“And Barra.”
He winced. His heart felt as if somebody had twisted it in his chest. He loved Barra. He had loved her from the moment he saw her, and he couldn’t do anything to change that. Loving her had become a sort of torment.
“I brought some water,” a voice called from the narrow hallway.
“You did?” Brodgar turned away from the window abruptly. Fool! He chided himself. How could he not go and help her?
Hoping to make amends, he ran to the door and took the pail from her, grimacing as he lifted it. The water in it was ice cold, chilling his fingers even as they clasped the handle.
“There’s no need,” she murmured. “It’s no’ heavy.”
“It is heavy,” he said, setting it down by the hearth. “And you’re cold.”
She looked up at him. Her brown eyes were clear in the brightness of the room, and he tried to read her expression. Her face was small and dainty and he couldn’t help the fact that he instantly smiled.
“Barra, lass…I ken you’re used to living here – but it’s heavy winter.”
“It’ll be thawing in March,” she grumbled. He noticed that she planted herself by the fireside, though. He tried not to smile.
Standing close, it was impossible for him to ignore the beauty of her body. Her breasts were high and firm, her hips smooth and apparent where the woolen skirts clung a little tighter. He wished with all his strength to touch her.
“Barra…”
She looked up at him. Her head was tilted a little back. Her eyes challenged him. “Brodgar…it’s just a pail of water.”
Brodgar looked at the floor. Her feet were planted firmly on the flagstones, wrapped in cloth shoes. His own feet were still in his boots – he had nothing else to wear. He stepped from one foot to the other, feeling uneasy.
“Barra…you saved me.”
“I did nothing,” she said, voice cold. “You weren’t going tae die from a thump on the head.”
He grinned. “You put me in my place,” he said with a twist of his lips. “I thought I might.”
She had to laugh. “It must have hurt, quite badly.”
He nodded. “It did.”
He felt his lips were lifting into another grin and he made himself be solemn. He knew he shouldn’t be pursuing his affections for Barra, but he wanted to with every ounce of him.
“I should cook some eggs,” she murmured.
“Only if you’re also eating some,” he said quickly.
Barra shrugged. “I had enough porridge.”
Back straight, she moved to the copper bowl and started washing dishes. He watched her, wishing with all his heart that he could just stroke her back, or let his hand rest, however briefly, on her fingers.
Brodgar stirred the fire, receiving a strange look from Barra in return. He wished he could ask her not to tell anybody what she’d seen, but that would only raise more questions and he wasn’t sure how he could answer. Not yet.
She cooked the eggs, her back straight and every part of her seeming to ignore him. He went outside and fetched wood for the fire. There was a stack of logs by the back door, and an ax was hidden in the alcove nearby. He started splitting a large bough to make kindling. As he did so, sweating despite the icy cold, he thought he caught sight of a movement.
“Who’s there?” he shouted.
The movement stopped. Brodgar felt fingers of ice run down his back. He rolled his shoulders, laying the heavy ax against the log. Eyes narrowing, he stared in through the trees.
He spotted something. There was a shadow in the darkness of the tree line that could be a man, hiding there. Holding his breath, he took a step back and then another, so that he was hidden by the curve of the wall. From there, he stuck his head around the corner.
The figure moved.
This time, he didn’t have to doubt his eyes. The form was clearly that of a man, wearing hose, a jerkin and a padded doublet. He had a cloak on, of a soft gray that blended with the trees. His hair was dark, too, covered with a helmet of boiled leather. He tensed, tightening his grip on the ax.
Some soldier, scouting around the place.
He didn’t like the thought of letting him escape alive.
Letting his thoughts settle, he leaned on the wall, his breath regular, heart slowing. He waited for the man to creep forward, and watched him as he grew bolder, walking steadily and quietly out of the trees.
Just ten steps more, lad. Just ten…
He let his mind focus on his breath and made himself calm and steady, all his attention on the man who walked, step by cautious step, towards the farmhouse.
Seven steps, six steps, five, four, three and…now!
Lifting the ax above his head, he burst out.
“Brodgar! No! Wait – please!”
A voice he recognized screamed aloud and Brodgar dropped the ax. He found himself staring into the round, fearful eyes of Greer, his deputy.
“Bollocks,” he spat.
His comrade held up a hand, head shaking. His eyes were wild and he had a greenish look that suggested he was about to be sick then and there.
“Brodgar,” he whispered. “You could have killed me. I meant no harm.” He shut his eyes, his body still shaking.
Brodgar shook his head. “Sorry,” he said grudgingly. “But if you want to avoid getting killed, try not to creep around. I thought you were a soldier.” He leaned forward, letting his own weight rest on the ax handle. He was exhausted.
Greer leaned against the wall, his face white. He gave Brodgar a reproachful stare. “I hope I never sneak up on you unawares again. You’re a lethal man.” He chuckled nervously.
Brodgar grinned, though he wasn’t particularly amused. “I have to be. And so do you. What are you doing here?” he asked, with interest.
“Looking for you.”
“For me?” Brodgar frowned at him. “What made you think I was here?”
“It made sense,” Greer said nervously. “It’s where you were when you were injured a few months back…”
“And so I’d come back here. I hope,” he added with asperity, “you don’t go telling people about that. The last thing I need is for English soldiers to come down on the farm to hunt down rebels.” He looked at the man in his most intimidating manner.
“I told nobody, Brodgar,” Greer said. He sounded shocked, his pale face going even paler. “I would never betray us.”
“I know.” Brodgar studied the snow around his boots, then looked up, straight into Greer’s wide eyes. “You found me. And I’m not sorry you were looking. You had news.” It was a statement of face.
“I have news from our men in Lennoch,” he said quickly. “They’re spotting men moving across the north road. It seems like the enemy is building a garrison in Edinburgh.” He spat.
“Blast them,” Brodgar said angrily. That, he reckoned, was making things hard. With English forts and garrisons all over the country growing stronger, the role of the resistance was becoming harder. They had so few trained men on their side! Most nobles still supported England, and only nobles could bring trained men to their forces.
“I agree,” Greer murmured.
Brodgar looked around. He could see nobody from the farm watching them, and he turned back to Greer. His heart was heavy, but he knew what he had to do.
“I will come to join you,” he said. “After dark.”
“Are you well enough?” Greer asked.
Brodgar followed the man’s gaze, noticing he was staring at his head. He reached up, hand contacting the bandage wrapping his skull. He shook his head, feeling annoyed.
“I’m quite well now,” he said quickly. “It’s just a cut.”
“If you say so,” Greer said dubiously.
“I do,” Brodgar said firmly. “And I am going to join you as soon as I can, which means at nightfall tonight. Have the men ready to march. We’re heading north.”
Greer nodded, though he looked dubious. “Yes, sir.”
Brodgar looked away
, feeling somewhat impatient. It wasn’t every day his men called him “sir”, and he supposed that should be some conciliation. He took a deep breath, not liking the fact that soon he would have to leave. “We’ll see each other at nightfall,” Brodgar murmured.
“Aye.”
He bit back a deprecatory grin. Even the conciliation of being “sir” hadn’t really stuck. And now he would be leaving the farmhouse at a time when he could be furthering his friendship with Barra. The thought twisted his heart.
“I’ll see you later,” he said to Greer. “And mind you don’t snoop around.”
“No, sir,” Greer grinned. “I don’t fancy having my skull cleaved.”
Brodgar tried not to grin, though his amusement did little to warm the coldness in his heart. He looked away, listening to Greer’s footsteps crunching over the snow and ice. Then, leaning back on the wall, he shut his eyes.
“Curse this,” he said softly.
The war was here and he had to leave. He wished he could stay.
Danger In The Woods
Barra drew the blanket up to her chin, feeling restless. The bedroom was cold, the fire in the grate burned down to ash. It wasn’t that which disturbed her, uncomfortable though it was. It was something else.
“There’s something ailing Brodgar.”
She knew him well and she could see the discomfort on his face, the tightness in his eyes. He had been irritable and short-tempered all day, barely speaking a word to her over the dinner table. It was unlike him and she knew there was something wrong.
She rolled onto one side, feeling too restless for repose. His neglect of her was making her sad, cutting right into the heart of her. Her father had seen it and she wished that he had not. She tried to keep up the pretense of lighthearted enjoyment to make him happy. Whether or not he believed it, she couldn’t say.
I wish I could forget all about Brodgar.
She rolled over, trying to go to sleep. The wind had died down a little, the sound of it leaving a sudden silence behind it. It was eerily quiet and Barra sat up, listening to the soft sounds of the house around her: the creak of the wooden floor, the crackle of ashes in the fireplace. Somewhere, snow fell in a rustling crashing heap outside. Rafters creaked.
The window was not covered by a tapestry – Barra had forgotten to put it in place. The snow in the yard glowed blueish, the sky dark blue overhead. More snow fell off the farmhouse roof, down into the white-covered yard.
“What’s that?”
Barra tensed as she caught another movement, a motion that had nothing to do with the normal sounds and rustles of the night. Somebody had lit a candle and was walking across the yard.
Barra froze. Her body stiffened and she couldn’t, in that moment, have moved even if she wanted to. Everything in her tensed with horror. They were here – the English. They were going to burn the farm and slaughter them all in their beds.
She wanted to get up. She knew she should fetch her father and warn him. She had to do something!
Stories of brutality made her rooted to the spot. She had heard of what happened when the English invaded Dunbar – of the slaughter and the violence and cruelty. The streets had run with blood, the inhabitants fleeing if they could. She felt a tear trace down her cheek, the horror of it transfixing her. This was what was being unleashed on her home, her family.
As the figure in the yard stirred again, the candle wavering in his hand, she felt doubt rise up. Something about it was familiar. She knew that stooped posture, the profile that, briefly, was lit up by the flame light.
“Brodgar?”
Not quite ready to believe her eyes, Barra slipped out of bed and drew her cloak about her shoulders. Keeping her back to the wall so the firelight would not show her and give away her presence, she edged along the hallway and to the window by the back door. There, she could see the figure closely as he crossed the yard.
She gripped the broom handle tightly, heart thumping. It was a big man, with chin-length hair under a hooded cloak. Doubt filled her – was it Brodgar? Or would she have to struggle with him, shouting the alarm before he killed her?
She watched him and then, as she saw him lift his hand, she knew it was him. She recognized the thick white scar on the back of his left hand. It was Brodgar.
He walked across the pathway, keeping a low profile. Her curiosity overwhelmed her. What was he doing?
She watched as he walked slowly through the gate. She saw him pause as he dropped the latch down, his eyes going to the window of her bedchamber. He stared at it for a long moment, and Barra felt her heart melt. Then, still walking slowly, as if to avoid being followed, he headed down the pathway.
Barra stood transfixed for a second, and then her feet and her heart made a decision. Reaching for her cloak, she went out.
“I’m just going to follow a little way,” she decided.
She had to know what he was up to. Danger to him was her concern too. He might be offhand and cruel, but that didn’t mean that somewhere in her heart she didn’t care about him. She cared too much – probably, she thought sadly, more than she should. However, she couldn’t help it.
Besides – what if he was going to harm her and her father?
She drew her cloak tight about her shoulders and walked down the path. It was ice under her feet, dangerous and slippery. She gripped the staff she’d brought with her, wincing as she almost slipped.
“Y…you’re daft, Barra.”
She was alone in the winter night, with nothing but a staff. She hadn’t even brought a lantern, for fear of alerting people. She was also following a man who, for all she knew, might be ready to bring a team of soldiers down on the homestead. She knew full well how dangerous English soldiers were, and what her fate would be.
“I don’t believe he’d do that.”
She couldn’t imagine Brodgar as a traitor – neither to his country nor to her household. He was doing something strange, though. She hung back as he paused – his candle was bright in the dark forest, something that was easy to see. It glowed like an eldritch thing and she tiptoed over cracking ice, following him down a treacherous path.
“Shh,” she whispered to herself, as her foot crunched on a twig. Her heart almost stopped. She was eight paces behind Brodgar, and he, too, had stopped. As she went stiff, he turned around.
His eyes seemed to focus on her, but then she realized he wasn’t looking at her at all – he was looking past her, to a stand of trees. An arrow rattled out of the woods.
Barra screamed.
“Down!” Brodgar shouted, and lay flat on the path. Barra had no idea if he shouted at her or someone else. She fell forward, laying her length on the icy path, as another crossbow bolt rattled overhead.
As she lay there, tense with fear, she saw a torch flare in the woods. She felt her heart numb with terror as a mail-clad man held it aloft, and another used the light it shone to aid his aim.
“Brodgar,” she whispered. She stared ahead. She saw him lying there, a bundle of soot black clothing. As she watched, he shot to his feet and ran into the trees. She saw flames spark on metal and she realized he was armed.
“Brodgar, no,” she murmured. She heard a scream, high and pained, and she drew her knees to her chest, a tear running down her cheek. It was raw terror.
She heard a shout and another torch lit, and a crossbow bolt rattled out of the tree line perilously close. As she lay there she heard another shot whir and thump out of the trees on her left. The torch holder screamed and the torch dropped, spilling orange light onto the path near her.
Barra grabbed the torch, then dropped it as a man yelled. She didn’t need to make herself a target. By its light, she discerned perhaps three men, dressed in mail, crouching in the bushes on her right. In the trees on her left she spotted one man, tall and cloaked, holding a bow.
There are two groups of men here, each shooting at the other.
Barra set her back to a tree trunk. That was all she could do. Brodgar had seemingly wa
lked into a trap. Yet, if that was the case, why were there men defending him?
Barra had no time to contemplate matters further – before she had a chance to think about it, the man behind her erupted from the trees with a roar, swinging a weapon. She lay flat again, holding back a scream as she heard the clash of weapons somewhere on the other side of the path. A shot from a crossbow went straight up into the air, then there was the sound of scuffling men.
Barra drew her knees up to her chest, then got up on all fours. Staying as close to the ground as possible seemed the only way to avoid death. She crawled along the path, wincing as the icy water soaked her. If she stayed outside in wet clothes, she would die, and likely more slowly than she would by being wounded.
She inched along the path, reaching the spot where Brodgar had been. His cloak lay in the path, but he was gone.
“No,” she murmured. She threw the cloak around her, hoping its hood would disguise the fact that she was a woman and, without thinking, ran into the woods behind him.
A fight was raging. Brodgar, holding a dagger in one hand, was facing a man with a sword. The man with the sword was bleeding from a slash across his arm that cleaved his leather armor. Brodgar seemed uninjured, though from where she stood behind him, she could see little.
As she watched, the swordsman lifted his weapon. Her heart almost stopped, fearing that Brodgar would be killed. He swung it back, but Brodgar was too close for the swing to be of use. Roaring, he threw himself at the man, knocking him backwards. Barra shut her eyes as she heard a gargling yell that ended on a hissed sigh.
Unexpectedly, she felt her stomach roil. She was on her knees, gasping, as Brodgar sat up. He was sitting dazedly on the ground in front of her. His head was bleeding and she thought she could see a gash on his shoulder.
“Brodgar?” she whispered.
He turned around. The torchlight was bright, but his eyes were dark pools. His face was unreadable. She saw his eyes stretch with surprise.
“Barra…It’s too dangerous.”
She inclined her head. “I noticed.”
In that moment, it was funny. She saw his lips lift in a smile and she started to laugh too, bouts of fear and horror dissolving inside her. The more she laughed, the less hold her fear had. Laughter was power in that moment, and relief. She felt her shoulders shake and she thought it would be too easy to laugh and not to stop.
Protection By Her Deceptive Highlander (Iron 0f The Highlands Series Book 5) Page 3
