The Highland Henchman

by Amy Jarecki

  She relished her morning with Rodney and his carefree, boyish outlook on life. Together they rode through the wood and shot their arrows at targets. When it came time for the noon meal, Rodney pulled some smashed oatcakes from his pocket. Enya didn’t mind. That would be enough to sustain her until supper.

  When they dismounted to water the horses in a brook that fed the loch, Enya estimated they were about a mile from the manse. Movement in the distance caught her attention—and the tingling that spread from the base of her core straight up to the tips of her breasts told her who it was.

  “The guard has returned.” Rodney gave her a tap on the shoulder. “Enya? Are you all right?”

  “Huh?”

  “Leaping lords, I thought the queen of the fairies jumped into your body and stole your mind—you looked as if the entire meadow was abloom with wildflowers.”

  “Mayhap it was for a moment.”

  Rodney took off his bonnet and scratched his brown curls. “You’re becoming odder and odder.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. I suppose ’tis time to return.”

  “Aye. Robert will already be sore with me for being gone this long.”

  Enya gave him a wink. “Tell him I kidnapped you.”

  “A lass?” Rodney stooped to give her a leg up.

  “You are well aware I’m not just any lass.” Enya cantered her mare straight for the stables, but when she rode inside, Bran was nowhere in sight.

  Once again, Rodney brought up the rear. “Hells bells, Enya. You barreled out of here like the stable was afire, and now you’re racing back as if you’ve got an engagement with Queen Mary.”

  Enya glanced over her shoulder. “Wheesht. I was just giving Maisey some much needed exercise.” She slid her leg off the lower pommel of her sidesaddle and prepared to dismount. Bran appeared from nowhere—a raw, hungry man with a shadow of thick beard, laced with the musky scent of campfire. Enya couldn’t breathe.

  His warm hands encircled her waist. Oh heaven help her, if only they were alone. “May I help ye down, Miss Enya?”

  “You are a gentleman,” she managed to squeak out. Enya arched her brow at Rodney, hoping her antics masked her deep-seated desire. “Thank you, Sir Bran. A young squire would have much to learn from you.”

  “You never asked me to help you before,” Rodney groused.

  Bran lifted Enya in his hands as if she were as light as her saddle and placed her gently on the ground. “A lady shouldna have to ask, laddie.”

  “Bah.” Rodney kicked the dirt and headed out.

  Enya rested her hands on Bran’s arms, her fingers trembling as if she hadn’t eaten in days. “And how was your turn with the guard? Did you see any more Gypsies?”

  “Nary a one.”

  Malcolm appeared in the stable door and cleared his throat. “Stand back, Highlander.”

  Bran dropped his hands. “Simply assisting the lady to dismount.”

  Malcolm tugged on his gloves, splaying his fingers. “Do not grow accustomed to your pallet. You’ll be back on patrol come dawn.”

  “As I expected.” Bran stepped to the mare and loosened her girth. “Shall I stable her for you, m’lady?”

  Enya liked it when Bran used a formal address, though as a baron’s daughter, “Miss Enya” would do. “Yes, thank you.” Bran pulled the saddle off. She touched his arm and whispered, “Keep your candle lit tonight.”

  His lips parted and Enya didn’t miss his quick inhale. But before he could respond, Malcolm sauntered over and grasped Maisey’s reins. “Miss Enya, ’tis nearly time for supper. Do you not need to dress?”

  Enya would have liked to tell the meddling toad to mind his own affairs, but he was right. The last thing she needed was Lady Ross locking her in the chamber because she’d come to the table looking like the proverbial guttersnipe. She curtseyed. “I bid you good day.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The two days scouting for Lord Ross did nothing to cool the fire in Bran’s heart. If anything, the time away from Enya had made him yen for her more. With nothing else to do but ride and scan the horizon for interlopers, Bran considered every possible alternative to enable him to marry the lass. Him? Yes, Calum MacLeod’s henchman was smitten with a Lowland lass who could make his heart soar with the eagles.

  Bran’s skin pricked with awareness when she rode into the stable. Her lovely feminine fragrance wafted into the stall where he unsaddled his horse, and when she moved to dismount, he’d acted without thought. It was all he could do not to hug her body against his and let her slide down his length. He wanted to kiss her, hold her to his chest and tell her how happy he was to see her again. Transfixed, he watched Enya slowly peruse his body as he filled his senses with her hypnotic scent.

  But no, he bit back his urges and reminded himself she could never be his. Nor could he show her the affection smoldering deep inside.

  His heart skipped a beat when she whispered, asking him to keep his candle lit. He clenched his arse cheeks together to stop the longing, else Malcolm would string him up on the spot. Of course, Bran would give anything to hold Enya in his arms for one more night, but she shouldn’t risk it. He ran his hand along her saddle. It was still warm where her exquisite bottom had been. If she came to him, he would need to control his urges again. Bran might be able to resist—if she milked him.

  A soft groan escaped his throat. Remembering her silken fingers around his manhood was nearly as magical as the thought of being inside her.

  After he’d climbed to the loft, a serving wench, rather than the stable boy, brought Bran’s supper. Her head, thick with brown curls, popped through the trapdoor. “I’ve brought your supper.”

  Bran had seen the lass in the kitchens. “Gratitude. Just leave it there.”

  She paid him no mind and climbed up, placing the trencher on a bale of hay.

  Bran didn’t need to look at her to know what she wanted. The sooner he could spirit her out of the stable, the better. “I dunna want to keep ye from yer work.”

  “I am working.” Her bodice laced unusually low, the wench arched her brows and leaned over, giving him a good look. “Lord Ross told me to come.”

  Bran clenched his fist and then stretched his fingers. The baron sent a peace offering to cool the fire beneath his kilt? How gracious. Bran averted his eyes. “Thank ye for the meal.”

  She sat on his pallet and rubbed her breasts against his arm. “That’s not all I came for.”

  “Ye’ve made it quite clear why ye’re here.” Bran stabbed his meat with his dirk. “I’ve no mind to take a turn with ye.”

  Her bottom lip jutted out. “So the big Highlander thinks he’s too good for the likes of me?”

  She swished her hair away from her face. Her fingers slipped to his kilt. Bran snatched her wrist before she could run her hand across his groin. “Ye best leave. Now.”

  She snapped her hand away and pranced to the ladder. “There’s one difference between Miss Enya and me.” She gave him a hateful glare. “You can rut with me all night and no one will give a damn.”

  Bran shooed her away with a flick of his wrist and reached for the trencher. He shoveled the food in his mouth. If that wench had come to his pallet before he’d met Enya, he would have given her a turn, but now the sight of her flaunting her wares disgusted him. He wanted nothing but his beautiful redheaded leannan. Heaven help him.

  Satiated by the first decent meal he’d had in two days, Bran fed Griffon and poured some water into the washbowl, reserving half in the ewer. He unwrapped his cinnamon soap from the leather parcel. The cake was nearly gone. He hadn’t anticipated being away from Raasay for so long.

  Bran stank of campfire and horse sweat, and his beard itched. Regardless, if Enya could steal away, he needed to bathe. The thing he missed most about his cottage was the hearth. He could warm his bath water—had a tub by the hearth too, though he’d never admit he preferred such a luxury to anyone. Washing in cold water was…well, it was bloody cold.

  After
stripping naked, he leaned over to wet his hair. Making quick work of lathering up, he used the remaining water in the ewer to rinse. He scrubbed every inch of skin and then wrapped his plaid around his waist and fished in his satchel for his shaving kit. It wasn’t much—a polished brass mirror and a small folding blade he kept sharp—but it was better than shaving blind.

  By the time he dumped the water, darkness shrouded the estate. Bran pulled his shirt over his head and lit two tallow candles to cast good light. Reclining on his pallet, he reached beneath and grasped the piece of wood he’d been whittling and examined it. He’d been carving it for Enya. All it needed was a bit of finishing and he’d have it done—the figurine was of a lady archer lining up her shot. He fashioned a twig for the arrow, and he tied strands of horsehair in place for the bowstring and then oiled it to bring out the rich beauty of the wood.

  He hoped Enya would like it. A lass like her would have so many fine things, she might think it trite. Bran stopped oiling and held it up. She’d like it. Especially since the woman was an archer. He set it on the barrel beside his pallet and lay back. Sleeping on the trail was fitful at best. He closed his eyes, relishing the comfort of the hay beneath his back.

  He had no idea how late it was when Enya’s voice softly called from below. “Bran.”

  Gooseflesh rose across his skin. He leaned his head over the trapdoor. “I canna believe ye came.”

  She smiled up at him. “How could I stay away?” The white lace of her nightdress peaked from beneath the V formed by the crossing of her red dressing gown. Again she’d come in her chamber clothes.

  He offered his hand and helped her climb up. “I’m glad yer here.” The worries of the world were mollified as he enfolded Enya in his arms and brushed his lips across hers.

  “I missed you so incredibly.”

  Enya rose on her toes and kissed him fully. A raging-hot fire swelled across Bran’s skin. Her touch sent him into a maelstrom of desire. Her tongue had become far more practiced since the incident in the tent, and her mouth showed him what she wanted. Instantly erect, Bran clenched her dressing gown in his hands, fighting an internal battle. Every fiber of his being wanted to enter her, lay her down and claim Enya as his own. Bran forced himself to use restraint. He would not defile Miss Enya. She needed him to be gentle, to woo her and protect her innocence. Clenching his eyes shut, he blocked out the ragged desires that drove him mad. When he opened them, the figurine caught his eye.

  After taking a deep breath and readjusting his priorities, he led her to the pallet. “Will ye sit with me?”

  Her lips red and swollen from his forceful kisses, she nodded.

  “I have something for ye.”

  A coy grin spread across her face, her eyes filled with mischief. She reached inside her dressing gown. “I do as well.” She pulled out a parcel and held it on her lap. Her giddy excitement reminded him of the day he found Griffon—a mere chick in the nest.

  Would she never stop surprising him? He leaned in and peered at the folded cloth. “What is it?”

  Biting her adorable bottom lip, she unfolded a work of embroidery. She held it up—the likeness was undeniable.

  “Halkhead.” He brushed his fingers across the ornate stitching. “Ye’ve used such detail—’tis exquisite.” His eyes trailed to the splashes of color in the garden. “Ye made this for me?”

  “Aye. I thought you could hang it in your cottage.” Enya pointed to the flowers. “And I used a lock of my hair to embroider the azaleas.”

  Bran grasped the panel and touched the shimmering buds. “That makes it even more special.”

  Her smile could make fairies dance in his stomach. “Do you like it?”

  “’Tis the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given me.”

  Bran twisted his mouth as he eyed the figurine. She hadn’t seen it resting on the barrel he used for a table. It wasn’t half as ornate as her embroidery, but he wanted to give it to her.

  Her eyes followed his gaze and she gasped.

  He reached for it and held it in his palm. “I whittled this for ye. ’Tis no’ much, but I thought ye would like it.”

  “An archer woman?” She carefully picked it up and turned it over in her hand. “The likeness is remarkable.” She held it to her lips and kissed. “I shall always cherish it.”

  Bran set the gifts aside and kissed her, pulling her close in his embrace. He wanted this moment to last. He would lock it in his heart for all eternity.

  Trembling in his arms, she pulled away. “I do not think I can live without you.”

  “I want to be with you as well.” Bran reached out and cupped her cheek, losing himself in her fathomless eyes. “No matter how I try to block it, I canna help meself. I’m in love with ye.”

  Watching the smile spread across her face was akin to seeing the first time Griffon spread his wings and took to flight. Enya made him feel powerful, as if he were the lord of all Scotland. “That’s all I wanted to hear you say.” Enya threw her arms around him. “I love you too, Bran. More than anything.”

  “I’ve thought about spiriting ye away, but yer life would be hard and I canna expect ye to suffer for the likes of me.”

  Enya’s hands slid to his shoulders. “Do you think for a moment I need all the finery my father provides?”

  “’Tis no’ that, but ye have a sheltered life. How could ye ken what it would be like to be henchman’s wife?”

  “I’ve been to the crofters’ cottages. They’re warm and full of happiness.”

  Bran remembered all too well the winter when his clan survived on pickled herring and seaweed. “And sometimes their bellies are empty.”

  Enya said not a word, but stood and unbelted her dressing gown. Slipping from her shoulders, it cascaded around her feet. Bran drew in a ragged breath. Her nightdress was so sheer, he could make out the round buds of her nipples. He reached for her hands, but Enya stepped back. Her lips moist, her green eyes fanned by luscious auburn lashes, she clutched her skirts and lifted.

  Unable to move, Bran watched as she pulled the gown up and revealed the creamy alabaster of her slender calves. She let out a nervous chuckle and exposed her thighs. Bran could scarcely breathe. His heart thundered in his ears. He must see the rest. In one swift motion, she pulled the nightdress over her head and cast it aside. He knew he should close his mouth, but never in his life had he seen such beauty.

  Swallowing hard, he feasted his eyes on two impeccably formed breasts that stood proud—not inordinately large, but far from small, they were perfectly round, tipped by rose-colored nipples. Perfect. Bran’s mouth watered with his need to suckle them.

  His gaze dipped to her slim waist, and below it curved hips ending in a fiery red that made his cock jut from his loins as if he were a stallion overcome with the scent of a mare in heat.

  She stepped toward him, and Bran pulled her into his lap. “Ye are the most stunning sight I’ve ever seen.”

  A low chuckle rolled from Enya’s throat as she took him into her mouth. Her hips rocked against the erection, pushing through his plaid. Her mouth claimed him with every delicious swirl of her tongue. She pulled back, her eyes dark with desire. “Please show me how to love you.”

  His resolve washed away with her words and he laid her down on his pallet. Kneeling over her, Bran spread Enya’s knees.

  “I want to see you naked.”

  Unable to speak, he yanked his shirt over his head and then watched her eyes as his hand slid down to his belt. Her breasts rose and fell with her quick breaths. He wanted the moment to linger.

  Enya sat up and caressed his chest, running her fingers over his abdomen. “You are beautiful.”

  Bran chuckled. Of everything he’d been called in his life, “beautiful” was not a word ever used. That she admired him made his heart swell. With a flick of his wrist, his belt unclasped and his plaid dropped around his knees.

  With a quick gasp, Enya licked her lips and cast her gaze to his manhood. He was so hard, it tapped aga
inst his abdomen. She reached out and caressed it with silken fingers. Bran jutted his hips forward. “Heaven help me, I want ye.”

  He needed a moment to regain his senses, and he covered her with his body, seeking her mouth. He showered her with kisses over her long, silken neck. His lips trailed down to her breasts and he cradled them in his hands. Running his tongue across her delicate flesh, he suckled her nipples until she cried out.

  “I want to feel you inside me.”

  “’Twill hurt the first time.”

  “Please.”

  Bran grinned. He had never tasted a woman, but he must have Enya in his mouth. He slid his tongue down her belly and inhaled the intoxicating perfume that was only Enya. Exploring her in the candlelight excited him beyond any imaginings. Her treasures were exquisite, each inch of her flesh perfect, and then he beheld her glorious womanhood. Trembling, he rubbed his thumb over her and slipped down to the pool of moisture he so desperately needed to enter.

  She moved against him, heightening his desire. Nothing touched his cock, yet he could come just by inhaling her. Bran flicked out his tongue and lapped. Enya gasped, her hips rocking. She tasted of sweet cream butter mixed with nectar. He swirled his tongue against her and slipped his fingers inside her womb. Relentlessly, he licked her as Enya bucked against him, mewling like a woman possessed.

  When her body stiffened with a frantic gasp, he knew she had arrived at the peak of desire. Her thighs shuddered and he rose on his knees, watching the pleasure on her angelic face. Her breasts heaved with every breath. “How can you make me feel like this?”

  He grinned and trailed kisses from her hips to her slender neck. “You give me unimaginable pleasure.” The pewter of his tankard flickered in the candlelight and he reached for it. Enya would need a reprieve before she would be ready to come again.

  “Are ye thirsty?” She sat up, sipped and then licked her lips. Setting the cup aside, she stroked his manhood. “There’s more.”

  Bran’s eyes rolled back as he shuddered. “Aye, lass, so much more.”