Her damage to his body had been lethal, though the wound would have been a slow bleed, and he would have had a chance to slice her neck from ear to ear before death came. If not for Brogan, she’d be dead.
It was the second time he’d come across her battling a dragoon, and she knew what that meant.
After he buried Boyd, he would not suggest they go find the prince; he would insist they return to Dòchas. That she remain at home, safely behind walls and protected by warriors.
A large part of her was ready to give up. Ready to toss aside all the things she’d worked for and let the men handle the rest. To climb between her soft sheets, beneath her thick coverlet, and allow herself to be spoiled by Beitris and anyone else willing to do so.
The other part of her, the one that spoke with more authority, said she wasn’t allowed to give up. That to give up now would be tantamount to treason, and she wasn’t a treasonous sort.
With the men floating slowly away in the burn, all hands helped Brogan dispose of the body. The final bit of dirt was placed on the pile and a heavy stone over the center, so if the wolves came digging they’d not be able to pull his body completely away.
Brogan turned to face Fiona, and she was thankful the trembling had ceased. She stood slowly, prepared to argue her case for going forward.
“I dinna think we should camp here tonight,” he said.
The men all nodded in agreement.
“It grows dark, we should find somewhere else soon,” Sorley added.
Fiona opened her mouth, surprised he’d not insisted they turn around. She closed it again and nodded, not trusting the sound of her own voice to come out strong.
An hour later, in complete darkness, several miles away from the scene of her nightmares, they made camp. In the dark, she leaned against a tree, and Brogan joined her.
He took her hand in his and brought it to his mouth, softly brushing his lips over her knuckles.
“I’m here if ye need to talk,” he said.
Words she’d have expected from her friends Jenny and Annie, but not words she’d ever heard uttered from a man’s lips before. Fiona leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder, the solidness beneath her cheek a comfort.
“Thank ye.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
He passed her a small flask, and she eagerly accepted it, taking a longer than usual sip of whisky and relishing the burn in her throat.
“I was twelve when I first met Boyd,” Fiona said.
Brogan stiffened, but only for an instant. His fingers threaded through hers, holding her hand against his chest as she retold the story in a near whisper of what happened in the woods all those years before. Reinforcing that a monster had been put down.
“If not for Gus…I might not even be here today to have witnessed his death.” The breath left her and she felt weak once more.
Brogan stroked his thumb over her knuckles, holding her hand tighter and giving her the sense he wasn’t going to let go.
“After that, I learned how to protect myself in case I ever found myself alone with him again.”
Brogan passed her back the flask, and she took another long, heady gulp, the spirits burning a path down her throat.
“As I said, lass, ye’re verra brave.” There was a tightness in Brogan’s voice, filled with emotion.
“Thank ye for saving me. Another moment and he’d have…ruined me.” She’d have begged for death then.
Brogan tipped her chin toward him. “Even devils canna ruin angels.”
Then he brushed his lips over hers, and the tension started to melt away. He called her brave. He called her an angel.
Fiona kissed him back, her hand on his bristly cheek. Brogan didn’t realize how much his words, his tenderness meant to her.
“Also,” he said against her mouth, “I think I’m in need of a belt like this.” His fingers toyed with the belt housing the small dagger.
“It comes in handy.”
“Ye’re a soldier, lass. Dinna let anyone tell ye different.”
“I’m one of Prince Charlie’s angels. There is a difference.” She laughed softly.
Brogan stroked his thumb over her cheek, and it felt so good. Fiona leaned into his touch, wishing they never had to part.
“Ye’re Scotland’s angel,” he said.
And she wanted to be his… Boyd’s words, spoken as a taunt, about Brogan being her Highlander husband came back to haunt her. What if he were?
Milla took that moment to worm her way between them, snuffling along Fiona’s neck. Fiona smiled and leaned her head back against the tree. It might have been dark, but they were still at camp and the men surrounded them, privy to their conversation, even if whispered, and certainly discerning the sound of their kisses.
“Good lass, Milla,” Brogan said, his voice gravelly with laughter as he patted the hound.
“The best darn dog eight people never asked for,” Fiona said, “and could never do without.”
Nine
“Brogan, if I may have a word.” Fin approached him as they readied their horses for another long day of travel.
“Aye.” They stepped out of earshot of everyone else, curious gazes following them.
“The thing is, Grant, that the lass is no’ entirely safe.”
Brogan crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m listening.”
“I think if ye are no’ going to make her your wife, then I will.”
Brogan blanched, this entire conversation catching him completely off guard. “My wife? Ye do realize we’re in the middle of a war, aye?” This was not the time for such frivolities. And yet he could still hear Boyd’s words, calling him her husband, how his heart had lurched at the thought before he’d thrust it aside in order to concentrate on the danger.
“And she was nearly… Well, ye know what happened yesterday as well as anyone else here.”
“Being my wife wouldna have changed what happened.” In fact, believing she was his wife seemed only to spur Boyd on. The man wanted to see them both in pain by his actions.
“’Tis true, but having your name would give her an added measure of protection, along with the backing of your clan. There is also the fact that the two of ye have become quite…close.”
“Are ye accusing me of being dishonorable?” Brogan loomed forward in challenge, jutting his jaw.
Fin didn’t back down, and Brogan had to respect him for it. “I’m no’ accusing ye of anything, Grant, but someone has to look out for the lass’s well-being if it is no’ going to be ye.”