The Highland Henchman

by Amy Jarecki

  Marching through a copse of willows, Bran found an open paddock and pulled the hood from Griffon’s head. “Arm,” Bran commanded.

  The eagle hopped from his shoulder perch to Bran’s gloved forearm. In one motion, Bran whipped his hand forward. Bran’s heart always raced when Griffon spread his wings, spanning a massive six feet. With a flap of Griffon’s wings, Bran’s hair blew back as he watched the majestic launch—slow at first, but then quickly shooting straight up.

  In seconds, Griffon soared at the end of his hundred-foot lead. As if holding on to a kite, Bran watched him fly in great circles. He sang his song. It wasn’t necessary to belt it out. The eagle’s keen sense of hearing would bring him to the tune from a mile. Griffon inclined his head toward the music and dove. Bran chuckled. The bird looked as if he would dive into Bran’s skull like a cannonball, but Griffon always pulled up and clamped on to his forearm in expectation of a reward.

  Bran didn’t give him a morsel every time. It was important to earn the bird’s respect. Eagles would try to dominate and fight if they lacked respect for their handlers. Well aware raptors had no capacity for affection, and harbored no love for their falconers, Bran never fooled himself into thinking Griffon loved him. He had trained the eagle by becoming his most reliable source of food and rewarding good behavior. Bran had created a lifetime bond through discipline, and the two would only be separated by death.

  The bird’s feathers bristled and Griffon’s yellow eyes met Bran’s. A warning pricked the back of his neck. The heather rustled. They weren’t alone. Bran inclined his head and used his ears to mark the position of the spy—directly behind him. After transferring Griffon to his shoulder, he slid his claymore from its scabbard.

  In one swift move, he whipped around and slashed his blade through the brush. Muscles steeled for a fight, Bran glared into the shadowy trees. The stunned form, clad in a hooded cloak, crouched and scooted backward. He had a bow slung over his shoulder, no weapon in his hand. Bran hesitated.

  “Please don’t kill me.”

  The soothing pitch of a woman’s voice made Bran’s heart race. “Ye shouldna sneak up on a man like that, lassie. Ye’re likely to have yer throat cut. Now come out here where I can see ye.”

  A pair of emerald-green eyes peeked from under her hood. “Sheathe your sword.”

  Bran glanced at the blade in his hand then back at the trembling lass crouched in the dim light. A slender thing, she was about half his weight and posed no threat. He complied and placed his fists on his hips. “All right, now tell me what a wee lass is doing—”

  Bran’s mouth fell open. Holy Mother Mary and all the saints, he’d nearly skewered Miss Enya. Bran dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Dear Lord Jesus, if I’d known it was ye, I’d have…” He would have dove behind a tree and let her pass unawares, but she’d think him an utter simpleton if he said anything the like. “Please forgive my impertinence, Miss Enya. I’m no’ accustomed to seeing highborn lassies roaming about the trees.”

  She smiled and pulled the hood from her auburn tresses. Her hair gleamed like a new copper farthing, but Bran’s gaze was immediately pulled to her emerald eyes. They glistened with her wily smile, as if telling him she relished adventure. A faint splay of freckles stretched across her petite nose, which ended in a teasing point.

  The hood of her cloak slipped low on her shoulders when she turned her attention to Griffon, giving Bran an eyeful of silken ivory skin that flushed down Enya’s slender neck with the chill of morning air.

  Her gaze flashed back to his, almost as if she were flirting with him. “I’m afraid we haven’t been properly introduced.” She curtseyed deeply and bowed her head as she would to a chieftain. “I am Miss Enya, daughter of Lord Ross.”

  “I ken who ye are.”

  Rising, she ignored his remark and gestured her hand toward him with an expectant look.

  “Sir Bran of Clan MacLeod.” Not entirely comfortable with his new title, he gave her a stiff bow. “At yer service, m’lady.”

  Her gaze slid down his body and back up again. “A Highland knight?”

  Though bold, she most likely was assessing his fitness for the tournament. Bran pulled his shoulders back. “Knighted by me chieftain, Calum MacLeod, Laird of Raasay.” He wasn’t about to say Calum knighted him hours before the ship sailed into the Firth of Clyde. Bran was Calum’s champion and that was all that mattered, at least in Renfrewshire.

  Enya pointed to the eagle. “And who might this be?”

  “Forgive me.” He held out his forearm. “This is Griffon.”

  She admired the bird as if he were the crown jewels. “He’s enormous. Usually only kings have the pleasure of hawking with golden eagles. Is this your laird’s bird?”

  “Nay. I nearly broke me neck pulling him from a nest when he was but a wee chick. Trained him meself. ”

  Enya held up her hand. “May I touch him?”

  Bran slipped the hood over the eagle’s eyes. “Now ye can. His beak’s a bit vicious.”

  She stroked her fingers along the eagle’s brown feathers. Bran arched his back as if her hand had touched his skin. He imagined her fingers running along his back and a soft moan escaped his lips. Bran cringed.

  If Enya had heard him, she didn’t let on. “He’s beautiful.”

  “Aye, and a great hunter.”

  Enya’s green eyes met his again, making Bran’s insides roil. “What’s it like in the Highlands?”

  Heaven help him, he could stand there and talk to the lassie all morning. “Ye’ve no’ been there?”

  “You must be jesting. My father scarcely allows me a carriage ride to Glasgow.”

  “Me clan’s from the tiny Isle of Raasay, sandwiched between the Isle of Skye and the northern mainland. ’Tis a rugged piece of rock, but we make do.”

  Enya assessed him like a woman would a piece of fine cloth. “Rugged land for a rugged man.” Her voice sounded like warm cream. The silken ivory on her cheeks flushed and Bran wished he could run his fingers across the searing warmth of it.

  Heat radiated below Bran’s belt and he clenched his gut to gain control. If he’d been at an inn, he could have easily mistaken the half cast of her eyes and parted lips as an invitation, but this lass probably didn’t even know how much her bonny expression tempted him. He cleared his throat. “And what brings ye walking so early this morn?”

  “I always rise with the sun.”

  “As do I, but ’tis probably no’ wise to be wandering the woods when there are so many warriors mulling about.”

  “Oh? But they’re here on my father’s invitation.”

  “Aye, but they’re no’ all as good-natured as I.”

  She pointed to the bow on her shoulder. “I can take care of myself.”

  Though tall for a woman, her delicate limbs were too fine to wield a weapon of any weight. But the haughtiness of her arched brows reflected misplaced self-assurance. Bran frowned to suppress the laugh tickling his insides. “Can ye now?”

  Enya rested her hands on her hips. “I can hit the eye of a target at one hundred and fifty paces.”

  Bran scratched his chin appreciatively. “Had a bit of practice with the bow?”

  “Aye.”

  “Ye sure ye could take on a warrior like me?”

  She blinked once and looked him directly in the eye. “I can with my bow.”

  Aside from being foolish, the lass’s overconfidence could be dangerous for her. Mayhap she needed a quick lesson to set her to rights. Bran moved Griffon to his shoulder. “But what if someone crept up and snatched ye like this?” With the speed of a viper, he grasped her shoulder and wrapped her in a firm hold before she could open her mouth to protest.

  Bran closed his eyes. He inhaled the sweet perfume of rose oil as the warmth of her back pressed against his chest. Everything about her was soft, supple. Woman. Rather than a lesson to teach her caution, he wanted to take Enya’s hand and lead her into the tall grass—forget about the tournament and show
her exactly how good-natured he could be.

  Enya struggled against his arm, but he held her firm.

  “Unhand me.”

  Bran flinched at the scolding tone of her voice, released his arm and resumed a proper distance. His heart pounded in his chest and he studied his boots. Had he ruined his chances to befriend her? He hoped not. She seemed quite…normal, almost like a Highland lass. “Apologies, Miss Enya. I shouldna been so brash.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have.” Enya brushed her arms, but did not storm away as he expected.

  “But ’tis me point. It is dangerous to be in the brush alone.”

  She clasped her hands together. “Mayhap around someone as enormous as you.”

  “Ye have nothing to fear from me.”

  “But you look frightening.”

  Boar’s ballocks, he’d really startled her. Why did he always have to be so overbearing when it came to the lassies? “Good.”

  Enya dropped her hands to her sides and stepped toward him. “Why do you say that?”

  Bran caught the hint of rose oil again and his heart thundered in his ears. “Because I dunna want someone charging out of the brush and skewering me with an arrow.”

  She pushed her bow up over her shoulder. “You’d kill them if they tried, would you not?”

  “Nay—well, mayhap. At least afore they killed me.” His fingers twitched. He ached to reach out and run them through her silken tresses.

  Her gaze slid down his body as if she were deciding if she wanted to continue the conversation. Bran liked having her eyes on him, though she thought him frightening. She probably thought him unsightly too, with his hard features compared to her delicate ones.

  “Did you sail a galley from your island?”

  At least she was still willing to converse. “Most came down in galleys, but Laird Calum brought his galleon.”

  “A tall ship?” Her eyes popped. “Oh my, I’d like to see it.”

  Och, she is an inquisitive lass. “’Tis quite impressive, with three masts and eighteen guns.”

  Her eyes grew even wider. “Are they all manned?”

  “Mostly. The laird wouldna risked sailing down to the Clyde without a bit o’ black powder in the hull.” Wanted by the English, the Spaniards and quite possibly the Dutch, Bran had no intention of revealing the MacLeods notorious reputation. There was no need for the lass to know about his privateering adventures. She’d shun him for certain.

  “But why?” she asked. “We’re not dangerous.”

  “Mayhap no’ you, but one can never be too careful or have too many guns in these times.”

  The sun sparkled in Enya’s eyes when she looked up again. “So, where else have you sailed in your laird’s galleon?”

  Bran shouldn’t let out too much about Calum’s skill at plundering on the high seas, but she looked so interested. He removed Griffon’s hood and lead, and sent the eagle soaring as he gathered his thoughts. “We recently returned from Tortuga in the Caribbean.” He wouldn’t mention they were plundering Spanish silver before Francis Drake and John Hawkins could lay their thieving hands on it. After all, Drake and Hawkins had beaten them to the booty many a time.

  Enya clasped her hands to her lips. “An adventure on the high seas? That must have been unbelievably exciting.”

  “Aye, and a fair bit warmer than it ever is in Scotland.”

  “What is your favorite memory?”

  Bran gave her a twisted smile. He couldn’t say “the women,” though he’d had his first taste of love with a harlot who fancied him—taught him everything he knew about…

  He looked at Enya’s angelic face and altered his line of thought. “The water is warm as a bath and the color of the sky on a cloudless day.”

  Enya turned a circle and her skirts swirled outward. Leading her to that tall grass looked all the more inviting. “It sounds heavenly. How lucky you are to go on exotic adventures. You must tell me more.”

  Bran smiled and glanced back toward the manse. He knew he shouldn’t be standing there talking to Lord Ross’s daughter, especially without a chaperone—and especially with the twists his mind was taking. “Mayhap I will someday.”

  Griffon screeched above. Together they looked up to watch him dive and nab a pigeon.

  “Good laddie, bring it here.” Bran sang, his voice warbling a bit with Enya watching.

  “He’s amazing.”

  Bran wished she were referring to him. “No better hunter exists.”

  “Why did you choose an eagle and not a falcon or a hawk?”

  “Golden eagles nest on Raasay.” Bran grinned. “Eagles are at the top of the raptor food chain, but they’re very hard to catch.”

  Griffon soared down with the pigeon and dropped it at Bran’s feet. The neck was broken. Bran used his dirk to remove the pigeon’s heart and held it to Griffon’s beak in reward.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “’Tis the falconer’s reward. The eagle always receives the heart. ’Tis like a sweet to him.” Bran eyed her bow and arrows. “Did ye come out here to hunt?”

  Enya pulled the bow from her shoulder. “I usually shoot at targets, unless I’m hunting with my brothers.”

  Bran reached for her weapon. He ran his finger along the wood appreciatively. He chuckled at the painted purple thistles carved on its spine. “’Tis nicely crafted, though the flowers are a bit dainty.”

  “My father made it for me.”

  “A man of many talents, aye?” Further delaying his return to the tent, Bran pointed at a tree fifty yards away. “Can ye hit the knot in that oak, yonder?”

  The corners of Enya’s mouth pulled down. “You’re not disgusted that I like to shoot?”

  Holy Jesus, she was adorable. “Why should I be disgusted? If ye have a skill, ye should no’ be ashamed of it.”

  Her eyes raked over his body again. This time she had a proud tilt to her chin. She pulled an arrow from her quiver. Her expression turned serious and intent when she aimed at the target. Bran’s stomach flipped. She looked incredible, focused like a female eagle diving toward her kill. He liked that. Though clearly protected by her family, Enya was no delicate rose tucked away inside a richly decorated mansion. Bran could tell she had heart and a passion for life. If only he could find a woman like her—someone who wasn’t afraid to shoot a bow or sail to exotic isles.

  Enya released her arrow. Bran’s gaze followed its flight straight to the center of the knot. “Spot in the center.” He pointed to her quiver full of arrows. “Do ye think ye can do it a second time?”

  She snatched another arrow. “Of course.”

  Bran watched her intently. Clearly, Enya enjoyed hunting—a great deal. She released her arrow and it skewered the knot directly beside the first. Bran trotted up to the tree and examined the shots. “I couldna done better meself.”

  Enya walked up and pulled the arrows from the target. “The question is, can you do as well?”

  The lass was confident. He liked that too. With Bran’s uncanny eyesight, he had no doubt he’d be able to hit the same two marks, and proving it would give him more time to flirt with Enya, though he knew better. But how often did he have a chance to spend a morning with a lass? “I’ll have to give it a go.”

  She held out her bow and Bran’s fingers brushed hers. The softness of her skin stopped him. He wanted to reach out and touch her again. They locked eyes, and then Bran remembered to inhale. Enya’s cheeks flushed as she lowered her lashes.

  With a glance at the tall grass, Bran counted fifty long paces, which took him past where Enya had shot her arrows. He gave the string a test pull and held his hand out for an arrow. She drew one from her quiver and placed it in his hand, keeping her fingers far away from his.

  He pulled back the string and aimed. For a moment, he considered missing on purpose, but then a woman like Miss Enya would probably respect a man more if he were her equal. He swallowed—equal in archery, perhaps. Bran’s father had been a mere fisherman, drowned when Bra
n was just a wee lad. His mother worked in the kitchen of Brochel Castle, and by the grace of God, Calum MacLeod had seen fit to foster him. Enya was born into nobility, untouchable to a Highland henchman, even if he could best any man on his island.

  ***

  Enya held her breath when Bran pulled the bowstring back. She had nearly thrown her arms around his neck and squeezed him when he’d admired her shooting. His dark features made him look so dangerous, but Enya could tell his looks were deceptive by the way he handled Griffon. She watched the vein in his neck pulse as he lined up with the target.

  When he released the arrow, her heart leapt. She gasped. The shot could not have been more perfect. “You’ve had some practice.” She smiled at her use of his words.

  Bran flashed a devilish grin. “Calum used me in the crow’s nest during battles when I was a cabin boy. He’d be dead if I missed me target.”

  Enya gaped at him. “You fought battles as a boy?”

  “Aye. Fought the tyrant Thomas Wharton in the bay right in front of Brochel Castle.”

  “Wharton? Why, even I’ve heard of him. He burned out the Douglas keep at Solway Moss.”

  Bran nodded as if he had a million things to say but thought better of it. “I doubt an angel wept the day he died.”

  Right in front of her stood a Highland warrior who sailed the high seas and fought monstrous tyrants. She could spend the entire morning asking him questions. With his dark hair hanging in waves to his shoulders and the shadow of a beard along his jaw line, he could pass for a cutthroat pirate. Why couldn’t Claud Hamilton have a teaspoon of Bran’s manliness?

  “Enya?” Robert barked from behind. “What are you doing out here…with him?”

  Bran wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword and Robert yanked his from its scabbard. “No.” Enya jumped in front of him. She didn’t want her oldest brother killed by the Highlander, and she knew he could do it. “I was out for a stroll and surprised Sir Bran with his eagle, ’tis all.”

  Robert held his gaze even with Bran’s. A thin line formed across his lips. “You shouldn’t be wandering about with so many barbar—er, guests here. I’m surprised Heather let you out of her sight.”