The Highland Henchman

by Amy Jarecki

  Rewan shrugged. “Bran would have done the same had it been me.”

  A blast of wind blew Bran’s hair across his face when he turned to her. “War has a way of mending disagreements.”

  Enya ran her fingers across the embroidery. “’Tis the only nice piece I’ve ever finished.”

  Bran wrapped his hand around her waist and squeezed. “When we arrive at Brochel, I shall hang it on the wall of me cottage and ’twill never go missing again.” As they rounded the point of Skye, Bran pointed. “’That’s the Isle of Rona. ’Tis too rocky but for a band of cutthroat pirates.” Then Enya followed his finger to the right. A larger isle came into view, covered with rock and bracken fern. “And that’s Raasay.”

  “A sight for sore eyes,” Rewan said. “No’ as mighty as Lewis, of course, but a bonny sight all the same.”

  Calum clapped him on the back. “That it is.”

  Heather and Malcolm stood beside the group, all lining the rail of the boat, making it list slightly.

  Calum smoothed his hands over his hair, worry creasing his brow. “We’ll have no rest when we arrive. Ross and the king’s men will be after us.” He regarded Malcolm. “Where do your loyalties lie?”

  Malcolm glanced to Heather and then looked the laird in the eye. “Ross would have let me hang to save his own neck from the gallows.” He nodded to Enya. “No disrespect, miss.”

  “None taken.”

  Bran squeezed her hand. “I can vouch for Malcolm. He’s true to his word.”

  The galley sailed down the east coast of Raasay. Enya gasped. Rising from a stony crag, a magnificent castle surrounded by stone outer bailey walls presided over the white sands of a moon-shaped beach. Bran nuzzled against her hair. “Brochel Castle, m’lady.”

  “’Tis enormous.”

  “She supports some two hundred seventy odd souls.”

  As they approached, the beach swarmed with people running down a zigzag path. Men splashed into the water and John threw them a rope. Calum jumped over the side and waded through the surf to a lovely blonde woman. He swung her in a circle and then picked up two boys and twirled with them.

  “That’s Lady Anne and the lads. Alexander is the eldest and Ian the stout little tyke.”

  “They look happy.”

  “Aye.”

  It took several men to drag the galley onto the sand. Bran helped Enya alight and Malcolm did the same for Heather. Mayhap this was a blessing for them as well.

  Calum addressed the crowd. “We’ve brought our brother, Bran, back from the gallows of Glasgow, but with it, we’ve unleashed a dragon. Regent Moray will soon be at our gates. We shall celebrate Bran’s return with a gathering tonight, and on the morrow, we will strengthen the guard and send word to Lewis.” He turned to Rewan. “Will ye stay and fight with us?”

  Rewan stepped beside him. “Aye, I’ll stand beside ye—make no bones about it.”

  Calum wrapped his arm around Lady Anne’s shoulders. “Very good. Kill a steer, for we shall have a gathering and celebrate our good fortune this eve.”

  Lady Anne stepped forward and grasped Enya’s hands. “Welcome to Brochel.” And then she turned and greeted Heather with the same warm address. Her accent was English, and she had an aristocratic air, as if she were bred for royalty.

  Bran made the introductions. “Lady Anne, Miss Enya Ross and Mistress Heather.”

  A spry woman in a white wimple bustled through the sand. “And I’m Mistress Mara, John’s wife.”

  Anne gestured toward the path leading to the castle. “You must be exhausted after your ordeal. Come, we shall find some clean clothes for you and a hot bath.”

  Enya glanced down at her filthy mantle and gown. “Thank you, m’lady. That would be lovely.”

  Bran tugged on Enya’s waist and pulled her against him. “We’ll find ye some clothes and then I’ve other plans.”

  His warmth heated her skin. Enya liked the sound of that.

  A portly friar with a ring of grey hair, wearing a brown habit, stood at the top of the path. He leaned on a wooden staff. “I see ye’ve brought a number of souls from the Lowlands.”

  “Friar Patrick MacSween.” Bran wrapped him in a smothering hug. “’Tis good to see ye.”

  ***

  Bran took the friar aside. “I need a pot of yer honey poultice. Musket shot grazed Miss Enya’s arm and me back is healing from a round of two dozen lashes.”

  Friar Pat grimaced. “Ye got yerself in a bit o’ strife, didna ye, lad?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve never been so happy to be home.”

  The friar slapped his back. “We’ll see ye fixed up.”

  Bran’s knees nearly gave out with the stinging pain. “Aye, and after, I need to discuss a wedding with ye.”

  The friar’s eyes grew round as shillings. “Oh? That pretty ginger-haired lassie has turned yer head?”

  Lady Anne looped her arm through Enya’s and led her through the big oak doors of the great hall. Bran waved when Enya regarded him over her shoulder, and grinned at the friar. “Aye. She’s won me heart, I canna deny it.” He cocked his head toward the galley, where Griffon cawed from his perch. “I’ll take Griffon to his mews and see ye in the hall.”

  ***

  Bran leaned against the doorjamb and watched while Mara and Lady Anne doted over Enya and Heather. They hadn’t noticed him yet, allowing him to observe without the women being inhibited. He couldn’t remember seeing four women have so much fun, not ever. Mara held a green kirtle against Enya’s shoulders. “Ye’re about me size, and this one will go perfectly with yer eyes.”

  Lady Anne dug in a trunk and shook out a linen shift. “One of the elders passed, and I stowed her things, thinking they might come in handy one day.” She turned to Heather and held it up. “Yes, this will suit splendidly.”

  “Thank you so much.” Enya took the green dress and twirled in a circle. “Your generosity is too kind.”

  “’Tis the least we can do.” Anne pulled out every womanly garment imaginable and tossed them on the bed. “And I do hope you’ll be staying a long time. ’Tis rare to receive visitors on Raasay.”

  Malcolm stepped beside Bran and the women looked his way.

  “Sir Bran,” Anne said. “I’m told you were knighted into the esteemed Order of the Thistle.”

  Lady Anne could make the heat rise to Bran’s face like no other. She’d been doing it since he was two and ten. “Aye, m’lady.”

  “Well, there’s not a young man who deserves it more than you.” She beckoned him inside. “Come and look at all the pretty things we’ve found in these old trunks.”

  Bran shrugged at Malcolm. “I guess we’ve been captured.”

  “Och, I should have stayed in the armory.” He pointed to his hip. “At least I found an old claymore to use until I can have the blacksmith fashion me a new one.”

  “Have ye found a place to bed down?”

  “Aye, there’s an empty chamber in the tower.”

  Bran placed his hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “Good. I hope ye plan to stay. We’ll make a Highlander out of ye yet.”

  Enya reached for Bran’s hand. “I desperately need to bathe before I change into these things. ’Tis so thoughtful of Mara to lend them to me.”

  “Gratitude, Mara, ye are a fine matron.” Bran bowed. “But I’d like to borrow Miss Enya for a bit.”

  Lady Anne shot him a knowing smile and held up Enya’s pile of garments. “Do not be late for the gathering.”

  Bran took them. “Yes, m’lady.”

  Heather looked from Bran to Enya with her mouth gaping, but Malcolm gave her shoulders a firm squeeze. “Aye, Heather. I’ve ordered a hot bath for you, and after, I’ll be next.”

  Bran tugged on Enya’s uninjured arm. “Come, let’s away afore someone stops us.”

  Enya followed him down the donjon stairs. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Ye’ll see.”

  “Did you bring Griffon from the boat?”

  �
�Aye, he’s secure in his mews. I didna think an eagle could show emotion, but I daresay he was happy to be home.”

  Enya looked up at him. “As are you?”

  “Aye.”

  They walked through the busy courtyard with chickens cackling and the clang of the blacksmith echoing across the stone battlements.

  Enya’s eyes darted everywhere, taking it all in. “My, ’tis like a town, so much different from Halkhead.”

  “Aye, Halkhead is an estate that serves one family. Brochel is an extended family. We all work for the good of the clan.”

  He pushed through the back gates of the outer bailey walls and pointed toward his home. “Come. I lit the fire in me cottage and hung a pot of water over the hearth.”

  Enya looked up the hill. “Your cottage?”

  Bran bit his lip. “Aye. Like I said, ’tis small, but it’s mine.”

  She rushed ahead. “’Tis darling.”

  Bran thought so too. With a thatched roof and strong stone walls, he’d even purchased glass for the windows on their last voyage. He clutched her clothing under his arm and hurried alongside her to open the door. “M’lady.”

  Enya stepped inside, her eyes wide as a child’s. She turned a full circle in the center of the main room. “’Tis adorable.”

  Bran pointed to her panel, now hanging on the wall. “And this will always remind ye of yer home.”

  Enya cocked her head and admired it. “I think it suits there.”

  Bran ran his fingers around Enya’s waist and pulled her into his embrace. “I’m so happy ye think so, mo leannan.”

  She rose on her toes and kissed his lips. “Your cottage is cozy, Sir Bran.”

  His heart thundered in his chest. He loved this place, loved the warmth and comfort of it, and it was ever so important she did too. He took her hand and led her to doorway of the bedchamber. “And this is the sleeping quarters.” The large bed took up most of the space. “There’s a small antechamber at the back for clothes and storage.”

  Enya spun into the room with her skirts circling wide. “It looks like you have everything you need, right here.” She faced him, her expression quite serious. “I do believe this cottage has more space than my chamber at Halkhead.”

  Bran cast his mind back to the one time he’d seen it. The comparison had to be close. “Ye’re probably right there.” He took her hand and led her to the hearth. “Come.”

  He pulled the wooden washtub into the center of the room. “We both could use a bath.” He picked up the iron tongs and clamped them around the kettle handle. “The water should be warm enough now.”

  Bran emptied the steaming kettle into the tub and then topped it off with a bucket of cool. He stood and stared at her, dipping his chin. Suddenly, this didn’t seem like his cottage at all. Enya stepped into him and brushed her hand across his cheek. “There’s nothing I’d like better than a bath.”

  It seemed she always knew the right thing to say. “Ye should go first.” He took a drying cloth from the shelf and placed it on a chair. “Would ye like me to help? Um, s-seeing yer arm is injured.”

  A blush crawled up her lovely cheeks. “Aye.”

  As Bran stepped up to her, Enya’s breath stuttered. She was as nervous as he. His fingers trembled as he untied her laces. “I’ve dreamt of this moment.”

  “I still can’t believe I’m standing here with you.”

  Slowly, he removed her mantle overdress. He unlaced her kirtle and it slid easily down over her injured arm and hips. He toyed with the lace that secured her shift just above her stays. His gaze drifted down. Her breasts swelled proud over the thin fabric, breasts he feared he’d never see again when he was imprisoned in the tolbooth.

  Licking his lips, he reached for the laces of Enya’s stays. “Nearly done. I hope I’m no’ hurting ye.”

  “You are far gentler than Heather.”

  He pulled away the contraption, enforced with wooden slats. Bran had no idea how women could tolerate the damnable things. He cast it aside, grinning at her. Bran slid his finger along the neckline of her shift. “Do ye think this will fit over yer hips? I canna imagine the pain of raising yer arms.”

  She blinked at him seductively. “It should. Loosen it all the way.”

  Bran managed to slip the shift from her shoulders. It fell to her hips and she chuckled. Bran’s cock jutted against his sporran—one tug and her womanhood would be exposed to him. Oh how he wanted to forget about the bath and carry her to the bed. But it would be so much sweeter if they waited.

  He could have come when he pulled the shift down past her hips—with one tug, it slipped away easily, exposing the alluring triangle of her precious treasure. Bran had to stop for a moment to steady his breathing. His long bout with little food and the pain in his back had sapped his stamina, or so he told himself.

  Skin as smooth as pure cream milk, Bran could not tear his eyes away. “Ye’re beautiful.”

  He reached out her good arm, but Bran gestured to the tub. “The water’s growing cold, m’lady.”

  She stepped toward him and slid her fingers into the waist of his kilt. “I want you to join me.”

  His cock shot to rigid. “But there’s no’ enough room.” His voice rasped, barely audible.

  She unfastened his belt and let it drop to the floor along with everything else. “I can tell you want to.” She cast her gaze down to his manhood, tenting beneath his linen shirt. “Besides, we’ll both fit if we stand.”

  Bran grinned. He liked her way of thinking. “Ye have a way of scheming until ye have everything ye want.”

  She tugged open the laces of his shirt. “Aye. There’s nay use of arguing with me.”

  Bran whipped his shirt over his head. With one hand, Enya untied his bandages and unwound them, dancing around him like a maypole.

  Completely bare, he pulled her naked body against his. “Should we forget the bath?”

  “Oh, no.” She pulled him to the tub and stepped into the water. “This will be far too much fun.”

  Chapter twenty-four

  Tingles coursed across her skin in anticipation of Bran’s hands upon her. Enya bent down, picked up the cake of soap and held it to her nose. “Mm. Cinnamon. It smells of you.”

  “Aye, we brought back barrels of it from Tortuga.”

  She lathered it into a washcloth. “I love it.” He started to pull her into his embrace, but she shook her head. “Wait.”

  He took the cloth and soap from her. “Ye first, m’lady.”

  Enya opened her mouth to protest, but promptly shut it and moaned when he reached around and kneaded her back with the wet, warm cloth. As he moved along, gooseflesh formed where the cloth had been. She shivered with titillating anticipation.

  He lathered every inch of her body with the soap but stopped at her womanhood. Hunger filled his eyes, his breathing shallow. “How?”

  She parted her legs, longing for him to touch her at last. “There too.”

  His fingers trembled as he ever so slowly ran the cloth along her sacred spot. Erotically, his fingers brushed her through the thin cloth. Enya moved with him, her hips sliding across his hand. She swallowed, willing herself not to succumb to the friction. Not yet.

  “I think ye’d best sit so I can wash yer hair.”

  Bran straddled his legs. There was just enough room for her to sit between them. He reached for a tankard and ladled it over her long tresses and massaged in the soap, his fingers lulling her.

  “How do ye ever comb out the tangle?” His voice was but a whisper.

  “Heather is quite skilled at it, though it feels like she’s trying to pull it out one strand at a time.”

  When he poured the last tankard of water over her head, Enya stood, dripping wet. She filled her eyes with every ripple of his muscular form, and then to his swollen manhood. She wanted to touch it, but resisted. “Your turn.”

  “Och, ’tis too cold for you to stand and bathe me.”

  Enya calmed her shivers and reached for the
washcloth and soap. “The fire will warm me fast enough. I wouldn’t miss this for all the gold in my father’s chest.”

  She swirled the soap in the cloth, considering how she would begin. She could wrap it around his proud manhood, which had teased her relentlessly, but she got a better idea. She stepped out of the tub. “You sit.”

  “But—”

  “I want you to.”

  The water nearly flowed over the top of the barrel when he slid his large frame into the tepid water. The fit was so snug, his knees practically touched his chin. But Enya persevered, though she could use only one hand. She started by massaging the suds into his shoulders, careful to avoid contact with his lash marks.

  “Does the water hurt your wounds?”

  “Stung a bit at first, but it’s eased now.”

  “Lean forward.”

  Enya gently poured water over his hair and massaged in the cinnamon-scented suds.

  Bran moaned, long and soft. “Who would ken a bath could feel so heavenly? I never want ye to take yer hands off me.”

  She left the best part for last. After slathering the cloth with soap, she stroked it over his groin. Bran’s eyes rolled back. “Blessed Jesus, ye are after me soul.”

  Enya kissed his forehead. “Aye, so you may as well relax and let me claim it.” She cleansed his erection and the tight ballocks beneath.

  Bran clasped his hands around her fingers. “If ye keep going, ye’ll unman me.”

  She formed an O with her lips. “We certainly cannot have that. Not yet, at least.” She tried to unfold his drying cloth with one hand, but it dropped to the floor. In seconds, Bran snatched it up and wrapped it around her shoulders, drying every last droplet that remained on Enya’s skin.

  He swathed her hair. “Would ye like me to comb out yer tresses?”

  Gooseflesh of anticipation trickled along her skin. “I think they can wait.” Enya reached for the cloth and smoothed it across his hard frame. “But there’s something more urgent that cannot.”

  Running her hand over every inch of Bran’s body had turned her insides to liquid. She led him to the bedroom and turned. Bran cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. His eyes closed tight. His face expressed the deep emotion that also burned inside her. She ran her hand to his back and he grunted a bit when her fingers hit scar tissue.