The Highland Henchman

by Amy Jarecki

  “My serving maid Heather can help.”

  “Meet us at the tent.”

  Enya didn’t look back to regard Lord and Lady Ross’s expressions. They most likely disapproved of her display of concern, and they most certainly would disapprove of her taking Heather to the tents.

  ***

  “The baroness will have my hide if she knew I allowed you to come with me.” Heather clutched her medicine basket, waddling as fast as she could, cheeks flushed.

  “You haven’t allowed me. I demanded to accompany you, and will attest to it.” Enya hurried ahead. “Come along.”

  Rushing into the corridor of tents, Enya had no idea which one housed Bran. She stopped and turned full circle and spied the henchman from Lewis. She hurried up to him. “I’ve brought the healer for Sir Bran. Can you tell me which tent is his?”

  The man gave her a lecherous smirk. “Dancing with him and then tending his wounds as well?”

  “I shall find him with or without your help, but the healer is waiting.” She looked through the gap of the nearest tent and saw nothing. “Which one is it?”

  He pointed. “Second from the end.”

  “Thank you,” Enya clipped, caring not for the man’s impertinence.

  With no place to knock, Enya reached for the flap, but pulled her hand back. He could be indecent. “Hello?”

  “A moment.” Laird Calum popped his head out and looked her over from head to toe. “Have ye brought the healer?”

  Heather huffed up from behind. “Where’s the patient?”

  After stepping inside, Enya made the introductions. “This is Mistress Heather, Laird Calum MacLeod of Raasay.” She moved to the pallet where Bran lay unconscious, still clad in his armor. “And this poor, unfortunate soul is Sir Bran.”

  Heather bustled in and set her basket beside him. “The first thing we must do is remove that constricting armor.” She pointed to the leather strap cutting through his side. “He’s not taking in enough air.”

  Calum knelt behind Bran and lifted him by the shoulders. “I’ll hold him up if ye can make quick work of unfastening the buckles.”

  Without a second thought, Enya tugged at the leather straps and released the bindings of his breastplate while Heather knelt beside him. Calum laid Bran back down and Enya went to work on removing his leg armor.

  Pulling away the leather straps belted atop his quilted doublet had not caused Enya’s body to react, but when her fingers brushed his exposed calves, her breath caught. His flesh warm to her touch, she slowly pulled away the leg iron and studied the powerful muscles beneath. His calf alone was at least as big as her thigh. It narrowed to a sturdy ankle that sloped into a well-worn leather boot.

  “Is something amiss?” Calum asked.

  Enya snapped her head up. “He has no foot armor?”

  “’Tis a borrowed suit that barely fit.”

  “Was too small, I’ll say.” Heather put a foot on Bran’s shoulder and tugged off his helm. “I never thought I’d lever it off.”

  Enya made quick work of removing the other pieces of armor until she reached his thighs. Though Bran wore a pair of knee-length leather trews, the muscular form beneath was a sight of pure mastery. Enya unfastened the thigh piece and admired the snug fit to the leather that outlined Bran’s physical power. She reached out, placed her hand on his thigh and gasped. The muscle beneath the trews was as hard as the armor she’d just removed, though far warmer.

  The muscle twitched beneath her hand. Her gaze shot to Bran’s face. His eyes were still closed but his muscle had tightened. Enya left her hand there while Heather opened one of his lids and peered into his eye. The old woman then gave him three smacks to the face. “Wake up, young man.”

  Bran’s leg twitched again. Calum bent down and shook Bran’s shoulders. “Come on, lad. ’Tis time ye woke.”

  Heather lifted his eyelid with her thumb and leaned forward. “We need to raise him up. His eyes are dark. ’Tis not a good sign.”

  Calum grasped Bran’s shoulders, but Enya couldn’t imagine trying to force Bran to sit up in his condition. “Let me try.”

  Heather wiped her hands on her apron. “What good do you think you can do, child?”

  Enya pushed her way to Bran’s shoulder and knelt. “Just let me speak to him before you shake him up more.”

  Enya had no idea what she was doing, but the thought of Calum setting him upright and shaking him while Heather smacked him across the face didn’t bode well. His muscle had twitched beneath her hand. Twice. Something told her he was trying to come around.

  Enya leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “Sir Bran, ’tis time to wake. You will miss the gathering if you do not…” Enya glanced over her shoulder at the two people eyeing her with incredulity. She could do nothing with them staring. “Leave us.”

  Heather wrung her hands. “But my lady…’tis not proper.”

  Enya spread her palms to her sides. “Does he look like he’s going to brandish his sword and take advantage? Please, just give me a moment.”

  Heather hesitated, though Calum tugged on her elbow. “Come, mistress. We’ll be right outside. How could a few moments hurt?”

  When the tent flap closed, Enya returned her attention to the patient. Pausing, she studied his face. Hardened by the sea and battle, Bran’s rigid features were tempered in slumber. With his hawk-like eyes shuttered, he was as beautiful as a sleeping babe. She placed her hand on his forehead then traced her finger down the length of his nose. Caressing her thumb across his lips, Enya did not expect the velvety smoothness—nor did she expect the heavy swell in her breasts.

  As if compelled by a force outside her body, she leaned forward and touched her lips to his. The air from his breathing tickled her cheek. Closing her eyes, she kissed him again. A soft groan, almost a whisper, came from his throat. Enya pulled up, but a hand caressed her neck and coaxed her back to those full lips. This time she wasn’t kissing a piece of silk cloth. The lips parted and Bran’s tongue brushed her mouth ever so softly. Enya’s lips tingled. Holy sweet Mary. Her entire body tingled. She joined her lips with his.

  With a hint of cinnamon lingering, Bran tasted fresh, like water from a clear stream. She hesitated when his tongue met hers but when he swirled it in a delicious loop, Enya melted into him and followed his lead. Her body on fire, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Every inch of her flesh tingled.

  His hand skimmed to her shoulder and his eyes opened. “Am I in heaven?”

  Enya surveyed the tent as if she were spinning while ropes unwound on a tree swing. I’m most likely as dazed as he. “Nay, Sir Bran, you had a fall. Do you remember?”

  “Ah, Lord Hamilton and his vicious lance.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  He tried to sit up, but Enya held her hand to his chest. “You must rest.”

  His forehead creased between his dark brows. “But why are ye in me tent? ’Twill be a scandal.”

  “Not to worry, my serving maid and Laird Calum are right outside.”

  As if she’d beckoned them, the tent flap opened and Bran threw his arm across his eyes. “’Tis too bright.”

  “He’s awake?” Calum asked.

  Heather stepped beside Enya. “How did you do that?”

  Enya glanced at Bran. He winked with a rakish smile stretching across his lips, and Enya twirled a lock of hair around her finger. She could never lie to Heather—the woman always knew she was fibbing before the words got out. “I kissed him.”

  “What—”

  Calum swatted Heather on the back with a hearty laugh. “A kiss from a bonny lassie will fix up me henchman every time. Now why didna I think of that?”

  Heather shot Enya one of those “wait until I see you alone” looks and reached for a vial from her basket. “I’ll rub some marjoram oil on your head and will send you a flagon of rosemary tea.”

  “I’ll bring it,” Enya volunteered.

  Heather rubbed in the oil like she was trying to remove a stub
born stain from a silver dish. “I believe you’ve done quite enough.”

  Bran closed his eyes and grimaced. “I think I prefer Miss Enya’s healing methods.”

  “You shan’t find yourself in such close proximity to the lady again.” Stoppering the vial, Heather regarded the patient with a dour frown. “I think you’ll live.”

  Bran pushed up onto his elbow. “I’m sure of it. Thanks to ye ladies, I’ll be right in no time. It takes much more than a fall from a horse to keep me abed.”

  Chapter Six

  When he sat up, Bran swallowed back a heave.

  Calum plopped on the edge of his pallet. “So ye got a kiss from the baron’s daughter?”

  “Och, ’tis the last thing I need.” Bran unfastened the top button of his doublet and stretched his neck. “Ye’re leaving me here with a mob of unfriendly Lowlanders and her? Calum, I kissed her back. That could see me thrown in the pit, or worse, strung up on the nearest tree.”

  “’Twill be a good lesson for ye, learning to control those hot-blooded MacLeod urges.”

  Bran wished his head wasn’t throbbing so much, and he wished he could say something to the chieftain to make him understand Bran could not stay at Halkhead. “She flirts with me.”

  “Aye? When has a lassie batting her lashes and stealing a kiss caused ye consternation?”

  “This is different.”

  “Bran, I cannot go back on me word. Ye’ll do the MacLeod proud, ye understand? I need ye to gird yer loins, train with Ross’s men, and hightail yer arse back to Raasay.” Calum cuffed the back of Bran’s head. “Can ye do that for me?”

  Bran’s brain rattled with the thump and his teeth ached like they would fall out. “Och, ye ken I’ll do anything ye ask of me.”

  “Then there’s nay question. Ye must dress. We’ve a gathering to attend.”

  Bran swayed a bit when he stood. Gathering? He’d rather take Griffon and spend the evening riding.

  ***

  Before the feast, Baronet Ross called the chiefs together to hear their decision on his request to support the queen’s cause. Claud Hamilton stood beside him as the dozen lairds filed into his solar and took a seat at the long cherry wood table. He’d expressly asked for the chiefs to leave their henchmen behind. The size of the room was his excuse. The real reason he wanted the chiefs separated from their musclemen was to meet with them without the added virility acquired when one had a young buck ready to wield his sword in one’s defense.

  Of course Ross had Malcolm, the captain of his guard, his son and Claud Hamilton beside him. Ross addressed the future Earl of Arran. “’Twas a good win for us today.”

  Claud tugged on the hem of his doublet and stood a little taller. “Thank you, sir.”

  Malcolm, a sturdy man with dun eyes, ran his fingers down to the point of his black beard. “It didn’t hurt that we put Bran on Spooky.”

  “Nor did it make any difference I had deerhound piss sprinkled on the Highlander’s side of the field,” Robert added.

  Ross wondered if there had been some interference on the part of his men. He’d made it clear a Lowlander was to win the joust. “’Tis good we showed that young buck a Highlander’s place.” Ross shook out his ruffled sleeves and turned to Claud. “When will you return to Rutherglen?”

  “On the morrow.”

  “Very good.” Ross leaned so his lips were a half-inch from Claud’s ear. “And once we’ve got the queen back on the throne, we shall resume our negotiations regarding Enya’s hand.”

  “I will look forward to that with great anticipation.”

  Lord Ross watched the Highland chiefs file into the room in a wave of color, all shrouded in plaid. Ruairi from Lewis wore yellow, Calum from Raasay red, MacNeil from Barra blue and dark green. It looked like a mob of court jesters had come to call. “My lairds, please be seated.”

  Ross waited until the noise of seats scraping across the floorboards subsided. “It has been a fine tournament with great skill on display. I have been impressed with the substance of the Highland warriors.”

  Heads nodded. Ruairi MacLeod piped up. “Did ye think we were a bunch of laggards? Have ye forgotten the wars with the Lords of the Isles? Those men were our ancestors.”

  “Of course not. Your reputation as fighting men is why I brought you here.” Lord Ross rested his palms on the table. “Now tell me, how will you help restore Queen Mary to the throne?”

  The room erupted in a cacophony of braying voices. Everyone spoke at once. Ross was not a patient man, and he didn’t like the excuses he was hearing. “Silence. Ruairi, since you seem to have a lot to say, you shall be the first to speak.”

  “We’ve considered yer request with great concern.” Ruairi gestured to the Chief of Dunvegan. “Hector is in the midst of battle with the MacDonalds, and we all have our keeps to protect.”

  Calum MacLeod cleared his throat. “’Tis no’ that we dunna support the queen, ’tis just the law of Edinburgh and the Lowlands doesna impact us overmuch.”

  Claud shook his fist. “But in the name of King James V, Mary’s father, we are bound to be one Scotland.”

  Ruairi sliced his hand through the air. “Aye, and that’s why we’ve decided to leave ye our best men to fight by yer side. My Rewan is as good as ten pikemen. Let our henchmen train with yer army and ye’ll have a force to be feared in anyone’s eyes.”

  Ross needed a draught of whisky. This wasn’t at all what he’d expected. They’d taken advantage of his hospitality. He’d shown them the finery of the Lowlands and welcomed the barbarians onto his lands as if they were equals. Well…almost equals—he’d had them sleep in tents, but they hardly would have noticed any resulting discomfort. “We need an army of thousands.”

  Claud stood. “We’ll have it. My family alone will bring six hundred men. In addition to Ross, we’ve Argyle, Eglinton, and Cassillis to name a few—all with numbers as great as Hamilton.”

  “Ye see?” Ruairi and all the chiefs stood. “Ye’ve nothing to worry about. Our offer still stands. Our men will remain behind to train with yers.”

  Ross glared at Claud. He’d not appraised well, standing and bragging about how well fortified the Marian Party was. Moray had a number of strong families behind him as well. With the Hebrides clans behind the queen, the country would be further divided. Hell, Ross was ready for a full-out civil war if that was what it took to dethrone the usurper. Ross looked to Ruairi and Calum. Their faces were grim. He harbored little hope he’d change their minds after Claud’s remark. “Very well. Training will commence in the courtyard at dawn.”

  ***

  Enya didn’t know why it irritated her when her father announced the first dance would be with Lord Claud, but her stomach twisted in a knot all the same. Claud grinned and took her hand. His fingers were soft like hers, not rough as Bran’s had been. Together they strolled past the table where Bran sat. Engaged in conversation with his laird, he appeared completely recovered from his calamity earlier in the day. If Heather had known he was sitting in the hall, she’d shoo him back to bed straight away.

  On the dance floor, Claud stood across from her, but fortunately the piper launched into a reel, which meant vigorous steps with little hand holding. Enya plastered on a smile and picked up her feet, but every time she turned toward Bran, she checked to see if he was watching. Something must have been wrong. Queen’s knees, he’d even turned his back. Finding it nearly impossible to smile, Enya pretended to concentrate on her feet.

  Her mind rifled through their encounter in the tent…for the hundredth time. Of course she’d been undeniably bold by kissing Bran, but he was unconscious. He wasn’t supposed to wake and attempt to eat her. And what made him put his tongue in her mouth anyway…and why did it feel so inexplicably good?

  Enya twirled in another circle. Bran had turned around and his hawk-like gaze now focused on her as if she were the only dancer on the floor. Heat rose to her cheeks.

  “Well, do you?” Claud’s voice cut through her though
ts as they danced across from one another.

  “Do I what?”

  “I believe you’ve not paid attention to a word I’ve said this entire dance. Do you need some air?”

  Claud had been talking? No matter, Enya had no intention of leaving the hall on Lord Hamilton’s arm. “Not at all.” The music ended and she curtseyed. “I’d like to inquire as to Sir Bran’s health.”

  “He looks well to me.”

  “Nonsense. The poor man was knocked silly…and by your lance. ’Tis only proper to ask how he fares.”

  Claud rolled his eyes. “Very well, if we must.” He clasped Enya’s arm a bit too firmly.

  Enya smiled as they approached. “Sir Bran.”

  The bench scraped against the floorboards when Bran stood and bowed. “Miss Enya. Ye were as light on yer feet as a fairy princess.”

  She actually giggled. “’Tis very kind of you to say so. Might I inquire—”

  Claud gave Enya’s arm a firm squeeze. “The lady would like to know if your head has recovered from our jousting round. I trust I didn’t cause any permanent damage.”

  Bran’s eyes narrowed with the thin line of his lips. “As ye can see, I’m fighting fit.”

  Claud dropped Enya’s arm and stepped toward him. “Aye? We’ll have to have another match.”

  Bran closed the gap, his nose an inch from Claud’s. “It would be me pleasure.”

  Loud tapping came from the dais and Enya’s father stood. “The time has come to present the victor’s sword.” Malcolm stood beside him holding the trophy.

  Both Claud and Bran folded their arms and turned their attention to the dais.

  “With all the points combined from yesterday’s tournament, and his undefeated win in the joust, I present this award to Lord Claud Hamilton.”

  Enya’s jaw dropped.

  Aside from applause from the Hamilton contingent on the south side of the hall, the room fell silent. Claud grinned at Enya and marched toward the dais.

  Calum shoved back his bench and stood. “What of Sir Bran? He took the entire games, and only fell in one jousting round. I say he’s the winner.”