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

by Emilia Ferguson

  He found himself face-to-face with a rider. Face brooding and cruel, he stared down at him from horseback.

  “No,” the man said. “Not Irmengarde. But thank you for letting us know she’s here.” It was Clovis.

  “No,” Brogan whispered, horror churning in his stomach. What had he done?

  “Brogan!” he heard her voice call out. He turned around. His body tensed in horror and he felt his fingers move to the hilt of his sword.

  There, standing between two soldiers, her long hair dampened by the mist, was Irmengarde.

  “No!”

  Brogan felt utter rage start to grow and swell inside him. It moved with lightning speed, consuming him from his feet to his hair. He roared with it and he felt his fingers close around the hilt of the sword, the one he’d stolen when they escaped. A long two-handed sword, he brought it up in a silver arc.

  “Brogan! No!” Irmengarde screamed. “Behind you!”

  Brogan turned around, as he heard the horse rumble across the dirt path. He jerked out of the way and struck out blindly at the rider. He heard the man scream as the blade cut into his thigh. He saw him collapse a moment in the saddle.

  One of the guards holding Irmengarde screamed and ran at him. Brogan blinked, aware that he was about to be massacred. He felt his fingers tighten on the sword. A voice cut through the utter silence.

  “Men, no! I want to finish him.”

  To Brogan’s astonishment, Clovis slipped out of the saddle. White face, teeth gnashed, he limped over towards him. His hand went to the hilt of his sword.

  “I am going to cut you down,” he said to Brogan. “And she can watch. And then I’ll feed your body to the dogs.”

  “No!” Irmengarde screamed. He turned to look at her.

  “Hit her,” he commanded one of the guards curtly.

  Brogan felt ice grip his soul. He felt his fingers stiffen on the hilt of the sword. He had never even thought of killing anyone. Now, he felt murderous.

  “Come on, stable hand,” the baron mocked. “Ever used a sword?”

  Brogan swallowed his rage. He knew enough about fistfights to know that anger was the worst strategy. He looked over at Irmengarde. She looked across at him, white-faced.

  He smiled at her, trying to look as reassuring as possible. Then, slowly, he let himself turn back to Clovis. The man’s face as white with rage.

  “Come on, horse boy!” he roared. “Show us how you fight.”

  Brogan winced and lifted his sword. Clovis let the blow rain down from on high, a cleaving arc that should have well nigh halved him. He brought the blade up instinctively. The two blades rang and his wrists burned.

  Clovis gritted his teeth, twisting the blade to withdraw it from the lock. Then he stepped back, regarding Brogan with those dark eyes. Soulless they might have been, but now they were filled with a curdled, awful rage. Brogan lifted his sword, feeling his guts twist.

  The next blow came from the left side. Brogan twisted around desperately, blocking it at the last minute. The blade cut his knee as it fell. He gasped, the sting feeling like a burn.

  Clovis smiled. The next arc rang down from above, but this time the blow lacked force. He was bleeding from his thigh and Brogan wondered if he was tiring. His own leg stung, and he felt how wet it was.

  I need to try and get us out of here.

  Roaring, he ran at the baron.

  Irmengarde screamed. Clovis swatted aside his blade contemptuously, then raised his own. Brogan looked up, transfixed, as the silver blade plunged so slowly towards his head.

  “Brogan! Down!” Irmengarde screamed.

  Her words cut through the hypnotic trance and he listened, lifting the blade and stabbing forward. She was right – Clovis, with his arms up, had left his lower body unprotected. It was his only chance. He stabbed and felt the blade strike ribs.

  Clovis roared, and blood flowed down his side. Brogan turned to Irmengarde. One of the guards was standing by the horses, too far away to grab her if she moved fast. The other guard had loosed his grip on her wrist and was hesitating, unsure of whether to obey his master or help save him.

  “Irmengarde! Run!”

  She blinked, then, taking in the information he’d just noted, screamed and ran forward. He took her hand and together they sprinted through the trees.

  “Not…going…to make it,” Irmengarde whispered.

  He shook his head. “Mist will…hide us.”

  Together, they ran downhill. On the hilltop, he could hear the sound of hoof beats, and shouting. They plunged, slipping and running, down the hillside.

  “He can’t follow,” Irmengarde panted. “If we follow the river.”

  Brogan nodded. He could hear the river rushing, the curve of it following the base of the hill. He almost tripped and skidded on the stones. The sword was still in his left hand, his right hand clamped on hers. He still wondered at the fact that he’d been able to use it.

  “Almost…there,” she panted.

  He nodded and slipped and fell, drawing her with him. They landed in a bruised heap on the pebbles.

  “Ouch,” he grunted.

  She rolled over, twisting underneath him. He couldn’t help but feel better, having her body so close to his. He reached for her hand and tried to help her up but found he couldn’t stand either.

  “Your leg,” she whispered. “It’s a bad cut.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve seen worse,” he observed.

  “I’ve seen better, too.” She said with a frown. “It doesn’t help to compare it.”

  He chuckled. “No. It does feel odd.”

  She reached for his hand. “Stay here,” she whispered. “It’s going to take them a long time to get down that hill.”

  He nodded. The way they’d come down the hill seemed impossibly sloped, now that he looked at it from below, and there were not paths to follow that would lead here, save on the other side of the river. It would take them a few hours to get down here on horseback. That itself required that they knew where to look.

  “We could stay here,” she whispered. “And tend your wound.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, one brow raised. The thought of it felt good. He flexed his leg, realizing that the knee was throbbing. His trouser leg was stiff with blood.

  “Let’s cut that away,” she said. She reached for a tiny knife, producing it out of a pocket he hadn’t noticed she wore, strapped around her waist near the kirtle.

  He felt his body respond as she reached for his leg, her cool fingers touching the skin as she cut off the trouser leg below the knee, a tiny frown curving her forehead.

  “There,” she said. “Och…look at that.”

  He winced. A big gash welled with dark blood from its depths. He could see how swollen the knee was. She started to cut at her petticoat. He caught her wrist.

  “No, lass.”

  “It needs bandaging.”

  Her brown gaze held his stare and he subsided, grinning broadly. “I should know better than to argue with you.”

  She nodded.

  He laughed and let her tie a bandage around her knee, wincing as she pressed the knot into the wound, to stop the bleeding.

  “Ouch.”

  “Stop complaining.”

  They both laughed. He took her hand and she squeezed his fingers. They sat side by side on the stones.

  The roar of the river covered other sounds. Brogan let his finger stroke her hand, loving the soft feel of her skin. He felt strangely bold, as if, now that he was wounded, he had the freedom to speak his heart.

  “You know,” he said. “You look so beautiful.”

  She chuckled mirthlessly. “I doubt it,” she said. She scrubbed at her cheek, where a dirt stain had marked it.

  “You always do,” he said, reaching for her cheek. “Stains and all.”

  She pulled a face. “Thanks. I think.”

  They both laughed. He took her hand again and closed his eyes.

  “You know,” he said slowly. “I knew you we
re special from the moment I saw ye. And it didn’t take long for me to fall in love with ye. I love ye, Irmengarde. I always will.”

  Beside him, he heard her draw in a sharp breath. He tensed. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. It was inappropriate. She would think him foolish. Why did…

  “I love you too, Brogan.”

  He blinked, not quite believing the words. Had he really heard that? Or had he filled it in, imagining that to be what she’d said?

  “You do?”

  She laughed. “You can be very silly, you know.”

  He blushed.

  A DESTINATION IS REACHED

  Brogan rode along the edge of the cliffs. It had been a week’s long journey to get here, but now he could smell the sea. He stared, still not able to believe it.

  “It’s huge!”

  Irmengarde, riding along the path ahead of him, turned around, one brow raised. “It is.”

  He laughed. As always, she amazed him. She was so beautiful and so free, riding along the cliffs so carelessly beside the heaving, roaring water.

  The ocean seemed not to be any source of surprise to her, even though she assured him she’d also never seen it. He, for his own part, couldn’t stop staring. Miles and miles of heaving gray water, it defied imagination. It was bigger, wilder and wider than anything he could ever have imagined. He could have stared at it forever, save that he noticed Irmengarde was racing ahead into the distance.

  He breathed in the dizzying smell of salt air and rode after her.

  Irmengarde, hearing him approach, glanced over her shoulder. She raised a brow at him.

  “I did promise you a race one day.”

  “You did, milady. And we’ve had it already.” He smiled. “Yesterday. Remember?”

  She laughed. “You only say that because I beat you.”

  He chuckled. “Aye. I’m not ready for another bashing.” It was true. She was fast and skilled in a way he, for all his experience, could never be.

  She nodded and he saw her tense, leaning forward. “Yah!”

  She sped off and he, laughing, struggled to keep up.

  She stopped to let the horse rest a minute or two later. She was leaning on her horse’s neck, a sly grin on her face. Her brow was damp and her hair was curling in the salty air. He felt his body go tense and let out a sigh of breath. He wanted her so much, when he saw her looking like that.

  “Good ride,” he said.

  “I beat you again.”

  He laughed. “I am going to stop trying soon.”

  She shook her head. “For somebody who seems unable to resist a challenge, I can’t imagine that.”

  He pulled a face. “It’s true.”

  She laughed. “Well, we ought to carry on. We are almost at Queensferry.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The abbot told us,” she called over her shoulder. “Remember? Two days’ ride after the inn at Almsfield.”

  “But how would he know?” he called back. “I bet the abbot never rode to Queensferry.”

  “He probably didn’t.” She retorted. “But somebody could have told him.”

  “True.”

  He let her ride ahead, speeding along the coast. He himself was too interested in staring at the sea. They had stayed in an inn a few hours’ ride from it, and when he’d seen it in the distance he had assumed it to be a big lake. That was the biggest water source he’d ever seen.

  The sound of it, the smell…they had caught his attention before they finally rounded the corner and he’d seen it. All he could do was stare at it.

  “It’s huge.”

  His awe of it was similar to the way he felt when he looked at Irmengarde riding, the wind in her hair, that smile lighting her face. He felt breathless when he looked at her and he felt breathless when he looked at the sea.

  Now, he gripped with his knees and rode off along the clifftop.

  There was a town in the bay. He saw the roofs before they got there, the tiles shining damply in the sunlight. He smiled. She was right. As he rode ahead to tell her, she stopped.

  “What, sweetling?”

  She was rigid, sitting her horse. Her eyes were big and he thought he saw tears.

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  He felt tense. What was it? Had he done something?

  “Sweetling? Did I do something?”

  “I just…” she whispered, and he had to lean in to hear her voice over the endless roar of the wind. “I just…this is hard, Brogan. It’s a big step.”

  Brogan felt cold inside. Why would she say that? Was she regretting what they’d done? Did she still love Clovis? Had she ever loved him?

  “Why?” he asked.

  He asked with genuine curiosity.

  She stared at him. “If I need to tell you, then you needn’t stay to listen to my answer.”

  Saying that, she spurred away down the hill. Brogan felt like his heart had broken. He rode to join her. Silently they rode into the town.

  Noise and the smell of fish assailed them. Brogan choked, feeling bile tickle the back of his throat. He wasn’t sure if he liked towns like this. It was so big, the houses close and small, clustered together in the bay. The thatched roofs were glistening with droplets from the mist, and the stalls of the fishmonger reeked of rotting fish. In the bay, seagulls cried and flocked about the boats.

  Irmengarde rode ahead of him, her back straight, holding onto the reins. She looked more like a lady than she ever had. She had changed into the simple white dress the monks had provided, but she looked like a queen.

  He wanted to ride up to her, but he hesitated. That icy wall of dignity shut him out.

  “Fresh haddock!” bawled a stallholder. Brogan looked down at him uncomprehendingly. He could smell the fish from here, but he was riding as if he was trapped in his own cloak of silence. He squeezed his horse with his knees to get ahead of the man. He kept on shouting after them. The words fell on deaf ears.

  Irmengarde rode to the inn. She dismounted swiftly in the inn yard. Two stable hands scampered to do her bidding. She turned her back and walked up the stairs without a backward glance. Brogan caught up on the top step.

  “Shall I take our things up, lass?”

  She looked through him. “I will request a room for myself, and another for you.”

  “Yes.” He nodded.

  It was only after their things had been settled into two rooms and Irmengarde was sitting in the parlor that he managed to speak with her. A tear rolled down her cheek.

  “Milady?” he whispered. She was sitting on a wooden chest, looking out over the water. He knelt down beside her.

  “Brogan, please leave me.”

  “Alright,” he said. He cleared his throat, which was tight with emotions. “But please…tell me if I can do something.”

  “Brogan…I’m scared.”

  He felt like a fool. He reached for her hands. “Oh, Irmengarde. I’m a fool.”

  “Probably.” She grinned. “But you’re a loveable one.”

  He laughed and held her fingers. She held onto his hands. “I’ve been married to Clovis since I was a girl, Brogan. My father…” she whispered. “My father told me I had to do it. That my family would suffer if I didn’t. I was so young! I believed him.”

  Brogan could only nod helplessly.

  “When I married Clovis, I thought that things could be different. That maybe I was mistaken, that he couldn’t be too bad.” She sniffed. “He could be charming. Sometimes. I still hoped. But then I…he…”

  Brogan nodded as she started crying again. He could imagine what had happened to her. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to hear about it. He tensed and wished that he’d killed Clovis when he had the chance.

  “I don’t want to have to tell the bishop. And what will he say? What will he do…? What if Clovis has already gotten there?”

  Brogan swallowed hard. He honestly hadn’t thought about it. However, she was right.

  “We will manage that when we come to
that.”

  “Oh, Brogan,” she whispered. She smiled through her tears. “I do hope you are always like this.”

  He grinned. Then, thinking about what she’d said and what it meant, he flushed. “I hope you’re always there to see me.”

  She stroked his head. “I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

  He turned around and stared at her. “You mean it?”

  She laughed. “Of course!”

  He took a deep breath, suddenly feeling a tightness in his throat. “Och lass.”

  She smiled at him, a slow sweet smile. “Well, now that we’re here, we might as well see what they have for dinner.”

  “Not fish,” he said, eyes wide. “It smelled.”

  She roared with laughter. “It wasn’t that bad.”

  He laughed. “Yes, it was.”

  She shook her head. “You are intolerably countrified.”

  “I might be, if I knew what it meant.”

  She giggled again. “It means you’re more at home in a bothy in the mountains.”

  He frowned. “Well, yes, I am. Why shouldn’t I be?”

  She just smiled.

  He followed her to the dining room. As much as he had feared, there was no smell of fish. He sat down heavily and drew in a deep breath. She grinned.

  “Would you like to ask what they have to offer?”

  He nodded bravely. She laughed.

  “You, sir,” she called to the proprietor. “What have you tonight?”

  The man dabbed the sweat off his forehead and paused in concentration. “Um…we have fish pie, and baked fish.”

  She grinned and turned an inquiring gaze on Brogan. “Well? Which would you prefer?”

  His face was a picture. He swallowed hard. “Um, the fish pie?”

  She nodded. “Two helpings of fish pie, please. And two mugs of ale?”

  When the man had gone, she looked at him. He smiled and they both laughed. She felt her body light up and she slid her feet closer to his, aware of the warmth of his leg under the table. She saw his eyes widen and then narrow and looked away before her own body responded too strongly.

  “Lass?” he frowned. “You organized the rooms, aye?”

  She swallowed hard. “Yes. They’re opposite one another.”

  He raised a brow, and she saw his throat working and his eyes stare. She chuckled.