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

  Protection By Her Deceptive Highlander

  Iron Of The Highlands Series (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

  Emilia Ferguson

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  A Personal Note From Emilia Ferguson

  Dedication

  About The Author

  PROTECTION BY HER DECEPTIVE HIGHLANDER

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

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  Also By Emilia Ferguson

  Acknowledgement

  If You Have Enjoyed This Book…

  Publisher’s Notes

  Copyright © 2017,2018,2019, 2020 by EMILIA FERGUSON

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real or dead people, places, or events are not intentional and are the result of coincidence. The characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author/publisher. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Cover designed by Ms Melody Simmons. Author has the copyrights to this cover.

  A PERSONAL NOTE

  FROM EMILIA FERGUSON

  * * *

  To My Dearest Lovely Readers,

  There is something picturesque and dramatic about the Scottish Highlands. Not only the landscape, which is mysterious, with its own special wildness and drama. It is the people themselves.

  Scottish people are the original untamed spirits: proud, wild, forthright, in touch with their inner selves. The Medieval period in Scotland is a fascinating one for contrasts: half the country was steeped in Medieval culture - knights, ladies, housecarls and maids - and the other half was a maelstrom of wild clans people; fighting, living and loving straight from the heart.

  If the two halves - the wild and the courtly - meet up, what will happen? And how will these proud women and untamed men react when brought together by social expectations, requirements and ambitions?

  Read on to find out the answers!

  Thank you very much for your strong support to my writing journey!

  With Hugs, Kisses and Love…

  ~ Emilia

  DEDICATION

  Men always want to be a woman's first love - women like to be man's last romance.

  Oscar Wilde

  * * *

  This Story Is Specially Dedicated To You, My Dearest Reader!

  It is with gratefulness and gratitude that I am writing to you this personal dedication.

  Thank you once again for giving me this opportunity to share with you my creative side.

  I hope you will enjoy reading this story as much I have enjoyed writing it!

  It is with such great support from you that we authors continue to write, presenting you with great stories.

  Have you checked out my other western historical romance books series?

  Click the link below to get started

  *** AMAZON USA ***

  * * *

  Do you like what you have read?

  I want to hear from you!

  Please do get in touch with me:

  facebook.com/EmiliaFergusonBooks

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Emilia Ferguson is the pen name of an author who writes historical romance with her husband.

  When she is not writing her Medieval Historical Scottish Romance pieces, she enjoys taking long walks with her husband and kids at the nearby beaches.

  It was these long walks where she got inspirations and ideas for her stories. She credits her wonderfully supportive husband John, her great cover designer Ms Melody Simmons and her advance review reviewers for helping her to fine-tune her writing skills and allowing her creativity to explode.

  ~ Emilia

  PROTECTION BY HER DECEPTIVE HIGHLANDER

  A MEDIEVAL SCOTTISH ROMANCE STORY

  * * *

  by

  EMILIA FERGUSON

  PROLOGUE

  Dunbar, 1297

  “No! Dinna go there!”

  Barra shouted aloud, ineffectually, to the farmhand, Huller, as he ran across the path into the woods. She could see the soldiers in the tree line. She flattened herself to the ground as an arrow whistled overhead. Small, shot from a wicked crossbow, it disappeared into the leaves. Huller ran and flattened himself against the path.

  “Get down!”

  The woods were full of soldiers.

  Barra lay where she was, the scent of earth in her nose, the cold of the ground leaching through to her skin. It was winter and the land was cold, and if she did not find a way to get inside, she would freeze.

  I need tae get back to the farmhouse.

  She stared ahead, trying to stay as still as she could, but still see what was going on around her. Huller had disappeared into the trees, and she had no idea if he was safe. At that moment, all she wanted was to get out of here alive. She curled up on one side as another bolt rattled through the pine needles.

  She felt her heart start to thump. They were English soldiers, of that she had no doubt. She had seen a glint of mail through the trees, and a white linen shirt. They were stationed at Dunbar, and had been ever since last year, when their men had overrun the town at the command of King Edward. News reached them only slowly here on the eastern shores of Scotland, but still she knew enough to know that the English were in control now, following the invasion.

  The politics of that affected noblemen and their tenants, not daughters of yeoman farmers – or not directly, yet. All that meant for her was that, suddenly, the woods were dangerous in ways they had never been before.

  She lay where she was, trying to breathe slowly and deeply, trying to think. She heard somebody move in the trees and she knew that if she stood up now they would see her.

  She had to get back.

  Barra drew her knees up to her chest, glad that her headscarf covered her ears and helped to hide the pale shine of her hair. It would give her presence away even in the mist that was slowly seeping into the woods. In all her three and twenty years, she had never been so frightened before.

  She heard a man shout something in a tongue she could almost understand. Some words were in common with Lowland Scots, the language she spoke. However, some were not. It must be English. She tensed.

  Booted feet marched into the clearing. She froze where she
was. If any of them spotted her, they would likely not leave her alone. The troops were dangerous and cruel, and she had reason to know that. Many of their farmhands had run off to join the rebellion, and some had fallen victim to the troops.

  She heard more voices. She heard a word she recognized.

  Go.

  Her breath held, she waited for them to gather together and leave the clearing. The mist hid her. She sent up a prayer of thanks while she huddled there, her knees drawn up to keep warm. She heard the sound of booted feet.

  She breathed out in relief.

  When she was sure the sound had died away, she rolled herself to a sitting position and looked into the clearing. The mist had thickened while she lay, for which she was grateful. She peered around the side of the tree, trying to see what was there.

  Nothing.

  The trees stood in silent peacefulness. The men had gone.

  Barra let out a breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding. Taking her linen skirts in her hand, she tiptoed forward to the clearing, feeling the cold of the ground even through the soles of her winter boots. The farm was prosperous, and her shoes and clothes were protection against the cold, but nothing could keep a person warm for hours after lying on the cold, hard ground.

  “Go back,” she whispered to herself.

  The woods were dangerous, and, even though the men had gone for the moment, they could return at any minute, or be replaced with new troops. Regular patrols passed through here, patrolling the roads from Dunbar to the city of Berwick.

  Even so, something drew her, making her tiptoe another step into the clearing. She couldn’t have said what, exactly, but a sort of compulsion made her take another step, and another. If she could find something of the enemy, maybe there was something they could do against them. No matter how hard she tried to think of them as another nuisance, she couldn’t.

  If they just fashed the gentry, I could stomach them. But they don’t.

  The invasion hadn’t just fallen on the Scottish nobles. It had affected everybody. The battles at Berwick and Dunbar were bloody and terrible, and the new occupants of the country were violent and cruel. It seemed as if they were determined to etch their mark on Scotland in blood.

  “A pox on them,” Barra said.

  She took another step into the clearing.

  She was about to leave, thinking that there was nothing here, when she spotted something. A glint of something on the edges of the woods, by a tree. She looked down.

  It was a dagger.

  Barra would normally have ignored such a thing, but today she was here in search of something. A dagger could be what she needed – some small chink they could find in their enemy’s armor, like knowing where they forged their daggers, could help. She tiptoed forward to collect it.

  Then she froze.

  The dagger wasn’t English. Nor had it been discarded. It was lying next to a man.

  His dark hair caught the daylight, tinged with a red shade. He lay on his front, hair covering his face. He wore chain mail over coarse cloth, and his hands were thrown up as if to protect his head when he fell. He lay still, but she could see a slow rise and fall of his back that told her he yet lived.

  Meeting In The woods

  Brodgar opened one eye as somebody shook him. He shut his eye again, not feeling particularly interested in being disturbed. He was in too much pain.

  He was dying, he reckoned, and there wasn’t much anybody could do for him right now.

  He felt the hands tug at him insistently. He opened his eyes, this time managing a grumble. “Go away.”

  The person withdrew and he rolled over onto his side. He hadn’t been stabbed or shot with a crossbow bolt, but his head ached worse than anything he could imagine and he could feel the cold stickiness of blood that leaked down his scalp. He was sure that he would die of his wounds, and whoever this was disturbing him – probably somebody come to rob him – could at least have the decency to leave him in peace.

  As he let himself drift back into a half-conscious rest, the person tugged his arm again.

  “Brodgar?”

  Brodgar sat bolt upright. He knew that voice! His head ached as if somebody had stabbed him and he winced, gritting his teeth.

  “Barra?” he said. He couldn’t really hide the irritation in his voice, but he was also grateful.

  He was rewarded with an amazed laugh. “Brodgar! It’s you! Whatever are you doing here?”

  “Dying, I reckon.”

  He looked at her familiar face. The pale soft skin, smooth and unlined, was enlivened with pink lips, cheeks flushed with cold. Her eyes were big and clear, a sort of brown that was more green than dark. He wanted to touch her. He could feel the warmth of her soft body beside him and, despite the pain he was in, he couldn’t help responding.

  She grinned, small nose turning up. “Brodgar, you are not dying. I reckon you might if I don’t get you back to safety.”

  He shook his head. “Barra, it’s best if you’re not involved.”

  She gave him a look. “Brodgar, you’re wrong.”

  He sighed. He had known Barra for a few months – she lived at the farmstead nearby, and she had helped his band of fighters often. They had sheltered at her father’s farm for a fortnight. He had not wanted to leave without making arrangements to see her again, but fighting and the demands of warfare had made it necessary.

  And besides, if she found out who I am, she might kill me for not telling.

  He bit his lip, amusement almost as acute as pain. He was the third son of the earl of Blackheath and he had the birthright to a large tract of land of his own. Most of the time, he posed as a yeoman or a peasant. He wasn’t as able to drum up support as the earl’s third son as he was as a peasant with unfathomable skill with weaponry.

  And Barra has no idea.

  If she was to know who he really was, he was sure, she would hate him. She would think that he had fooled her on purpose, which was the last thing he would ever choose to do. Then she would really never speak to him again. Brodgar McIlvor, the son of an earl, would find no friendly welcome.

  Now, her hand went to his wrist. “Come on, Brodgar,” she said firmly. “If you don’t get back, you’ll die here.”

  He snorted. “I reckon I’ll die anyway, lass.” Not much use to be sentimental about it. He reached his hand up to his head, wincing again at the blood he felt there. It was dry and sticky, and the pain was terrible.

  Barra looked at him in the eye. “Brodgar, you’re talking nonsense.” She touched the wound herself, making him swear loudly. “It’s a cut, but it hasn’t cut your skull.”

  “Well, isn’t that grand,” he mumbled. “I don’t need to feel a fool as well.”

  She just smiled. He wished he could kiss her, but the thought was dangerous. If he let her know how much he felt, already, then it would be harder when he had to leave. Whenever that happened, it would be soon, he knew. His family would not wait for long before they came to find him.

  “If you can stand, we can go back,” Barra suggested.

  Brodgar bit his lip and tried to get to his feet. It was hard, since his leg was badly bruised and numb now. He got his feet under him and, leaning against a tree, managed to pull himself up.

  “There. You can come back with me now,” Barra murmured, reaching over to help him stand. He bit his lip.

  “I can walk,” he said.

  She looked sideways at him, but he put his weight on his feet and headed on, determined to walk by himself. If he had to find out that he was far less injured than he thought, he could at least keep his dignity in this.

  They walked slowly out of the woods and into the clearing. It had snowed recently, Brodgar noted, and the drifts were almost as high as his calves. He wished he had something warmer to wear. It was freezing out here, and he was clad in mail and a jerkin that barely kept out the biting cold.

  “Brodgar, you should nae have come all this way,” Barra murmured as they went down the path to the farmhous
e. “It’s so dangerous.”

  “That is why I am here,” he said frostily. It was precisely because of the danger that he had come back here. The woods around Dunbar had been perilous ever since the battle there. He had to be here, he thought, stepping hard on his right leg, the clink of mail accompanying his steps.

  He looked down at his feet, wrapped in the fur-lined winter boots. They were one of the things that could have given him away as a lord’s son, should anyone be looking too inquisitively. They were lined with thick fur and the outsides were greased to render them proofed against water, at least in part. They were not entirely able to keep out the biting cold and the soaking fog and he was hobbling on unresponsive feet.

  “We’ve been gathering firewood,” Barra said as they found the path down to the farmhouse. It was slippery with ice.

  “I see,” Brodgar said. “And is there a fire?”

  “In the farmhouse?” Barra raised a brow.