The Highland Henchman

by Amy Jarecki

  The hall erupted in a resounding “Aye.”

  Enya’s father ran a hand across his ermine cap worn only by chartered baronets—the cap that gave Lord Ross final word regarding every issue upon his lands. He would have thought this through, no doubt.

  “The Highlander performed very well indeed. I can assure you this was a difficult decision.”

  Calum dropped back to the bench with a grumble. “The whole thing seems bloody rigged to me.” He bowed his head toward Enya. “No incivility to ye, m’lady.”

  “None taken. If my father would have consulted with me, I would have asked the same question, my laird.” Enya watched as Claud held up the sword to a tepid applause. “’Tis clear a great many guests feel the same.”

  As the music resumed, Bran leaned down, his lips brushing her hair. “Ye rewarded me with the greatest prize this afternoon. I will never forget yer kiss.”

  Enya gasped and met his gaze. If only she could wrap her arms around him and kiss him again, right there in the hall with everyone watching. Her eyes drifted to his full lips and her insides danced in concert with the piper’s tune. Not trusting her voice to speak, she forced a curtsey and returned to the dais.

  Chapter Seven

  After the tents were struck, Bran found a place to set up his pallet in the stable loft. He preferred not to bed down in the tower with Ross’s guard like Rewan and the others. The solitude of the stable enabled him to keep Griffon away from prying strangers who knew nothing about raptors. Besides, he was used to the privacy of his cottage on Raasay. That was the one condition he’d insisted on when Calum appointed him henchman. He only stayed in Brochel Castle’s tower when necessary for the clan’s protection.

  He’d been training with Ross’s guard for three days, and hadn’t even seen Enya in the great hall for meals. It was for the best. Seeing her only twisted his insides. However, he’d never forget awaking to her delicate, bow-shaped lips teasing him. Dropping in and out of consciousness, at first he’d thought he was dreaming. He had some idea a healer tended him, but when Enya’s lips touched his, he woke as if someone held smelling salts to his nose—though a bouquet as pleasant as heaven.

  A stall door opened below. “Good morn, Maisey.” A woman’s voice…a young woman.

  Careful not to make a sound, Bran crawled to the trapdoor and peeked down. Dressed in a simple kirtle, a linen coif upon her head with a long braid trailing down to her beautifully curved hips, Enya fastened a bridle on a sorrel mare. His heart skipped a beat.

  “Good morn, Miss Enya.” The words came out before he had a chance to think.

  Enya snapped around but didn’t look up. “Who’s toying with me?”

  “Sorry to startle ye.” Bran’s feet hit two rungs of the ladder as he hopped down. “I’ve made me pallet in the loft.”

  Enya glanced up at the opening. “Why not the tower? Would that not be more comfortable?”

  “I prefer the quiet, and the animals dunna talk back.”

  Enya slipped the snaffle bit into the mare’s mouth. “If it were up to me I think I’d stay in the stable as well.”

  “And where are ye off to this morn?”

  “I was planning to slip out for an early ride.” Her eyes shifted to the stable door. “Father never allows me to ride alone. I can only do it when I spirit away before dawn.”

  Beyond the open door, the sky had taken on a pre-sunrise violet hue. “Yer da’s right. Ye never know what’s lurking in the shadows.”

  She swung a saddle blanket across Maisey’s back. “But Father’s guard patrols.”

  Bran still didn’t care for Enya’s overconfidence, no matter how bonny her smile. “Do ye think they catch everything?”

  Enya picked up her sidesaddle. Bran stepped in and grasped it, but she pulled back and hung on tight. “You cannot stop me.”

  “I aimed to heft it for ye.”

  “Oh.” She released her delicate fingers. “Thank you.”

  Bran fastened the girth, knowing he should climb back up to the loft and mind his own business. “I’ll ride with ye as yer guard. Besides, Griffon needs to spread his wings.” Bugger his business—he also had a responsibility to see to the lady’s safety.

  “Splendid. Perhaps you could show me more about falconry.”

  In no time, Bran had Griffon on his shoulder and they rode out toward the forest. “I havena seen ye since the last night of the tournament.”

  “Between my mother and my maid, I haven’t many opportunities to escape—especially if I value my sleep.”

  “I canna imagine being kept inside. I love a biting sea breeze on me face and the feel of a ship rising and falling with the waves.”

  “What’s it like, being a sailor?”

  “’Tis a lot of hard work, that’s for certain. But Calum’s a good captain—treats his men fair, and I’d sail into hell with him if he asked.”

  “Where do you sleep when you’re at sea?”

  “With the men below decks.” Bran waved his hand through the air. “Swinging to and fro in a hammock.”

  “How adventurous.” She tapped her heel against her mare, requesting a trot. “In all your travels, what is your favorite place?”

  “Me favorite is me own cottage on Raasay, but sailing into southern seas is a wonder. The sea is blue as the sky on a clear summer’s day, and the air so warm ye dunna need a cloak.” He chuckled. “Ye dunna need clothes, really.”

  “No clothes? How preposterous.”

  “Aye, well, no’ stark naked, but woolens are certainly uncomfortable there.”

  She gazed beyond him with a faraway gleam in her eye. “Sounds like a dream.”

  Enya leaned forward and cued her horse to a canter. Bran followed, staying close behind. She laughed when the linen coif flew off her head. Bran pulled up, but Enya galloped ahead. As one of Ross’s guards, he couldn’t allow her out of his sight. Griffon’s claws dug into the leather harness on his shoulder as he raced his old gelding after her, wishing Sir Malcolm had appointed him a spry young Galloway to ride, like Enya’s mount.

  Enya reined her horse to a sliding stop and threw her head back with a hearty laugh. “There’s nothing better than a gallop at sunrise.”

  Bran pulled up beside her. God, she was ravishing with her wild red locks tossed about by the wind. “Ye sit yer horse well.”

  She beamed. “Do you think so?”

  “I wouldna said it otherwise.” Bran dismounted. They’d arrived at an open lea speckled with daisies and tall grass. “This looks like a fine place to let Griffon do a bit of hunting.”

  Enya slipped her leg over the lower pommel.

  In two steps, Bran had his hands on her waist—her very small, very warm waist. “Allow me.”

  When she rested her hands on his shoulders, Bran detected a slight tremor.

  “I can dismount on my own.”

  “I have no doubt, but I’d be no kind of gentleman allowing ye to do so.”

  Hit with a heavenly bouquet of rose soap sweetened by the intoxicating smell of woman, Bran tightened his thighs to keep his knees from buckling. Enya slid down the length of his body, again attacking his senses and his sensibilities. He lengthened with every progressing inch as she skimmed along his flesh.

  If only her lithe body could brush against his all morning, but her feet touched down and she stood, unblinking. Those emerald-green eyes looked at him with wonder—and desire. Bran’s heart thudded against his chest with such force, he was sure Enya could feel it, though her body was not quite touching his now.

  Eyelids fanned by long lashes shuttered her eyes. She leaned in, chin up. No words were necessary to tell him what she wanted. Bran tilted his head down and caressed his lips over the petal-soft skin that parted for him. Every inch of him came alive. So intense was his reaction, he could no sooner control his urges as he could control the tides.

  His hands still grasping her waist, a voice at the back of his mind told him to stop, but she felt so incredible. The voice again reminded
him this was forbidden fruit. A guardsman was bound by an oath of loyalty not to touch, hold, kiss, love the baron’s daughter. Their lips merged with passion that made Bran’s blood run hot and his heart thunder. Enya’s hands found his waist and slipped around to his back, pulling his body into hers, his cock hard as the wood of an oak. Bran could think of nothing but the sweetness of her mouth and the wickedly soft breasts plying his chest.

  He rubbed against her. Oh, how easy it would be lead her into the copse of trees and raise her skirts. Her fingers clamped into his back and she moved with him, returning his kisses like a woman who needed to be bedded. Holy Mary, she would unman him if she kept rocking her hips.

  Caw.

  Griffon squawked in Bran’s ear. Enya squeezed him tighter. Bran ran his hands along her slender spine and cupped her lovely bottom. Enya moaned. He moved his lips to her neck and tickled her with kisses.

  Caw.

  If only he’d left Griffon in the barn. But the bird was his voice of reason. He must bear down and regain control. Clenching his teeth, Bran grasped Enya’s shoulders and inhaled, though it was a moment before he found his voice. “Please forgive me. I-I must have lost me head.”

  Enya reached out and slipped her fingers along the plaid Bran wore across his shoulder. “Did you not wish to kiss me?”

  “Och, of course I wanted to kiss ye. Who wouldn’t want to kiss a bonny lass with hair of fire and eyes that light up the forest?”

  “But the look on your face—’tis as if you did not like it.”

  Bran glanced down to the protrusion under his kilt and then reached out and cupped her face. “I liked it too much, m’lady. But I’m yer father’s guardsman now. ’Tis no’ right for me to take advantage.”

  Enya turned her back, her braid swinging out, brushing Bran’s arm. “You are accomplished, a knighted henchman.” She whipped back around. “You are no commoner.”

  Bran’s gut twisted. “Tell that to yer father—and to Lord Hamilton.”

  Enya’s eyes flashed with a challenging spark, but she quickly diverted her attention to Griffon. “Will you show me how to handle him?”

  “Aye.” Bran removed the eagle’s hood. “I attach the lead to his jesses and let him soar, then I call him back and give him a morsel. Once I’ve reinforced the fact he’s rewarded when he returns to me, I give him his freedom.”

  “May I try?”

  Bran pulled his falconer’s glove from his belt and handed it to her. “Ye best wear this.” With a stern command, he transferred Griffon to her forearm. “Take up a firm hold of the lead.”

  Enya wrapped the end of the leather strap around her hand. “My, he’s heavier than he looks.”

  “He weighs near three stone, but less than a female eagle.” Bran braced his hand under Enya’s elbow. “Swing yer arm forward to command him to fly.”

  With Bran’s help, Enya sent Griffon sailing to the skies, the breeze from his wings blowing her hair back. “He’s magnificent.”

  Though alluding to the bird, Bran could hear her words again and again. He wished she had referred to him. After the bird took a good number of turns on the lead, Bran sang his lullaby. He used the Gaelic words rather than humming. Enya’s gaze slipped from the eagle and rested upon Bran’s face.

  Griffon landed on her outstretched arm as Bran resumed his support. “I didn’t even see him approach.”

  Bran popped a piece of bully beef into the raptor’s beak. “The song calls to him.”

  “I know, you told me before.” She stroked her hand along Griffon’s feathers. “May I remove the lead?”

  “Sing to him first.”

  “But I do not know the words.”

  “Can ye hum the tune?”

  Enya regarded the bird for a moment. When she opened her mouth, a sweet soprano sang the notes perfectly to a “fa-la.”

  The sound of the supple, feminine voice trickled along Bran’s skin, sending it proud with gooseflesh. He leaned down to her ear and whispered, “Now release him.”

  Spreading his huge wings, Griffon’s initial takeoff was slow and majestic, but soon he soared in a circle above them. Bran knew the bird spotted prey when he climbed so high, he appeared no bigger than a hummingbird. Griffon headed south, and Bran scanned the sky. “There.” He pointed. “A flock of ducks flying in formation. Do ye see them?”

  “Aye. Do you think he’ll nab one?”

  “Griffon rarely misses. He flies above them and dives. The prey have no idea they’re under attack until ’tis too late.”

  “I can barely see him now.”

  “He’s almost over them.”

  “There he goes!” A gasp squealed from Enya’s throat. “He’s diving as if he’s falling from the sky.”

  “Watch this.”

  Griffon hit the duck with a powerful blow, latching on to the unsuspecting mallard with his great claws. The formation scattered with honking squawks, ducks flapping everywhere. Bran sang his song.

  Enya joined in with her fa-la’s, laughing in between breaths. “I have never seen such a thing. He must be the most feared hunter in all of the skies.”

  The eagle dropped the duck on the ground, its neck broken. Bran called Griffon to the harness on his shoulder. “Do you think cook could make use of duck?”

  “I’m sure he can. Duck soup shall be on the menu tonight.”

  ***

  Enya watched Bran reward Griffon and tie the duck to his saddle. When they had sung together, his deep voice rumbled through her, filled her breast with delight. The singing was nearly as exciting as watching Griffon dive through the air and snatch his prey.

  Bran treated the eagle with a firm hand, yet there was a mutual bond between handler and raptor. It was if the two understood each other’s thoughts. Bran was so unlike anyone she’d ever met. He hadn’t scolded her when she galloped her horse like Robert would. He simply urged his horse faster and kept pace.

  Bran patted the rump of the aging gelding that Malcolm had assigned to him. “We’d best go back, lest they send a search party for ye.”

  “Back?” Enya clenched her hand, the one still inside the falconer’s glove. “I want to stay.”

  “And have yer brother catch us again? He’s likely to have me thrown in the pit.”

  “That’s absurd. I enjoy your company.” And I want you to kiss me again—and again. “I should be free to enjoy a hawking expedition with whomever I choose.”

  Bran grasped Maisey’s reins and led the horse to Enya. “Highborn women have few choices as to whom they can befriend. You said yerself ye’re rarely alone, rarely able to spirit away time.”

  “That is exactly what frustrates me continually.” Bran held out the reins, but she didn’t take them. “How am I supposed to become ‘worldly’ if I am not allowed to experience the world?”

  “I dunna ken. But if yer father’s words are true, ye are betrothed.”

  She stepped into him. “I am not betrothed.”

  “But what of Claud Hamilton preening his feathers at the tournament?”

  “My father is negotiating with the Hamiltons for my hand. Nothing has been finalized.” And if I have any say in the matter, nothing will be. “Nonetheless, I am free to be upon my father’s lands hawking with you.”

  “Robert—”

  “Robert is not my father.” After one more step, Enya craned her neck. If she moved any closer, her breasts would brush against him. “You are a knight, be it Highland or Lowland it matters not to me.” And kiss me, please kiss me now.

  With a line of concern deeply creased between his brows, Bran looked in the direction of the manse, though the view was blocked by the forest. When he spoke, it was but a whisper. “I wish I could stay too, Miss Enya. But even if ye are no’ sorely missed, I shall be, for I’m here on loan from my chieftain and I’ve sworn fealty to yer father. ’Tis a vow upon which I canna turn me back.”

  “Then why are you here with me now?”

  “I am protecting ye, m’lady.”

  S
he leaned in so only the tips of her breasts touched just below his chest. She could scarcely breathe. “Is that what you were doing when you kissed me?”

  Bran lowered his gaze to her lips. “Apologies.” His voiced turned ragged. “That was a mistake.”

  Enya reached up and traced the dark stubbled line of his jaw with her finger. “I think not, Sir Bran. Kiss me again, and then we shall return to break our fast.”

  As his gaze snapped up and met hers, Enya read a maelstrom of emotion—anger and desire melded into luscious golden hazel. She knew she was brash, knew she shouldn’t be there at all, but if she did not seize this moment, she would forever regret not having done so.

  Bran’s powerful hands clamped on to her shoulders and the unmentionable intimate flesh at the apex of her legs coiled into a fiery ball. His full lips parted. Never in her life had she felt this alive. Her breath quickened, her heart thundered and she slid her hands around his waist and pressed her body against his. They melded together as if they were two matched pieces of a cypher. She rose up on her toes and closed the gap to his lips.

  Savory male entered her mouth, his body steely against her soft. A gentle groan escaped Bran’s throat, telling Enya how much he wanted to kiss her, compelling her to seek more. Her flesh melted into him. Was this what her sisters meant when they spoke of passion? Could anyone feel it more strongly than she at this very moment?

  Her breasts straining against her stays, Enya could have continued kissing him for an eternity, but all too fast, Bran eased the pressure with gentle kisses caressing her lips. He rested his forehead against hers. “This is no’ right, Miss Enya.”

  “But it feels right. How could it be wrong?”

  “For all the reasons I’ve mentioned and more.”

  Chapter Eight

  Lord Claud Hamilton sat at the table in his library with the Earl of Argyll, Lord Seaton, and his father, James Hamilton, second Earl of Arran. At the opposite end sat Claud’s uncle, the Archbishop of St. Andrews.

  “Has the queen recovered fully from her miscarriage and the ailments that cursed her after she signed the letters renouncing the throne?” Lord Seaton asked.