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

by Emilia Ferguson

“Aye,” he nodded. “We’d best think about shelter, for nightfall.”

  “You think we won’t make it?” Irmengarde felt a fresh shudder of fear.

  He frowned. “I reckon we will, milady,” he said. “Just planning ahead.”

  “Fine,” she said tersely. “I would prefer not to consider any other alternatives, save that we arrive safely at our destination tonight.”

  He shrugged. “Reckon we will, milady.”

  “You know he might kill me?” she asked, annoyed. “Or make somebody else do it, anyway,” she demurred. Clovis wouldn’t do the deed himself…he cared too much about his reputation to kill anyone in a fit of rage. Anyone who might be missed, anyway.

  She saw him go pale. “Milady…” he stammered. “Ye cannot mean that!”

  She nodded. “Of course he would.” Again, she felt impatient with him. “You have no idea of the lot of women, have you?”

  He nodded. “I don’t, no. Beg pardon, milady.”

  “Well, you are honest, at least,” Irmengarde said tersely. “That is something, I reckon.”

  “Pretty useless something, right now.”

  “Don’t say that,” she said. “Honesty is the most useful thing. It’s a bit like a map. You know where you are, with it.”

  He nodded. “That’s true, milady.”

  They rode side-by-side for a long while. After perhaps another mile, he cleared his throat.

  “I wish we had one.”

  “What?” Irmengarde frowned. “Lunch?” Her stomach was starting to growl, and her head spun.

  “No, milady. That, too. A map.”

  “I have one,” she said.

  It was his turn to look astonished. “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  His face softened…an almost shy look creeping across it. “Can I see?”

  She grinned. “Never seen one?”

  “No.”

  “Of course.”

  She felt in her pocket, feeling for the precious boundary chart. She’d stolen it from Clovis’ office that morning. As luck would have it, he and the visiting knights had been using it, or she wouldn’t have even known about it.

  His expression, as he took the leather sheet, was priceless. She felt her heart warm, seeing the excitement and awe he felt. His eyes went big as he studied it, the horse standing in the middle of the pathway, while Brogan’s eyes roving over the pictures of the hills and lochs, sketched in with tender care by monks.

  “This is the fortress, yes?” he inquired after a long moment.

  Irmengarde rode closer, bringing her horse shoulder-to-shoulder with his and looked down at where he gestured with a long finger to a detailed picture of Tysdale, painted from the side. She nodded.

  “And so…if we’re leaving from the west gate, this is our road, the one we’re on?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she replied, impressed he’d understood so swiftly. Many people took days to understand the idea of land depicted on a sheet of leather, and he’d taken to it fast.

  “And…” he asked after a long while. “You reckon this is the sanctuary?”

  He was pointing at a painting of a white, steepled structure, depicted as being on top of a hill, close to a body of water. She nodded.

  “Reckon so.”

  He frowned. “So, we should stick to this road? Goes straight there.”

  “Yes,” Irmengarde nodded. “I think so.”

  He grinned. “Good. Then it’s easy. Let’s go on. And I hope the monks have supper for us.”

  She smiled. “So do I!” she said fervently. “Can we stop for luncheon soon?”

  He shrugged. “Let’s go another mile. Then we’ll be halfway. We need to rest the horses then, anyway.”

  “Grand,” she said.

  Their eyes held and she took a deep breath. “Thank you,” she said.

  “I did naught,” he said gruffly.

  He reached out and took her hand for a long moment. She looked into his eyes. Her heart thudded in her chest, a low, long beat of excitement.

  Then they turned away and rode, side by side, into the woodlands.

  They had another six miles before they could rest and be safe again.

  RIDING AT NIGHT

  The woods were growing darker as they rode. Irmengarde looked about, feeling the hair on the back of her neck stand up with alarm. It had been a dark day earlier, but now, after a pause to rest and have some lunch, the day was almost night dark, though she guessed it could not be much more than five hours since the hour of noon. She knew they had taken the right turning, and that the road was straightforward from here. However, the place was fraught with peril.

  Wolves. Bears. Outlaws.

  Of the three, the last was by far the greatest danger. Irmengarde felt her knuckles grip the reins and tried, in vain, to dismiss her fear.

  It’s nothing. We haven’t any outlaws in these woods. They were all cleared out by the King’s own guard, of late.

  All the same, as they cantered onward, she felt herself growing more and more afraid. It wasn’t simply that – it was the threat of Clovis following. He would certainly have noticed she was gone by now. If so, why was he doing nothing? She didn’t trust him, and every hour made her fear worse.

  “How much further, think you?” she called to Brogan.

  He was riding a white horse, but she couldn’t see him. The silence pressed close and she strained her eyes for a glimpse of him in the inky dark.

  “Another mile or so.” His voice came back, sounding muffled. She looked up the path and spotted him about twenty paces ahead. She patted Grayswift’s neck in encouragement.

  “Not too long to go now, lass,” she informed her. “Can we catch up?”

  Her horse snorted and she gently pressed on her sides with weary legs, asking her for one last canter to catch up with Brogan. Her horse carried her valiantly ahead.

  “Think you there are wolves about?” she called as she got closer to Brogan.

  “Probably,” Brogan said. His eyes glinted in the dark, and below them a shaky smile. “I reckon they’ll not approach people, though. Not before they’re really hungry, and it’s not springtime yet.”

  Irmengarde nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. He was right. They were safe for the moment at least – the wolves would be preoccupied in the autumn, catching the vast variety of game to be caught.

  “Well, we’ll reach the place soon,” she whispered back.

  “Aye,” he agreed. “I reckon we will.”

  They rode on into the darkness.

  Irmengarde felt her heart start to lift. They were making real progress. They had ridden for three hours, and were in the valley now, and the road was beginning to slope. Soon, they would be at the top of the next hill. The abbey would be there, warm and inviting. She could almost smell the broth and bannocks waiting for them. It had been a modest place when first she’d stayed there, over a year ago, but their welcome had been warm.

  “Soon, we’ll be in a warm stable, with lots and lots of hay,” she promised her horse.

  Grayswift snorted, and Irmengarde sent a silent prayer that she was right, and the abbey would welcome them that well.

  “Almost there,” Brogan called back.

  “Good,” Irmengarde replied, feeling assured. She watched him as he rode. He was so strong and certain, his back straight, his head held almost nobly. He was a fine looking man. She thought about that moment in the grounds, when he’d kissed her on the forehead. Her body heated with a flush.

  Irmengarde, stop being silly, she chided herself crossly. He was not for her. She might as well think about the head priest at the abbey as dwell on thoughts of him. Her cheeks flamed.

  All the same, I am glad he’s here.

  He made everything seem safer, somehow. It was something he was good at – a reassuring manner, as if there were no problem that daunted him too much.

  There probably isn’t. He’s arrogant enough for that.

  She grinned. At that moment, he called out
elatedly. “The wall! We’re almost…”

  Then she heard the horn.

  Hunters.

  Stifling a cry of alarm, she twisted her horse rightward, towards where he was already dismounting at the gate. He looked up at her, eyes huge.

  “What was that…?”

  “Hunters,” she said. It was her worst nightmare. He was here, pursuing them. At night.

  “Quick,” Brogan said. “We’re almost in…”

  He rang the bell that hung by the gate, clanging urgently.

  No answer.

  Irmengarde felt her heart start to thump, hard and urgent, in her chest. She looked around wildly. The monks, she reckoned, must be sound asleep. Why had they left nobody to guard the gate?

  “Hello?” she shouted.

  “Hey!” Brogan roared, clanging on the bell.

  Down in the valley, the sound of horns wove unerringly through the dark. It felt to Irmengarde like fingers, reaching out to touch her.

  “Hello!” Brogan screamed. “We’re two travelers! In heartfelt need…”

  “Alright, alright…no need for such a racket,” a voice shouted. They heard the slap of sandals on stone. A second later, the gate opened. An older man, face wrinkled, carrying a lamp, peered out. “Who are you?”

  “This is Lady Irmengarde, baroness Tysdale,” Brogan snapped.

  The monk’s eyes widened. “A lady? No female presence is allowed in the…”

  “Inner sanctum. I know,” Brogan snapped. “But this is urgent.”

  The man looked at Irmengarde. “Are you who he claims?”

  Irmengarde nodded. “Lift your lantern,” she said, making her voice at once gentle and commanding.

  The monk must have heard something in her tone, for he did as she bid. He looked at her and drew in a breath.

  “Milady! Inside,” he said. “Welcome.”

  Irmengarde looked at Brogan, who stood aside for her.

  “Please, milady,” he said.

  The horn sounded, closer and more jarringly. Irmengarde swallowed hard to try and contain the bile rising in her throat.

  Then she was in, and Brogan with her, and the monk swung the door shut, behind them.

  In the darkness, Irmengarde felt something touch her hand. She tensed, then looked up at Brogan, who had pressed his palm to hers. She swallowed hard, but it had nothing to do with fear. She felt heat rise in her body and turned to him, a smile almost touching her lips.

  “I’ll take you straight to the abbot, milady,” the monk said softly. “And he, whose wisdom is greater than mine, can decide what is best for you.”

  “Thank you. You’re most kind,” she murmured.

  She heard Brogan huff and looked across at him, surprised to see a fleeting smile cross his lips. It made her want to chuckle.

  “Here we are,” the monk said, depositing them at a half-open door. “Goodnight, milady. Sir.”

  Irmengarde watched him walk slowly away and felt herself start to get amused again. It was clear that he was trying, with little success, to figure out who Brogan was and how he came to be riding alone with a baroness, at night.

  Probably planning to pin just the sort of accusations Clovis likes on me.

  She swallowed hard, trying not to think about that. Beside her, Brogan’s arm pressed against her shoulder, a reassuring presence. She opened the door and they went in together, side-by-side.

  “Good evening?” she said in a small voice.

  “Milady Irmengarde.”

  Abbot Blane was older than she recalled him being, with his cheeks thinner, his frame gaunter. All the same, he recalled her and she recognized him. She inclined her head respectfully.

  “Abbot. I come here seeking sanctuary.”

  “Milady. The room you used when last you visited is of course at your disposal. And your servant..?” he frowned, gesturing at Brogan.

  “I’ll sleep at her door,” Brogan said.

  Irmengarde felt her insides clench. It was such a caring offer, and made so swiftly! She felt her heart melt as she turned to him.

  “No, sir,” she said swiftly. “You will sleep in the dorter, where the monks are…”

  “I’ll not leave you. Not for a second.”

  Irmengarde swallowed the rising tide of emotion filling her throat. “No, Brogan.”

  It was only after she said it that she realized they had never before used first names between them. It was a new level of intimacy for her, and one that made her flush. It was too dark in the abbot’s rooms to see if Brogan was also red faced.

  The abbot was speaking. “I’ll have a rush mat fetched from the dorter,” he said. “If your manservant does insist on such irregular accommodation.” He sounded quite hard-voiced, the disapproval barely hidden.

  “Thank you, Father,” Brogan spoke out. “And, Father?”

  “Yes, my son?” the abbot said. Irmengarde could hear he spoke through clenched teeth, but Brogan was unconcerned.

  “Her ladyship is in need of supper. If there is a kitchen here?”

  “Yes, my son, we have a kitchen. If you wait, I will wake Brother Alasdair, though he only went to sleep an hour ago and must be up at Prime.”

  Irmengarde heard the irony in his tone, but chose to discount it. She was starving, and the mere thought of food and a bed made her body ache with weary need.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Brogan reached out for her fingers and she touched them briefly, then turned as a monk came in through the door, summoned by a bell.

  “Brother Luke…please take our two guests to the kitchens? See that they’re fed.”

  “Yes, Father.” The monk grinned at them. A nocturnal soul, apparently, he seemed unworried by the lateness of the hour, or the unusual company. “This way, milady. Sir.”

  They headed down the hallway after him. Irmengarde turned to Brogan.

  “At least we’re getting fed,” she said. As she smiled, wearily, she heard the sound of the hunt, just audible in the hallway. As they entered the kitchen, and the door closed behind them, the sound vanished again, blocked by thick stone walls.

  “Brother? See that these visitors are fed?” their guide intimated, speaking in whispers to a shorter, stocky man sleeping on a chair by the fire-place.

  As they talked, voices hushed, Irmengarde looked about the kitchen with vague interest. The fire cast a ruddy glow over the walls, which were lime washed and plastered, the collection of pots and pans arrayed on the wall or the wooden shelf minimal, but clearly well worn with use.

  “Do you think they’re going tae feed us?”

  She said nothing, just gave him a weary smile. After what seemed like an age, Brother Luke nodded to them.

  “Please. My brother will see to it that you’re victualed now.” He waved a hand at the crudely made table and chairs. Irmengarde drew one out and sat down. Wordlessly, the monk who remained to tend them placed bowls before them of roughly cast pottery, and filled them up with ladles of warm broth. A dish of bannocks followed, placed in the middle of the table. Then he summarily collapsed, snoring, into the chair by the fire, once again.

  Irmengarde looked up at Brogan, who sat down opposite her. He looked back. His eyes danced with merriment.

  “We got supper, at least.”

  “Thanks to you,” she grinned. He blushed and seeing it made her smile deepen. He looked so handsome when he blushed, and the shyness just added to it. Her tummy tingled. She looked down at her plate.

  “I’m sorry if I was rude – tae him, I mean. The abbot.”

  “No, you weren’t,” she smiled. “Just insistent.”

  “I’m a hungry lad.”

  His eyes met hers when he said it, and Irmengarde felt as if he meant more than simply hunger for bread. She swallowed, feeling her body heat up with a flush.

  “Your broth’s going cold,” she challenged.

  He chuckled. “Aye. Best eat it now, eh, while it’s hot?”

  “You sound like my nursemaid,” she giggled.


  Brogan grinned. “I suppose I do. Sorry.”

  “Not at all,” Irmengarde smiled, reaching to the center of the table and breaking a corner off a bannock. “She cared for me.”

  His eyes held hers. His hand moved on the table, sliding closer to hers. “As do I,” he said.

  Irmengarde looked at the plate. She was lost for words. “Oh, Brogan,” she said.

  He stared into her eyes and she felt the whole room go suddenly silent, everything fading into the background save the momentous fact that they were together.

  “We really ought to eat something,” she said, chuckling uneasily. “Or we’ll never get to sleep.”

  “Yes, milady,” he murmured.

  She shot him a look, to see if there was irony in the words, but he was already looking at his soup.

  They finished the meal in silence.

  Irmengarde collected the dishes, piling them wordlessly on the sideboard by a vast copper dish that served as a washing sink.

  “Don’t, milady,” Brogan said, frowning. “Your hands aren’t meant for working.”

  “No?” she raised a brow. “Only for riding. And that can be hard.” She felt across her palm, where the reins, unbeknownst to her, had cut her skin.

  “Aye,” Brogan nodded. “You must be finished. I know I am.”

  She grinned, though she felt desperately weary.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I rather am.”

  He nodded and she saw him hesitating in the doorway. “Which way, milady?” he asked, frowning.

  “Oh. Yes. To the right, I think. Then left again, around the colonnade.”

  She followed him into the hallway, and then led the way around a courtyard that smelled of wet lavender. At length, she reached a low door in a wall.

  “Here,” she said.

  “Well, then.” Brogan cleared his throat. He looked at his feet, then up. “I reckon this is it. Rest well, milady.”

  She felt her throat tighten. “Yes,” she said. “Good night.”

  They looked at each other. She stared up into his brown eyes and, as he bent down, she felt her own body tingle with foreknowledge of what he was about to do.

  His lips descended onto hers and she reached for him, wrapping her arms round him to hold him to her. She pressed her body to his and his lips moved, so tenderly, on hers. His tongue gently played between her lips and she sighed and felt as if her body melted onto his.