by Amy Jarecki
“Nay, but I could use a good run.” Bran turned and showed them his back. “I’ve been waylaid for a bit.”
“Holy Christ. It looks as if you had a fight with a lion and lost,” the tallest one said.
“Let’s just say I had a disagreement with a baron.” Bran swung his sword in a two-handed figure eight. “Show me what ye’ve got.”
He didn’t need to ask again. The both charged in, swords held high. Bran’s instincts took over as he deflected their blows. Spinning out, his sword caught a blade and clattered to the ground.
“Perhaps you should find a lassie to spar with,” the shorter one said.
Bran watched him while picking up his sword. “Me muscles are warm now. Come again.”
Bran’s mind clicked. The only thing that existed was his opponents. They came at him relentlessly, using maneuvers he only had the occasion to practice on Raasay. His blood rushed and he fought faster and harder, keenly anticipating each man’s move. The two were exactly what Bran needed to regain his edge.
Vaguely, it registered the warriors around him had stopped sparring, but Hamilton’s men continued to come at him with vicious sword thrusts. Unable to tear his attention away, he swung his claymore with lightning speed. Beads of sweat dripped from his chin and ran down his chest. He wanted to push harder. “Come, lads, show me what ye’re made of.”
“Hail the queen!” a deep voice bellowed only feet away.
Bran scooted back as the other two lowered their swords. The entire courtyard of soldiers was on bended knee, heads bowed. Chest heaving, Bran dropped to his knee, just as gold silk skirts swished into view. Her slippers tapped the cobblestones, heading straight for him.
Bran’s heart not only pounded in his chest, his temples throbbed. Holy falcon feathers, she was going to reprimand him for certain. Another bead of sweat dripped from his chin and splashed on his bare chest. He should have left his shirt on. The queen would think ill of him, of that he had no doubt.
The ample skirts stopped inches from his bowed head. “Rise.” The queen’s voice was commanding, yet gentle, with a French lilt.
Bran grasped the hem of her skirts and kissed before he stood. “Yer grace, ye honor me. Please forgive my unsightly appearance.”
The queen was inordinately tall for a woman, even taller than Enya. With her auburn tresses pulled away from her face, tucked beneath her coronet and veil, he understood why the legend of her beauty followed her—though she was not as lovely as his Enya. Regal, pale and statuesque, her blue-grey eyes assessed him. “You fight well, swordsman. What is your name?”
“Sir Bran of Clan MacLeod.” He bowed, careful not to bend too far, else she catch sight of his mangled back. “At yer service, yer grace.”
“A knight, are you?”
“Aye, knighted by me laird, Calum, Chieftain of Raasay.” Bran dipped his chin. “But I’ve no royal order, yer grace.”
She raised her royal chin. “Are you here to fight for the Kingdom of Scotland?”
“For Scotland and for you, my queen.”
She held out her hand. “Give me your sword.”
If only she would move along to someone else—a soldier who still had his shirt on. Blast it all. He took hold of his blade and handed her the hilt.
“Kneel.”
Bran’s stomach flipped twice. Surely she wasn’t going to attempt to cut off his head herself? He bowed, and knelt as asked.
Lord Ross’s voice carried from the portico. “He’s merely a Highland scrapper, that one.”
“Silence.” Her voice had lost its buttery smoothness. “All Scots are my subjects, hail they from the Lowlands or Highlands.”
She turned full circle, holding Bran’s claymore above her head. “Bran of Clan MacLeod, do you promise to uphold the values of faith, loyalty, courage and honor?”
Stunned he still had his head, he managed to croak, “I so promise.”
“You shall join my personal guard.” The blade tapped his right shoulder. “I knight you into the Order of the Thistle, in the name of the Kingdom of Scotland, to protect this nation from any and every evil.” She tapped his left. “Rise, Sir Bran.”
He couldn’t believe his ears. She’d knighted him—without his shirt—right there in the courtyard with Ross and everyone present? His chest swelled as he met her gaze for the first time. Her eyes sparkled when she smiled at him. “Gratitude, yer grace. I shall fight for ye with me life.”
“As I would expect.” She returned Bran’s sword and turned toward her groom. “Willy, see to it Sir Bran is fitted with a royal tunic and bunks with my personal guard. I would like him to ride beside me as we march to Dumbarton.”
“I shall see it done, your grace.”
With a turn of her head, she proceeded down the row of fighting men. Bran let out long breath. Across the courtyard stood Lord Ross, looking as mad as a badger cornered by a fox. Bran pulled his shirt over his head and swallowed his grin.
Rewan slipped beside him. “Ye’re the luckiest bastard I’ve ever seen in me life.”
***
The tent erected for the queen’s guard provided more luxury than anything Bran had experienced since arriving in the Lowlands. The pallets were filled with ample amounts of straw and covered by new linens. In the center, a table laden with an array of fruits and meats made Bran’s mouth water. But he had more pressing things to attend to.
No longer under the scrutiny of Malcolm and Ross’s men, he snatched a lamb shank and headed for the stables with his satchel of bandages and Heather’s salve. Uneasy with the prospect of running into Malcolm, he crept through the shadows, saddled his horse in the stall and led it through the back stable door.
Now he had his freedom, no one could prevent him from seeing Enya before he marched into battle. At a fast trot, Bran estimated he could make it to Paisley within two hours.
The sunset behind the stone abbey made the building hard to miss. Certain the structure was designed to strike the fear of God in all who beheld it, Bran steered his mount around the outside, looking for the best mode of entry. Of course Enya would not be in the church, but built alongside the cloisters, a four-story dormitory clearly housed the monks—and, most likely, Enya.
Surrounded by an iron fence, festooned with sharp pikes, the sanctuary doors would be his best way to access the adjoining building. The difficult part would be finding Enya, and he had little time.
He tied his horse and slipped inside. The nave was empty, aside from the dark wood pews lining the walls. His footsteps echoed. He entered the robing room and shuffled through the rack of garments. Finding a brown hooded habit, he threw it over his clothes, claymore and all. Though big enough around, the sleeves only reached his forearms, and the hem was a good three inches from the floor. It didn’t matter. The habit would be disguise enough to see him inside.
As he crept back into the vestibule, rustling came from an alcove. Bran pressed himself against the stone wall and craned his neck. Inside was a small chapel. On his knees, a monk held vigil over a single candle.
Bran hated to interrupt a holy man during prayer, but this was urgent. In two steps he seized the poor monk and slapped a hand over his mouth. “I mean ye no harm, but I must find Miss Enya Ross.”
The monk nodded.
“I’ll release ye now. Dunna cry out or I’ll be forced to silence ye for good.” Gradually, Bran pulled his hand away. The monk faced him and used his finger to draw a line across his lips.
“Ye’ve taken a vow of silence?”
The monk again nodded.
“Please, take me to Miss Enya. For tomorrow I ride into battle to fight for the queen. I must make peace with the lady before I die.”
He beckoned Bran with a wave of his hand and led him into the cloisters. Bran’s eyes darted from under his hood. The monk could betray him, but Bran had no choice but to trust, else he’d be kicking down every door until he found her.
After climbing four flights of stairs, they entered a narrow passage with many d
oors, all closed. The monk pulled a key from under his habit and stopped at a door at the end of the corridor. Bran opened his robe and wrapped his fingers around his claymore, ready for anything.
The monk pushed the iron key into the lock, but before he could turn it, Bran placed his hand on the monk’s shoulder. “Are any of these rooms vacant?”
He signaled to them all with an uplifted palm.
Bran grasped the key and pulled it over the man’s head. He led him across the hall and unlocked the door. “I canna take a chance on yer sounding the alarm. I’ll slip ye the key when I leave.”
The monk frowned, but Bran pushed him into the empty chamber.
“Apologies, but I have nay other choice.” He closed the door and turned the lock.
Facing Enya’s chamber, he took in a deep breath and placed his hand on the latch. When he opened it, he pulled the hood from his head.
In a heartbeat, Enya’s face went from sorrowfully drawn to stunned disbelief. “Bran?”
His heart thudded against his chest. Before he could step inside, Enya flew into his arms. Sweet Mother Mary, he’d arrived.
“How did you find me? I thought you had marched to Renfrewshire to meet the queen.”
Bran lifted her up and kicked the door closed behind him. With a deep inhale, he smothered her mouth, kissing fiercely, barely able to keep his heart from thundering out of his chest. Enya’s questions could wait, but first he had to savor the warmth of her body against his.
“My God, Enya. Ye feel like heaven on earth.”
“I cannot believe you’re here.” Enya closed her eyes and pressed her lips against his. “I’ve been sick with worry—h-how did you slip inside?”
“’Tis a long story.” He carried her to the bed and cradled her on his lap. “I locked a monk in the cell across the hall.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck. “You didn’t.”
“What else could I do? I couldna risk having him sound the alarm while I ravished ye.” He kissed her forehead. “Dunna worry. I’ll release him when I go.”
“Go?” She frowned. “You’re not taking me with you?”
“There’s something I must do first.”
Enya brushed her fingers along his jaw. “You must tell me everything. The only news I’ve had is from Heather’s two visits—which wasn’t much.”
“I did ride to Rutherglen with yer father’s men.”
A crease formed between her pretty brows. “And my father is going to attempt to have you killed?”
“That was his plan.” Bran batted the air. “It seems our mother queen took a liking to me—she knighted me into the Order of the Thistle right on the spot.”
Enya clapped her hands together. “Oh, Bran, how exciting!”
“She commanded me to ride beside her.”
Enya pushed a stray lock of hair from Bran’s face. “That means you will not be in the front line as father wished.”
“Nay. I shall guard the queen as we march to Dumbarton Castle.”
“Dumbarton? Why not Stirling?”
“’Tis dangerous. Moray has Stirling too well fortified, and Dumbarton has the biggest cannons in the region. Word has it Regent Moray’s army is in Glasgow. We can expect a bloody battle.”
Enya wrung her hands. “’Tis awful. I hate war.”
“As do I.” He ran his fingers over her luminous auburn hair. “And how are ye, m’lady? I’ve missed ye so.”
“Other than feeling caged, I am well. Father intends to ship me to the nunnery in Iona.”
A tic flickered above his eye. Her father was a damned fool. “Heather told me. But I doubt he’ll have the guard to take ye until this skirmish with the queen is over.”
“Have you ever been there?”
“Iona?” He nodded. “Sailed past, aye.”
“Is it dreary?”
He glanced at the barred window of the tiny room. “From the sea it appears no more foreboding than this abbey—some parts are in ruins owing to the Reformation. But I will no’ allow him to send ye there.”
“No?” Enya splayed her palms outward. “How can you prevent it?”
“When the fighting is over, I’ll come for ye…and if they take ye to Iona, I will find ye. Dunna worry, Enya. I shall never give ye up.”
“Och, I love you, Bran.” Enya ran her hands down Bran’s back. The wince came out before he could steel himself to the pain. She clasped her hands over her mouth. “Oh heavens, ’tis bad, is it not?”
Bran stretched. “The welts are healing. Thanks to Heather’s salve.” He pulled the pot from his satchel. “Would ye apply it for me?”
Enya grasped it and stood. “Yes, of course.”
Bran removed the robe and his shirt then Enya helped him unwind the bandages.
“It looks awful, angry.”
“’Tis on the mend.”
Bran lay on the cot and Enya stood over him. “Will it hurt?”
“Not with yer fingers upon me.”
***
Enya’s stomach roiled as she gazed upon the angry, blood-encrusted welts on Bran’s back. “My father is responsible for this.”
“The only one to blame is me. I kent better, but fell in love with ye anyway.”
Her heart squeezed. How could her father do this to him—and a man who had agreed to fight for his noble cause? Enya dipped her fingers in the pot. Bran’s back tensed as she began to spread the poultice as gently as possible. “I do not think I could have stopped myself from loving you.”
Bran exhaled and the muscles in his back relaxed. “I reckon ye’re right. I had a mind to wrap ye in me arms and kiss ye when I saw ye up on that hill with yer bow slung over yer shoulder.”
“You did?”
“Aye, if ye didna shoot me first.”
Enya laughed. She couldn’t remember the last time so much happiness had filled her entire soul. She set the pot down and blew on the open wounds. “Does it feel better?”
“I scarcely ken the welts are there.” He sat up. “Will ye wrap it for me?”
Enya reached for the bandages he’d brought. “Yes.” Her eyes dropped to his well-muscled chest. Involuntarily, her tongue flicked out and tapped her top lip. Here he was in pain and she couldn’t stop thinking about his incredible body. Her skin had tingled since he opened the door, but looking at the bands of muscle rippling across his abdomen made a rush of heat swirl between her hips. She ran a trembling palm across his chest. Her need for him spun so tight inside, she might burst.
He held his arms out and watched her while she unwound the cloth strips. Aware of every breath and every beat of her heart, she tended him, desperately wanting, needing more.
Fanned by dark lashes, his half-cast eyes watched her. “I didna just come here for ye to tend me.”
Enya’s breathing became shallow as she tied off the bandage. Bran cupped her cheeks and pulled her to his lips.
“Ye are so fine to me, Enya Ross.”
“And you to me.” Her kisses trailed down his neck, and she savored his sweet, salty taste. She needed him, body and soul. “Make love to me.”
He pulled her between his legs. Her mons pushed up against his erection. “Ye’d make love to the likes of me in a house of God?”
“I’d lie with you in the sanctuary if you asked.” She joined her mouth with his and desperately searched inside, her breasts screaming for pleasure as she surged against him. “Lying with you could be no sin. Not with the love that burns in my soul.”
Bran groaned and kissed her, clamping his hands to her buttocks and pressing her hips against him. With a wicked grin, he unlaced the front of her kirtle, slowly pulling the laces from each eyelet. Enya moistened her lips, the tips of her breasts inflamed with desire. She was dying for him to hurry and free them from her constricting bindings.
His breath ragged, his eyes filled with longing, Bran opened her bodice. He nudged aside the neckline of her linen shift and flicked his tongue across the mounds peeking above her stays. Closing her eyes, sh
e savored the heavenly fluttering of his lips that caused a magnificent flutter inside her womb. She ran her fingers through his hair, nuzzling into him.
He tugged at the neckline of the unyielding wooden slats that bound her breasts. Enya fumbled with the laces.
Bran clasped his fingers around her hands. “I’ll do it.” His voice rasped as if he were in pain. He worked faster and soon Enya’s stays dropped to the floor. Inhaling, her breasts stretched against her shift and she ached for him to place his hands on her.
Enya watched Bran’s hazel eyes as he unfastened the bow on her shift. His lips parted while he slipped it from her shoulders and cupped her. Enya threw her head back with a deep moan as he took her breast into his mouth. Shuddering, she could have exploded with joy.
His deft fingers kneaded her right while his mouth made love to her left. Moisture pooled between her legs, her need for him building to the point of madness. Enya pushed against him, her body frantic to feel the hot friction of their joining.
Enya’s fingers trembled as she worked loose his buckle. Bran lifted up as she tugged away his kilt and exposed his rigid manhood. Her thighs quivered at his magnificence. Oh how deliciously excruciating this torture.
Scarcely able to breathe, Enya’s gaze meandered up his body, taking in every exquisite inch—every sinuous muscle, the vein pulsing along his sturdy neck, leading to a bold, masculine jaw, a jaw no man would trifle with. Bran was so unbelievably beautiful. When his hazel eyes met hers, the intensity of their love took her to a plateau she’d never imagined. At no time had Enya been thus connected to another human being. She now knew what God meant by one body. She belonged to Bran, as he belonged to her.
Standing naked before him, her thighs quaked, though she had no urge to cover her nakedness.
He reached out and caressed her breasts. “I love ye, Enya, mo leannan.” The words rolled off his tongue like sweet cream.
Oh God, she had to have him. Reaching between them, Enya stroked him with her fingers—using a soft touch, running her fingers along him. Bran’s hips jutted forward as a groan ripped from his throat. In one move, he swung Enya down. She lay flat on the cot with Bran kneeling above her. “I want ye so bad, I canna wait.”