by Amy Jarecki
Enya clamped her fists together and stiffened, sucking in a hiss of air. “My skin.”
Bran eased his grasp and pushed up her sleeve. Angry red scratches ran along her forearm. “My God.”
With a wretched cry, Enya doubled over as a cramp seized her gut.
“What is it?”
“Th-they gave me a purging tincture.”
Friar Pat stepped beside them and examined her arm. “This is shameful.”
“She has been cleansed.” Enya recognized Mother Abbess’s voice from the doorway.
Bran caressed Enya’s cheek. “I’m going to lift ye in me arms.”
She bit her lip and nodded. “Take me home.” Enya would tell him about the baby, but not here. The abbess had said the bairn was the spawn of the devil. The witch would be pleased to learn it had been lost.
“Come.” Calum waved the torch. “We must away.”
Ever so carefully, Bran wrapped Enya in his arms. Enya clenched her teeth and tried not to cry out. She was in Bran’s arms. Enya pressed her ear against his chest and listened to the rhythmic beat of his heart. A cramp seized her gut, but she ground her teeth and bore it. In his arms, she could bear anything.
Mother Abbess stood in the passageway. Enya turned her face into Bran’s chest to block the image. She prayed all the stones of this wretched place would crumble to the ground and finish what the Reformation had started.
***
The moon eerily peeked through a break in the clouds as Bran carried Enya out the gate.
“’Tis about time.” John looked at Enya. “Can she no’ walk?”
Bran shook his head. “She’s half dead.”
Calum pointed to the sound. “Ross’s boats can see us. Hurry.”
They had nearly made it to the edge of the beach when the cannon blasted from the Ross galley. Bran broke into a run. “We must make it to the skiff.”
Calum was right on his heels. “If Norman hears the blast he’ll meet us in the sound.”
Enya whimpered.
“Are ye all right?”
She hissed. “Keep going.”
“Pat,” Calum shouted from behind.
Bran glanced over his shoulder and stopped. Ross’s men had seized the friar. Swords drawn, a fight was on, and Calum faced none other than Claud Hamilton.
“I must help them.” Bran stooped and gently placed Enya beside a rock. “Ye’ll be safe here.”
“I don’t want to let you go.” Enya grasped his hand. “I can’t lose you again.”
“Who says ye’re going to lose me?” Bran kissed her palm. “I must finish this.”
Bran hated to leave her, but if he turned tail and ran, Ross and Hamilton would never rest. Breaking into a run, he drew his sword. Robert Ross approached on Calum’s flank.
“To yer right,” Bran warned, deflecting a vicious blow from Claud.
Hamilton’s eyes popped. “We meet at last.”
The two men circled. Bran studied his opponent for weakness. “Ye nearly got us all killed with yer storming ahead at Langside.”
“If it weren’t for me, we’d all be dead.”
Bran watched Claud cross his right foot behind his left rather than in front, which would give him better balance if attacked. “Ye’re wrong.”
Claud let out a nervous chuckle. “Argyle couldn’t lead the ladies to Sunday mass.”
Bran had enough of the arrogant bastard’s drivel. When Claud’s right foot again crossed behind, Bran lunged sideways, aiming a cut at his left flank. Claud barely deflected it, but stumbled, just as Bran predicted. Spinning around, Bran took advantage of Claud’s lack of balance with a direct hit, slicing open Claud’s side.
With a bellow, Claud dropped to his knees, clutching at the blood spewing from his wound. Bran stepped in and rested his blade along the pulsing vein on Claud’s neck. Blood streaming from his wound, Claud lifted his sword. Bran pushed his blade in tighter. “Throw down or I’ll run me blade across yer neck and ye’ll be dead afore yer face hits the sand.”
“Stop this!” Enya hobbled onto the beach, arms clutched against her waist.
Robert and Calum circled. Enya threw herself to her knees between them.
“Enya!” Bran reached out one hand while keeping Hamilton in check with the other.
Calum and Robert eased away, but only slightly.
Enya pushed her sleeves back from her arms. The bloody tracks looked black in the moonlight against her alabaster skin. “Is this what you want for me? To be tortured and killed?” With a shriek, she doubled over.
Claud collapsed to the ground. Bran dashed to Enya.
She held up a hand, stopping him. “No.” Trembling, she stood over Claud. “I love Bran. Nothing will change that. You can send me to purgatory and tear my flesh. You can feed me poison.” She doubled over again. “I am Bran’s woman, and if you cannot live with that fact, you can burn in the fires of hell.”
As she crumpled to her knees, Bran lifted her into his arms. “Let this battle be done. Ye all heard her. Enya will choose no man but me.” His gaze dropped to her lovely face. “I love ye.”
Enya’s ice-cold hand reached up and brushed his face. Her smile was faint. Then her eyes rolled back.
Bran smoothed his hand across her face. “Enya?” He glanced at the stunned faces of the warriors before him. “To the ship. Now.”
Chapter Thirty-three
A week later
Enya watched Bran rub the salve into her arms. “The scabs are nearly gone.”
“Aye. I think the scars will fade after a time.” Bran looked into her eyes with a sad smile. “And are how are ye feeling, mo leannan?” His voice took on a husky lilt.
Enya liked that he’d referred to her with the Gaelic term for sweetheart—it sounded sensual rolling off his tongue. “I’m glad Martha didn’t cleanse my face with that wretched cloth.”
“Martha should be committed as daft with the rest of them.” He threaded his fingers through hers and kissed. “Calum has sent a petition to have the nunnery closed.”
“Good. I’m only sorry it wasn’t completely destroyed during the Reformation.” Enya looked away. “And…”
Bran nuzzled into her hair. “And what?”
Tears stung her eyes. “I’m so sorry I lost our child.”
“Ah, mo leannan.” He gently rubbed his hand over her belly. “More bairns will come, of that I am certain. Our love is too great.”
“But what if…what if my womb is scarred?”
“It will be all right.”
“What if we cannot conceive again?”
“Ye worry overmuch, but dunna doubt me. If it doesna happen, I will have ye to love, and that is enough to fill me heart clear full.”
Enya clasped his stubbled cheeks between her hands and stared into his swirling pools of hazel. She could watch Bran’s eyes for the rest of her life, and soon she would be bound to him officially. “You need to shave.”
He pulled her dressing gown around her shoulders. “And ye need to dress.”
As Enya tied her sash, a knock sounded from the cottage door. “Are you ready for your wedding day, my lady?” Lady Anne peeked inside. “We have your gown.”
Enya stood. “Aye, come in. Where is Heather?”
Heather ambled across the threshold with her arms laden with trappings. “I’m here. I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”
After draping the gown across the bed, Anne faced Bran with her hands on her hips. “You haven’t left this cottage in days.”
Bran cast a worried glance Enya’s way. “I havena been able to leave her side.”
“Well, now she’s awaken from her slumber, ’tis time the friar made good his fib. Calum’s waiting in the great hall.”
Bran ran his hand over Enya’s hair. “I dunna want to leave ye.”
“Go. How can the ladies work their magic with you worrying over me?”
“Are ye sure ye’re strong enough?”
“What? Are you trying to postpone our wedding
again?” Enya turned in a circle and smiled. “I am absolutely certain nothing could keep me away from taking our vows.”
***
The sun favored them, making a brilliant appearance as the clan gathered in the gardens, which were awash with roses of every color. Bran stood next to Calum and Friar Pat as they waited for Enya to make her appearance. Calum had given him a new linen shirt embroidered by Lady Anne. Bran proudly draped his best plaid across his shoulder and fastened it with his bronze brooch.
He’d dressed in the laird’s chamber, which had a great mirror. Everything was in order. Black flashes tied his hose just below his knees. Around his waist he strapped an ermine sporran. His claymore hung at his left hip, his father’s dirk at his right. In his hose, he wore his dagger, just as he always did. It wasn’t that he expected a battle, but this was the dress of An Gille-coise—a henchman—and he wore it with pride. Today, however, he did not wear his iron helm with the nose guard that blocked his face. With his hair tied at the nape of his neck, upon his head he wore a Scot’s bonnet, adorned with eagle feathers he’d found in Griffon’s mews.
The crowd erupted with oohs and ahs, and Bran searched for her. As his clansmen and women parted, he saw he, clad in an emerald-green gown, her long auburn tresses flowing out from under her matching silk wimple. Enya looked like a goddess. He had never beheld a woman so incredibly beautiful. Her green eyes sparkled like precious gems, bringing the garden around him to life. Enya’s face, clear as sunshine, glowed with radiance as she steadily walked toward him.
Bran’s stomach flipped and swirled with ecstatic joy. He would never behold another woman as beautiful as the leannan he would marry this day.
Excerpt from Amy’s Next Release:
Beauty and the Barbarian
~Book Three: The Highland Force Series~
Coming June 1, 2014, by Amy Jarecki
Chapter One
Sprinting onto a thin strip of beach, Ian raced to the shore. Rain pelted his face as he skidded to a stop. Gasping for air, he sucked in deep breaths and peered through the dark night—north, then south. Thank God. A lone skiff sat askew, poorly camouflaged at the tree-line edge.
His side cramping from his frantic escape, he darted to the tiny boat with a pained hitch to his step. The deerhounds’ barks grew closer. If he hesitated, they’d be upon him in a blink of an eye.
Ian’s heart hammered his chest as he bore down on the skiff and shoved it into the angry swells. He jumped over the stern and snatched an oar. With every muscle, every sinew, he paddled against the surf and ignored his fatigue. A single oar made the boat fishtail, but there was no time to set them in their locks. Ian gritted his teeth and slammed the oar into the white swells in a hurried rhythm, side to side.
Over the roar of the surf and the driving rain, dogs yelped in an excited frenzy. Men shouted. Ian didn’t turn around—he needed more distance. As sure as he breathed, they were ramming lead balls down their muskets. With luck, the rain had soaked their slow matches, rendering the guns useless.
Ian persisted with his determined rowing and squinted through the pelting rain—across to his home, the Isle of Raasay. He hadn’t set foot there since he was four and ten, but the sight of the island enlivened him. He could barely make out the black outline of Dùn Caan, the flat-topped peak that forever identified the isle as Clan MacLeod land.
A sharp jab struck him from behind. Ian’s body propelled forward. His nose slammed into the wooden hull. An ear-shattering musket clap followed, piercing through the wind. Something stung, burned his back. Ian slid his hand over the screaming pain. Hot blood oozed through his fingers.
More claps blasted from the beach, thudding into the tiny skiff. Ian rolled to his side. Icy water spurted over him. Frantically, he worked to hug both wooden oars against his chest. A thousand knives attacked his skin as salt water swallowed his lifeline to Raasay. The last thing he saw was the looming outline of Dùn Caan.
Blackness engulfed him.
Chapter Two
Eilean Fladda, Scotland. The year of our Lord, 1584.
Merrin had never seen a dead man before. As she peeked over the rocky crag, the image of the Highlander face down on the beach did not repulse her. From her vantage point, the man appeared in his prime, well-muscled like a warrior. Why had he washed up on the caol—the narrow span of land that connected the tiny islet of Fladda to the Isle of Raasay? From whither had he come? What caused his death?
Dry at low tide, soon the narrow gap would fill with sea water and wash the body into the Sound of Raasay. Merrin dropped the shell she’d found. Reaching beneath her cloak, she lifted her kirtle skirts and climbed over the rock. She glanced at the deerhound behind her. “Gar, come.”
After scanning the scene for danger—any sign of life—she crept down to the Highlander.
Gar sniffed, nudging the man with his nose. Merrin stood at the Highlander’s side for a moment. Powerfully built, he wasn’t anything like her father or Friar Pat. His face was turned to the side, his damp flaxen hair pasted over his cheek and mouth. Clad in a dirty linen shirt, his broad shoulders tapered to narrow hips supporting a red-and-black kilt, a bold plaid. Perhaps he’s one of the clansmen from Brochel Castle.
Dark red blood soaked one side of his shirt. It clung against him, the wound still oozing. The Highlander’s kilt hitched awkwardly up over his thighs. Merrin stared, her pulse quickening. The kilt exposed the lower half of his buttock. It wasn’t rounded and soft, but chiseled, as if hewn from stone. At the apex of his powerful legs was something soft, strewn with downy curls.
Pushing the hood from her head, Merrin stepped over the oars that rested askew beside him and knelt for a closer look. He had ballocks just like Bucky, the ram…and Gar. That it surprised her—a man had ballocks—seemed odd when she considered it. How else would he breed? A stirring deep inside augmented her curiosity. Her breasts ached like they did just before she started her courses. Merrin licked her lips and cast her gaze back to his face. With a soft whimper, Gar sat and leaned against her like he always did—the big sook.
She looked closer. Though bloodied and bruised, the Highlander had a pleasant face with an angular nose and a bold jaw, thinnish lips, but not too thin. She scooted up and brushed the hair away from his face. Strands stuck to the stubble of his beard. Merrin gasped when the coarse bristles prickled her fingers as she swept the hair away. Her fingers stopped at the back of his neck—a long, very warm neck.
Warm.
Merrin’s gut clenched and she placed her finger just under his nose and held it still.
He wasn’t dead.
Her trembling palms clapped over her mouth. Merciful Father. Instinctively, her hand slid down and covered the red mark on her neck. She’d forgotten her scarf. What if he woke? He’d see me.
She snapped her gaze to Gar. “Stay.” Merrin pulled the hood over her head, quickly scanned her surroundings for intruders and ran for the cottage.
***
She raced into the rickety lean-to her father used for a workshop, latched on to Niall’s arm and tugged. “Da. Quickly. Ye must come.”
A portly man, the herbalist hardly moved. He pointed his pestle her way. It smelled of mint, which did nothing to allay the foul odor of horehound. “The friar needs this tincture straight away. There’s a nasty cough spreading at the castle.”
“Ye do no’ understand.” Merrin tugged harder. “Th…there’s a dead man on the caol. But…he’s no’ dead.” Shaking, she rushed to explain, “I thought he was dead when I saw him, b-but he was warm to the touch and then I…”
“Slow down, lass, me head’s spinning with your babble.” Niall rested the pestle in the mortar. “There’s a man washed ashore, ye say?”
“Aye, with blood oozing from his side.” Merrin dragged him toward the door. “Gar’s guarding him, come. We need the barrow.”
Niall shrugged out of Merrin’s grasp and followed. “You’re becoming bossier every day—just like your mother, God rest her soul.”
Niall lifted the barrow handles and pointed it toward the caol. “I need someone to stay quiet, cook me meals and keep the cottage.”
Merrin rushed ahead, pulling up her hood and clasping it closed at the neck. “I do all that.”
“Not the quiet part.”
“Och, quit your bellyaching, Da.”
Merrin stopped at the top of the bluff, which was covered with verdant green grass. Gar stood and barked up at her, wagging his tail. She pointed. “There.”
Huffing, Niall wheeled the barrow beside her. His mouth drew down in a grimace. “Come. We must hurry.”
Now he sees the urgency—couldn’t listen to the likes of me. Merrin scuttled after him, having never seen her father move so fast.
Niall knelt and tugged the Highlander’s kilt to cover his buttocks.
I should have done that.
He pulled up the blood-encrusted shirt and leaned close, his lips pursed. A jagged puncture wound seeped. Carefully placing two fingers either side, Niall examined it. A thick line formed between his brows and he swirled his fingers in a circular pattern. “There’s a musket ball inside.”
Merrin dropped to her knees beside her father and studied the wound. “Shot?”
“Aye, and left for dead, I’d wager.” Niall stood. “He’s a big fella. I’ll need your help lifting him into the barrow.”
Merrin moved to his shoulders. “Do ye recognize him?”
“Nay.”
He rolled the man over. The hit of his dirk glistened in the sun with brilliant reds and blues sparkling. Merrin looked closer. “Are those jewels?”
Niall brushed the sand off the hilt. “I daresay ’tis an heirloom a man would carry with pride—definitely not a piece worn by a common sentry. That’s for certain.” Da pointed to the matted fur sporran. “And his purse is ermine. The only man I know around these parts with an ermine sporran is our chieftain, Alexander MacLeod.”