Protection By Her Deceptive Highlander (Iron 0f The Highlands Series Book 5) Page 2

  “Yes,” Brodgar said, feeling somewhat impatient. He had almost been killed by an English soldier, the only thing that saved him seemingly his well-grown hair. He was cold. He was exhausted. He did not have the strength to be played with.

  “We’ve got a proper blaze,” Barra said. This time, when she took his arm to help him across the ice, he didn’t mind.

  Exhausted, starting to see double, he let Barra lead him into the farmhouse.

  “Is it snowing out?” a voice called from somewhere further in. Brodgar stood on the threshold, his hands and face burning. From the freezing cold outside to the intense heat of the farmhouse, his skin had faced more changes than it was capable of facing. He leaned back on the door while the hot coals of returning blood-flow devoured his hands.

  I can’t take much more of this.

  He shut his eyes, listening as Barra walked across the flagstones, chattering to her father, who was busy pounding something up with a pestle. The old farmer hadn’t even turned around from his place by the vast fire.

  “I see you found one of the lads.”

  “I did, Father,” Barra commented, taking off her cloak and throwing it onto a stool by the fire. It was made of unbleached wool, the strands sparking with wet from the fog. “You know Brodgar.”

  “Oh. Aye. Hello, lad.” The old yeoman turned around, grinning at Brodgar and showing impressive wrinkles. Working the land out here was a hard life. All the same, though, Mr. Hume seemed a happy man.

  “Greetings, Mr. Hume,” Brodgar replied politely. The pain had reduced enough for him to be able to open his eyes again. His fingers still throbbed, but the ache was less unbearable.

  “Sit ye down there,” Barra said, coming over. “You need tending to.”

  Brodgar shut his eyes. “Barra…I don’t…”

  “Whist, now lad,” Barra said firmly. “Sit there and let me wash that wound. It needs mending.”

  Brodgar, accustomed to having orders given to him by Barra by now, simply nodded. He went to sit on the low stool by the fire. She came over.

  “I don’t know what happened to ye,” she commented, sponging his hair with a wet cloth. The water was warm, and the relief was so great, Brodgar could have cried.

  He didn’t, however. He bit the inside of his mouth to hold back his response and tried to keep his face expressionless. The dabs of the warm water on his scalp were paradise, the relief he felt demonstrating just how bad the pain had been. He looked around the warm kitchen. There was a pot on the fire, the hearth broad and spilling delicious warmth onto the flagstones.

  “You must have got cracked on the head with a knife,” Barra murmured.

  “I reckon,” Brodgar replied, “it was a sword. I remember the scoundrel now.”

  “You must have ducked just in time,” Barra commented.

  Brodgar closed his eyes. The ability to evade a strike from a sword, when men fought with swords that weighed as much as two full water buckets, was a prized one. Barra made it sound almost like an accident.

  He shut his eyes as she dabbed at the wound on his skull. It felt better. He was warm and safe, and in reach of food and bed, where he would have been lying on his side and freezing to death in the woods, were it not for her.

  It shouldn’t bother him so much that she could never know who he truly was.

  A Heartfelt Discussion

  Barra sat on the seat by the window. It was snowing, and she watched the flakes fall, whirling down against the sky of stone gray. The walls of the cottage were thick, and they kept out the biting cold. Even so, there was a coldness inside her.

  She wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. They were frozen inside her, like the snowflakes that whirled down from the dark sky. The window was bare, not covered with a horn pane like in wealthier houses. The thick wall – making a long tunnel of stone as long as her forearm – kept the place warm. Even so, it felt as if the coldness had settled inside her.

  Brodgar had only one reason for being that cold. He didn’t love her.

  She couldn’t think of any other reason.

  “It’s gotten late.”

  Barra turned around, feeling impossibly sleepy. The time spent in the freezing woods had sapped the strength from her. She raised a brow at her father. Even the small motion seemed to tire her and she tucked her hands under her arms, burrowing them into the thick wool of her dress.

  “Aye. I ken,” she nodded.

  Her father didn’t move, though she turned back to the window, watching the flakes fall. She listened for footsteps. After a moment, she heard some, heading into the room rather than out of it.

  “Daughter, something ails ye.” His voice made it a statement, not a question.

  Barra turned around to look at him. Her father’s kind face was drawn, his eyes pained. She felt her heart twist and she looked away, feeling sad. “It’s nothing, really.”

  “I ken ye,” he said, and this time, wincing, he moved and leaned on the wall, his knees clearly paining him. They always ached during snow, and Barra winced, hoping she’d remember to make a soup of meat bones tomorrow – something fortifying might help keep the cold at bay. “You’re so carefree, usually.” Her father murmured.

  Barra sighed. “It’s nothing…just…” she shrugged. “Since Dunbar, I’ve been uneasy.”

  “It’s no’ the war,” her father said, and one of his white eyebrows lifted kindly. “It does nae touch us here – not as it does the gentlefolk and their crofters. It’s their fight and always is, lass. It’s something more.”

  Barra looked away, watching how the snow was starting to cover her footprints on the pathway. She was skeptical of his view of the war, but that wasn’t what bothered her. Her father had been her only parent most of her life, but, even though they were close, there were some things it was impossible to discuss with a father.

  “He likes ye,” he murmured.

  Barra jumped. She had half-thought her father had left, her mind drifting in near sleep. Now, she focused on his pale stare. He was smiling, though it was hard to see the expression below the white beard. His tunic of undyed linen was fastened tight around his neck, his shoulders covered with a thick cloak. Even so, she could see his bones ached.

  “Who likes me?” Barra asked, though she could feel her cheeks flaming.

  “The lad.” He jerked his head. “Yon Brodgar.”

  Barra bit her lip. “Now, Father,” she said firmly. “Dinna get the thought that I like him, ‘cos I…”

  “’Cos it’s so plain to see that it fairly shines from ye – the pair o’ ye.” He finished.

  Barra went red. “Father…”

  “Easy, lass,” the older man chuckled. “It’s a grand thing. I wish everyone who felt love would treasure it.” His eyes went misty and he looked away out of the windows.

  Barra felt her heart melt. She nodded. “I know.” Her father and mother had married for love – a rare thing even for yeomanry, where matches were made based on land and goods and inheritance. Her throat tightened at the thought of their love. She had never known her mother, but wished she did.

  “There’s precious little of it around, lass,” he murmured. “And so, when you feel love, you should move everything that stands in its way.”

  Barra frowned, her eyes still on the snow falling outside. “But what if the thing that’s standing in the way is his feelings?”

  She looked up at her father, feeling her eyes fill with tears. His lined, weary face spread with a grin. “Only if the impediment is having too many of them.”

  Barra giggled. “Father, you ken that’s no’ true. He barely glances at me.”

  “When you’re looking, aye.” He raised his brows. “You don’t think he’d want ye to catch him looking, aye?”

  Barra flushed. “He does?” she asked. “I mean, he looks at me?”

  Her father chuckled. “Try waiting ten seconds, then looking back,” he said. “You might catch a stare.”

  Barra giggled again, and felt her heart
filling with hope. She wanted to believe that! She had no idea if it was true, but then, she thought, staring up at her father, she couldn’t imagine that he had a reason to lie to her.

  “I do nae ken,” she murmured.

  “Trust me,” her father said gently. “Why would I lie to ye?”

  Barra shook her head. “You wouldn’t, Father.”

  She sat where she was, curled up on the chair, watching the snowflakes falling. Her father stayed where he was. When she looked up, she caught an expression of such tenderness, mixed with sorrow, that she felt her own heart tense.

  “I should go to bed, lass,” he said softly. “It’s getting late.”

  “I ken,” Barra murmured. She waited as he limped over to the fire, shaking out his cloak and hanging it on a peg by the door. Their house was small – a kitchen, the room with the fire, and two bedchambers – hers and her father’s. The big one at the back of the house, which had been meant for the couple, was empty now. Brodgar slept there on a makeshift pallet.

  “Goodnight, Daughter,” her father called as he walked stiffly across the flagstones.

  “Goodnight, Father.”

  Barra stayed where she was on the chair by the window. Her thoughts drifting, staring out over the garden. It was nightfall now, with the snow whirling down against the dark. She watched it, letting her eyes follow the fall, so that it seemed that the snow didn’t move, each flake endlessly suspended against the dark night.

  She must have fallen asleep there, because the next morning she woke, stiff and sore.

  “A pox on it,” she murmured. Her legs had cramped and she stretched them, wincing as she straightened her legs. Her feet tingled and then started, dully, to ache. She bit her lip.

  Her father had woken already, she thought – somebody had stoked the fire, which was usually burned down to ashes now. She stood up, leaning her weight on the back of the wooden chair. Her knee was aching and she did her best to put her weight on it, limping out to the trough to draw water.

  She wrapped her thick woolen shawl around her shoulders, sliding her feet out of the cloth shoes she wore indoors and into boots. The ice in the trough was thick and she cracked it with a stick, shivering as she did so. Some of the water splashed onto her face. It felt as if it was gnawing her.

  When she had drawn a bucket of water, she headed back up the path to the kitchen.

  Her father had gone – she could see evidence of porridge having been cooked, the big iron pot that hung over the fireplace full of the leftovers, which were starting to harden around the edges.

  “A pox on it,” she murmured again, hauling the pot off the heat and setting it on the floor. The big iron ladle was resting on the table, and she dragged it around the edges, scraping a measure of porridge into a bowl. With butter and maybe a sprinkle of precious salt, it would be a good breakfast.

  She reached for a second of the wooden bowls, ladling out another serving. If Brodgar was awake, it was time to take him a measure of porridge. She would cook some eggs too, since he would need a hearty meal to help him to get better.

  She tiptoed to the back room, a bowl of porridge held between her hands.

  “Brodgar?”

  She heard no answer, just a low, harsh exhale that sounded like pain. Tiptoeing forward, she put her head around the door.

  Brodgar was awake.

  Dressed in tunic and tight hose, he had a sword in his hand. Barra didn’t want to breathe. She watched him, feeling her body heat up.

  He held the long sword two-handed, and he held it in front of him. As she watched, he lifted it upright, then wheeled with a speed that blurred the sword, bringing it down in a singing arc. It would have cloven whoever stood there.

  She thought that was the end of the movement, but he caught the fall of it and brought it upright again, a two-handed stroke that arched upwards, then he turned the blade back, whipping it down as if he would cut off somebody’s head.

  She lost sight of the blade, watching instead how his body moved as he wielded it. He had broad shoulders and they flexed as he moved, his thickly-muscled legs supporting him and giving his motion a fluid grace.

  Barra let out her breath in a long exhalation.

  In that moment, Brodgar turned around. His eyes widened and then narrowed. His cheeks, which were flushed with exertion, went deathly pale.

  “Barra,” he murmured. His sword dropped to his side. His shoulders drooped. “I’m awake, yes.”

  “I brought some breakfast.”

  Barra didn’t know why he was so aloof. He had no reason to be – all she had done was brought some porridge! Why he acted as if he hated her, she couldn’t fathom. Blinking, she put the breakfast on the small nightstand – one of the only pieces of furniture left in the room.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “No need, lad.” Barra murmured, her eyes stinging. She walked to the kitchen door. She reached it without crying, which was, in her mind, a small victory.

  She heard somebody fall over the small chair by the window and she bit her cheeks to stop herself laughing. At least that was a minor reprimand! She turned around in time to see his back bending as he lifted the chair and put it back upright.

  “Barra,” he said. She heard him cross the floor and she turned around and looked into two worried eyes. They were dark, his eyes, the color of shadows in the darkness. She shivered, staring into them. She felt as if she could fall forever into their depths and never surface.

  I never want to.

  Her body filled, as it always did in his presence, with a soft heat that seemed to travel through from her belly to her feet and brain, warming them.

  “What is it?” her voice was low and she cleared her throat, wondering why he filled her with such strange feelings. Her body was tingling, her stomach tying itself in knots. Looking into his eyes made her feel like a door was open in her heart, letting in sunshine.

  “Barra, I’m sorry.” His voice was deep and low, and it thrummed through her. She would have given anything to listen to it.

  Now, she stared up at him, feeling bemused and surprised. Had he just said what she thought he had?

  “Barra,” he murmured. “I’m sorry. I was rude. You brought me here…you saved me. And now you bring me breakfast! The least I can do is…say something.”

  She looked away. “It’s nothing, Brodgar,” she said. She looked up at him, trying to hide the bitter sorrow. “It’s just breakfast. And a warm bed.”

  “It’s your breakfast, and your warm bed,” he said. She shut her eyes, wishing he’d just stop. If she wasn’t able to hold him, able to even smile, without wondering why he went stiff and formal towards her, then he might as well just eat and be on his way.

  “There’s more porridge,” she murmured. “I’m also cooking eggs.”

  “Let me help.”

  This time, she had to smile. “Brodgar,” she said, feeling her heart kindle. “You are a grand lad. But the best thing you can do to help me cook is leave me to get on with it.”

  He laughed and she smiled and the morning was brighter than it had been.

  She went to the porridge pot and scraped it out, and when she turned back to the table, he was sitting there eating. She went to join him, feeling that, after all, the world held some warmth.

  While she ate, she thought about what she had seen. Something about it seemed clearly wrong to her, as if two bowls broke and some of the pieces of one were mixed in with the shards of the other.

  It was only as she finished her bowl of porridge that she realized what it was that did not fit.

  No common soldier could fight with such a sword, like that.

  Decisions

  Brodgar sat at the kitchen table, alone in the big space. Barra had gone to fetch a bucket of water. He rested his elbows on the table.

  “Blast, you’re a fool!” he hissed.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers gripping his hair in frustration. How could he have been so daft!

  She had seen
him exercising with a sword. That, alone, compromised everything.

  “No soldier born on a farm could do that.”

  He shook his head, lost in the depths of his anger and sorrow. A knight – such as he was – took years to train and it showed. He’d been working to develop his skills since he was twelve years old. He was twenty-eight now, and starting to realize his full strength. Most knights in tournaments were even older than he was, and he envied their thicker, fuller muscles and strength. Even so, his body was clearly developed from years of practice, his skill evident.

  He sighed. Barra was a clever woman – he had always noticed that she understood him readily, though – to his knowledge – she had no education to speak of. She would notice that he wasn’t as other soldiers. It was too obvious. If she told anyone, it was only a matter of time before his men found out.

  Brodgar stretched his legs, standing up. He took the bowl to the copper dish where he could wash it. He knew he had been doing what he had to do, he couldn’t waste time. He needed to be ready to fight, and soon.

  “The men are planning an ambush.”

  He sighed, rinsing out the porridge dish. He could see his reflection in the water – it showed him dark hair around a thin face, the firm chin just starting to grow a beard. He ran a hand down his face – he should shave. His eyes looked back at him from the water, dark and wide, they were typical of the McIlvors. Everybody in his family had them.

  “And it’s just as well nobody’s noticed.”

  He sighed, rolling his shoulders. He didn’t need anyone asking questions. He should leave this place, and soon. His men – the troops he’d recruited, calling himself by his first name only – would be eager to depart. He had been alone in the woods, scouting for the encampment, when he’d come upon the patrol unawares.

  “Best thing I could do was play dead.” He shook his head.

  He put the bowl down on the table, feeling sickened with himself. He was a skilled man-at-arms…the fact that a single blow had felled him, and it had only been his unconscious sprawl that had saved his life, was embarrassing.