The Highland Henchman

by Amy Jarecki

  “I think so, especially since Bran escaped the tolbooth.” Malcolm tapped his finger against the cup. “Me as well, I suppose. Ross will want to come after Enya and he’ll leverage the fact we escaped to bend Mr. Fisher’s ear.”

  Calum looked out the window and watched a wispy cloud sail by. “But the hangings will delay them for a fortnight at least. Wouldna ye say?”

  “Aye, I doubt they would pull forces out of Glasgow until the spectacle’s over—too much risk of retaliation.”

  “They’d no’ want to lose any more prisoners either.” Calum sipped his drink. “Anyone who knows these waters will bring cannons.”

  “But there are no ships with cannons the size of yours. Not in Glasgow for certain—they’d have to sail around from Edinburgh.”

  Calum swirled the amber liquid thoughtfully. “That’s a good thing for us, but I’d like to avoid bloodshed. ’Tis no’ a wise thing to be on the wrong side of the regent. It could make me old age very uncomfortable.”

  Malcolm scratched his chin. Arching his thick brows, his eyes bugged wide and a slow smile spread across his face, as if he’d come up with an answer to this miserable parcel of woes.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Enya wrapped a plaid around her bare shoulders and looked for Bran. Though clean, the cottage was rather stark. The only hanging on the wall was her panel. Near the door was an assortment of weapons—including a longbow, of course. She ran her finger along the cold barrel of a musket—a dangerous weapon that had become increasingly popular. Her arm throbbed, reminding her she could have been killed by a similar weapon.

  The main room had an enormous hearth with a wrought-iron kettle suspended over the fire by a swinging arm. Neatly stacked beside it were a bake stone and a butter churn, with a ladle and other cast iron utensils hanging against the stone.

  The embers of the fire glowed, and sitting on the hearth’s step was a ewer. How thoughtful of Bran to warm water for her. Enya sat at the table and reached in the basket, pulling out an oatcake. A piece of parchment flopped over. With a grin, she picked it up. I love you.

  She raised it to her lips and kissed. So much had changed since Bran had ridden through the gates of Halkhead House. He was so unlike other men. He respected her, did little things for her, like leaving a note and a ewer of warm water. Taking a bite of oatcake, she cast her gaze across the warm cottage—the wooden table, a rocking chair in the corner. She could be content here, but she’d have to improve her needlepoint and add some splashes of color. Perhaps she could learn to weave.

  She found her archer figurine and placed it on the mantel. When Enya resumed her seat, she looked at it and smiled.

  Bran would be a fine husband and a caring father. She ran a hand over her flat belly and hoped she would bear his children one day. She had never given much thought to the prospect of being a mother, but now Bran shared her life, it seemed as natural as breathing.

  She only hoped she would be accepted by the clan. If Anne was any indication, there should be no trouble. But she had noticed some slanted looks when she danced with Bran last eve. Mayhap it was because of her injured arm. She must have looked awkward holding it against her body. Enya moved the offending appendage, raising it higher than before. A good night’s sleep had helped it heal some.

  Enya frowned at the last of the oatcake sitting on the table. Her stomach churned a bit—odd, she’d never had trouble finishing one before. With a shrug, Enya took the ewer into the bedroom and filled the bowl. She cast aside the plaid and gave herself a quick splash bath. Mara had given her a clean shift and she pulled it over her head. Her good arm slipped through the sleeve just fine, but she couldn’t pull it down far enough to slip her injured arm in. Finally, she gritted her teeth and forced her arm through, the pain tearing her skin and stinging. It was far easier when Bran was there to help.

  But she was no ninny. Enya must learn to endure hardship, and this was a good place to start. She wrapped her stays around her torso with the laces in front. Holding one side in place by clutching her sore arm against her body, she tightened the laces. Her breasts ached as the stays tightened, her nipples sensitive to the slightest pressure. She opted to keep the laces relatively loose.

  Having learned from her shift, she stepped into her kirtle and pulled it over her hips. She secured the laces and tied the front bodice. Then she picked up the dirty clothes she and Bran had cast aside the night before and stepped outside in search of the well and washbasin. If this was the life for her, she’d start by doing the washing. Enya chuckled. Her mother would have one of her spells if she could see her now.

  ***

  With the washing hanging in front of the hearth, Enya set out to look for Bran. She wanted him to see her handiwork—she’d even accomplished it with one hand. Well, she’d hiked up her skirts and stomped on the washing in the barrel to ensure the clothes were clean. She’d seen the serving maids do that before. If she’d known how satisfying doing the washing was, Enya would have hiked up her skirts and sloshed in a barrel ages ago. Besides, the work would be much easier once she regained full use of her arm.

  Bran would be so pleased. She couldn’t wait to show him. Enya skipped through the back gate of the outer bailey walls and found him sparring in the courtyard. Where else would that man be at this time of day? Without his shirt, of course.

  Enya found a bench where she could watch. Bran wielded his sword like no one she’d ever seen. He sparred with Malcolm, who was giving him a good run, but was clearly not as strong or agile as Bran, the younger man. Her solar plexus tightened in concert with every ripple of Bran’s muscles. She could stare at him all day—a human sculpture in action.

  Friar Pat ambled beside her, leaning on his walking stick. “He’s a strapping lad, our Bran.”

  “Aye. He taught the men at Halkhead a thing or two.” Enya smiled. “You ken Queen Mary got away at Langside because Bran fought off Moray’s men? ’Tis why he was caught.”

  “I heard as much from Calum, but it didna surprise me.” Pat gestured to the path. “Would ye like to take a stroll through me garden, Miss Enya?”

  “Aye. I’ve heard ye are quite skilled with healing herbs.”

  “I do what I can.”

  “You should talk to Mistress Heather. She was the healer at Halkhead.”

  The friar led her to a path that cut into a tall hedge bordering the courtyard. “I would enjoy that. One can never stop learning.”

  Beyond the hedge, the garden opened up into rows and rows of sprouting plants. Friar Pat waved his staff across the picture. “Thank the good Lord winter is gone and God has seen fit to bless us with a fine start to the season’s crops.”

  “My, yes. I daresay you’ll have a wonderful harvest.”

  “Do ye like to work in the garden?”

  “I’m embarrassed to admit I never have, but I’m not afraid to try.”

  “There’s a good lass. I’d enjoy your company any time ye have a mind to till the soil.” He walked on a bit and gestured to a bench. “Would ye sit with an old friar?”

  “Of course.”

  His knees cracked as he leaned forward and popped down. Enya took a seat beside him, wondering how old he was.

  The friar’s blue eyes sparkled when he looked at her. “Bran spoke to me about marriage.”

  Enya’s heart fluttered. “Aye. He told me he would.”

  “I can see he cares very deeply for ye.”

  “We are kindred spirits. I love him very much.”

  “But me guess is Raasay is a far cry from the life ye’re used to.”

  Enya nodded. “My life in Renfrewshire is over. I can never go back.”

  “Is that why ye want to marry Bran?”

  “Of course not. I would marry him no matter what.” Enya smoothed her hands over her skirts. “The only thing keeping us apart was my father.”

  The friar inhaled deeply and looked toward the sky. “But yer father’s desires are important. The Bible tells us to honor thy father and moth
er.”

  “Aye. I’d like to honor him, but he does not honor me—he only wishes to lock me in the nunnery on Iona until he can arrange a marriage that will benefit the family.”

  Friar Pat shook his head. “The way of highborn marriages has always escaped me. ’Twas the same when Lady Anne and Calum were courting, and it caused a great deal of bloodshed and heartache.”

  “In watching them last night, my guess is it was worth it.”

  His eyes glazed with a faraway glint. “Aye, it was.” Friar Pat tapped Enya’s knee. “Though I must say I’m concerned about yer father coming to claim ye. Ye wouldn’t want his blood on yer hands, would ye?”

  Enya tightly folded her hands in her lap. She recalled having Robert in her sights and how awful she’d felt knowing she could have killed her own brother. So much had happened and she’d little time to think about it. “I’d prefer a peaceful resolution, of course.” Her voice was but a whisper. “But Bran was convicted of treason—the might of Scotland could very well befall us.”

  The friar leaned all his weight on his staff and stood. “I think we should hold off on this wedding until all this uncertainty is behind us—mayhap a month.”

  Enya’s stomach clenched. She didn’t want to wait, not even a few days. “That long?”

  He placed a warm mitt on her shoulder and squeezed. “When ye’ve been on this earth as long as I have, a month passes in a blink of an eye.”

  Bran strode through the garden, pulling his shirt over his head. “I thought I saw the friar spirit ye back to his plot of dirt.”

  ***

  They bid good day to the friar and Bran led Enya through the labyrinth of shrubbery, which was filled with the brilliant greens and blossoms that came with spring.

  Enya’s brow furrowed. Bran immediately stopped. “Is something ailing ye?”

  Enya studied her feet. “Nay.”

  He lifted her chin with the crook of his finger. “Then why the long face? Has someone said something to offend ye?”

  She let out a long sigh. “’Tis just the friar wants to wait a month before we are wed.”

  Bran brought her into his arms. “He said the same to me, but surely a month is no’ long to wait—no’ when we have the rest of our lives.”

  “I suppose not. ’Tis just…”

  “What?”

  “I’d like it to be done before my father finds us.”

  “Dunna worry. The friar is a wise man. I trust him.” Bran took her hand. “Come, I’ve something to show ye.”

  He savored her lovely profile as they walked. Her nose was straight and came to a point just above her lips. He wanted those lips on him with a passion that could drive him to madness. “I’ve found a chamber for us, though ’tis only as big as a privy closet.”

  Enya threaded her fingers through his. “’Tis only temporary. Anything should suit.”

  Bran’s chest swelled as he held her small hand in his larger one. His ragged passion needed to wait until he could see her alone. “That’s what I like about ye. Ye’re no’ prissy like other noble lassies.”

  “Will we be able to steal away to the cottage?” She grinned. “I ken why ye like it so much. It has a homey warmth to it.”

  “Aye—mayhap during the day. Calum’s afraid we willna hear the ram’s horn if we’re attacked during the night.”

  Bran stopped outside the mews door, a wooden shed with slats an inch apart on one side to let in the light and keep the eagles within.

  Enya tried to peer through one of the gaps. “What is this?”

  “’Tis the eagle mews. Griffon shares it with Lady Anne’s female eagle, Swan.”

  “Griffon has a lady friend?”

  “Aye.”

  “Lucky duck.”

  Eight-year-old Ian came running up the path. “Bran, are ye going hawking?”

  Bran used the lad’s momentum to swing him onto his hip. Ian’s looks took after his mother’s, with blue eyes and blond curls, but his physique was more like Calum’s. The boy was solid muscle and probably outweighed his ten-year-old brother by half a stone.

  “Yer father doesna want us to wander far from the keep, but we could take Griffon down to the beach if ye’d like.” Bran flashed a sheepish grimace. “That’s if it’s all right with Miss Enya.”

  She popped her eyes wide, grinning at the lad. “Of course, I’d love to.”

  Ian studied her. “Are ye Bran’s missus?”

  “Ye shouldna be so brash.” Bran set him down. “But the lady is soon to be me wife.”

  “She’s bonny, if ye ask me.” Ian grasped Enya’s hand and tugged. “Come.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Once Enya’s arm had healed to the point where she could raise it over her head with little effort, Lady Anne invited Enya and Mistress Mara to the lady’s personal chamber. It was a spacious room, and though there was a bed, a long table stretched across the middle of it. Trunks lined the wall as if it were used for storage and crafts rather than living.

  Enya spied bolts of fabric piled on one end of the table as Anne pulled Enya inside. “We need to pick some fabric for your gowns.”

  Enya sighed. “I wish I had my wardrobe from Renfrewshire. Then none of this would be necessary.”

  Anne gracefully gestured her hand to the fabric. “But ’tis always so much fun to receive new clothing.”

  Enya felt a tad awkward. She’d accepted too much charity from the laird’s wife already. “You think so? I never cared for the fancy gowns my mother had made for me. Heavy things they were.”

  Lady Anne gestured to her kirtle with a beautifully embroidered bodice. “I’ve dressed as a Scottish countrywoman since coming to Raasay. Though I daresay I love to add a touch of embellishment.”

  Mara held up a bolt of red wool. “What color suits?”

  Enya looked at the fabric. “Green matches my eyes, and I’m partial to yellow.”

  “Hmm.” Anne crossed her arms and drummed her fingers against her lips. “Have you ever tried lavender?”

  Mara gasped. “Ah yes, lavender would be bonny, especially with yer auburn tresses.”

  Enya crossed to the table and ran the lavender wool through her fingers. “’Tis pretty.”

  Anne lifted the bolt and held a swatch under Enya’s chin. “I say, it suits you. And we’ll embroider a string of thistle blossoms along the neckline.”

  “As long as someone other than me does the needlework.” Enya couldn’t help but join in with their excitement. “Do you think Bran will like it?”

  Mara nodded enthusiastically. “That young man is so rapt with yer darling face, he’d not notice if ye were wearing a flour sack.”

  Enya twirled in place. “I still cannot believe we are to marry.”

  “Nothing can pull you away from your destiny.” Anne set the fabric down. “’Twas the same with me and Calum. I never would have believed I’d marry a brawny Scottish laird, but here I am.”

  Mara laughed. “I kent Calum was in love with Lady Anne afore she stepped ashore. But they both were so pigheaded, they had to incite a war before either one admitted to it.”

  “’Twas not all that bad.” Anne held up her finger as if struck by an idea. “Have you thought of a gown for your wedding?”

  Enya looked down at her borrowed kirtle. “I could wear this.”

  “Rubbish.” Anne tugged Enya to one of the large trunks, unbuckled the hasps and threw open the lid. “I’ve a number of fine gowns remaining from my days as an earl’s daughter. I’m sure one of these will suit.”

  Mara peered over her shoulder. “I’m partial to the blue damask.”

  “Have you anything in emerald?” Enya asked.

  Lady Anne filed through to the bottom of the trunk and tugged. “This would be ideal.”

  “Och aye.” Mara reached for the gown and held it to Enya’s shoulders. “It matches yer eyes perfectly.”

  Anne glanced down. “Though ’tis a bit short. You are taller, I daresay.” She bent down and inspected t
he hem. “We can have the tailor alter it.”

  The gown had a matching stomacher with intricate floral embroidery. Enya ran her fingers across it. “’Tis so beautiful. Are you certain you don’t mind lending it to me?”

  Anne waved her hand through the air. “What else will I do with these fancy gowns? Let them draw moths?”

  Enya rubbed the finely woven silk cloth between her fingers. “I do not ken how to thank you enough. Both of you have been ever so kind, making me feel welcomed into the clan.”

  Lady Anne brushed Enya’s cheek with her forefinger. “You are marrying a fine young man. He’s got a heart of gold, that one—Master Bran.”

  Mara lowered the gown. “Ye mean Sir Bran now.”

  “Ah yes, I do not know if I can ever erase the lanky cabin boy from my mind.” With a nostalgic smile, Anne stared off into the distance as if recalling fond memories.

  The ram’s horn sounded two short blasts, announcing the noon meal. Enya rubbed her stomach. “Thank heavens. I haven’t been able to take the morning meal as of late. I’m famished.”

  Anne and Mara exchanged glances. Anne bit her bottom lip. “Are you feeling a bit queasy in the morning?”

  “Aye.” Enya rubbed her stomach again. “And I’ve no idea why.”

  Mara tapped her finger to her lips. “And when were your last courses?”

  Enya felt the color had drain from her face. “Oh my, things have been so frantic, I hadn’t thought about it.” She pressed her palms to her cheeks. “Do you think I could be?”

  “Aye,” Mara said.

  “Most definitely,” Anne agreed.

  Enya turned and paced. “I wanted the friar to marry us sooner.” She whipped around. “Please do not tell anyone. I would be mortified if word got out before…”

  Anne drew her into an embrace. “Your secret is safe with us.” Anne giggled. “Calum and I couldn’t wait either.”

  Mara clapped a hand over her mouth. “Nor could I with John.”