The Highland Henchman

by Amy Jarecki

  “Where is Miss Enya?” Malcolm asked.

  “She and Heather are safe with the Armstrongs until I can return with a cart.”

  Ross’s hands flew to his hips. “You mean to say you left my daughter unguarded with enemy soldiers about?”

  Bran held up a calming hand. “With strict instructions no’ to leave the cottage until my return.”

  “I see you do not know my daughter, do you?” Ross pressed his finger in Malcolm’s sternum. “And why in God’s name did you allow a Highland rogue to escort Miss Enya?”

  Malcolm shot Bran a panicked look. “She asked Sir Bran to take her.”

  Lord Ross’s thick brows drew together. “She asked? Since when does she make such decisions?”

  Malcolm jerked his hand through his hair and cringed.

  “It cannot be helped now.” Lord Ross paced. “Malcolm, I need you for our meeting with Moray’s men.”

  Malcolm bowed. “My lord.”

  Ross turned to Bran. “Highlander, take a cart and fetch my daughter.”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  Ross grabbed Bran’s arm and squeezed. “If one thing goes awry, I’ll have your head.”

  “I’ll protect her with me life, m’lord.”

  “You had better.”

  With a quick bow of his head, Bran raced to the stable, biting back his ire. Ross was probably right. He shouldn’t have left Enya, but the lord’s lack of trust ate at his pride.

  ***

  Lord Ross watched the Highlander drive the two-wheeled cart out the gate just as the soldiers approached. “Don’t ever let him guard my daughter again.”

  Malcolm bowed his head. “Apologies, my lord. I’ll see to it.”

  “I do not trust that man. He doesn’t know his place, walking into my house without leave.”

  “He’s a damned good warrior.”

  “And that’s all he’s good for.” Ross turned his attention to the enemy sergeant at arms, leading a procession of the usurper’s soldiers. He folded his arms and glared down from the portico.

  The sergeant reined his horse to a stop. “Lord Ross, how fortunate to see you out this afternoon.”

  “I received notice of your arrival long before you crossed through my gates.” Ross smoothed his palm across his sword’s pommel. “And what brings the regent’s guard to my doorstep this fine spring day?”

  “We’ve word the deposed queen is organizing troops to mount a rebellion.”

  Ross arched one brow. “Is that so? Did she not abdicate?”

  “Yes, she did, though we have reason to suspect rebel activities to reinstate her are underway right here in Renfrewshire.”

  Ross exchanged a glance with Malcolm. “’Twould be preposterous to suspect Halkhead and the Ross family of such lawlessness.”

  “As I expected, my lord.” The sergeant scanned the courtyard, which was now surrounded by Ross’s guard. “I see you have a healthy contingent of men.”

  “Yes. ’Tis necessary in these unsettling times.”

  “Quite.” He ran his reins through his gloved fingers. “Have you heard no word of rebels in these parts, Lord Ross?”

  “Not a single rebel has crossed through these gates. I assure you.” Aside from those who are presently mounted before me.

  “Very well.” The sergeant tipped his feathered cap. “Do send word to our regent should such activities become known to you.”

  Ross offered a quick bow of his head. “That I will.” He watched the sentry ride out the gates and turned to Malcolm. “Double the guard. They suspect something, and it would not surprise me if they posted spies.”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  Ross started toward the door and stopped. “If you catch a spy, hang him. I’m fully within my rights to post any trespasser’s head on my gatepost.”

  ***

  Enya watched out the window and drummed her fingers on the sill. Bran should have returned by now. “I think we should start back.”

  “Without a guard?” Heather asked.

  “Have you ever been in danger in all the years you’ve been tending the crofters?”

  “No, but these are perilous times.” Heather pointed toward the outcropping. “Moray’s soldiers are about.”

  “Attacked by the regent’s soldiers? I think not. That would cause an insurmountable uprising.” Enya slid her bow and arrows over her shoulder and paid her respects to Mrs. Armstrong.

  She tugged on Heather’s sleeve. “Come. We should have just enough light to reach Halkhead before the sun sets.”

  Heather shook her head and trudged toward the door. “This is against my better judgment. We should wait until Sir Bran returns.”

  “What if he was delayed?” Enya picked up Heather’s basket. “Poor Mrs. Armstrong cannot accommodate us overnight. ’Tis best to leave now.”

  Heather followed, grumbling under her breath. Enya was well aware her serving maid often visited these farms with no escort at all. Lord Ross only demanded an escort if his daughter ventured out. She hated double standards, always being under scrutiny. Yes, her father insisted the guard was for her protection, but honestly, what did she need protection from?

  Arriving at a copse of trees, not far from the place where Bran had pulled Graham off the cliff, Heather stopped. “As long as we’re here, I’d like to collect some willow bark.”

  Enya set the basket down and fished for a leather pouch. “Splendid idea.”

  Heather pulled down the end of a branch and examined the buds. “By the looks of these, the flowers will be out in a week, mayhap two.”

  Enya rubbed a finger over the tight blossom. “For your willow flower remedy?”

  “Aye, it helps rigid people relax.”

  “I should slip some of that into mother’s ale.”

  Heather released the branch and chuckled. “You are incorrigible, child.”

  “How can you say that? Mother surely could use it. Father as well.”

  Heather took a small knife from her pocket and Enya held the pouch up to the tree’s trunk. “Your parents want the best for you.”

  “Did I say otherwise?” Flecks of bark cascaded into the pouch. “It’s just they fret over me as if I’m a crystal vase.”

  “So they should. Besides, you’re their last daughter and you’re soon to be married. ’Tis very hard for a mother to say goodbye.”

  “I think Mother would be happy to have me gone.”

  Heather stood straight and pocketed her knife. “Why would you say that?”

  Enya tied the thong to secure the bark within. “It seems she’s always in a dither over something I’ve done—or haven’t done.”

  “Aye. That’s her job.”

  A twig snapped. Enya froze. Her gaze darted to Heather. “Bran?”

  He’d said he would return with a cart, but that sound wasn’t rackety enough. Crouching, Enya slipped her bow from her shoulder and loaded an arrow. She crept toward the sound.

  Heather grasped the back of her skirt and tugged. “No.”

  Enya glanced over her shoulder and shook her head. She wasn’t about to cower behind a willow tree. Besides, the sound most likely came from a rabbit or a deer.

  Enya crept to a clump of heather, pulled back her bow and stood. A dark-headed man bellowed and launched himself at her, arms spread wide. Before she could blink, she released the arrow and skewered him straight through his chest. With a chilling cry, the man dropped facedown only feet from where she stood.

  Enya recoiled at the sight of him, the iron stench of death pervaded her nostrils. Blood seeped into the ground all around the man’s writhing form. Her hands shook but she couldn’t tear her eyes away. She’d just killed a man.

  Heather screamed behind her. Enya snapped around. A one-eyed Gypsy slapped his hand over Heather’s mouth and dragged her away. Enya reached for an arrow. Three more vulgar brutes burst through the trees, lunging straight for her. Enya’s hand quaked as she raced to load her bow.

  Unable to move fast enough, powe
rful arms thick with black hair, wrapped around her torso. Air whooshed from her lungs. The bow dropped. Shrieking, Enya thrashed and kicked, fighting against her captor. A hand slapped over her mouth. She bit down and tore away a piece of vile, salty skin. The attacker howled and swung a fisted punch into her ribs.

  Thrown facedown to the ground, Enya fought as they yanked her arms behind her. She opened her mouth and screamed until her throat burned.

  Chapter Nine

  Bran slapped the reins against the horse’s rump and hoped to God the bloodcurdling screams hadn’t come from Enya. Up the path, four horses stood, hitched to a rickety Gypsy caravan. Dread snaked up his spine. Gypsy slave traders. Bran reined the horse to a stop and jumped from the cart, drawing his sword.

  Another shriek came from beyond the trees. If he hesitated the woman could be killed—or worse. With no time to think, Bran ran into the brush, bellowing his war cry. Rage steeled his grit. Enya lay on the ground fighting like a cat, two men on top of her. Beyond, a man lay face down, the tip of an arrow skewered through his back. Another had Heather in an arm lock.

  Bran planted his foot and spun, swinging his claymore. Whipping his head around, he targeted the exposed neck of Enya’s nearest attacker. The man turned, his eyes bulging just as Bran’s razor-sharp sword sliced through his neck. Enya shrieked and covered her face.

  The other Gypsy sprang up with his dagger drawn. The two men circled. Enya scooted away. Bran lunged, but the Gypsy dodged the blade and darted in with his knife. With a flick of his wrist, Bran deflected the blow and slammed his fist into his opponent’s jaw. The Gypsy toppled backward. Claymore over his head, Bran lunged for the kill, thrusting his blade into the bastard’s heart.

  Bran whipped around, crouching. Enya dove for her bow. Heather’s attacker tightened his grip on the cowering older woman and chuckled. He pressed his knife into her neck. “I’ll kill her.”

  “Ye do, and ye’ll no’ live to tell about it.”

  Bran crouched lower, slipping his hand down to his hose.

  Sweat streamed from the Gypsy’s brow. “Stay back.”

  Bran brushed his knife with his fingers and gripped. In one move, he threw the blade, hitting the Gypsy in the throat.

  “Behind you,” Heather yelled.

  Bran spun and faced a madman, bellowing, bearing down, sword over his head. Raising his claymore, Bran braced himself to deflect the blow. The man stopped short, his eyes stunned. Blood oozed from his mouth and he fell face first into the dirt, an arrow lodged in his back.

  Bran glanced up. Enya stood, clutching her bow against her chest, shaking like a leaf in the wind.

  Bran dropped his sword and rushed to her. “Miss Enya.”

  With a sob, she threw her arms around him.

  He held her against his thundering heart. “Are ye all right, lass?”

  “I-I don’t know.” She took in a stuttered breath. “I heard a twig snap. All of a sudden they were attacking us.”

  “Why didna ye stay at the cottage like I told ye?”

  “’Twas growing dark. I was afraid you were detained.”

  Heather scurried beside them. “Enya, are you hurt?”

  Enya buried her face in Bran’s chest. “Mayhap a bit bruised.”

  “Ye were very brave, lass.” Though he wanted to lift her into his arms, it wasn’t proper. “And how are ye, Mistress Heather?”

  Heather thumped her chest. “Me? I’m unscathed thanks to your fortunate timing.” She reached for Enya’s arm. “Come here, child. Let me have a look at you.”

  Enya took a step and fell against Bran. “My knee.”

  Heather raced to her basket and started tossing in the scattered vials and leather pouches. “Take her to the log over there.” She pointed. “I need to tend it.”

  Enya smiled up at him, causing his heart to race again—though a much more pleasant sensation this time. “Mayhap I should carry you.” He scooped her into his arms and cradled her against his chest. “I daresay ye dunna weigh much more than Griffon.”

  Enya inclined her head into his chest. Her fingers disappeared under the laces of his shirt. “I feel safe with you.”

  Bran’s skin tingled beneath her touch. He glanced toward Heather. She’d nearly finished collecting her remedies. He kissed Enya’s forehead. “’Tis my duty to protect ye, m’lady.” He gently set her on the log. Enya reached out and grasped his hands, holding them tightly under her chin.

  Heather bustled over with her basket. “Sir Bran, you’d best turn your back.”

  Enya frowned, but gave him a squeeze and released her grip.

  Bran retrieved his knife and complied. “Yes, mistress.”

  Skirts rustled. Aware that Heather’s back was to him, Bran couldn’t resist peeking over his shoulder. His knees turned molten. Both Enya’s long, slender legs were exposed clear up to her thighs. Heather slid the hose from beneath the garter, blessing him with an eyeful of creamy white skin that could have never seen the sun. Transfixed, Bran’s heart thundered. He rubbed his fingers together, longing to touch her.

  Heather examined the offending knee. “It looks like bruising is coming up.” She straightened Enya’s leg. “Does this hurt?”

  “A little. Not too badly.”

  “Good. ’Tis not broken, then.”

  Bran snapped his head back and faced the trees.

  “That is a relief. I could not abide being abed with a break,” Enya said.

  “Did I say you wouldn’t have to take to your bed?”

  “Oh no, please, Heather.”

  “We shall see. You need rest, that’s for certain.”

  The sun hung low in the sky. Bran worried there could be more Gypsies roaming about. “If Miss Enya is set to travel, we’d best be going.”

  “Very well,” Heather said. “I’ll just rub in a salve and we can be off.”

  Skirts rustled. “You can turn around, Sir Bran,” Enya said. She held out her arms. “Would you assist me to the cart?”

  His eyes darted to Heather, who nodded.

  “Of course, m’lady.”

  Bran’s chest swelled as he stooped to lift her. Enya wrapped her arms around his neck and touched her lips to his ear. “I want to remain here in your arms forever.”

  He glanced over his shoulder to ensure Heather wouldn’t hear. “Nothing would make me happier. But ye’ve had a terrible fright.”

  She shuddered. “I killed two men.”

  “Two thieving Gypsy slave traders.”

  Heather bustled in behind them. “I cannot believe Gypsies are here in Renfrewshire. Do you know what would have happened if you hadn’t come along?”

  “Ye’d be shipped abroad and sold to the highest bidder.”

  Enya curled against him. “Filthy pirates.”

  Bran cringed. He’d been called a pirate. Often. He climbed into the cart and placed Enya on the bench. “Ye’re looking a bit pale.”

  “My head’s spinning. It must be the aftershock.”

  Heather handed her basket up. “Straight to bed with you as soon as we return to Halkhead House.”

  “Let me assist ye, mistress.” Bran hopped down to help Heather aboard.

  She bowed her head and clasped his hand to her heart. “You are a good man.”

  “Thank ye, mistress.” Bran held her hand while she lifted her skirts above her ankles to climb the cart steps. “We need to hurry and inform the guard. There could be more Gypsies about—and here I was more concerned about the rebels.”

  ***

  Sandwiched between Heather and Bran, Enya snuggled into Bran’s warmth. Her fingers still trembled. The Gypsies attacked so fast, there was no time to take them all with arrows. Enya had never been this close to death. Every time she blinked she saw the stunned face of the Gypsy as her arrow skewered him—hit him straight through the heart with a perfectly aimed shot. How easy it was to release the arrow, yet that flash in time she would not likely forget. Robert had never talked about the ugliness of death.

  Br
an drove the cart straight up to the manse. When he jumped down and ran around to lend a hand to Heather, a clammy shiver coursed across Enya’s skin.

  Heather took her time alighting. “Thank you, Sir Bran. I can see someone’s taught you manners.”

  “I wouldna be able to live with meself if I did no’ see ye fine ladies properly taken care of.”

  Enya liked that Heather had developed a fondness for Bran. At least someone in her household recognized his virtue.

  He lifted Enya from the cart. “I shall carry ye inside.”

  Henry, the head valet, opened the big oak door. “Miss Enya?”

  Heather pushed past. “She’s twisted her knee. Alert the lord and lady.” She turned to Bran. “This way.”

  Closing her eyes, Enya inhaled Bran’s masculine scent laced with cinnamon. His sweet fragrance calmed her. This was a man who could protect her from anything—a man who would hold her in his arms and give her comfort in the most trying times. Touching him afforded her mind peace.

  All too soon, Heather opened the door to Enya’s chamber. “Rest her on the bed.”

  Bran hesitated in the doorway.

  Heather rolled her hand forward. “Go on.”

  His gaze darted across the room, filled with her pretty things. At the far end of the wall, her mahogany bed sported pink silk drapes. “A chamber for a princess,” Bran mumbled.

  After four long strides, he placed her on the bed. Enya clutched her arms around her ribs. She needed his strong arms encircling her. “’Tis cold without your heat.”

  Bran reached for the plaid draped across the bottom of her bed. “This will warm ye until Heather has a chance to tend yer knee.”

  Heather pushed beside him, basket in hand. “How are you feeling now, Miss Enya?”

  She reclined into the feather-down pillows. “Just a bit lightheaded and sleepy.”

  “What are you doing in my sister’s chamber?” Robert marched across the floorboards and glared at Bran. “Leave this instant.”

  “As ye wish, sir.” Bran bowed. “We need to send out the guard. We were attacked by Gypsy slave traders.”

  Lord and Lady Ross bustled in. Enya’s father assumed the same hateful glare she’d just seen in her brother’s eyes. “Why the blazes are you in my daughter’s chamber, Highlander?”