by Amy Jarecki
Overpowered by the emotions coursing through her blood, she could not bring herself to speak. Opening her legs, she grasped him and guided his manhood to that sacred place that only he could enter. He slipped in so much easier this time, without the pain. The ecstasy was enough to transport Enya to the moon. Watching her eyes, ever so slowly, Bran slid deeper, filling her.
Enya’s hips rocked in tandem with his thrusts. The tension spun so tight within her core, it almost hurt. But she needed to savor this moment. Her lover was heading for battle, and only God knew when they would be together again. The friction of their love took charge of her mind and she could only focus on their heavenly joining. This had to be perfect—a moment she would carry in her heart for eternity.
Not once did Bran avert his eyes from her. Together their breathing quickened. A deep moan escaped Bran’s throat. The sound of it took Enya beyond the realm of control, and she cried out. Her womb shuddered in a concert of spasms as if the world had reached utopia. Enya smoothed her hand over Bran’s muscled chest, his eyes telling her he had reached his peak. With one final thrust he channeled his bellow into a long, rugged groan.
Panting, he dropped to his elbows and gently kissed her neck, her cheeks, her eyes, and finally he found her mouth. Bran owned her soul. Enya would find a way to be his. Only death would stand in her way. She closed her eyes and prayed he would return to her soon. She prayed for his safety, and then savored the blessed feeling of holding him in her arms.
Chapter Eighteen
After making Enya promise not to break out of the abbey, Bran tore himself away, released the very irritated monk and headed back to Rutherglen. He hoped he hadn’t been missed. The completely unexpected attention from the queen had renewed his sense of duty. He would see her grace reclaim her throne, and then he would marry Enya, regardless of what Lord Ross had to say about it. Bran was a knight of the Thistle now. No one could argue his station.
He reckoned it was well past midnight when he slipped into the tent. The moonlight shone through the white shrouds, casting an eerie glow over the sleeping men.
Willy Douglas sat up on his pallet. “Where have you been?”
“I had a matter to attend.”
“Meeting Moray’s spies? I should have you whipped and thrown into the pit.”
Bran held up his hands and grimaced. “Nay, ’twas nothing like that. Simply seeking the comfort of a woman’s arms.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me where you were going?”
“The woman’s a bit higher born than the likes of me.”
Willy grinned. “You not only fight like a scrapper, you love like one too, aye?”
Bran unbuckled his claymore and dropped it on his pallet. “Something like that.” The less Willy Douglas knew about his affairs, the better. If word got to Ross he’d been to Paisley Abbey, the bastard might demand the queen lock him in the dungeons. A lot of good that would do. Bran intended to stay out of prison holds for the rest of his life.
***
None too happy about the queen’s decision to march to Dumbarton, Claud Hamilton joined the nobles in the great hall. The queen had been cool toward him since his uncle pressed her about the line of succession. She’d immediately insisted on marching to Dumbarton Castle, a decision that could be dangerous. Claud feared the move had nothing to do with the size of the stronghold’s cannons. The queen clearly desired to remove her person from Rutherglen. He would discuss his concerns with the archbishop. The path to Mary’s bed and the kingdom must be won with more subtle tactics.
The queen had made quite a spectacle of knighting the damned Highlander in the courtyard. Clearly she was drawn to men with practiced skill. And it seemed women were drawn to that bastard…
In the midst of a barrage of shouts, Argyle stood on the dais. “One hundred of my best pikemen will march at the head of the procession.”
Claud ignored the boisterous exhortations, climbed up to the dais and stood beside Lord Argyle. After all, this was Claud’s castle and his rightful place was on the dais. Everyone else was his guest.
Flushed from his collar up to the top of his head, Argyle glared. “What do you want, Hamilton?”
“Lord Argyle. Your pikemen are impressive indeed.” Claud offered an obsequious bow. “I’ve fifty of the queen’s best-trained cavalrymen ready to lead us. Do me the honor of allowing mounted men to demonstrate our might.”
Argyle’s eyes narrowed, but the queen daintily dabbed at her mouth and stood. “In gratitude to Lord Claud’s hospitality, I agree. He and his horsemen shall lead us.”
Claud dropped to his knee. “You honor me, your grace.”
Argyle bowed to the queen. “Very well. My force of men shall bring up the rear.”
“Word has it Moray and his army have assembled in Glasgow,” said Lord Eglinton.
Argyle nodded. “Then let us skirt the city and show him our numbers. That alone will send him back to Edinburgh with his tail between his legs.”
“’Tis a dangerous game you play,” Lord Ross said. “I’d wager they are amassing troops as we are.”
Claud glanced at the queen and stepped forward. “I agree with Argyle.” This once. “Perhaps we can draw them in and annihilate the usurper’s forces—quickly, before they have a chance to further build their numbers.”
Again the crowd erupted in a cacophony of shouting, everyone proffering his agenda. Claud could care not. He’d won a small victory, and with luck, he would demonstrate his exceptional fighting skills. He would impress the queen, and with his birthright, she would be unable to refuse him.
***
Dressed in his battle armor, Claud assembled his men and waited for the army of six thousand to pull into ranks.
He eyed the Highlander, sitting tall in his saddle while watching Willy Douglas assist the queen to her mount. Dressed in a red silk gown, covered by a female breastplate of silver, with an ermine bonnet perched atop her head, she exuded Claud’s ideal of royalty, as if embodying the reincarnation of Zenobia riding into battle.
The queen took charge of her reins. “Ride beside me, Sir Bran.”
“Aye, yer grace.”
That rutting bastard will have her swooning by the day’s end.
She pointed her riding crop forward. “Argyle. I do believe we are ready.”
The earl held his sword in the air for all to see and then pointed it straight ahead. “Onward!”
Claud spun his horse and galloped to the head of the procession with an air of flamboyance. He would have recognition this day. He first marched the army to the shore of the River Clyde, where the lookout of Glasgow would spot them for certain. Claud ensured they took their time—carrying pennants and weapons, six thousand men shook the ground as they sent a daunting challenge to Regent Moray. From there, he turned west toward Langside, three miles away.
The Hamiltons had suffered much at Moray’s hands—his occupation of the regency was a flagrant insult to Claud’s family’s ancient position in Scotland. Claud would seize his opportunity to obliterate his enemy, and with an overwhelming show of force, the odds would be weighted in his favor.
Entering the small village, Claud saw his chance. Enemy soldiers lined the common land that sloped up a hill beyond the town. Clearly, the King’s Party accepted the challenge he’d issued by riding past the River Clyde. Claud glanced over his shoulder. A tickle of doubt crept up his spine. Walking rather than marching, weapons casually tossed over their shoulders, Mary’s men appeared more like a mob than well trained and organized ranks.
But doubt could not plague him now. With a stutter of his heart, Claud drew his sword and bellowed the charge. Galloping forward, he led his men through Langside’s narrow streets. Musket shots clapped. Claud barely flinched, barreling toward the onslaught of the enemy’s cavalry. With cries of war, he met the usurper’s men head on, slashing down foot soldiers to his left and right.
Claud spun his horse, brandishing his sword, the thrill of battle driving him to the brink of bl
oodthirsty madness. He would appraise well in the queen’s eyes indeed.
***
As soon as the battle cry sounded, Bran took charge. He’d watched the ineptitude of the nobles and he would not see Queen Mary fall due to their incompetence. “This way, my queen.”
She pulled up her reins. “I do not wish to leave my subjects.”
Bran pointed up the hill. “No’ to leave, only seek a vantage point to direct the fighting.”
A cannon blasted. The queen’s horse reared. Bran grabbed her reins and pulled the mare into a circle beside his mount. The mare quieted and Bran urged her forward. “I will see to yer safety, for ye’ll be no use to Scotland dead.” He turned to Mary’s guard. “Follow me.”
Behind them, Lord Argyle argued with Lords Ross and Eglinton.
Wearing a cumbersome coat of armor that sported every protection known to man, his helm with mere slits for him to see through, Argyle teetered on his horse. “Lord Ross, move your men in behind Hamilton.”
Eglinton waved to his forces and trotted ahead. “My men should be next.”
Ross rode in behind the earl. “Pull back, Eglinton. My army will take on the usurper.” Ross waved to Malcolm and the Ross guard, signaling them to march forward. Eglinton did the same. Like a mustering of cattle, the two forces attempted to push and shove through the narrow street.
Argyle kicked his horse with brutish force, but the beast refused to move. “I am in command here. You—” Argyle’s horse reared, sending the earl flying through the air. He landed with a thud, his heavy armor clanking loudly on the stony ground.
Still holding the queen’s reins, Bran glanced at the downed earl while a squire dismounted to tend him. Faced with a decision as to whether to take control of the confusion or save the queen, Bran opted to stay by Mary’s side. He urged their horses faster toward the summit as soldiers rushed in every direction. The battle quickly turned into mayhem.
After arriving at the vantage point, Bran pulled up and surveyed the carnage. Moray’s men, though fewer in number, tore through the Hamiltons. Leaderless, Argyle’s men, the queen’s greatest force, fled from Moray’s pikemen, scattering like a mob of cockroaches exposed to a ray of sunlight.
The enemy fast approached the hill, leaving Claud and his few remaining cavalry in their wake.
Bran turned to Willy. “Lead the queen out of here. I’ll create a diversion.”
“But—”
“I said ride. Now!”
In a blink of an eye, the queen and her guard disappeared over the hill. Bellowing his battle cry, Bran zigzagged his steed across the advancing army, swinging his sword, cutting them down. Spinning, taking on more men at once than ever sparred with before, he fought blindly. Someone grabbed him from behind and pulled him off his horse. Bran stood his ground and fought the encroaching mob.
“Spare them,” a powerful voice hollered from beyond. “I do not wish for bloodshed.”
Bran whirled around as the soldiers, at least ten of them, backed away, their weapons trained on Bran’s heart. He leveled his claymore and slowly turned in place, anticipating the next onslaught of attack.
The crowd parted for a man clad in royal armor. Regent Moray raised his visor, staring straight at Bran. “You are surrounded, Highlander. Lay down your arms.”
Bran had never seen a regent before. Though touted as a bastard, the man had an air of command, of competence. Bran bowed and tentatively rested his claymore on the ground.
“Seize him. We shall march these rebels through the streets of Glasgow and show them our hospitality in the tolbooth.”
Bran didn’t fight as the enemy soldiers bound his wrists behind his back and removed his dagger and dirk. He said nothing when a bastard with black teeth and foul breath admired the only keepsake he had from his father. “This’ll look good hanging off me belt.”
Bran committed the face to memory. If he ever had the chance, he’d take his dirk back.
Corralled into a collection of prisoners, Bran surveyed the faces. Some of the Hamilton men were among the captives, but there was no sign of Claud. Bran saw Malcolm, but not Rewan—had the Lewis henchman been killed?
James Hamilton, the Earl of Arran, stood with his hands bound behind his back, along with Lord Ross, his son Robert and Lord Seaton. Of the queen’s six thousand, Bran estimated Moray had only collected fifty prisoners—enough to make a mockery out of the queen’s attempt to regain her throne, but not so many as to cause another uprising. Smart of him.
***
Enya knew something was wrong the moment the monk opened her door. When he led her to the carriage, she thought it might be her escort to Iona, until she climbed inside and found Heather weeping. Cold perspiration prickled Enya’s forehead.
She clutched Heather’s arm. “What is it?”
Heather dabbed her eyes with a kerchief. “All is lost.”
“Where is father? Robert?” She had to ask. “Bran?”
“All taken prisoner—Sir Malcolm too. Some of the guardsmen escaped with the news.”
“All?” Enya’s throat thickened and she clutched her neck. “This is very grave indeed.”
“Aye, your mother needs your comfort.”
“Mother needs me? What about father and Robert?” And Bran?
The ride to Halkhead took an eternity. Enya couldn’t understand why they were heading to the manse when they should be racing to Glasgow. She would talk some sense into Lady Ross as soon as she arrived.
The carriage pulled into the courtyard and Enya leapt down before it came to a stop. Henry opened the door as she ran up the stairs. “Where is my mother?”
“In her chamber, miss.”
Enya raced up the stairs. Her mother sat in a corner while her serving maid piled dresses into a trunk. “Enya. We must away.”
“Yes, we must. Quickly.”
“We shall leave as soon as our things are packed.”
“Pack? Surely we do not need more than a change of clothes. We must ride anon.”
Lady Ross wiped her eyes. “I don’t know if I can stand the stress.”
Enya grasped her mother’s shoulders and gave a firm shake. “You must be strong. Father needs you now. Do you have shillings to let a room?”
“Nay. I think—”
“I’ll fetch it and send a groom to collect your things. Be ready to ride in the half-hour. ”
Enya ran to the solar and pulled a black-bound bible from the bookcase. Inside was the key to her father’s bank box, which he kept hidden in a secret antechamber just off the passage she used for escape. She took a candle, slipped in and opened the box. Though she knew of its existence, she’d never looked inside before. Unset jewels and gold sovereigns mixed in with innumerable silver shillings. “Blessed be the saints.” Enya took a handful of coins—more than enough to support them for a month in Glasgow if need be.
After locking the box and returning things exactly as she found them, Enya ran to her chamber. Heather was already there, preparing a valise. “At least someone has some sense. Mother is in her chamber, packing her entire wardrobe. Meet me downstairs.”
“Aye.”
Enya reached under her bed and pulled out her bow and quiver of arrows. Counting only five, she headed for the armory. The supplies had been depleted by the guard and not much remained on the shelves, but she found a dozen or so arrows shoved into a dark corner, and a dirk. She grabbed them both, stopped by the kitchen, wrapped some oatcakes in a cloth and headed for the courtyard.
Lady Ross was right behind, clutching her fists under her chin. “I’m not sure if Lord Ross will want us there. Mayhap we should stay at Halkhead and await his summons.”
Enya grasped her arm. “If you were in prison, would you want Father to come to you straight away?”
“Well, of course, dear, but that’s different.”
“How so?” Her mother gaped, but Enya held up her hand. “No need to answer. Father will be relieved to see us. I am sure of it. Besides, it is our duty.”
<
br /> ***
Hands tied, roped by the neck and forced to walk single file, Bran shuffled through the streets of Glasgow as citizens jeered and spat. How could they taunt him and the others? He’d fought to see the true queen regain her throne—her very birthright. If these people had the chance to meet the queen as he had, if only for a moment, they would understand no other person on earth could possibly have been born to be their sovereign.
“Parading the lambs before the slaughter,” said the prisoner behind him.
A woman spat. “You’re a disgrace to Scotland.”
Bran looked in her eyes and saw only hate.
He never should have allowed Calum to leave him with Lord Ross. Bran had run into disaster at every turn. Falling in love with Enya felt so right, but he would most likely never see the lass again. Surely every man in this procession would be hanged, drawn and quartered, with their body parts strewn across the country to be used as deterrents to further uprisings.
A sickly heat radiated under Bran’s skin when he recalled how utterly incompetent the Marian Party had been in comparison to the King’s Party. For Christ’s sake, Argyle, their supposed leader, fell off his horse and had some sort of seizure. That moron, Claud Hamilton, charged without receiving the order from Argyle or the queen. Bran didn’t blame the masses for scattering. They had no leadership.
Hungry, angry and humiliated, Bran could do nothing to help his situation. The welts on his back throbbed, ached, threatened to eat him alive. The sentries assembled the prisoners in the center of the tolbooth courtyard, surrounded by a wall of guardsmen armed with poleaxes.
Chapter Nineteen
The eight-mile carriage ride into Glasgow seemed to take as long as the ride across the country to Edinburgh. Enya sat at the edge of her seat the whole way. After instructing the driver to take them straight to the tolbooth, they arrived just in time to catch the end of the procession.
Filled with onlookers, the street was impassable, and the carriage stalled.
