Even with the warrior’s obvious injuries, Lara had a hard time keeping up with him. He was fast and physically in better shape than she was. The muscles in her legs started to burn. She knew not how she could keep going. Let the English come, she thought. Tripping over small tree roots on the forest floor, Lara tumbled forward, collapsing to her knees. The warrior ran back to her.
“Are ye hurt?” he asked.
Lara shook her head.
“Nay. Go. Just leave me, please,” she begged as tears flowed freely down her cheeks.
“Nay. Now get up,” he said as he grabbed under her arms, helping her to her feet. “Ye canna stop. Ye must keep going.”
Lara took a deep breath and nodded her head.
Silently, they trotted through the forest for miles within the dark until they came across a campfire where three men were sleeping. The campfire burned low and the men snored loudly, covering the sound of leaves crunching under Lara’s feet. The warrior put his finger to his lips indicating for Lara to keep quiet as he crept further towards them. He stopped and waited for several long moments. Holding his hand up for Lara to stay where she was, he walked to the other side of their camp where three horses were tied to a tree.
Without a word, he gave Lara a wave of his hand for her to walk towards him. Lara’s heart raced. She had to put her hand over her mouth to quiet her breathing. Her legs felt like dough and shook almost uncontrollably at the knees. She stepped lightly, praying to God that she could make it across the campsite without waking the men. As she walked towards her companion, her eyes did not stray from the sleeping men. That was her first mistake. Stepping on a twig, she gasped and felt her heart drop in her chest. Lara froze in place. She was no longer able to quiet her breathing as she imagined all sort of terrible things the men would do to them once they discovered their presence. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t think; her head began to spin. The warrior calmly walked back towards Lara and took her by the hand. Together they walked to the other side of the camp. Lara took a sigh of relief when they safely made it across. Grabbing onto her waist, he carefully lifted Lara on top of one of the horses. The horse grunted loudly.
“What is that?” a man grumbled as he looked in Lara’s and the warrior’s direction. “Wake up ye eejits, they are stealing our horses!” he hollered.
With lightning speed, the warrior untied the ropes, freeing the other two horses. Swinging up behind her and wrapping one arm around her waist, he grabbed onto the reigns. After a loud slap to the horse’s rump, the horse bolted into a fast sprint. The men’s voices from behind them began to fade as the distance between them and the camp increased.
After riding several hours, Lara could smell the distinct aroma of food being carried on the wind. The delectable smell made her stomach growl and mouth water. The warrior slowed the horse and stilled its movement as they came upon a small dwelling.
The croft was made of stone and looked as if it had been abandoned. Several stones had crumbled showing signs of erosion and the ill-thatched roof was in desperate need of repair. Along the back side of the croft was a small barn that housed two horses and throughout the yard a dozen chickens pecked the ground.
At first, her instinct was to tell him to keep going for she did not know if they were on English soil or Scotland’s. However, the smell of the food and the idea of a warm pallet were far too tempting. As they drew closer towards the barn, the chickens became startled by the horse and began to cluck loudly.
“Who goes there?” a woman croaked.
“I apologize, my lady, I dinna mean to disturb ye,” the warrior replied.
Once the woman came into view, the warrior dismounted and walked closer to her but remained in the shadows. The woman was old with a round mid-section and stood half as tall as him. Her clothes were tattered and worn and her silvery hair was partially covered by a white linen head-rail.
“Are ye the mon, McGregor sent lookin’ fer work? I was told that ye would no’ be here fer a few days.”
“Nay, my lady. I am no’ McGregor. We are passing through and happened to come across yer lands. We are seeking food and shelter.”
Lara watched as the old woman looked the warrior up and down. Tilting her head to the side, she looked behind him to Lara who was still perched on top of the horse. Pursing her lips, the woman looked at the two of them very carefully.
“Have ye any coin?” she rudely asked.
“Nay, my lady,” the warrior replied.
“Well, if ye cannae pay me then ye will work fer yer meal.”
“Of course, my lady,” the warrior said, and slightly bowed his head to her.
“And who is that there wit ye?” she asked.
“Only an acquaintance, my lady.”
“Well, come here so I can have a look at ye,” she insisted.
Lara slid down the side of the horse and slowly came out of the shadow and stood within the light of the moon. With her hands balled tightly against her sides, she readied herself to run if instinct told her to. Her stomach clenched when the old woman gazed down at her with beady eyes. The woman expressed a look of astonishment as if she was utterly appalled by Lara’s appearance.
Keeping her arms close to her sides, Lara kept her head lowered. Ashamed of her ragged dress and nappy hair, Lara bit her bottom lip hoping not to be ridiculed by the woman.
“Good God lass, what happened to ye?
Lara did not know how to respond. She knew nothing of this woman nor whether she could be trusted. She certainly could not tell the woman who she was and from where she had just escaped. Lara remained silent. Glancing over to the warrior, she looked for some indication as to what to do or say to the old hag but he stood quiet, staring at her blankly. In the dim light of dusk, she could only feel his stare.
“What is yer name?” she asked rather impatiently. “Well now, dinna be shy. Speak up lass.”
“Lara,” she quietly responded, giving the woman nothing more than her first name.
“It’s good to meet ye, Lara. My name is Rowena,” she said, then turned her attention back to the warrior. “The lass can sleep inside. As fer ye, there should be plenty of hay fer ye in the barn. Tomorrow mornin’ I expect ye to have the horses brushed down and the chickens fed. When my husband, Innes, returns in the mornin’ he can tell ye what else needs to be done. He works as a blacksmith in the village so he is away often. We lost our last farmhand, so much is needed to be done. If ye prove to be well worth the hire, I shall e’en pay ye,” the woman offered to the warrior.
“Thank ye, my lady,” he said in a more grateful tone.
Lara followed Rowena towards the front of the house. Before turning the corner, the woman turned back and asked, “Laddie, what do I call ye?”
The warrior cleared his throat before speaking.
“Bram, my lady. My name is Bram MacKinnon.”
Grateful for the woman’s hospitality, Bram eagerly walked towardss the barn. He welcomed the fresh air and a dry pallet. The past two weeks had been hell on both his body and his mind. As he entered the barn, he noted a stack of hay in one of the abandoned stalls. Grabbing a large heap of it, he arranged the hay into flat layers on the ground. Bram laid his weary body down upon a wool sack he had found and placed on top of the hay. He swore to the heavens that he would forever lie in that spot and not move another muscle.
Rolling to his side and placing his arm underneath his head, his muscles twitched as pain shot down his right arm and lower back. He yearned for a tankard of whiskey to drink away his pain or knock him out completely. His body felt as if he had been tied up and dragged by a horse running at full speed.
Stretching his arms wide, he rubbed his shoulders to loosen his tense muscles. Carefully, he lifted the blood-stained tunic over his head and tossed it onto the ground; his back still sore from the lashings. Lying back, he tried to close his eyes for just a bit but his effort failed miserably.
Overly exhausted, Bram knew he needed to rest, but sleep eluded him. It was the s
ilence that plotted against him, denying him the rest he so desperately needed. For every time he closed his eyes; he was back on the battlefield. The flashbacks were vivid; waking nightmares. The sound of metal clashing, the buzzing of arrows whizzing through the air and the smell of death all around him. But it wasn’t actually the battle that haunted him. In all of his twenty three years, he had been in battle many times and not once had it changed him. But a pair of dark blue eyes belonging to an English soldier haunted his dreams. Those eyes belonged to the man who had pierced his sword into Bram’s abdomen causing him to lose so much blood it rendered him unconscious.
Bram hoped fate would allow him to face that man again someday. Looking down at his stomach, he saw the ghastly scar that was still continuing to heal. He could still feel the heat of the Englishman’s blade every time he looked at it; a memory not so easily forgotten.
The imprisonment he endured was nothing compared to witnessing his Scottish brethren slaughtered that rainy day. Bram felt he should have been among them. He recalled the heavy rainfall washing the blood and mud away from his face. He was shaken awake and carried off in a wagon pulled by two black horses draped in the English royal colors until he awoke in the dungeons at Cumberland.
Bram had expected his execution to come quick, but the Earl of Cumberland had delayed the trials while he was attending the marriage of his cousin, the Duke of York, to Lady Rosalind of Northumberland. Bram learned many valuable things while listening to the guards talk amongst each other; things he was most anxious to rely back to William Wallace and Robert the Bruce. But most importantly, to his own brother, Rory, Laird of Clan MacKinnon.
Over and over, Bram struggled with why his cousin Ewan, who had fought aside him, had left him on the battlefield to die. When Bram had regained the strength to lift his head out of the muck, he had seen a group of his fellow Scotsmen retreat towards the woods along with Ewan. Ewan was more of a brother to him than his own brother Rory. His brother felt that Bram’s adventurous temperament was more a burden than a blessing. Ewan, however, was different. He still knew how to enjoy adventure, unlike Rory. Bram knew that he could not fault Ewan for leaving him behind. He would only have left if he thought Bram was dead.
His thoughts turned to home. He missed the sights, the smells, even his overbearing brother. It had not been the first time he had been away from Dunakin Castle. In fact, he had left for weeks at a time on several occasions, gallivanting across the Highlands, meeting with the neighboring clans as well as visiting his favorite French whore, Genevieve.
How he wished to be with her now, to feel the soft touch of her bosom. To Bram, women were made for bedding and breeding. His brother Rory blamed his arrogance about women on Elspeth, a young, dark-haired maiden, he’d once loved who had turned her attentions to Rory. Bram had thought to marry the lass, but she had broken his heart. After her untimely death he viewed marriage as a fool’s game, and there were far too many women who willingly offered to lie on their backs for him without it.
Bram had never missed an opportunity to lift a lass’ skirt. Even though he would leave them without words of commitment, he always accepted the consequences thereafter. He had two sons already. Colin, his oldest at seven summers, born to Marietta, and Connor, a wee laddie of four summers, to Fiona.
Never committing to either lass, Bram gratefully welcomed the bairns into his life. Thinking about his two young lads now weighed heavy on his heart. He felt full of guilt for leaving them. But he knew they were brave lads, and they would believe that their father had died heroically in battle. Still, the emptiness in his chest had him longing for home.
Chapter 3
Bram’s head perked up when he heard the sound of a stick breaking under one’s foot. With pure instinct, he rose, ready to defend himself. As he stood with fists tightened, Lara entered the barn holding onto a trencher of food and drink. The tray was full of dried venison, bread, and a small-sized mug of whiskey. Bram silently thanked the heavens for the whiskey.
“I thought ye might be hungry,” she whispered keeping her head low as if she were a servant offering up a meal to a king.
“Aye, I am,” he answered.
As he reached out for the tray, her hands began to tremble.
“I’ll no’ hurt ye lass,” he whispered, hoping to ease her mind. Noticing that she continued to keep her head down, Bram wondered if she was afraid of him. She was not like the women that usually caught Bram’s eye. This lass was scrawny, small chested, and her skin was as pale as sheep’s wool. Her long black hair was a dull tangled mess.
Thinking back over the past two weeks, Bram had to admit that he had not paid much attention to her. The lass often hid in the dark corner of her cell and kept to herself. Bram knew that whatever her reason for imprisonment, it was none of his business. Only now did he begin to feel guilt and shame for not intervening on her behalf. After all, the lass had saved his life, and no woman he had ever known had shown such bravery as this daring lass had. But he accepted that he could not have saved her any more than he could have saved himself. Whatever the reason, she seemed more resilient and resourceful then he had given her credit for. And now with her cowering before him, he wondered if it was his appearance that frightened her so. Bram promised himself that before returning to his own homestead, he would safely see her home and back into the arms of her family.
Bram gently took the tray from her and set it near his pallet on the floor. He sat back down and ate every small morsel on the tray while Lara quietly stood motionless. It had been what seemed like forever since he’d had a real meal. His last food had been meat from a dead mouse the guards had given him, but it only resulted in the mouse coming back up along with the other contents of his stomach. With his belly full, and the slight relief he got from the whiskey, he looked back at Lara who was now looking at him wide-eyed as if she were witnessing a wild animal devouring its meal.
With her mouth agape, Lara stared at Bram. The moonlight shined through the barn door allowing her a better view. Hunched over on the ground, he ate as wildly as a starved animal. His eyes looked fierce yet his face displayed a look of pity. His cheeks and chin were covered by a thick tawny beard making it hard for Lara to see what he truly looked like under the mass of hair. He was bare chested wearing nothing but his kilt.
Lara did not recognize his clan because the colors were faded and worn. His bulky arms showed off his sculpted muscles and his chest had a small patch of hair that curled around over his sternum. Lara’s eyes trailed lower to his stomach. At the sight of it, Lara bit her bottom lip when she saw a scar across the side of his gut that looked as if it should have taken the life from him. It was deep, still showing some areas that hadn’t yet scabbed over, and would create a permanent scar. Across his shoulders were streaks of dried blood and specs of dirt and sand. She watched as he struggled to move freely.
“Ye are injured,” she said as she stepped closer to him, wanting to examine his wounds.
“I am fine,” he replied.
“Nay, ye are covered in blood and I am sure that yer wounds will become infected if they are not mended and washed properly,” Lara insisted.
Before he could protest, Lara grabbed a rag that hung on a rusty nail and dipped it inside a bucket containing rain water. Wringing it out, she walked back to Bram and cautiously sat down next to him. Sitting so close, she could feel the heat radiate off his skin. It caused her to worry that he may already have succumbed to fever.
It was only due to her concern for him that she made the bold move. She did not know what came over her or where she gained the courage to be so presumptuous. But she had seen a great deal of battle wounds before and what happened to them when not mended properly.
“Lie down on yer stomach,” she instructed.
Bram looked at her awkwardly, wondering where the quiet and shy lass had gone.
“Go on now,” she ordered.
Not wanting to argue, Bram rolled over and laid flat, resting his head on his arms. With
out touching him, Lara examined his wounds. She was thankful that the welts and gashes were not as bad as she had imagined, for she had no salve to put on them. She lifted the cloth in her hand and gently dabbed it on his wounds. Bram winced.
“Does it hurt? I am sorry. I am trying to be as gentle as I can,” Lara said, worried that the pressure she applied was too much for him to bear. She tried to press softly but perhaps he was in more pain than he would admit.
“Nay, lass. ‘Tis only cold.”
Lara let out a sigh of relief and continued to minister to his wounds while her other hand rested firmly on his shoulder.
“May I ask...why were ye imprisoned?” Lara whispered quietly.
She prayed it wasn’t because of some evil deed such as rape or murder. She waited several moments for him to answer.
“A month or so ago, I was in Falkirk battling the English alongside William Wallace when I was injured. I was knocked unconscious and unable to defend myself. When I woke, I was bound in irons. After a week they moved me to Cumberland where ye were.”
“William Wallace! Are ye a Highlander then?” she asked, though there was no doubt in her mind that he was. His muscular size, long hair, and plaid told her all she needed to know.
Her father had told her grand stories when she was young about the Highlanders; how they treated their women and favored their drinks. He said that Highlanders were selfish beasts and cared for their women like Englishmen would care for their cattle. Lara wondered if Bram would have treated her differently had she not saved him. She also wondered had she known he was a Highlander from the start whether she, too, would have made a different choice. Either way, for now all they had were each other.
Highland Daydreams Page 2