by Amy Jarecki
The archbishop, seen by the enemy as a harmless third party, had arranged for Marian Party spies to infiltrate the queen’s island prison at Lochleven Castle. “Thockmorton reports she’s fully recovered, and of late has attempted to charm her captors.”
James Hamilton stroked his fingers down to the point of his beard. “I still cannot believe she abdicated the throne in favor of her infant son.”
The archbishop leaned forward. “What was she to do? She was weak from loss of blood when Moray’s vulture forced her to sign. She has no allies in Lochleven aside from the two femmes-de-chambre they allowed to accompany her from Holyrood.”
Lord Argyll removed his feathered cap and tossed it on the table. “And now Moray’s men cling to the charges she conspired to kill her husband.”
The Earl of Arran shook his finger across the table. “We all know that’s false. The letters were copies. Besides, who could blame her? Though he may have had impeccable lineage, the duke turned out to be an unmitigated arse. I have yet to meet a nobleman who believes otherwise.”
“Gentlemen.” The archbishop rapped his fist on the table. “We cannot allow her royal highness to remain single. I suggest we select a worthy suitor before George Douglas bends his knee.”
Claud licked his lips. Could a kingship be within his grasp? He could push his negotiations for Miss Enya’s hand aside if it were necessary for civil duty. Though he had been so much looking forward to claiming the beauty’s maidenhead—perhaps he could have both?
Lord Argyll raised his flute of port wine. “My brother would suit. He’s a Stuart, after all.”
Claud’s father sat erect in the leather chair and puffed his chest. “We are all aware my Claud is the most apt and well-bred candidate to become king.”
The archbishop’s gaze met Claud’s. “What say you, young man?”
Claud salivated and sipped the sweet liquor while scanning the expectant faces. “I would never be one to shirk my bounden duty to Scotland, your grace.”
Given a choice between a life of royalty and a life as a future earl, Claud could push his desire to bed the auburn-haired maid aside and alter his plans. Besides, there was no need to make known his candidacy as Mary’s possible suitor until the queen had shown interest in his suit. “Why not bring her to Rutherglen once we spirit her away from Lochleven? It will give us a chance to become better acquainted.”
“Archbishop, do not place favor for your blood relations ahead of matters of state.” Argyle slammed his fist on the table. “I assure you, my brother is equally willing to sacrifice for Scotland.”
The archbishop opened his mouth, but Lord Seaton intervened. “I also offer up Lord Methven. The queen has an eye for pretty men.”
“Damn this charade.” Claud’s father pushed his chair back, rose and paced. “Every one of you is aware my son should sit on the throne. Look at him.”
Claud arched one brow and made a show of sipping from his goblet as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He wanted power more than anything—though the decision would not be resolved here in this room.
He made eye contact with his father then lowered his lids in an unspoken vow. They would both stop at nothing to make this alliance. The Earl of Arran reached for the ewer and poured. “We cannot allow that woman to choose her king. She’s nearly ruined herself twice by doing so.”
“Upon that we are agreed.” The archbishop stood and shook out his robes. “Bring your suggestions to me and I shall make a decision for Queen Mary posthaste. Once she escapes, we shall hide her in Rutherglen, as Claud suggested.”
Claud smiled inwardly. With his uncle overseeing the selection, his suit was already won. Besides, he still had pretty little Enya Ross’s dowry dangling should something go awry.
***
A burden eased from Enya’s shoulders when the gates of Halkhead came into view from the carriage window. She and her mother had been visiting her sister, Alison, who had just birthed her first child. A boy, the babe seemed to cry endlessly, and his lungs grew more powerful by the day. With everyone from Alison and her servants to Heather and Lady Ross tending the bairn, Enya had been completely useless, listening to her inconsolable nephew, biding her time.
When they approached the courtyard, Enya craned her neck. The guard was sparring, as they did every morning, but this sight was like nothing she’d ever seen. Wearing no shirt at all, Sir Bran wielded his claymore encircled by five men. He moved like lightning. Over the sound of horse hooves and creaking carriage wheels, she could hear his deep bass rumble, bellowing orders while he deflected each attacking strike.
The carriage stopped a mere twenty paces from Bran’s sparring lesson. Enya leaned further out the window. The muscles in Bran’s bare back flexed with his movement, his arms sculpted like a Greek statue. He spun, displaying his glistening, powerful chest, leading to his rippling abdomen. She focused upon the thin line of dark hair below his navel that trailed beneath his kilt. She couldn’t move, nor could she breathe.
“Enya.” Mother’s voice came from behind. “Ladies do not gawk.”
Enya snapped her gaping mouth closed. “’Twas merely admiring a skilled warrior practicing his trade.” She accepted the hand of the footman and alighted from the carriage. “Sir Bran has become a worthy trainer for Father’s men.”
“That he has,” Lord Ross said, swallowing Enya in his embrace. “And how is my youngest? And my grandson?”
“I’m happy to be home.” Enya grimaced. “That bairn had us all fussing over him into the wee hours.”
Father led them into the manse. “I would expect no less from a healthy Ross lad.”
“He’s a beautiful babe. The colic never lasts.” Mother kissed Father on the cheek. “And Alison will make a wonderful mother.”
Her parents headed into the library and Enya dashed up the stairs to the second floor alcove above the courtyard. Bran now sparred with Sir Malcolm, Halkhead’s best. The clang of swords clashing resonated through the window. Enya twitched and her gut clenched with each resounding blow, her fists moving in concert with the contest.
“He’s quite skilled, the Highlander.”
Enya jumped and faced her father. “W-we’re fortunate to have him join us.”
“Yes.” Lord Ross brushed her chin with his forefinger. “But more than once I’ve noticed your eyes stray his way. Must I remind you he is a commoner?”
“Of course not, my lord.”
“Once we see the queen back on her throne, I will resume negotiations with Lord Hamilton for your hand.”
“The talks have stalled?”
“They’re merely on hold.”
Enya cast her gaze out the window, but Lord Ross pinched her chin and turned her head to face him.
“Lord Claud expressed his concern about your wayward eyes, and now I see his worries are founded.”
A tense flare burned the back of her neck—yet another saw fit to complain about her. “No, my lord.”
“They best not be. Must I restrict you to quarters?”
“For watching the guard sparring?” She clenched her teeth—that shouldn’t have slipped out.
His grip tightened. “I’ll not stand for your impertinence. You know exactly what I mean.”
Enya winced. She knew better than to answer back to her father, but her temper had the most maddening way of getting the better of her. “Yes, Father. I’ll see if Heather can use some assistance making her rounds.”
“That’s better. Besides, I like it when my daughter is seen visiting the sick. It much improves the crofters’ opinion of our household.”
Enya watched her father until he disappeared into the solar. The baron treated their tenants like dirt, and then expected her to rebuild relationships by visiting with Heather. Though Enya enjoyed calling on the crofters and learning about healing, she did not care for her father to use her as an offering of goodwill. All too often she had listened to the woes of the poor souls who farmed her father’s lands, woes that had nothing to do with
their health.
After casting one last glance at the captivating Highlander in the courtyard, Enya headed for the kitchen. As she expected, Heather mulled over the contents in her basket. “Are you departing soon?”
“Aye, lass. Will you be going with me today?”
“Mm hmm.”
“Well then, would you please fetch the guardsman while I replenish my supplies?”
Enya’s stomach flipped. “Of course.” She skipped to the back door before Heather could change her mind.
The sparring session had disbanded when Enya arrived in the courtyard, but she spied Bran heading toward the stables with his shirt in his hand. She broke into a full-out run. “Sir Bran.”
“Miss Enya?” A smile stretched across his face. “I’ve no’ seen ye in some time. Are ye well, lass?”
Over the past few days, she could think of little else than the memory of his kisses, and now he stood before her, keeping a safe distance. Enya’s eyes trailed to his heaving chest and the bands of muscle beneath. Unable to pull her gaze away, she clasped her hands behind her back to resist her temptation to touch him. “I’ve been visiting my sister. She recently birthed a son.” Enya scarcely recognized her own voice or the palpitations thundering beneath her stays.
“Ah, that explains it.” He shook out his shirt and wiped it across his exposed skin. “Apologies. I need to fetch a clean one.”
Enya stared at definition of the thick muscles over his chest. “After, will you accompany Heather and me on our rounds?”
“Do ye often go out with Heather?”
Her gaze trailed over the bands rippling across his tight abdomen, which led to a dark line of tight curls. Was the hair as downy soft as it looked?
Bran cleared his throat.
With a jolt, Enya snapped her eyes up. “Aye, Father says the crofters like it when I call with the healer.”
“And who is yer usual guardsman?”
Sir Malcolm stepped out of the stable. “’Tis usually me.”
Blast. Why did Malcolm have to be within earshot? “I thought Sir Bran might enjoy accompanying us today.”
Malcolm shrugged and shot an apologetic look to Bran. “’Twould give me time to visit the blacksmith, if ye don’t mind spending the afternoon traipsing over the countryside.”
“Very well.” Bran held up his shirt. “Give me a moment to dress.”
Enya’s heart fluttered. “I shall wait here.”
When Bran left, Malcolm stepped in. “I’ll allow the Highlander to accompany you this once, but keep in mind, I am the man responsible for your safety, Miss Enya. You should have been looking for me.”
***
“Where is Sir Malcolm?” Heather asked as Bran approached.
Enya blessed him with a warm smile. “Sir Bran will be our guard today.”
He knew Enya had been up to something when Heather frowned. After their last encounter, he’d thought of little else than Enya. He constantly mulled over all the reasons why he should stay away from the lass, but his heart tirelessly warred against his logic.
That same heart practically leapt out of his chest when she called his name. Provide protection for the lass and the healer? What harm was there?
When they’d walked about a half-mile, the first cottage came into sight. “Why dunna ye take a horse and cart on yer rounds?” Bran asked.
Heather gestured to the cloudless sky. “When it’s not raining, I prefer breathing the fresh air.”
Enya skipped alongside him. “Me as well, though I like riding my mare.”
Bran loved the way the world brightened whenever Enya was near. “Yer white Galloway?”
“Aye, Maisey.”
“She’s a spirited filly.”
“That she is.”
Bran studied the bow and quiver of arrows slung across Enya’s back. “Do ye always take yer bow when ye visit the crofters?”
Enya ran her thumb under her bowstring. “Do you always carry your dirk and sword?”
Bran chuckled. “I do.” She would draw connection between his need to carry weapons and hers. The lassie certainly had mettle. He liked that a lot.
A portly woman hobbled up the path, panting heavily. “Mistress Heather, Miss Enya, come quickly!”
“Mrs. Armstrong.” Enya rushed forward. “What is it?”
“Graham has taken a tumble off the crag. I think his leg’s broke, but I cannot reach him.” She motioned them ahead with a wave of her hand. “Hurry.”
Now Bran really wished he’d brought a horse and cart—the crag was a good half-mile ahead. “The lad’s stuck ye say?”
“Aye, he fell trying to fetch a lamb.” Mrs. Armstrong pointed. “He’s just below the highest rock.”
Enya grasped his arm. “You must do something.”
“I’ll fetch him. Dunna worry.” Bran raced ahead, leaving the women in his wake. As he ran, he studied the outcropping of stone jutting over a ravine below. He’d seen the formation on his patrols with the guard. The lad couldn’t have gotten himself into a more precarious spot in all of Renfrewshire.
Bran quickly planned his ascent and attacked the crag. As he climbed, the boy’s small boot came into view. “Graham. Are ye all right, lad?”
“’Tis me leg,” the boy responded in a ragged, youthful voice.
Bran steadied himself on a ledge and caught full sight of him. No older than nine, Graham crouched under an alcove, clutching the lamb.
“Hold on, lad—I’m nearly there.”
“M-mind your step. ’Tis a long drop.”
Bran slid a foot onto a ledge and transferred his weight. It was hardly wide enough for him to take another step. “Ye scurried up here without a rope?”
“Aye.”
Bran forced himself not to look down. “I’d wager ye wouldna do that again.”
“N-no, sir.”
Bran skirted across the narrow rim, pressing his body against the cold stone. One missed step and he would tumble down the steep drop—at least two hundred feet. Though accustomed to heights from climbing ships’ rigging, the prospect of plunging into the stony ravine below made him queasy. Nearly to the lad, Bran steeled his nerves. With a hop, he landed on the boy’s ledge.
“How are ye holding up?”
Graham grimaced, shaking his brown curls. “My leg’s throbbing a bit.” Blood soaked through the lad’s chausses and his foot hung at an odd angle.
Bran surveyed his options to descend. Without a rope, he wouldn’t be able to traverse the narrow ledge carrying a child. “Do ye think the going might be easier if we climb over the back of this rock?”
“Aye.” The boy pointed. “I came that way.”
Bran gauged the alternate route and saw no narrow ledges—if only he’d known that to begin with.
“Ye hold on to the lamb and I’ll keep hold of ye, all right?”
“Aye.”
He slid his arm around Graham’s waist, the lad crying out as his leg jostled. “Here we go.”
Movement in the distance caught Bran’s eye. He clutched the boy against his body and watched a row of men clad in blue tunics carrying the Saltire, the flag of Scotland. Regent Moray’s men, no question.
Bran carefully climbed over the stone with the lad in his arms, the lamb kicking its legs and bleating a ruckus.
Enya and the women stood at the base of the outcropping, watching with stricken faces. Bran slid over a boulder, rested Graham atop it, and clutched the bleating lamb under his arm.
Mrs. Armstrong reached out for her son and cradled him against her bosom. “Thank the good Lord you’re safe.”
Bran turned to Enya. “I saw Moray’s men. It looks like they’re heading for Halkhead.”
Enya pulled the squirming lamb from Graham’s hands. “Oh, my heavens. We must warn Father.”
He turned to Mrs. Armstrong and slipped Graham into his arms. “I’ll take the lad to the cottage and then run ahead to sound the warning. But ye must stay with Mrs. Armstrong until I can return with a cart.”
Mrs. Armstrong led them along the path to the house. Enya reached over the stone fence and set the lamb down. Bleating like he’d just had his tail docked, he ran to his mother, who boldly charged the fence.
Once inside the two-room cottage, Bran rested Graham on the bed. “Yer going to be all right, lad.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Heather pushed him aside and bent over little Graham. “Let me have a look at your leg.”
Bran and Enya exchanged worried glances when Heather tugged his chausses from beneath his tunic. Blood seeped from a deep gash, the shinbone clearly visible.
Heather placed her hand on Graham’s forehead, checking for a fever. “Enya, find two sturdy sticks of equal size. Mrs. Armstrong, boil a kettle of water, and then I’ll need you both to help me set this leg.”
Bran followed Enya into the main room. “I dunna like leaving ye here.”
“Heather and I will be fine—besides, it will take her some time to tend to Graham’s leg.”
“Very well.” Bran held up his finger. “Do no’ leave the cottage until I return. Do ye understand?”
“Aye.” Enya nodded. “Come back quickly.”
***
Bran cursed himself for not insisting they take a horse and cart to make Heather’s rounds. An easy afternoon, following Enya around with her serving maid? He should have known something might go awry. He ran through Halkhead’s gate and found a sentry. “Where is Sir Malcolm?”
“How should I know?”
“Moray’s men approach.”
The guard glanced back to the manse. “He’s most likely meeting with Lord Ross.”
Bran rushed into the great hall. Upon finding it empty, he headed toward the library.
Lord Ross and Malcolm pored over a map. Ross snapped his head up. “What the blazes are you doing here?”
Ignoring Ross’s affront, Bran stepped forward. “Moray’s men approach. I saw them near Armstrong’s place.”
“How many?” Malcolm asked.
“A dozen.”
Ross adjusted his sword belt. “That doesn’t sound like a war party.”
Bran spread his palms to his sides. “Nay, but it looked like they’re heading straight for Halkhead.”
