by Amy Jarecki
***
Enya squinted at the target. Pulling the string of the long bow even with her ear, she held her breath. The string rolled to the tips of her gloved fingers. She released.
A quick flutter of her heart accompanied her grin. “Spot on the middle.”
With his breeches a tad too small and his new boots oversized for his body, Rodney ran up to the target and yanked out the arrow. “Hells bells, you should’ve been born a lad.”
Enya walked up and stuck her finger in the hole. “Wouldn’t that have been something? Instead of picking fabric for fancy dresses, I’d be on a ship sailing for the South Seas right now.”
The young squire’s eyes popped. “And miss the tournament?”
“Well, perhaps after the tournament. I would never be able to resist an opportunity to show up a gathering of brawny knights.”
Rodney flexed his muscles. “Do you think I’ll be a knight one day?”
“Of course you will. ’Tis why Robert named you squire.” She squeezed the lad’s scrawny arm. “You have strong bones and at two and ten, you’re nearly as tall as me, I’ll say.”
“But not as dead-on with a bow as you.”
“Yet.”
Together they walked back fifty paces and Enya held out the bow. “Your turn. Let me see your best.”
Rodney concentrated on the target. White lines strained around his lips as he let his arrow fly. It hit the target inches below the bull’s-eye.
“Not bad.” She pulled another arrow from her quiver and handed it to him. “Try again, and this time, keep your fist even with the top of your ear.”
He grinned and followed her instruction. How long would the young laddie listen to the likes of me—a mere woman? Soon he’d be off patrolling the borders with her brother, Robert, and she’d be left behind at Halkhead while her father arranged her marriage. Oh what a wretched parcel of miserable affairs I have to look forward to.
Enya wanted to patrol the borders—see the world, or Scotland at least. She loved to listen to tales of Robert’s travels. She dreamed of riding a white steed and saving the poor from starvation. But she was stuck at Halkhead House, the youngest of Lord Ross’s six daughters.
Her mother always berated Enya for daydreaming. “You must take more interest in your embroidery, dear,” Mother scolded endlessly while tearing out Enya’s horrific mistakes. Embroidery. Baa.
“Did you see that?” Rodney asked.
Enya snapped her head toward the target. Rodney’s arrow stuck in the bull’s-eye—not in the middle like hers had, but close. “Excellent. See? All it takes is a little adjustment and you’ll hit your mark every time.”
The muffled rumble of horse hooves echoed in the distance. Rodney gaped at her as if it were Christmas morn. “They’re coming.”
Enya grabbed his hand and headed through the copse of trees. “Let’s watch from atop the hill. They’ll not see us up there.”
Nearly out of breath, they reached the crest just as the long line of horses carrying robust Highlanders ambled into view. Large men rode toward them with plaids draped across their shoulders, helms on their heads, targes in one hand and pikes with deadly spearheads in the other. Some had their claymores strapped to their backs and others carried the large swords in scabbards on their belts.
“They all look so…inexplicably tough,” Enya said.
Rodney peeked out from behind an enormous oak. “They look like a mob of heathens if you ask me.”
With their long hair and massive exposed legs, Enya could see his point. Lowland men would never be caught baring their knees or wearing kilts. But a basal stirring swirled deep inside. These sturdy men were proud, strong and focused.
Enya watched an imposing warrior ride directly beneath her hiding place. Unable to look away, her breath caught. Even bigger than the others, his chestnut hair curled out from under his helm. On his broad shoulder perched a great golden eagle. She’d seen falconers before, but never one with a bird as impressive as an eagle.
His fist grasped the reins easily, as if he were holding a thread of wool. His plaid covered his thigh just above the knee, leading to a powerful calve which rested against the horse’s barrel. Gaping at the warrior’s exquisitely muscular frame, Enya bit her lip.
Riding beside a man with an ornate breastplate, Enya guessed the warrior was An Gille-coise—a henchman paid to protect his laird and his clan. His gaze flicked across the scene like a hunter, or the hunted. Simply looking at him made her stomach tense.
His eyes darted up the hill and Enya froze. Crouching behind the clump of gorse in full yellow bloom, no one should have seen her, but the warrior’s gaze fixed on her as if she were waving a torch. In a flicker of a heartbeat, time slowed. Her mouth went dry as their eyes met. His jaw tensed and his line of sight trailed to the bow in her hand.
“That’s got to be the biggest man in the entire world.” Rodney’s amazed voice broke through her trance.
Enya’s hand flew to her chest to quash her pounding heart. “You think so?” Taking a deep breath, she wouldn’t let on the warrior had affected her in any way. But her fingers trembled as she watched the parade proceed through the heavy iron gates of Halkhead House—until he turned and regarded her over his shoulder. Does he think I’m going to pull out an arrow and shoot him in the back? Perhaps he does.
Rodney yanked her hand. “Come. Let’s go watch.”
Enya hesitated and stared down at her olive-green kirtle. A plain day dress, her hem was caked with mud. She ran her hands over the simple white coif she’d slapped on top of her head that morning. She looked frightful and knew it. “You go. I’ll spirit round the back. If Mother sees me like this, she’ll have one of her spells.”
Rodney shrugged. “Och, you look fine.”
Enya feigned a smile. “You ken Mother. She ordered all that fabric for me.”
The lad blew a raspberry and raced down the hill without her. A long breath whistled through Enya’s lips. At eight and ten, she’d been to court on a number of occasions. Mother had always made her put on a show of finery, but she didn’t care for it. She preferred simple kirtles allowing her more freedom of movement for things like archery and horseback riding.
However, that brawny warrior’s eyes raking across her face and fixating on her longbow made her cheeks burn. She didn’t want him or anyone else gawking at her dirty gown. Besides, Enya’s mother would be furious if she raced into the courtyard with a bow and quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder. A folly to use the secret entrance in daylight, she’d skirt through the woods, head around back, go in through the kitchen and tiptoe up to her chamber.
Edging around the woods proved the easy part, but once she hit the rear side of the manse, her brother, Robert, popped in front of her. “There you are.”
Caught. Enya snapped her hands to her hips and challenged him. “Why aren’t you in the courtyard greeting our guests with Father?”
“Why aren’t you?”
“I’m not the heir.”
“Touché.” Robert raked his hand through his hair. Enya was well aware he didn’t approve of her father’s reasons for holding the tournament. “Actually, I heard the horses and was heading there now. Must welcome the barbarians, you know.”
“Don’t let Father hear you say that.”
“And why not? He feels the same.”
“Not when we’re asking them for help.”
“Very well.” He licked his finger and rubbed Enya’s cheek. “How do you manage to turn into a guttersnipe every time you venture outside?”
Her hands flew to her cheeks. “Really?”
“You’d better not let Mother see you.”
“I was just heading in to clean up.”
“Hurry. Father wants us all in the great hall for supper. The Hamiltons will be here. You dare not be late.”
Enya cast her gaze skyward and headed for the door. She wanted to forget about Lord Claud Hamilton and his supposed interest in her. The few times she’d seen him, he’d reminded her o
f a rooster strutting among a gaggle of hens.
***
Heather shook her finger under Enya’s nose. “I’ve no idea how we’ll turn you into a beauty by supper. Your mother will take it out of my hide for certain.”
Enya wrapped her hands around the accusing finger and kissed it. “You worry far too much.”
Though she adored Heather almost as if she were a second mother, Enya hated to be doted upon. She looked at the torturous fine-toothed comb in her serving maid’s hand and took her seat at the vanity. Heather started at the ends and yanked the comb through Enya’s red tresses. “You should have put your hair in a snood before you went out this morning. There wouldn’t be half the knots. How you manage to mess my handiwork as soon as you leave the chamber is a mystery to me.” She let out a noisy sigh. “You should have been born a boy.”
“That’s what Rodney said when my arrow hit the bull’s-eye.” Enya flashed a challenging grin in the looking glass. “Wouldn’t that have been a boon? I’d be free to travel, see the world.” She swung her arm through the air with an imaginary sword. “Fight duels, and win this fanciful tournament.”
Heather groaned and jerked the comb harder.
“Ow.”
“You’d do very well to stop your dreaming and face the fact you are a lass, and a grown one at that.”
Enya folded her arms and glared at her reflection. It wasn’t she didn’t like being female, it’s just it was so limiting. One by one, she’d watched her five sisters marry. Her father was close to negotiating her betrothal to that pompous Claud Hamilton. Heir to an earldom, she should be overjoyed. At least that’s what her mother said.
Enya hardly knew Claud. Friends with William, he hadn’t been to Halkhead since her closest brother left for his fostering a few years ago. Father had invited Claud to the tournament, just as he had every other able-bodied knight who sympathized with Queen Mary. Enya blinked at her reflection. She’d better give the young lord a chance. Besides, she was curious to see him after so much time had passed. She fidgeted with her skirt. Of course she wanted to see how he’d changed. Perhaps with time to mature, he wouldn’t be so full of self-importance. After all, she might have no choice but to spend eternity with him.
Saints preserve me.
Heather pulled a small clump of hair from Enya’s temple and started braiding. Nice. She loved it when Heather wove her hair through her bronze tiara. Though unpretentious, it was her favorite piece of jewelry. Enya glanced over to the bed. Heather had set out her gown. It was beautiful. Mother picked the emerald damask to match Enya’s eyes. She bit the inside of her cheek. If she was to see her future husband this night, she should look her best.
End of Sample
Other Books by Amy Jarecki:
Scottish historical romances coming in 2014
The Highland Henchman
Beauty and the Barbarian
Rescued by the Celtic Warrior
Celtic Maid
Contemporary Romances
Virtue
Chihuahua Momma
Visit Amy’s web site: www.amyjarecki.com
