The Highland Henchman

by Amy Jarecki

  Again he laid her down and showered her with kisses, kneeling over her. Enya rocked her hips beneath him. His manhood slipped between her legs and she rubbed her moist core along it. She slid her hand between them and grasped him.

  “Please.” She placed him at her entrance.

  Bran rocked his hips forward, and the head entered her. Every sinew in his body tightened as he strained to keep from coming. Enya grasped his arse and pulled. He slid deeper, met by resistance. She tugged harder and gasped as he plunged through the length of her. Her breath ragged, she moved against him, showing him she was ready. Bran didn’t move for a moment, allowing her body to become accustomed to his size.

  Enya moaned and swirled her hips, her eyes dark, steeped with desire.

  Something in Bran’s head snapped. He no longer had control. He was completely at the mercy of the hot core that milked him and the demands of Enya’s fingers sinking into his buttocks, dictating the tempo. Giving in to the raging fire in his loins, he drove his need into her over and over again. Enya’s cries escalated. Her body stiffened. She was close. He needed to come with her. The world spun as his hips matched her thrusts. As if possessed, Bran threw his head back and roared.

  ***

  Connected by a power beyond anything she’d ever experienced, she watched Bran’s eyes as he claimed her. Never before had she wanted to belong to a man, but Enya could no longer imagine herself without her Highlander. They were now joined, one body, and she would remain by his side no matter what anyone said.

  When he shuddered and cried out, her own release burst around him. It was as if the secret of the universe unfolded around her. Enya clutched him against her breast and showered him with kisses until his breathing steadied. “I love you.”

  “And I you. So much it hurts.”

  For the first time since she met Bran, fear pricked the back of her mind. “My father will never approve.”

  “I ken.”

  “We must spirit away.”

  “Aye. That is our only choice.” He cupped her face with his hands. “Are ye sure this is a life ye can live?”

  “I would have it no other way.”

  “Then pack what ye must in a satchel. I’ll steal away from the patrol. Come to the stable after supper—as soon as ye can slip away. We shall ride to Newark and take a galley.”

  “Sail to Raasay?”

  “Aye, if Calum will have me.” Bran spread his plaid over them. “I’ll be going against his wishes by leaving yer father before Queen Mary regains her throne.”

  “But surely he will be compassionate. After everything you’ve told me—how he fought Thomas Wharton so he could be with Lady Anne.”

  “I’ll remind him of that before he bludgeons me to death.”

  Enya hadn’t thought through all the repercussions. “Do you think he would?”

  “Nay, but he’ll be awful cranky—especially if yer father follows with an armada of Scottish ships.”

  Enya cuddled into the crook of Bran’s arm. “Everything will be all right. We are meant to be together.”

  Resting in his arms gave her happiness beyond anything she dreamt possible. And she was so tired. As Bran’s breathing slowed, hers did as well.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bran had no idea how long they’d been asleep, but the candles had nearly burned down to nubs. He had to take Enya back to the manse before Heather noticed her missing.

  He gazed upon her face and could hardly believe it possible for her to look more beautiful, but in sleep, she resembled an angel.

  Bran closed his eyes and pressed his lips against her forehead. There was no reasoning for the love that swelled in his chest. It just was. He gave her a light squeeze. “Enya. Ye must wake, my love.” Oh how sweet those words sounded as they rolled off his tongue.

  With a sigh, she stretched. “I must have fallen asleep.”

  “We must spirit ye back to the keep afore they find yer bed cold.”

  He helped her dress, noticing a ray of light streaming from the trapdoor. “’Tis already light. We need to move quickly.”

  “I’ll skirt around the woods. But you should remain behind. You cannot be seen with me.”

  Bran didn’t like the idea of Enya going to the keep on her own, but the alternative would be devastating for them both. “This will be the last time.”

  He descended the ladder first to help her down. As his feet touched ground, hands grasped his arms and Robert stepped in, holding a dirk against his neck. “Stinking, putrid filth.”

  His heart pounding in his ears, Bran bucked and strained to break away from his captors, but they held him fast. His arms were wrenched behind his back and the grating rasp of hemp rope cut deep into his wrists. Lord Ross stepped into Bran’s line of sight. “Where is my daughter?”

  “I’m here.”

  Bran cast his eyes to the loft.

  Ross threw his fist into Bran’s gut. “What have you done?” He shook his finger at Enya. “Get down here this instant.”

  Enya held her skirts to the side and climbed down. Facing her father with a thin line to her lips, she folded her arms tight to her body.

  Ross whipped his hand back and slapped her across the face. “Did you lie with this man?”

  Bran twisted his wrists against his bindings. If he had the use of his hands, he’d make Ross pay for striking his woman, but four men held him back.

  A red welt rising on her cheek, Enya stood proud as if unscathed. “I love him and I intend to marry him.”

  “You stupid girl. You are ruined.” He turned to Robert. “Take her to Paisley Abbey. I cannot bear the sight of her.”

  Sentries seized her arms. Enya shrieked. “No. Bran, help!”

  The ropes on Bran’s wrists cut into his flesh. He jerked away from his captors and staggered forward, watching them pull her away. “Release her. She is innocent!”

  Ross faced him and sauntered forward. “You will pay with your flesh for sullying my daughter.” He pulled back a fist.

  Bran steeled his gut against the blow, but it landed square and the air whooshed from his lungs.

  “Tie him to the post.”

  It took all four guards to drag Bran to the courtyard and winch his arms up the whipping post. The wheels of a carriage creaked over the cobblestones. Enya’s sobs echoed from within, twisting Bran’s gut in a knot. Paisley Abbey? At least she would be safe there.

  Malcolm’s solid form blocked his view. “I told you to stay away from her. But now I can no longer be lenient.” He lowered his voice. “Lord Ross ordered two dozen lashes, and I have no recourse but to make you bleed, lest he double it.”

  “Do what ye must,” Bran growled through clenched teeth. Enya was his now. They could take her no place he wouldn’t find her. The only thing that would part them would be death.

  Over his shoulder, Bran watched Malcolm run the bullwhip though his hand. Bran would bear the whip, and when his torture was over, he would go after her. Malcolm gave a nod to the guard, who tore the shirt from Bran’s back.

  Bran arched as the first lash ripped through his flesh like the slice of a dagger, but he uttered not a sound. He’d been cut before. Wounds of the flesh would heal, but he doubted the hatred that built with each ensuing lash would ever subside. Bran hated Lord Ross for his condescending, pompous right to rule over all under his watch because of his birth. He hated the gentry for the stench of their unfair and oppressive laws. He cursed Calum for leaving him in the godforsaken Lowlands.

  Lash number twenty-three crisscrossed Bran’s back, blinding him with the screaming pain of open welts streaming blood down his legs. His mind spun. Bran’s head dropped forward. The ground steeped with his blood as Malcolm drew out the final lash. Bran heard the crack before it struck him. With a roar catching in his throat, his back seized against the last shred of flesh tearing away.

  Bran would make his peace with the captain of the guard—once he could stand.

  ***

  Enya sat upon a cot, alone
in a cold, dank cell. Far above the bed, there was a tiny window that cast a shadowy light. Aside from the bed and an iron cross hung on the wall, nothing else filled the cell—not a candle, no hearth for a fire to keep away the night chill, no warm Bran to cover her with his plaid. A single blanket was her only comfort during the three nights in which she had been imprisoned.

  How could her father dump her here? But the thing that worried Enya most was Bran. The last thing she’d seen before the carriage rolled out the gates was Bran being tied to the whipping post. Was he still alive? What had her father done to him? She looked at the tiny window above. How could she escape?

  Still wearing her dressing gown, she fingered Bran’s carving in her pocket. She kept it there, afraid the monks would take her precious keepsake. It was the only thing she had that connected her to him, gave her hope.

  The only people she’d seen since her arrival were the monks who brought her food. None of them spoke, nor did they acknowledge her questions. She stood and paced. A hundred times she had shaken the latch and pounded on the door. Her fists were bruised, her throat raw from screaming. Yet no one even spoke to her.

  She had to find a way out. She must get back to Bran.

  Enya pressed her ear to the door when two sets of footsteps echoed down the corridor. There had only been one set when they brought food.

  “I hope she is receiving good care.”

  Heather!

  Enya clutched her fists against her chest as the key creaked in the lock. She rushed into Heather’s arms. “Och, I’ve never been so happy to see anyone.”

  Heather ran her hand over Enya’s head. “There, there, lass. We have much to discuss and little time.”

  Enya gestured to the bed. “What news of Bran? I must know.”

  “He is still in the pit.”

  She tensed. “He’s alive?”

  “For now. Word among the servants is he will be the first of Queen Mary’s army to be sacrificed.”

  A death sentence. Enya clutched Heather’s hands and knelt before her. “I must go to him. Please help me.”

  “No, child.” Heather solemnly shook her head. “As soon as transport can be arranged, you will be transferred to the nunnery on Iona.”

  “A nunnery? But I do not want to become a nun.”

  “You will remain there until things settle—Lord Ross still holds hope Lord Hamilton will have you.”

  “Claud? But I chose Sir Bran. He’s a knight.”

  “Knighted by a Highland laird. Do you not understand? A marriage to Sir Bran would never suffice. He owns no property.”

  Enya threw up her hands. “This is mindless posturing.”

  “Your father intends to wait. There is no need for Lord Hamilton to know you have been…compromised.”

  “You make it sound so damning.”

  Heather slowly shook her head. “It is very grave indeed, Miss Enya.”

  “All my life I’ve wanted to travel, but never like this.” Enya kissed Heather’s hands. “Will you go with me?”

  “Alas, no. Lord Ross has forbidden all the servants from contacting you. As it is, I took a great risk to come here today.”

  Enya squeezed Heather’s palms together. “Please send word to Bran. Tell him I will always love him. Tell him to carry my panel for luck.”

  “No one can speak to Bran.” Heather looked away. “He’s suffering.”

  Enya’s mind raced. In addition to needing a healer, Bran would be starving, mayhap dying of thirst. “And what of his eagle, Griffon? Is anyone feeding him?”

  “I believe Rodney has taken on his care.”

  Enya wrung her hands. She had not even a quill or parchment to write upon. “Please. If there is any way to slip a message to Bran—you know he’s a good man. Please, Heather. Tell him I love him.”

  Heather looked toward the door. “The monks only gave me a moment. I must go.”

  “No.” There was another way to contact Bran. “Tell Rodney to release Griffon.”

  “That makes no sense at all.”

  “Do it. If you feel anything for me, you’ll promise me you’ll tell him.”

  Heather stood and shook out her skirts. “Very well, but I don’t see what good that would do.”

  “The eagle will call to him—give him hope.” Enya steepled her hands to her lips, silencing herself from speaking further of Griffon’s virtues. “There is one more thing I need to ask.”

  Heather nodded.

  “How did father know I was missing?”

  The older woman took a step back, raising her chin. “I told you I would be forced to report it if you slipped away again.”

  A lead ball sank to the pit of Enya’s stomach. “It was you?”

  “You gave me no other choice. Part of my employment is to protect your virtue.”

  “But what if I had been out shooting arrows with Rodney?”

  Heather’s face fell. “You weren’t, were you?”

  The door opened. With one last glance, Heather slipped away. Enya’s own serving maid had betrayed her.

  ***

  For two days, Bran had been lying face down on the cold stone floor of the pit. A circular hole, twenty feet deep, lined with stone. He was lucky he didn’t break a leg when they tossed him in. Exposed to the cold of night, his lash welts raw and as painful as a blanket of angry hornets, the least miserable position was on his stomach.

  His lips chapped, his belly empty, Bran’s thirst had nearly driven him mad.

  A droplet of rain splashed on his shoulder, followed by more droplets stinging his exposed skin. Though it hurt like hellfire, Bran welcomed it. He pushed himself up and opened his mouth, catching the life-giving droplets.

  In minutes, the sky opened to a deluge. Icy rain pelted him. He feared the pit would soon fill with water, but it must have been built to withstand the weather. Bran watched the water. The floor sloped to a drain in the center. At least he wouldn’t drown. And though he shivered, Bran welcomed the cleansing bath. It stung, but he’d not developed the fever—at least he hoped not, though he’d slipped in and out of consciousness. He inhaled deeply. The rain washed away some of the stench of piss and shite that builds up in a prison with no doors.

  Bran ran his hands across his wet face. He thought he’d been in the pit for two days, but it could have been longer. One thing he knew for certain—if someone didn’t come for him soon, he’d die of thirst, starvation, exposure, or all three. He rolled back to his stomach and let the rain cleanse his wounds.

  And then he heard it. As clear as a bell, an eagle called overhead. Griffon. He opened his mouth to sing, but his throat rasped. Without water, he’d gone dry. He held his head up and let the rain slide down his throat. Swallowing, he sang again. Though his voice croaked, he managed a bit of volume this time. He prayed Griffon would recognize the voice as his.

  Bran cupped his hands, catching more water. He drank and sang once more. Griffon squawked above, perched on the upper edge of the pit. “Well, come down here, laddie.”

  The bird swooped down and latched his giant talons on Bran’s bare arm. This wasn’t the first time Bran had handled the bird without his leather glove, and the sharp claws punctured his skin, but the pain nothing compared to his back. “Who released ye from yer perch?”

  He found an arrowhead lodged inside Griffon’s jesses. He pulled it out and rubbed it between his fingers. Enya? But she was taken to the abbey. Had she returned? Bran cast his gaze around the rim of the pit. Nothing—no one—but her spirit surrounded him.

  “Go find us a pigeon.” Bran flung his arm forward, praying Griffon would find something to hunt in the rain. The bird would be back. Of that there was no question. Bran might not die of starvation. Death from exposure was still a possibility, however.

  The rain had ebbed to a misty drizzle when the eagle returned and dropped a rabbit from its talons. His hands trembling with hunger, Bran picked it up. “Good lad.” His voice didn’t rasp quite so much.

  Perched on the stone a
cross from Bran, with keen yellow eyes, Griffon watched him use the arrowhead to cut out the rabbit’s heart. Bran placed it in Griffon’s beak. Though starving, the thought of eating raw flesh turned his stomach sour. Blood filled the carcass. Bran held it above his head and let the warm, iron-tasting liquid drain into his mouth. He gagged in the back of his throat, but he held his arm across his lips and forced himself to swallow. Blessed be Mary and all the saints. Almost as soon as the blood hit his stomach, his strength began to return.

  Bran studied the carcass in his hands, contemplating the repulsive prospect of sinking his teeth into raw flesh.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lord Ross sat in the library with Robert, sipping fine aged whisky, when Malcolm entered. “I’ve a missive from Rutherglen.”

  Ross held out his hand. “Bring it here.” He didn’t need to read the missive to know what it contained. He slid his finger under the Hamilton seal and unfolded it. Yes. The queen had arrived as planned.

  “We leave for Rutherglen on the morrow.”

  Robert reached for the missive. “This is it, then?”

  “Aye, all the nobles have been summoned. The queen wishes to assemble her troops immediately.”

  Malcolm took a step forward. “I’d like to pull the Highlander out of the pit—clean him up before we take him into battle.”

  Robert tossed the missive on the table with a smirk. “Give him a bath and a meal before his death?”

  Malcolm shrugged. “Something like that.”

  Ross wished he’d never invited the Highlanders to Halkhead, but seeing the bastard cut down in battle would be much easier to explain to the MacLeod army than hanging the arse. His gut clenched. He’d like to hang Bran now—but he’d be dead soon enough. “Pull him out and bring him to me. I want to ensure he understands the terms of his…freedom.”

  “Very well, my lord.” Malcolm bowed and made his exit.

  Robert folded his arms. “We should have strung him up when we discovered him with Enya.”

  “But this will be so much more amusing.” Ross clapped his eldest son’s back. “Mark my words, the Highlander will die—and the Ross family will not be to blame for it.” He gestured to the game board. “Come, let’s have a game of chess while we wait.”