell the burning of rage inside him. All the knights had stood, the guards and the servants, too. The hall erupted in admiration.

  “To Lady Irmengarde!” somebody shouted.

  “Lady Irmengarde.”

  As the shouts and the drumming of fists swelled and intensified, she saw Clovis swivel round and shoot a glance at her. His eyes, bloodshot, were full of rage.

  I don’t want to think about what he’ll do next.

  She looked at her plate, the joy that had filled her heart at the acknowledgment suddenly chilled utterly.

  “Milady. You’re well loved,” Lord Dougal declared, drawing out his seat and sitting down.

  “It seems so.”

  As he rambled on, talking of his aunt, a virtuous lady who had run his uncle’s estate for years, single handed, before retiring as a holy woman, she shifted in her seat. She felt sick, suddenly. The hall with its heat and loud revelers was pressing in on her and she didn’t want to eat.

  “Excuse me,” she murmured. “I feel faint.”

  “You will stay and dance a measure,” Clovis growled.

  Irmengarde shook her head, wanting to protest. Opposite her, Lord Dougal roared in approval. “A dance! Aye! When will you open the floor? Lord Clovis, I insist! I could do with a dance myself.”

  Irmengarde nodded as Clovis, his authority challenged for a second time that night, hauled himself upright. His expression was dark and she knew he would have strangled Lord Dougal, were he not his most valued ally. Somewhere deep inside, she could find a spark of humor at his rages.

  It is about time someone was here to curb his cruelties.

  She waited until, roaring, he’d convinced the servants still on duty to clear a space in the hall’s center. Then, as the musicians grouped at the back of the hall, he held out a hand to take hers. He didn’t even look at her, she noticed. His hand on hers was impersonal, lifeless.

  The tune was slow and grave, and Irmengarde felt herself slip into the steps of the dance automatically, as Clovis stepped her about the hall. She had always enjoyed a dance, and tonight, dressed in her finest dress, she allowed herself to remember that.

  Clovis stepped through the paces woodenly, but he was, she had to admit, not terrible. He was immensely strong, and he had, as a result, a lithe motion.

  “You will stay long here?” she asked, as he stood so she could step around him in a turn.

  “I intend to stay as long as possible,” he managed to say. His face was red and she could see how his eyes had narrowed with rage.

  “I see,” she said.

  As she stepped back into the line of dancers, hands raised, gripping those of Clovis and the unknown man who danced beside her, she thought she spied a watcher.

  At the back of the hall, taller than the rest of the occupants, a man with red hair stood and watched the dancers. He’d an aquiline nose, long hair and a serene stance. If she hadn’t known him, she would have thought he was peacefully watching. Knowing him, she could see the tension in every line of him, as if he waited for a moment to strike.

  Brogan Covell, she thought happily.

  Beside her, Clovis was gripping her hand fit to make her fingers ache, but she barely noticed. She stepped through the last turns and felt her face flush with warmth, thinking that Brogan watched.

  She danced just for him.

  As the music came to a close, she curtsied. Clovis, pale with rage now, forced a bow.

  “You’re a hussy,” he whispered as they filed onto the dais. “And I will make you pay for it.”

  Irmengarde said nothing. She wasn’t going to let herself be afraid – not now. Right now, all she was going to do was enjoy the moment and the strength inside her that came from knowing that, somewhere out there, somebody watched and smiled on her, and knew her for who she was.

  “A grand dance,” the laird grinned. She looked at her hands, shy.

  “It was fine music,” she said carefully.

  Beside her, Clovis tensed. She saw the laird grin and nod at her, and felt her stomach tie in knots.

  When the banquet ended, she headed up to the bedchamber ahead of him. She hoped that if she could slip into bed and pretend unconsciousness, he would wait until tomorrow morning, at least, to take out his rage on her. She turned in the doorway at the sound of feet crossing the threshold.

  “You shamed me, wife,” he hissed.

  “I was only…”

  He grabbed her shoulders and shook her so violently that she cried out.

  “How dare you!” he shouted. His fingers dug into her flesh and Irmengarde closed her eyes, feeling terrified. He shook her one last time and she stumbled backwards, hitting her head on the cupboard. She cried out and raised her hand to her forehead, feeling wetness.

  Clovis stared at her. Even in his rage-filled state, he seemed abruptly sobered. He could see the blood on her face, and even he seemed to realize he’d done something irrevocable.

  “I warned you…I have a temper,” he muttered. “It’s your own fault – you should know better than to provoke my rages.”

  He turned around and she heard him undressing – the sound of boots hitting the floor, the cloak falling into the chair, the creak of the bed frame as he lay down.

  Without saying anything, she crossed to the door and opened it. She paused in the doorway, half expecting he would call her back, but he didn’t.

  Still shaking, she walked down the hallway and then started to run, going down the next hallway and towards the turret. When she reached the small sanctuary of the still room, she shut the door, dropped the bolt and leaned against it. Her heart thudded and her breath raced.

  “I will stay here tonight,” she whispered.

  Tomorrow, she would plan, because things had gone too far to be borne a day more.

  MAKING A PLAN

  “Och, lad…can you no’ stop it? Just a moment?”

  Brogan shouted it at Snowstorm, who had taken to munching the new rounded bar across the front of the stall. Combined with his habit of kicking the walls of the box when he was frustrated, it made a racket that made him feel like wires were being driven though his head. This morning, it was not the sort of racket he needed. His head still ached after the late night’s drinking the night before.

  The horse paused in his destruction and Brogan let his fingers drop the harness he was sewing, the pain of pushing the needle through thick leather folds nothing compared to the pain in his head.

  I reckon Bonnie’s been brewing overly hard.

  He had never tasted ale as strong as that from the banquet the previous night. He thought his paining head were mainly as a result of that. The ale, the late night and the noise. The revels had carried on until one of the clock and he should be exhausted. He had risen at five, when the morning brightened, needing to get to work. At the same time,
though, he was happy.

  I will never forget seeing Lady Irmengarde then.

  She was so beautiful. He let his imagination reconstruct a picture of her, dressed as she had been that night. The long blue dress had caught the light of the torches and her hair had followed her graceful motions as she danced, making her a picture of grace. He thought he had never seen anything so beautiful, and that he likely wouldn’t.

  “Och, Brogan. Stop being so foolish.”

  He shook his head. He was in love and he wasn’t the sort to deny the obvious fact. He didn’t want to, either. Feeling love made his soul soar, filling him with a happiness as radiant as torchlight. He knew it was unattainable, since she was a lord’s wife, he a stable hand, and didn’t care. Seeing her every day made his life happy.

  “What’s that horse doing, making a din?” Mr. Miller grunted, coming into the stables. He leaned on the door jamb, doing his best to unsettle Brogan, who was sitting on a low stool, mending tack.

  “He’s restless,” Brogan said mildly. “I’m about to take him out. I just need to put this harness aside.”

  “Do that,” Miller grumbled. “It’s enough to give a person a proper headache.”

  Brogan hid a smile. Even the deathly serious overseer had taken ale and reveled at the banquet. He felt glad. His own heart was full of joy and he wanted everyone to feel as happy. Even Miller.

  “Easy, lad,” he called to Snowstorm. “I’m coming out.”

  The morning was clouded over, and he could smell the ice in the air. It was a bitterly cold day. The horse bucked and snorted, seeming glad to be out in the crisp, clean morning. Brogan leaned against the wall of the stable and watched him, ready to shout should he start kicking the fence or doing some other mischief to the surroundings.

  “Eh, lad!” he shouted, as he frisked along the fence. “You’re full of energy, aren’t you?”

  “He’s glad to be running,” a voice said.

  “Milady!” Brogan bowed low, heart thudding as he spotted her. He hadn’t heard her coming along the path. He wouldn’t have seen her either, he reckoned – clad in a deep brown dress, a cloak of dark charcoal velvet about her, she blended in.

  “Good morning,” she said tightly.

  Brogan stared at her, sensing something was not right. He caught sight of a dark patch, high on her forehead, and frowned, noticing as she crossed the path to stand near him, that it had been concealed with powder.

  He hit her.

  His heart clenched and his fists balled without his having asked them to. He must have looked murderous, for he saw her stiffen and turn away.

  “Milady,” he said stiffly. “It is good to see you.”

  “Covell,” she said softly. “I want to ask you something. Please tell nobody of this conversation. How far until Stonehill Rest?”

  Brogan swallowed hard. “Ten miles, milady,” he said. “A good day’s ride, there.”

  “I see,” she said. “And are there inns along the way? Public houses? Dwellings?”

  He shrugged uneasily. “Not so I recall.”

  Inside, he had a discomforting feeling she planned something. What though? He turned to face her.

  “Milady, I would recommend you don’t ride there unaccompanied.”

  “You may recommend as you please,” she said. He heard a tight note in her voice and realized he had offended her. He swallowed hard.

  “I’m sorry, milady. It’s not…”

  “Your place. No,” she said. This time, he could see a strange look in her eyes, some humor.

  “It is not,” he whispered.

  “How far might a person travel towards it in four hours?” she asked.

  Brogan shrugged. “In this weather? Reckon that’s about the time it’d take, milady. Just to get in sight of the place.”

  “I see,” she said. “I think the rain will hold off to midday.”

  “Mayhap,” he agreed, shrugging. Then he tensed. “Milady?”

  “Yes, I plan to ride there alone,” she said. “And now.”

  Brogan tensed. He guessed this was more than a ride for diversion. As her eye held his, he knew. She was planning to escape. He saw her face tense and noticed, with the extra clarity afforded from being closer, that the mark on her forehead was a bruise, in the center of which was a ragged wound.

  “I have saddle bags,” he said.

  Lady Irmengarde said nothing. If she understood his meaning – that he intended to borrow a horse and ride the distance with her – she didn’t reply. They stood together, while Snowstorm, heedless of the drama underway, ran along the length of the fence, bucking and kicking.

  “I will go to the kitchens for provisions,” she said without turning around. “Please have Grayswift ready for me within the hour.”

  He nodded crisply. “Of course, milady.”

  He leaned on the fence beside her, just waiting for a while. After a long moment, she turned away. He waited, not drawing attention to her by staring. Then, turning to check she’d gone inside, he headed swiftly into the building.

  “Hey, lass,” he called to Grayswift. Always patient, she came to the front of the stall, black eyes soft. He stroked a hand down her forehead, trying to be calm so that he wouldn’t scare her. Inside, he was a seething mess of emotion.

  “Keith…fetch the big saddle down?” he called to his apprentice. The boy ran to the tack room while he hauled her ladyship’s saddle up the pathway. He got her horse ready, then went to fetch Snowstorm, his heart thumping. The horse was in danger if he stayed here too, Brogan reckoned – like with Lady Irmengarde, the baron seemed to have a hatred of anything he could not rule.

  “And you’re an unbreakable spirit,” he murmured to the horse.

  Snowstorm let him tack him up. He seemed more obedient than usual, as if he could sense a need for secrecy. Brogan was shaking by the time he was finished, his heart thudding in his chest like a drummer’s wild beat. He led the horses to the yard and waited.

  When he thought he would go mad from tension, he saw her, running across the icy courtyard. She had a bundle in her hands and she was dressed in a dark caped cloak. She came to join him.

  “We ride, Covell?”

  He nodded. His throat was too tight for talking. “We ride.”

  He watched as she swung into the saddle, feeling his heart thumping with the need for urgency. He waited for her to walk forward to the gate, then vaulted up on Snowstorm. He had slung the saddle bags over the big saddle, but he noticed she hadn’t commented on it, or on the fact that he, clearly, planned to ride at least partway with her.

  “You’re sure you can keep up the pace, with that saddle?” she called over one shoulder, as they left the side gate, riding into the woodlands. “It’s the wrong saddle for that horse.”

  He grinned. “I know, milady. I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s the only one patchy enough for me to use.”

  “Make sure you keep up. Ride without it, if we must,” she snapped.

  Then she was riding ahead of him along the trail and it was his job to do his best to keep up with her.

  * * *

  Irmengarde leaned heavily on the neck of her horse, holding the reins, riding at full speed. She had no idea if Brogan, doing his best to catch up with her, knew how desperate she was, or how dangerous this venture was for her.

  If I get caught now, I am as good as dead.

  She swallowed hard, suppressing the rank terror that filled her at the thought. She knew Clovis – knew him well enough to know exactly how he would react, if he knew himself to be so thwarted. He would send her to some convent in the remote hills, make her disappear. That would be if he was feeling charitable that day. At worst, he would tell the church she had been caught running away with a man, and she would face the courts for committing adultery. She might be branded or even killed for that.

  “Please don’t let him catch me,” she whispered, though whether she spoke to her horse or to Brogan or to somebody else completely, she had no idea. “Please.�
��

  She rode as hard as she knew how.

  The road she was meant to travel led up the hill opposite the fort, and then along the ridge, crossed another valley and went up. She knew where the abbey was, at least roughly, having been there once shortly after she moved to Tysdale.

  Now she prayed she remembered the route aright, clung to the reins, and rode as if Hell were at her heels. Which, more or less, it was.

  I have to reach the abbey. Any sort of future I have, depends on it.

  She heard the sound of hoofs behind her and turned around, looking over her shoulder. She rode side saddle, but bent forward to ensure she stayed on with the speed. Behind her, Brogan Covell caught up.

  “Where are we, Covell?” she yelled over to him.

  “About a mile down the road, milady,” he called back. “Another nine ahead, and to the right.”

  “You know the way?” she asked. As necessity demanded, she’d slowed down. They rode at a canter, talking as they did. She could feel Grayswift breathing easier and was glad she’d thought to ease the pace.

  “I do,” he shrugged. “Been there once or twice.”

  “Really?” she asked.

  “Aye,” he nodded. “When I came to these parts I stayed there awhile. Good place for a feller tae stay, who has nary a coin in his pocket and no way tae make any.”

  “Oh.” She felt her face shift into a picture of surprise. “You were penurious, when I first met you?”

  “Probably,” he shrugged. “I would agree, if I knew what that word meant.”

  She chuckled. “It means poor. Without material wealth,” she elaborated.

  He chuckled. “Don’t complicate things. Aye…I was, then. Pen…um…”

  “Never mind,” she said, laughing swiftly. It was strange, what wild joy she felt within her, speaking to him. She had never felt this way about anyone.

  They slowed to a walk for a few minutes, letting their horses rest.

  “The rain’s holding,” she said, jerking a head at the clouds, where they showed between the dense green pine leaves. At least, for the next while, they would be dry.