Protection By Her Deceptive Highlander (Iron 0f The Highlands Series Book 5)

by Emilia Ferguson

  Brodgar felt as if he had been slapped in the face. He was the earl’s nephew! He was clearly a well-trained, experienced fighter. His uncle was acting as if he was the greenest recruit in the castle garrison. He fixed him with a cold glare.

  “I think I could assist in the men’s training,” he said softly. It was a mild-enough comment, but his uncle’s eyes narrowed.

  “That is my role. Are you thinking to usurp me here? Have you, perhaps, set your sights on the earldom as well?”

  Brodgar tensed. The earldom was his birthright, should his uncle fail to have sons and his brothers pass away. He had no reason not to consider it. Yet, he was by no means plotting against his uncle, and nor would he.

  “I am content with my place in line,” he said after a brief pause.

  His uncle blinked, the expression on his face unchanging. “Good,” he said, turning his back on both men. “In which case, you will fight me before the garrison. I could do with a demonstration, and it will assure the men that there is to be no selecting between us.”

  Brodgar felt his brows lift. Was his uncle suggesting that he would beat him hollow before the men, thereby proving that Brodgar was not a good choice as the earl?

  “Uncle…” he began. His uncle whirled round to face him.

  “Are you scared to fight me, nephew?” The words were a scourge, like salt rubbed into a wound. He smiled, a thin and contemptuous grin.

  “No,” Brodgar protested, then looked away, frustrated, as his uncle’s smile broadened.

  “Good,” his uncle said.

  Before he knew what was happening to him, Brodgar found himself standing before the assembled garrison. A crescent of men had gathered in the courtyard, facing the open colonnade in the front. As Brodgar found himself before his uncle – who stood with his sword drawn, in a fighting stance – more men started to arrive.

  Brodgar looked around the circle bemusedly.

  “Are you going to fight, nephew?” his uncle challenged him. His face was impassive and Brodgar could recognize the flat, cold eyes of a killer. His uncle was a fine warrior – there was no question in his mind about that. He swallowed hard and felt a twinge of fear.

  He was still holding his sword, still damp with sweat from the previous fight around its hand grip. He lifted it to fighting position, moving in a slow circle as his uncle stepped, his blade held two-handed, searching for weak spots in Brodgar’s defense.

  The whole garrison, it seemed – or all the fighters – had turned out to watch them. Brodgar was trying to ignore the weight of their collective gaze, a subtle tension in the air. It felt as if all fifty men were willing him to fight.

  Don’t let them make you act hastily. Wait for an opportunity, before you lift your sword.

  Brodgar tried to listen to the counsel in his mind, but it was hard and he found himself feeling tense and pressured. He took a lunge forward, and his uncle’s sword swatted his aside with a force that sent him reeling back.

  Brodgar regained his balance, his wrist aching. He watched his uncle, who looked perfectly calm. His ragged dark hair was loose about his shoulders and his gray eyes were impassive and empty. He seemed to be waiting for Brodgar to err again.

  I can’t afford too many more blows like that.

  Brodgar watched his uncle carefully, trying to spot any weak points. His uncle lifted his sword a little high on the right, which might allow him to get in a blow under his guard. That was the only weakness he could see. Tucking the thought away in the back of his mind, he stepped left, circling his opponent.

  “Ha!” His uncle let out a sharp exhalation as he lunged forward. Brodgar blocked the blow grimly, which could have sliced straight through his torso. He felt it ring down his arms and shake his elbows, and he gritted his teeth and tried to slow his breath.

  He was exhausted. He couldn’t afford to be exhausted. The man opposite him smiled again and he felt his stomach twist. He made a show of lifting his sword, but it was barely raised and he lowered it again rather than let his uncle notice how his arms juddered.

  “Ah,” his uncle said softly, raising a brow and cutting down, making his blade ring against his nephew’s. Brodgar felt his arms ache and he knew that a single blow like that would be more than he could bear. He had to end this soon, or he would be beaten hollow and lose what little faith the men still had.

  He watched his uncle step back. He too was sweating, a bit trickling down his forehead where his ragged dark hair blew loose. He recalled what he had noticed earlier – that his uncle tended to lift his sword high when he raised it. That was the only weakness he could exploit.

  This time, in the moment before his uncle chose to strike, he lifted his own blade up, forcing his uncle to raise his own. Then, in the hardest move his instructor had ever taught him – and the riskiest – he dropped to one knee, ramming his blade up.

  It hissed upwards, slicing into the leather doublet his uncle wore, and he held the point up under the man’s throat. His uncle’s eyes widened and the expression of contempt turned, for just a moment, into fear. He saw it, but he had little chance to enjoy it, his wrist was jumping and his breath had almost stopped.

  There was deathly silence in the courtyard and his uncle took a step back, his sword held in his left hand. The men around them looked at him with a sort of appalled quiet. Then, when his uncle gestured at Brodgar, the men started to chant.

  “Brodgar! Brodgar!”

  They were smiling and laughing and Brodgar noticed some men that he knew – Luke was among them, and one or two other men he knew. He looked at them bemusedly, the applause barely reaching through to his exhausted thoughts.

  “Nephew, you did well,” his uncle murmured. “If you ever try to usurp me again, you will pay.”

  The last was said too quietly for the men to hear. Brodgar, hearing it, took a moment to register the words. When he had, however, he looked at him in dull surprise. He had no idea that his uncle had considered him a threat. Was that what all this had been about?

  He followed his uncle through from the courtyard, but his heart was sore. He had not anticipated having to fight his uncle – quite literally – for what was his right. He was the heir after his uncle, and it was natural that he should assume some level of command at the fortress. The fact that he found himself battling for it – to the very life – was terrible.

  He leaned against the wall, sighing. His uncle and the others had left the field, leaving him alone. He was cold, the sweat drying on his skin.

  “Brodgar?” a voice said behind him. “My lord?”

  Brodgar opened an eye, feeling impossibly tired. He found himself looking at Luke. He frowned. The man’s face was drawn and nervous. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Sir? The woman…Miss Hume – she’s staying in the servant’s quarters. She’s found herself some work in the kitchens. I thought you’d like to know.”

  “Oh?” Brodgar felt instantly alert, despite the pain that was searing through every part of his body. He nodded. “I did want to know. Thank you, Luke.”

  “Of course, sir,” Luke nodded. “It’s nothing but my duty to you.”

  As Luke headed off across the courtyard, Brodgar wondered how many of the men felt like that. Did they all see it as their duty to serve him? Or were most of them drawn to his uncle? Charismatic, the man undoubtedly was – he had the raw, cruel strength that he thought many fighting men would admire.

  “I don’t mind,” he murmured. His concern was Barra, and he went to the kitchens to find her.

  Settling In

  Barra sat by the fireplace, her back warm against the blaze. She looked around the vast, dark space and – for the first time in a very long while – she felt some sense of safety.

  This is my sort of place.

  The kitchen, with the order the cook imposed, and the disorder that inevitably happened when the soldiers, the hounds or the pot boys did something untoward, this was a space that was familiar.

  “Get that soup off the heat,
will you?” the cook – a strong-armed woman with a thin, harsh face – demanded. “Or, rather, check if it’s ready? If it’s not, give it a stir. I don’t want to take something half-done upstairs – not when the laird’s got company.” She reached for a barrel of flour, turning her back on Barra.

  Barra jumped up to go to the hearth. She reached for a ladle, blew on the spoonful of soup and sampled it. As far as she could tell, it was almost ready, the flavoring of herbs and spring onions had spread through the thick broth, which was coating the back of the spoon in sticky damp. She gave it a stir and, wincing, took the pot hook and tried to lift the cauldron off the blaze.

  “Whew.” She staggered to the flagstones and put it down, surprised by the ache in her arms. The thing was extremely heavy. The cook, busy preparing bread, had her back to her. Barra leaned on the wall, giving herself a chance to recover.

  “Mind you don’t leave it standing in the way,” the cook said without turning around. “We don’t want anybody knocking it.”

  “No,” Barra said, wincing. “We don’t.”

  She had no idea how she was going to move it, and was doing her best when she heard footsteps behind her. She turned around to see Luke in the kitchen.

  “Miss Hume,” he said with a small nod. “Is that needing a hand?”

  “Please,” Barra said. She felt cared for as Luke lifted it up easily, standing it on the table. When he was done, he turned to her with a frown.

  “His lordship asked after you,” he said. “Wanted to know you’re alright.”

  “I’m fine,” Barra said quietly. She could see the cook was listening to them, and she heard her give a small snort, as if she disapproved of her kitchen help conversing with soldiers.

  “He was in the yard earlier, training with the men,” Luke informed her. “Seems as if he’s settling in well enough.”

  “Good,” Barra nodded. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear, her hair starting to frizz a little from the steaminess of the kitchen. She felt her heart thud. She would like to have been there, to have seen the practice yard and the training he was doing.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re alright here,” Luke said, giving her that concerned look that had touched her so much from the moment she met him. He reached for a bread roll that was cooling on the sideboard, and took a hefty bite. Barra tried not to gasp – if the cook saw him, she’d probably smack his face.

  “Luke…”

  “I’m on my way,” he said. He winked as he headed back out through the door. “Just wanted to let you know his lordship’s off-duty now.”

  “Good,” she murmured.

  Once she knew that, it was hard for Barra to stay and help out in the kitchens. She wasn’t exactly obligated to – it wasn’t her job, but she was staying in the castle and it seemed natural to find some way to help out. Even so, she found herself looking longingly at the doorway, where the sun was setting.

  As soon as the cook was loading fresh bread rolls into the oven, she took a chance to slip away unobserved.

  The garden around the kitchen was cold, the breeze stiff and crisp, blowing up from the land. She shivered, drawing her shawl around her shoulders. The sun had set, and the place was dark, the shadows dense and deep. She tiptoed through the gate of the kitchen garden, heading up towards the big courtyard.

  “Barra?” she jumped, turning as she heard her name called. He was standing in the shadows by the wall, perhaps six paces away. Barra ran to him as he stepped forward, arms outstretched. She wrapped her arms around Brodgar, holding him to her. She could feel tension in his body, his muscles taut and stiff.

  “Brodgar,” she whispered into his hair.

  “Barra,” he whispered back. His lips found hers and clung to them, drinking her as if he was a desperate man. He drew her against him, and she murmured with pleasure as his body rubbed against hers. She felt that aching longing that she had felt so many times as she held him, feeling his firm body on hers.

  “Brodgar,” she said again, looking up at him. His face was obscured in shadow, but she could see the sharp outlines of his cheeks, the well-formed planes of his face. His eyes shone in the dark. “You are alright?”

  He smiled. “I was worried for you. I meant to ask the same thing, lass. How are you faring? They’re treating you properly?”

  She nodded, feeling touched by the depth of his care. “I am well,” she murmured.

  She looked up at him, studying his face. She could sense that there was something not quite right in his world. He was frowning, an expression she rarely saw on that sweet, gentle face. His eyes were tense at the edges and she rested a hand on the side of his face, stroking it gently.

  “My dearest,” she murmured. It was out of her before she could stop it. She tensed, waiting for him to tell her that it was not her place. That he was the laird’s nephew, and she was little better than nobody here.

  He lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips. She felt her heart melt.

  “Barra,” he said softly. He reached for her and held her with gentleness against his chest. His hands stroked her hair and she could feel the rise and fall of his breathing as he held her close. “I am so glad you are well. I have been worried. Tell me – has everyone been treating you properly?”

  Barra nodded. She thought of Greer, of the way he looked at her and how frightened she felt of him. She decided to say nothing, however. There was something that worried Brodgar already, and she did not wish to add to his cares.

  “Brodgar,” she murmured. “And you? There is something worrying you, my dearest.” She said it now without a sense of shame.

  “There is nothing,” he said, then hesitated. “Well…there is something. But…it is of no real matter. I will be quite alright. I worry for you, lass. As long as you are safe, then all is well for me.”

  She smiled and stroked his cheek. She hoped that was all that bothered him. However, it was clear there was more to it, and she felt a prickle of fear down her own spine. What was it that distressed him so?

  She was trying to find the words to ask him what it was that ailed him, when, utterly unexpectedly, he bent down and pressed his lips to her cheek. It was such a sudden, unexpected touch that she jumped, then reached for him, pressing her body to his, her fingers twisting in his hair.

  His lips were tender on hers, gently exploring her mouth. His tongue, firm and insistent, pressed its way into her mouth and she moaned and twined her arms around him, holding him closer. She didn’t want to let him go. She wanted to feel his body on hers and let his hands wander across to her breasts, and…

  Gasping, he leaned back and broke the kiss. His eyes held hers.

  “Your kisses are dangerous,” he murmured. He was smiling, though, his eyes a little wild.

  She felt his comment make her smile. She couldn’t help it. A ragged-haired warlord with a crooked smile and those burning eyes, and he found her dangerous? She had to laugh.

  “They are,” he insisted.

  She smiled and reached up and stroked his head. Touching him made her want to kiss him, kissing him made her want to lie down below him and do things that she had only imagined doing, and never with someone in particular.

  “If I stay a moment longer, I will not be able to stop myself,” he said softly.

  She looked at her feet, cheeks burning. She knew exactly what he meant. She looked hastily away.

  “I should go,” she said softly. “I will be missed.”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t leave. She couldn’t make herself go. They looked at each other and then she stiffened her spine and made herself walk away.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said firmly.

  “Barra…” he called. She turned and looked into his eyes and they smiled and then hurried away into the dark, cheeks red.

  “It’s getting cold out,” the cook grumbled as she heard her come inside. “And it’s so dark you can barely see. I did wonder what you were up to out there…thought you were lost.” She shook her he
ad, stalking across to the hearth, where she checked the heat of the fire. “Not ready yet,” she added.

  “Sorry, cook,” Barra said, hastily heading to the big stoneware sink where they washed the used dishes. “I was just looking over the herbs, and I lost track of time.”

  “You know herbs?” the cook raised a brow. She looked surprised, but Barra couldn’t tell if her surprise was positive or negative. She cleared her throat, considering what she should say.

  “I do,” she said carefully. “But, well…just for flavoring stew and the like. Nothing special.”

  The cook nodded slowly. “Well, then,” she said, turning away to check on something that was boiling on the stove. “You can go outside and fetch in something to flavor this gravy. It’s for the fish over there.”

  Barra frowned, checked the fish that was laid out to roast, and nodded. She would fetch dill, maybe parsley…some sorrel…she was going over the list as she fetched a basket and her cloak, and she was so distracted, walking along the rows of herbs, that she didn’t notice the man who was watching her until she almost bumped into him.

  “Oh!” she gasped, covering her mouth with her hand.

  The soldier smiled, more a leer than a smile. She recognized his face and drew in a breath.

  “Greer,” she stammered. “What are you doing here?”

  He grinned at her. “Why are you asking me that?” he asked, holding out a hand to her. She didn’t take it. “You’re the one who’s new around here. I belong here. And you would be well served to be nice to me…I can help you out.”

  Barra took another small step away. “I need no help,” she whispered, feeling her heart thud in her chest, fit to stifle her lungs. “I am settling in well, finding good work.”

  “If you want to really make a way for yourself, you’d do best to come to me,” he said, and his eyes were sparkling in an unwholesome way. “I can help you to get established. I have my own room in the attic, you know…a girl could do a lot worse.”