by Amy Jarecki
“I’m looking forward to seeing you in your full armor. You will make an imposing sight, of that I am certain.” There. Curses to Alison.
Claud beamed and rubbed a lock of her hair between his fingers. “I shall carry your kerchief.”
“You honor me.”
Lord Ross smiled, as did Lady Ross. But Enya did not share their pleasure. This feigned adoration soured her stomach.
Across the hall, the henchmen were seated with their chieftains this eve. Evidently the threat of attack had been reduced. Bran pulled a bite from his eating knife and looked her way. He gave her a quick nod then turned his head toward his redheaded chief. She watched the two men talk and wished she could be at the table with them. They most likely had far more interesting topics to discuss than collecting rents from starving crofters.
“Do you find today’s victor striking?” Claud asked with an edge to his voice.
“Interesting, mayhap. Different.”
Claud leaned in and whispered in her ear. “And what of me? Am I all those things?”
Enya would have thought the son of an earl would be more self-assured, but the man beside her wore his confidence upon his shoulder. She met his grey-eyed stare. “My lord, I find you more familiar, much more in line with a gentleman from Renfrewshire.” She was certain her words weren’t precisely what he wanted to hear, but it was as much as she was willing to give.
Claud bowed his head politely. “’Tis good to hear.”
When the tables cleared and the pipers took their place for the evening’s dancing, Lord Ross called for attention. “The first dance will be a strathspey. My daughter has agreed to partner with the winner of today’s games.”
Bran’s horrified gaze shot to Enya. His chieftain gave him a shove. Tripping over the bench, Bran shook himself and walked toward the dais. He adjusted his sword belt and managed to make it the rest of the way without incident. Enya held her hand over her mouth to stifle her urge to laugh.
But Bran looked anything but amused. His powerful legs stretched against his kilt with each step and his eyes did not waver from Enya. Though he’d just eaten, she was sure the look on his face resembled hunger, almost like a Pointer fixated on a mallard he’d just retrieved for his hunter.
Bran stepped onto the dais and bowed. “Miss Enya.”
Claud’s eyes narrowed as if he were going to leap across the table and challenge the Highlander on the spot. “Do not tell me you’re going to lead her to the dance floor with that mammoth claymore swinging from your hip.”
Bran frowned as he regarded Claud, but he reached for his buckle and unfastened it with one tug. “I shall leave it here on the dais for safekeeping.” He turned to Enya and offered his hand. “Shall we, Miss Enya?”
He wore his damp hair combed back away from his face. Enya placed her palm in his much larger, very warm hand. Cinnamon—the rare fragrance of delicious, delectable cinnamon pleased her as she stepped beside him. “Do you like to dance?”
Bran glanced down the length of his straight, bold nose, a masculine nose that rested above full lips that turned up at the corners. “I danced quite a lot as a lad, no’ so much now.”
“Why not now?”
His eyebrows arched with his sideways glance. “Guarding me chief has its responsibilities. There’s no’ so much time for niceties.”
She liked that she had to look up to face him. “But you enjoy dancing?”
“Aye.”
They stood across from each other in the line of dancers. Bran bowed and Enya curtseyed. The piper’s music filled the hall and Bran executed the first sashays of the strathspey with practiced precision.
Enya grasped his hands for the circle. “Someone has been taught well.”
“Laird Calum’s wife, Lady Anne, saw to it I learned refinement.”
“She sounds quite accomplished.”
“She is. Her da was an English earl.”
“English?”
Bran turned away, not missing a step. Enya watched him across the aisle as couples sashayed through. Sir Bran had quite a number of talents one would not expect in a barbarian. And his laird, married to an English lady? How that union came about would be a story she’d love to hear.
Her shoulder brushed his, sending her insides aflutter as they took their turn stepping together down the aisle of dancers. Enya stole a glance at him and her palms moistened. “I quite enjoyed the tournament today.”
His fingers clutched hers a bit tighter. “’Twas a good match.”
“Are you looking forward to tomorrow’s games?”
“No’ so much.”
She stretched out to match his long strides. “And why, may I ask?”
He released her hand and took his place at the end of the line. “I dunna see much sport in jousting.”
Enya faced him. “Interesting. I have reservations about jousting as well.” She raised her voice a bit to be heard across the aisle. “I’d much prefer a hunt.”
His gaze focused solely upon her. “Aye, a hunt with raptors.”
“Or dogs.”
“That’d be something I’d enjoy.”
Enya’s stomach lurched when she had to take a turn with the man to Bran’s left. She glanced over her shoulder at him. Bran’s hungry stare made her skin prickle, as if every inch of her flesh had heightened in sensitivity.
All too soon, the music ended. Bran took her hand, then bowed and touched his lips ever so softly to the back of it. The heady scent of cinnamon wafted over her as if in a dream. Slowly he straightened, his lips slightly parted, and then his tongue slipped out and moistened his bottom lip. A fire ignited deep inside and rose quickly to her cheeks.
Enya’s pulse beat rapidly where his lips had been and she held her hand tight across her waist. She could scarcely breathe as he led her back to her father’s table. If only the dance hadn’t ended.
Bran blessed her with a devilishly handsome grin and picked up his sword. “Thank ye for the dance, Miss Enya.”
“’Twas my pleasure.”
Enya’s stomach sank when Claud rose and pulled out her chair. “Thank heavens you shan’t have to dance with him again.”
Enya wanted to give his smirk a firm slap. She’d dance every tune with Sir Bran if it were permissible. “Oh?”
“I shall rescue you from graceless brutes for the duration of the games.”
Enya slid into the chair. She’d had just about enough of Lord Claud’s self-importance for one night. “If it would not offend, I rose early and am quite tired. I believe I’d prefer to watch the dancing for the rest of the eve.”
***
After he’d escorted the beautiful maid to the dais, Bran buckled his sword belt and headed back to Calum’s table. He couldn’t bring himself to turn and look at Enya, though the prickles at the nape of his neck told him she was watching. So was Claud Hamilton. Bran had no intention of pursuing his attraction for the lass. Lord Ross had made it clear the couple was betrothed, or close enough to it.
Calum filled Bran’s tankard with ale. “I think the lassie enjoyed yer dancing by the blush that crawled up her face.”
“Nay, ’twas just the exertion.”
“A strathspey?” Calum smirked. “A reel I would believe, but Lord Ross’s daughter clearly flushed when she looked at ye, though dunna ask me why.”
Rewan leaned across the table. “She doesna ken what to think of a rugged Highlander who’s so light on his feet.”
“Aye.” Ruairi held up his tankard. “Ye most likely frightened her walking up there with yer claymore.”
Bran guzzled his ale and poured another. He glanced to the dais. Holy falcon feathers, why did she have to be looking his way? Every time her skirts had brushed against his calves, his knees turned to jelly. How could he carry out his duty and protect Calum with a sweet-smelling woman sapping his wits? He inhaled deeply. The warm air in the hall choked him. “If ye dunna need me, I think I’ll head for me pallet.”
Calum reached for the ewer and start
ed to pour. “So early? Are ye worried about tomorrow?”
Bran held up his hand. “I havena even a coat of armor.” The joust was the last thing from his mind, but it was easier to admit to nerves than admit the lassie had riled him. The softness of her touch, the emerald eyes gazing into his when they held hands and circled, attacked his defenses and flung them aside as if he were a helpless lad. If she’d come at him with a dagger, he might have let her stab him in the heart.
Bran pushed outside and headed toward the tents. He needed to find a way to convince Calum to allow him to return to Raasay with the others. If he remained behind and trained with Ross’s men, he’d surely see Enya. And as a member of Ross’s guard, he’d have no access to her. He’d watch Enya from a distance and the sickly feeling would eat away at his gut. Christ, he’d probably have to watch while Lord Claud came calling.
“Highlander.”
Bran stopped.
Claud Hamilton tugged on his silk doublet and sauntered up to him. “I hoped you enjoyed that dance, because it will be the last time you touch a lady as fine as Miss Enya Ross.”
Oh, how gratifying it would be to slam his fist into that smug face. Crossing his arms, Bran stepped into the future earl and looked down. “I generally dance with whomever I please.” Bran sniffed the air. “But the stench of this Lowland air is disagreeable.”
“You’d best head back to the Highlands where you belong.”
“’Tis my thought exactly.” Bran studied the ruff encircling the pompous man’s neck. “But our host has other ideas.”
“He’ll be fine without you.”
“Aye? By the look of his men, they could learn a few Highland tactics.”
“Mayhap with Highland games, but tomorrow you’ll lose and you can return to rutting the sheep on your godforsaken island.”
Bran clenched his fists and leaned in. “Perhaps we should have a tournament of our own.”
Claud’s eyes widened. Bran detected a flash of fear that Claud quickly covered by tilting his chin up and taking a step back. “I’d dearly love to oblige you. However, I’ve more delicate matters to attend to this eve.” Claud looked back to the double oak doors of the hall. “Miss Enya will be wondering to where I’ve disappeared.”
Bran rubbed his palm over the pommel of his dirk and watched Lord Claud amble back into the hall. If he hadn’t promised Calum he’d stay out of trouble, he would have challenged the fool-born bastard and shown him exactly how Highlanders fought.
He pulled the dirk from its scabbard and held it up to the moonlight. Bran’s memories of his father were few, and keepsakes fewer, but this was one possession he treasured, one that had served him well in many a fight. Claud Hamilton would eat his arrogance one day, but whether Bran would be the one to feed it to him was yet to be determined.
Chapter Five
Calum buckled the breastplate in place and stepped back. “’Tis only a wee bit too small.”
Bran stood with his arms straight out to the sides. “It feels like death linen.”
“Pardon me? This armor is forged of the finest iron.”
“Aye, so said the bastard ye took it from.”
“Won it, mind you.”
Bran could barely move once Calum finished buckling all the metal pieces to his limbs. “I look like an overstuffed sausage.”
“Ye look fine. Besides, the armor’s covering all the important parts.”
Bran glanced down at the cutaway over his unmentionables. “Not quite everything.”
“The saddle pommel will protect ye there.” Calum stood back and eyed his work. “The most important thing to remember is holding the lance level and aim for yer opponent’s heart. Hit him square and he’ll fall off his horse every time.”
“Aye, and how do I keep from being knocked off me own steed?”
“’Tis easier than fighting two at once. Keep one eye on yer target and the other on his weapon. Dunna let it hit ye or ye’ll be mighty sore for days.”
“Or dead.”
“Aye, well, then there’s that.”
Bran hated the way the armor constricted his movement. Though a good idea in theory, he realized why he never saw a full coat of armor in the midst of a battle. A warrior’s strength would be sapped before he raised his sword. Besides, Bran would never be able to afford such a luxury. Bran was content to fight his battles protected by his chainmail and helm—it gave him far more freedom of movement.
Forced to use a mounting block, he climbed aboard the warhorse provided by the host. Bran ran his hand along the stallion’s mane and leaned toward his ear. “Yer armor fits better than mine, but if ye ride without fear, I’ll see to it ye have an extra ration of oats.”
Calum led the horse to the field. “Yer up against Robert Ross first. They’re running Highlanders against Lowlanders in the elimination.”
“Och aye, the heir himself?”
Eyeing his opponent, Bran preferred to feel the reins against the pads of his fingers, but the iron finger gauntlets prohibited it. The horse lined up at the south end of the arena and Calum handed Bran a lance. He inserted the thick end in the iron lance rest attached to his breastplate. He glanced down to the top of Calum’s red-haired head. “Any last advice, m’laird?”
“Remember what I said. Focus on yer opponent and dunna get hit.”
“Sounds easy enough.”
Bran flipped down the visor of his helm. Through the slits, the world around him focused on the mounted knight straight ahead. Hot breath filled the metal, turning cold and moist against his chin. Lighter than he’d imagined, the jousting lance weighed about as much as his claymore, though awkward and much more difficult to balance.
Bran watched his target at the far end of the run. Sir Robert had been none too friendly since finding Bran talking to Enya. These Lowlanders thought they’d push out the Highland contestants with their fancy games? How hard could it be to knock a man off his horse with a stick?
Standing in the middle of the jousting run, the squire raised a flag. Bran’s heart lurched. The flag dropped. Bran clenched his legs around his steed and leaned forward in the saddle. The warhorse bounded into a full-out gallop. The slits in the helm bobbed up and down, impeding Bran’s line of vision. His opponent deathly and impersonal in his shining coat of armor, his lance trained on Bran’s heart. Two steps to collision. Bran leaned back and thrust his lance forward.
It struck solid and splintered. Bran teetered as the jarring impact reverberated through his shoulder. He pulled the horse up and spun. Robert Ross lay in the sand, struggling to right himself. He tugged the helm from his head and glared at Bran—a look of complete contempt. At least the Ross heir wasn’t badly wounded.
Calum raced in. “Not a bad try for yer first time.”
Bran’s armor cut into his flesh as he dismounted. “’Twas like swinging into battle from a ship’s rigging. No time to think, just hold on and pray.”
When his feet touched ground, he glanced to the stands. Enya sat beside her mother with her hands covering her mouth. A lead ball dropped to the pit of Bran’s stomach. Enya would probably never speak to him again. Bran looked to Robert, who was up and being tended by his young squire. It was just as well. Bran had no business talking to the lass, and besides, he’d see trouble for certain if she kept flirting with his sensibilities.
Bran and Calum viewed the remaining first round from the sidelines. Rewan was smashed to the ground by Claud Hamilton and Ruairi helped him limp back to the tents. Enya continued to watch from her perch on the dais, her eyes not once straying Bran’s way. By the end of the joust, Bran had made it to the final run, and would face none other than Lord Claud Hamilton.
***
Enya nearly lost her wits when Robert and Bran sped head on in the first joust. Her heart betrayed her family, wishing for Bran to win, yet wanting her brother unscathed. After Bran had won his round with Robert, she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Too many emotions roiled inside. She hated jousting and its barbaric pumme
ling. It was no better than Roman gladiatorial sport.
Worse, both Bran and Claud now readied their horses for the championship. Claud had his visor pushed up and smiled at her, waving the handkerchief she’d given him as if it were his claim to her. Enya wanted to march over and yank it out of his hand, but then Claud tied it to the end of his lance. Wonderful. Her “almost” betrothed was going to smash his lance into Bran’s chest, with her kerchief giving her blessing.
She studied Bran, who looked gargantuan under a coat of armor that must be two sizes too small. With no squire, Laird MacLeod patted Bran’s shoulder, imparting final advice. Bran closed the visor of his helm and steadied the big horse beneath him.
As Rodney raised the flag, Enya clasped her hand over her heart and held her breath. Bran kicked his heels. The warhorse bolted forward, only to skid and whinny like he’d been skewered. The miserable stallion threw its head and reared dangerously. Bran’s lance flipped out of his hand while he tightened the reins to regain control of his mount. Claud sped forward. Bran raised his head just as Hamilton’s lance struck him. The blow lifted Bran from his horse and he careened through the air. He crashed to the ground with a clanking thud.
Enya stood, fists clenched under her chin. Calum ran to Bran, who lay motionless. She raced down the steps. Claud rode his warhorse into her path. “Come to congratulate my victory, Miss Enya?”
She snapped her gaze up to him. “Congratulations on bludgeoning a man whose horse spooked.”
“Ah, my lady, one must be able to control his mount in tournament or a fight.” He leaned down. “If you falter, you lose.”
Enya pushed past him and dashed to Bran’s side. His eyes were closed. She held her hand to his nose. Warm breath caressed it.
Calum signaled to Rodney. “Bring the board. We’ll need to carry him to the tent.”
Enya wrung her hands. “Will he be all right?”
Calum’s brow furrowed. “Only time will tell. Do ye have a healer?”