The Highland Henchman

by Amy Jarecki

  He swiped his fingers across his nose and moaned. The flowery perfume of a woman’s treasure spilled through his senses. Hot desire swelled beneath his kilt. If only he could actually make love to her—slip inside her womanhood and claim Enya for himself.

  He sat up and ground his fists into his forehead. He had nothing to give the lass. She wouldn’t take to a life on Raasay, living in a small cottage, wearing simple kirtles. He closed his eyes to a vision of Enya in a barrel, raising her skirts to stomp on the washing. The creamy alabaster of her skin made the longing wash over him like a rogue wave, but the idea of a fine lass performing the work of a serving maid tied his gut in knots. Enya might be able to handle a bow like a man, but Bran was certain she’d never done a day of common work in her life. She was born for privilege and he’d best not forget it.

  He took Griffon for a quick jaunt to the loch. Kneeling, Bran splashed the sleep out of his eyes, attempting to clear the lust from his head. He would march with Ross’s army soon and Miss Enya would become a pleasant memory—but far sweeter than the wench in Tortuga.

  Bran splashed another handful of cold water into his face. There was no comparison, aside from the two being female. Enya would always be on a pedestal—a woman so exquisite, she remained far beyond his reach. The wench in Tortuga paled in comparison. He doubted he would even want to lay a hand on her now that he’d had Enya in his arms.

  Bran dunked his whole head in the pond. Holy falcon feathers, he had to leave the Lowlands. He most certainly did not intend to go through life as a monk. He may be forced to take a leman if he could not clear his mind.

  The horn sounded, calling the guard to practice. Bran ran the drying cloth over his hair and headed for the courtyard, claymore swinging from his hip.

  “There you are,” Malcolm said. “Spar with the guard before you ride out. Rewan needs a partner.”

  Bran nodded toward the Lewis henchman. At least he’d have a challenge. Rewan drew his sword and circled. His eyes darted up to the window that looked out over the courtyard. “I see the little lassie’s come to watch ye spar. Ye’d best keep yer shirt on or she’ll be swooning from her perch.”

  Bran’s gut flipped. Enya was watching? He thought she’d still be asleep for certain.

  “What? Did I strike a nerve?” Rewan sneered. “Yer face looks like ye’ve been caught with the lassie’s skirts hiked up around her hips.”

  Bran didn’t need a mirror to know the heat burning the back of his neck had spread to his face. “Dunna speak about Miss Enya with disrespect. I’ll no’ stand for it.”

  Rewan lunged in. Bran deflected the attack. Rewan laughed. “So ye rescue the damsel from a mob of rutting Gypsies and now she’s the honorable daughter of the baron who intends to send us to Hades?”

  Be patient with the scoundrel. Bran wanted to attack like a raging boar, but that’s what Rewan was hoping for. Control yer anger, channel it into yer soul. Watch the shift of yer opponent’s eyes and pick the moment. When Rewan’s eyes strayed to the window, Bran seized his chance. With one swift upward swing, he knocked the claymore from Rewan’s grasp. “Ye’d best keep yer eye on the task at hand, lest I disarm ye and knock ye senseless.”

  Rewan stooped to pick up his blade. “Ye’re the senseless one.”

  Bran planted his foot in Rewan’s arse and laid him out flat. “I’m no’ the one with me face in the mud.”

  The Lewis henchman cast a hateful glare over his shoulder. “But ye will be.”

  Rewan sprang up swinging, but Bran was ready. Well matched, their swords clashed in a battle of strength. Rewan had some sort of barney to settle and he went after Bran like a rabid dog. Bran had faced this kind of anger before. His inner voice reminded him to be patient. It was Calum’s voice, really. The angry fighter would soon tire—and then make a fatal mistake.

  Bran deflected a direct lunge. “Why are ye fighting like ye have a thistle up yer arse?”

  Tiring, Rewan swung his blade across his body with both hands. “Why do ye stay away from the men and sleep in the stable with the animals?”

  Bran deflected every slash as if he were scything hay in the paddock. “I need a quiet place for Griffon.”

  “And why does that lassie look at ye as if ye’re some kind of bonny prince? Ye’re as ugly as me nursemaid’s arse.”

  Bran resisted the urge to glance up to Enya’s window. One errant move might see him killed. “Ye still have a nursemaid?”

  Rewan bellowed and charged, swinging his sword like a madman.

  Bran ducked. If he hadn’t, his head would no longer be attached. “Och, ye onion-eyed varlet.” He pounded the pommel of his sword into Rewan’s back, sending him stumbling to the ground. “Are ye out for blood?”

  Rewan arched his back against the blow and bellowed. “Aye. Since ye won the tournament, ye’ve been in good with Malcolm, riding beside him, talking about strategy—flirting with Ross’s daughter. But have ye included me in any of this? And I’m yer superior from Lewis—ye’re just from the puny Isle of Raasay.”

  “If ye havena realized I’m a pawn in this bloody scheme, just like you, ye’re a greater fool than I thought.” Bran pulled his dirk. He couldn’t resist dropping to his knees and holding it against Rewan’s throat. “Now who’s the superior?”

  Rewan bared his teeth.

  Bran thrust his face an inch from Rewan’s. “I’m no’ yer enemy, but if ye come at me like that again, ye’d better be ready to finish it. I’ll have no man from Lewis thinking he’s better just because he was born on a bigger island.” He pressed the knife down a little harder. “And I’ll have no man speak poorly of Lord Ross’s daughter. Ye ken?”

  Rewan’s feet squirmed. “Aye, now hop up off me, ye bastard. Och, yer no captain of the guard.”

  “Neither are ye.”

  Bran stood and sheathed his dirk, stealing a glance to the window above. He smiled at Enya’s darling face gazing at him just as she had last night. But then the dour frown of Lady Ross appeared and Enya was gone.

  Malcolm stepped in beside him. “I didn’t just see you flash your smile at Miss Enya.”

  “No, sir.”

  Malcolm whacked Bran’s shoulder. “Time to saddle your mount. Riding the perimeter will keep you out of trouble.”

  Rewan chuckled. Evidently he found some amusement in Bran’s new responsibilities. Bran welcomed it. Riding the estate’s vast grounds would keep his mind off Enya—or at least keep his mind away from Enya.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Step away from that window this instant.”

  Enya jolted at the sound of her mother’s voice. Instinctively, she stepped back as if caught pinching a morsel of holiday pudding.

  Lady Ross stepped up to the window and frowned. “And just what are your feelings for that barbarian?”

  “Are you referring to Sir Bran?”

  Mother’s eyes narrowed with the line of her lips. “You know exactly what I’m asking.”

  “He’s quite adept with weapons.” Enya shrugged nonchalantly. “Amusing sport to watch. ’Tis all.”

  “If I catch you watching him again, I’ll send you to Alison for a month. I’m sure she could use more help with the baby.”

  Enya shuddered at the thought of her colicky nephew screaming into the night. “Please, not Alison.”

  “And haven’t you anything better to do? When was the last time you wrote to William?” Mother grasped Enya’s hand and frowned. “And look at your fingernails. Have you been digging a swine’s bog?” She turned Enya’s hand over. “What on earth? You have calluses on your fingertips.”

  “’Tis from the bow. Queen’s knees, Mother, do you expect me to slather myself in tallow and roll my body in bed linen to prevent all possible blemishes?”

  “If that’s what it takes.” Lady Ross pinched Enya’s shoulder then pushed her down the corridor and into her chamber. “I’ll not stand for your impertinence. Have Heather prepare a salve for those calluses…and when I next see you, your nails had bett
er be immaculate.”

  Enya could have blown steam out her nose. Her nails weren’t all that bad. “Yes, Mother.” Oh dear, my tone was sharp and clipped.

  Folding her arms, Mother frowned. “I believe you need a lesson in respecting your betters.” Lady Ross held up her key. “You can spend the next day locked within.”

  Enya watched the baroness walk out and slam the door. Sometimes Enya found it difficult to believe she had actually been birthed from that rigid woman’s womb. They were about as similar as a magpie and an eagle. She smiled. If she were an eagle, she could spend her days riding on Bran’s shoulder. Enya held her hand to her mouth to muffle her laugh. I’d much rather ride on Bran’s lap.

  ***

  Claud Hamilton sat across the chessboard from Lord Seaton, but neither could concentrate on the game. When the mantel clock launched into twelve droning gongs to mark midnight, a nervous tic pulsed above Claud’s right eye. “She should have arrived by now.”

  A much older man, George Seaton’s sagging jowls shook in opposition to his head. “The plan is sound. They’ll be here anon. Mark my words.”

  “We never should have trusted Willy and George Douglas to spirit her away.”

  “Oh? I thought the idea of a May Day parade with Willy playing the part of a drunken fool was the perfect ploy to sink all the Lochleven boats—pray the one he would use for the queen.”

  “’Tis foolishness if you ask me. And stealing horses from Laird Douglas’s stables? George is asking to be strung up on a sturdy oak.”

  “Laird Douglas would never hang his own brother.” Lord Seaton slid his pawn forward, taking out Claud’s rook. “Keep your mind on the game, lest I capture your queen.”

  Claud shifted in his seat. “I’m not amused by your pun, my lord.” Had something gone awry? If only his uncle would have allowed him to lead the escape, all would be well. Meeting the queen at Niddry Castle was not his preference, but Rutherglen was too far to ride in one night. He wanted to spirit Queen Mary to his keep as quickly as possible. Few would think to look for her under a Hamilton’s roof. The most likely place would be Stirling Palace, where she could be with her infant son, but that was far too obvious.

  Claud sipped his goblet of whisky and savored the sharp bite as it burned a trail down his gullet. He slid his bishop down a diagonal path. “Check.”

  Lord Seaton’s rheumy eyes widened. “It appears we both need to concentrate.”

  Faint horse hooves clattered on the gravelly path. Claud stood. “It is time.”

  Dressed in black hoods, the party appeared more sinister than regal as they rode into the torchlight.

  Claud watched Lord Seaton drop to his knee, then knelt beside him. “Welcome to Niddry, your grace.”

  Taking George Douglas’s arm, Queen Mary ascended the steps of the earl’s castle. A weight lifted from Claud’s shoulders. After ten months of captivity on Lochleven, once more his queen was at liberty.

  The queen first offered her hand to Lord Seaton. “I cannot express enough how good it is to be received by my loyal subjects.”

  He kissed her ring. “I only wish we had a greater party to greet you. But I felt we needed to exercise the utmost secrecy.”

  Her cloak parted, revealing a simple red kirtle, and she turned to Claud. “Lord Hamilton, I commend your indiscretion.”

  Claud took her hand and pressed his lips to her ring. “My queen. Your servant’s armies are gathering at Rutherglen Castle. Your throne shall be restored.”

  “’Tis music to my ears. I look forward to meeting with them.”

  Lord Seaton stood and gestured inside. “Come, your grace. You must be hungry and tired.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” She turned to her escort of half a dozen knights and beckoned them to follow.

  “You brought no femme-de-chambre, your grace?” Claud asked.

  George Douglas stepped beside him, assessing Claud with a flat line to his lips. “’Twas too risky. They shall join us at Rutherglen.”

  Lord Seaton bowed. “I shall wake Lady Seaton’s chambermaid to attend you.”

  “Gratitude, my lord.” A deep sadness darkened the queen’s face. “I was forced to flee wearing common women’s clothing with little else.”

  Claud bowed deeply. “I shall see to it you have a gown befitting your station for your ride to Rutherglen. All the countryside will be agog with the sight of you.”

  “Excellent. I want the people to recognize me. It shall be a triumphant march to Stirling Castle.”

  Claud held up his finger. “To Rutherglen, and then I will lead the march to reclaim your throne.”

  The queen pursed her lips. “We shall speak more on this when my lords assemble.”

  ***

  Enya was still fuming about being locked in her chamber merely for watching the guard spar. She’d watched them hundreds of times, but because her parents were prejudiced against Highlanders, it had now become a sin.

  Released from two days of bondage, Enya headed to the stables. She climbed the ladder to the loft, but Bran’s pallet was empty, as if deserted. He was gone again, and God only knew when she’d see him next. The ire coursing through her blood inflamed her. She hopped down, clenching her fists. She needed the wind in her hair—a fast gallop.

  She found Rodney working in the tack shop. “I want to ride. Are you game?”

  “It beats oiling Robert’s saddle for the hundredth time. I swear your brother’s more worried about how he looks riding into battle than how he fights.”

  “That sounds like Robert. What do you expect? He’ll be the next Baron of Ross.” She examined Rodney’s trews. “Are those new?”

  “Aye. I tore the arse out of me old ones.”

  With a chuckle, she cast her gaze to the top of his head. “I do believe you’re taller than me now.” Enya pulled her sidesaddle from the rack. “Come. Help me saddle Maisey.”

  “That crazy Galloway mare again?”

  “She’s got spirit.” Enya grinned over her shoulder. “Just what I need after being locked in my chamber for the past day.”

  “What did you do this time?”

  “I watched the guard sparring in the courtyard.”

  “Hells bells, you were locked in your chamber for that?” Rodney walked into Maisey’s stall, slipped a snaffle bit into her mouth and buckled the bridle leathers behind her ears. “What about all the times you’ve stolen away? I’d think that would be a far worse crime.”

  Rodney knew nothing about Enya’s escape route and the fact she kept their early morning jaunts to herself. She’d be locked in her chamber for a year if her mother discovered what she’d been up to. But Rodney didn’t care. The son of Lord Ross’s groom, the boy was happy to have Enya to mull about with.

  She smoothed a blanket over Maisey’s back and placed her saddle atop. “Go saddle your gelding and I’ll race you to the loch.”

  “You’re on. I want my farthings back.”

  Enya threw her bow and arrows over her shoulder and led the white mare to the mounting block. She needed no assistance to mount, and she wasn’t about to hang about waiting for Rodney. She wanted to feel the freedom of the wind at her face and in her hair. She yanked the veil from atop her head, cast it aside and ran her fingers through her tresses. “Come along,” she called over her shoulder, slapping the reins against the horse’s neck.

  While she exited the stable doors, the breeze picked up Enya’s hair. Tension fled from her shoulders as she cued the horse to a canter. Laughing, she leaned forward in the saddle and slapped her riding crop against Maisey’s rump. The horse bolted forward in a full-on gallop. Enya held her hands forward to give the mare her head, steering her straight for the loch and the surrounding wood. Spending over a day in her chamber had nearly driven her to madness. If she could not be in Bran’s arms, the fresh air on her face would take the pain in her heart away.

  She cared not that dark clouds loomed overhead. If it rained, so be it. She’d welcome the wet splashes on her face. Rodney
hollered behind her. Enya urged Maisey faster. She would spend this day riding—blast her mother and blast her parents’ narrow-minded plans for her future. This moment was hers.

  She pulled up and Maisey skidded in the mud, stopping only inches before plunging into the water.

  Rodney rode in beside her. “That’s not fair. You didn’t wait.”

  “Very well.” Enya steered her mare on the path that circled the loch. “What shall be your next challenge?”

  Rodney pulled his bow from his shoulder. “The targets are still up from the tournament. Hit the bull’s-eye while riding at full gallop.”

  Enya grinned. “I like your idea of fun, young squire.”

  “I’ll go first this time.”

  Enya relaxed in her saddle while she watched Rodney load his bow and race for the target. Once his horse sped up to a gallop, its movement was level enough to fire. Enya held her breath. Rodney pulled the string back and aimed. Now. Rodney released his arrow. It hit low on the target as he groped for his reins.

  “Not bad for your first try,” Enya hollered, trotting Maisey in a circle.

  She pulled an arrow from her quiver and eyed her target. Shoving the reins in her teeth, Enya dug in her heels and swatted the mare’s rump. Holding her gaze, the horse reared and took off at a raging gallop. Her heart racing, thundering in her ears, Enya pulled back the string and stared at the red center of the bull’s-eye. As if transformed by the harmony of the world around her, Enya’s reflexes took over. The arrow sailed straight for the target like a lightning rod. With a clap, it struck the bull’s-eye.

  Enya threw her head back and laughed, her heart pounding against her chest, the thrill still coursing beneath her skin. She lived for the rush from riding at breakneck speed, knowing with one errant move she could be flat on her back on the soggy ground.