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

by Emilia Ferguson

  Behind her, she felt Brogan step up, leading the horses, a solid, supporting presence. She saw Addie’s eyes go wide, then the woman simply shrugged.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s all get intae the house. And ye can stable those horses at the barn. They look like they need a drink.”

  Then, still smiling at Irmengarde as if she’d never been quite so happy, she led them both into the farmhouse for a celebration.

  MAKING DECISIONS

  Brogan sat in the corner of the cottage, listening to the burr of conversation around him. He was surprised to see how instantly Lady Irmengarde was accepted by these people. He was also surprised to find that he felt left out.

  The cottage was full of locals from the estate, all of whom seemed to know Irmengarde, and support her. He looked around the circle of faces – there must have been at least ten packed into the small room.

  “Och, milady! That’s a fine tale.”

  An old toothless laborer banged on the table with his ale-stoup as Irmengarde finished a story, and her two friends – Addie and the tall red-haired man called Alexander – nodded in affirmation. Brogan was on the edge here, in a way he hadn’t expected.

  “Och, lad! Ye need another dram,” an older woman sitting beside him said. Brogan blinked sleepily and shook his head.

  “No, thank you.” He was already feeling a little dizzy – the warmth and noise of the chatter was making his head fuzzy. He stood and went to the door, looking out into the gloom. It was dark outside, the trees black charcoal lines on a blue sky. He breathed in the cooler air and tried to figure out what it was that had upset him.

  Is it because she doesn’t need me anymore?

  It felt that way. He glanced back towards Irmengarde where she sat on the stool, in earnest conversation with her friend Addie. Addie glanced over at him, and then looked away. Brogan stared out of the door, ignoring them demonstratively.

  “Hey, laddie! Out the way…” an old fellow pushed past him, heading out into the field. He coughed up phlegm, wheezing and hawking, and then came back in again. Brogan simply shrugged.

  I’m getting in the way.

  He watched Irmengarde where she sat on the stool by the fire, a tankard between her slim hands, the ruddy light flickering over the long strands of her loose hair. She looked radiant and happy. She was laughing.

  He felt his breath catch in his throat, seeing how lovely she was. His heart twisted painfully. He was just her horse trainer. She was a beloved baroness – an unusual one. A person who had reached out to the poor on her land and was loved for it.

  “Ha! I’ll bet you did. Isn’t that so?” Irmengarde’s voice rang out. Addie was telling her a story, and the two women chuckled happily.

  “We need music!” an old fellow yelled. To Brogan’s surprise, he hefted a stringed instrument and began to play it. A sweet melody wove through the warm air.

  “A dance!” somebody yelled. Old and young alike got to their feet. Brogan looked around, amazed that anybody thought there was room for dancing in this space. He was the only person having misgivings, though, for everybody else was on their feet, clapping and thudding hard boots on the packed earth floor.

  Brogan pressed against the wall, but somebody grabbed his hand and he found himself whisked along with them, whether he would or no. He hung on grimly, feeling his head hurt even worse as they reeled and danced about the house. He felt a hand slide into his and stared.

  “Milady?”

  Irmengarde looked over her shoulder at him. She was grinning and laughing, and she was moving with a sweetness that he hadn’t imagined she could do. Her body wove in time to the music, the steps coming as easily to her as they would to a local lass.

  “Milady.”

  She heard the tone of his voice – though conversation was impossible above the racket everyone was making – and he saw her laugh, giddily.

  “Whoop!” she called out, as somebody else started whooping and applauding, the tune getting faster and more intense. Brogan felt his body start to heat up, caught up in the feelings of the moment.

  As they danced, they whirled close to the wall. He let go of the hand in his and leaned back, and so escaped out of the line of stamping happy dancers. He heaved in a breath of fresh air and headed out the door.

  “Whew.”

  He was damp with perspiration, and ran a hand through his hair, feeling how damp with sweat it was. His face was hot and flushed. In his trousers, he could feel a hardness that embarrassed him.

  I have no right to so much as think of milady that way.

  He leaned on the stone wall behind him and looked out over the trees. He felt like he was committing a terrible crime.

  He felt a hand on his arm.

  “You left the dance.”

  “Yes, milady.” He turned and bobbed his head, a sort of bow. “I was tired.”

  “I understand,” she said. Her voice was soft. “It’s been a long day. I hope my friends don’t alert the guards…if they hear of this, they’ll probably investigate.”

  Brogan raised one shoulder. “They’ll do nothing until tomorrow morning. By then, you’ll be safely away.”

  “Mayhap,” she whispered back.

  They stood together in the cool night. Inside, the clapping and stamping continued, the music becoming more frenetic and less tuneful. Brogan would have smiled, save for the sadness in his heart.

  “We should stay awhile,” Irmengarde said. “I wish we could.”

  “It’s too dangerous, milady,” he said. “We should be off.”

  “And you’ll escort me to the edge of the lands and then leave me?” Her voice was scathing.

  He frowned. “I will do anything you require of me.” Why did she sound angry with him?

  “Yes. Which is why you helped me to escape?”

  Every fiber of him screamed with the need to say: “No, I wanted to help you.” Yet how could he say that? Standing here with her in the dark night, the sheen from the flame still lighting her hair from behind, he knew that if he revealed his heart, he would give in to the longings that fired through every inch of him. That he could not do.

  “You needed to escape,” he said simply. How else could he answer the question, without kissing her?

  “I see,” she said.

  “Milady…” the word caught in his throat. He longed to be able to use her name. Just her name, as if they were able to be friends, and more than that, as if there wasn’t a whole world to keep them asunder.

  “I should go,” she said. “Listen. The party’s quietened down. We need some sleep.”

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  Their eyes met. He felt her fingers on his own. He gripped them. He stared into her eyes and felt as if he was falling.

  He stepped closer and bent down and his lips were about to brush hers, when she tensed and turned away.

  “We need rest.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  She turned and walked back into the cottage.

  Brogan stayed where he was. The party had, indeed, quietened down. He could hear the sound of people leaving, gathering things, saying their farewell.

  “Goodnight, milady.”

  “Goodnight, Lady Irmengarde.”

  He waited until the sleepy guests had brushed past him, heading across the field to their own homes. Then, as he heard Addie and Irmengarde speak in low voices, he ducked in at the doorway.

  “Can I sleep in a barn?” he inquired of Alexander.

  The tall man shrugged. “Don’t see why not,” he said. “Take a blanket from the chest. We don’t want our guests freezing.”

  “Thanks,” Brogan nodded. He opened the wooden box their host indicated, listening as the two women talked behind a curtain that divided the room in sections. He presumed the sleeping place of Addie and Alexander was somewhere behind the curtain. They would probably let Irmengarde sleep there.

  He chose a blanket at random and headed out towards where they’d stabled their horses.

 
“Och, lads. Just us, hey?” he said, as he settled down slowly into the straw and pulled the woolen blanket over him. He heard the horses shift and stamp, and he wriggled down under the cover, trying to get comfortable.

  As he closed his eyes, he found himself thinking about Irmengarde. His longing stirred in his body, as intense as it had been that moment on the floor of the cottage when he’d felt her hand slip into his, and smelled the wild, sweet smell of her hair.

  “Brogan Covell, this is ridiculous.”

  He rolled over, tossing and turning. He was hopelessly aroused and he imagined her in bed, dressed only in her shift, or perhaps naked. He filled in the high, firm breasts, the curvy waistline. He ached to touch her soft skin. To kiss her absolutely everywhere.

  “You’re never going to.”

  There wasn’t any point in his fantasizing about it. He might as well forget it, and stop tormenting his poor imagination with imagery. He would never find out if any of it was true. She was a baroness. She had a husband. He would be causing her to break her vows, even if they were free to be together.

  Class and society stood between them like an impenetrable wall. He had no more chance of knowing her than he did to fly to England like a swallow on the wing.

  Imaginings of Irmengarde played around his mind – her naked in bed, the coverlet pulled over her, that curvy figure able to be seen. His being able to reach out and stroke his hands down her skin. Her breasts would be warm and soft and he would squeeze them, just a little.

  He winced at the pain in his loins and turned onto his back again.

  “Go to sleep, man,” he demanded of himself.

  There was no point in tormenting himself with fantasies, and yet they kept returning to his mind. Images of her smiling at him in the dance, her eyes soft and a promise in them, as if she was feeling as he did.

  He took an age to fall asleep at last.

  When he woke, the dawn light filtered into the barn through the gaps in the boards and shutters. He rolled over and sat up, yawning. He rolled his big shoulders and brushed disheveled hair from one eye.

  The horse snorted, as if in offense. Brogan smiled tightly. He’d forgotten how close they were to him – he was lucky none of them stepped on him as he slept.

  “Morning, lad,” he said, stroking the horse’s nose. He was stiff, his legs aching, shoulders sore from where he’d gotten cold and tense at night. He rolled them again, then checked that the horses had food and water. He walked unsteadily to the door, still half-asleep.

  The delicious smell of something cooking hit him as he walked up the short length of path to the cottage. His tummy twisted in a knot. He had ridden for an age the day before, but had not eaten very much of the fare provided by Addie.

  “I could eat everything in the house – even the rush mats.”

  He chuckled to himself, cracking his neck and knuckles, a habit of his. He reached the door and knocked.

  “Come in,” a voice called. It was Alexander. Brogan went in.

  Alexander was seated in the small room, working on repairing some sort of farm tool. Brogan glanced at Addie, who was at the table, pouring hot water out of a kettle into a clay cup. He looked around.

  “Good morning,” he said politely. Where was Irmengarde? Still sleeping? He doubted it. He could bet she slept as lightly as a well-bred horse.

  “Good morning,” Addie said politely. “Come and join us. I’ve just baked bread. And that’s a tea of nettles in the cup…good for the digestion.

  “Thank you,” he said. He reached for it and sipped. He frowned.

  “Did you sleep well, yester night?” He wondered where they’d slept, if Irmengarde was still sleeping in their bed behind the curtain. His body responded to that thought and he ignored it absolutely.

  “Och, very well,” Addie confirmed. “We had plenty of warmth in here by the fire.”

  Brogan nodded. “Where did milady sleep yesterday?”

  “In our bed,” Addie gestured at the room behind the curtain. He nodded.

  “She’s still sleeping?”

  “She left this morning,” Alexander said, giving Brogan an odd look, as if to say, of course, you must have known.

  Brogan stared at him and felt his world cave in.

  TAKING A RISK

  Irmengarde rode the borrowed horse down the forest path at full speed. She felt her heart had turned to ice. She ignored the pain of it.

  “We need to reach the abbey.”

  It was the only choice that made sense. If Clovis caught her on the road with a servant – even a skilled, special one – it would be obvious she was committing adultery. Obvious, at least, to a person with such a mind as he.

  “I never touched him. Not really.”

  She ignored the way she felt, the rising blood in her cheeks at the merest thought of him. If she had not touched him, then she would still have wished to. Was that also not a sin? She had no real clue. All she knew was what she felt. That was enough.

  The wind was cold and cut through her cloak like a knife as she rode. She shivered and lifted one hand off the reins to draw it tighter. She recalled that beautiful moment when, the night before, she’d danced with Brogan and almost kissed him. It was such a delicious sensation it made her want to weep.

  She couldn’t do this to herself anymore, though. She couldn’t torment herself with what could never be.

  “It’s fairer by far to both of us if I leave. He’ll soon forget me.”

  She felt her face get stiff with resignation. She had to believe that, to believe he had been blinded by the allure of her position. He had been flattered by her interest and trust. She was presuming on a care he didn’t truly feel for her.

  Addie’s words the night before rang in her ears: “It’s too dangerous, for you both.”

  She knew it was true. With a heavy heart, she rode on. She looked about, checking she was taking the correct road. She had the map in her saddle bag still – getting the gear out of the barn while Brogan slept had been challenging indeed. She’d slipped in, thinking several times she’d wake him. The saddle was heavy and awkward, and she was still impressed by her ability to carry it and settle it on the borrowed horse’s back.

  “No sign of hunters.”

  She was already out of the worst danger – the land immediately around the village was where Clovis’ patrol was most likely to spot her, were she to ride past them. It was why she had chosen to do that part of the journey early, at first light. That, and the fact that she needed to evade Brogan.

  “Not much longer now,” she reassured the horse. A tall, gaunt roan, the horse was clearly unused to being ridden or saddled, and Irmengarde felt guilty for the extra burden she was placing on him. Nonetheless, she had to.

  They headed up the hill into the morning.

  It was getting towards midday when Irmengarde heard footsteps in the leaf mold. She tensed and drew to a halt in a dense coppice. It was the only thing she could do – not foolproof, should anybody look closely, but also not as dangerous as being out in the open. It had started to rain earlier, big drops of cold drizzle falling down without remittance. She shivered in her damp cloak and waited for the footsteps to go past. As she did, she peered out through the damp leaves, to see who it was.

  At first, she thought it was a charcoal burner, going about his work, collecting wood for the fires. Then, eyes narrowing, she noticed that this charcoal burner had vastly built shoulders and arms and was much taller than she might expect. He walked with a familiar gait, light-footed and free.

  It was Brogan.

  Every fiber of her being longed to call out to him. He looked drained and sorrowful, even more than she felt. She covered her lips with her hand, stifling a little cry of shock. Her horse shifted and he looked around. She held her breath.

  Brogan turned his head slowly and looked in their direction. His brown eyes were blank and the depth of sadness she read there cut into her. However, she couldn’t risk revealing herself. The escape from Clovis meant s
he had to leave Brogan, too. Traveling together was twice as dangerous for her. Now that it was light, and the abbey was close, she had to make the final leg of the trip alone.

  She waited for Brogan to go past. He turned away and headed on down the path. When he’d gone out of sight, she let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding and counted to ten. Then, when she’d run out of counting and he still hadn’t turned back, she rode out of the trees. As luck would have it, Brogan had not continued on the route that she must take – she stood no risk of overtaking him.

  “Let’s go, lass,” she whispered to the horse.

  They walked on through the rain.

  The rain stopped in the evening. Irmengarde drew off the road again, hearing the sound of a cart clattering across the track, the old carter at the reins humming tunelessly. She was close to the abbey now - she was fairly sure the cart was bound in that direction. She hesitated to give her whereabouts away.

  “Just another two miles,” she promised her horse. “Then you’ll have all the barley you can eat.”

  Her horse snorted and they continued on. A bird called in the trees, the melody piercingly sweet. Irmengarde wished she could let it lift her spirits like it usually would. She felt utterly awful. The sight of Brogan’s haunted eyes wouldn’t leave her. In choosing as she had, she seemed to have hurt another soul.

  “He wasn’t sad because of me. He just lost his employment. That’s all. It’s his future he mourns for – you mean nothing to him.”

  She told herself those words over and over again as the dusk settled on the forest. As they rode up the final hill, she heard a sound she didn’t want to believe in. It was the sound of horse’s hoof beats. Along with the cry of hunters. It was Clovis. He had found her.

  “No!”

  Wheeling her horse, she sped back down the pathway. She heard the yip of dogs and realized that Clovis had set the whole hunt on her. She saw horsemen appear, and heard shouts. His guard were always more loyal to him than to her – there was no hope they’d pretend not to have seen her. She recognized the green cloaks of Tysdale. It was his men.