Captured by the Pirate Laird (32 page)

Two
weeks later

Mara
helped Anne into her favorite dress of golden silk. She imagined this would be
the last time she would wear a gown this fancy. But it was her wedding day. She
wanted to look beautiful for Calum and wanted him to rake his eyes across her
body with the same hungry desire that had practically stripped her naked at the
Beltane Festival.

Anne
sat before the mirror and Mara twisted her locks into a work of art with curls
cascading down her back. Mara lifted the silk wimple and veil and settled it in
place. “Ye look like an angel sent from heaven, milady.”

“I
could have never done it without you.”

Mara
gave her a hug and secured the headpiece. “I think you’re ready.”

“Is
it time?”

“Me
thinks they’re all waiting on you.”

With
a sigh, Anne regarded herself in the mirror one last time and held her hand out
to Mara. “Walk with me.”

Rorie
Douglas stood at the bottom of the steps. “Ye look like a vision.” He chuckled.
“I never would have thought the guttersnipe in a snug pair of trews could turn
herself into a queen.”

“Not
a queen. The wife of a laird.”

“And
a former baroness.”

Anne’s
gaze shot to his and her mouth fell open. Someone must have told him.

He
shrugged. “’Tis all right. I would have wanted him dead if I were married to that
bastard.”

“How
did you find out?”

“Ruairi
and Norman filled Dougal and me in on the details.” He offered her the crook of
his arm. “We’ve a wedding to go to, milady.”

“I
prefer it when you call me lass.”

“Aye,
but ye are highborn, and the people of Raasay will respect ye more if they ken you’re
good enough for their laird.”

He
led her around the courtyard and to the garden, alive with summer blooms. The MacLeods
in their red tartans opened a path for Anne and her eyes trailed up to the
trellis. The most beautiful form she had ever seen waited beside Friar Pat. Calum
wore his hair tied back with a red bow, and it shone with copper streaks in the
sunlight. Turning to face her, he looked every bit the powerful laird, wearing
his finest ruffled linen shirt, with his plaid draped across his left shoulder.
His kilt rested upon his hips with a badger-hair sporran hanging from a fine
chain. Held up by black flashes, his hose emphasized his powerful calves.

Anne
could see nothing but the man with whom she would happily spend the rest of her
days. It seemed as if she floated down an isle of roses. Rorie kissed her hand
and placed it in Calum’s. Their eyes locked and they became one body, man and
wife, before the clan, and in the eyes of God. Together they would bear
children and watch them grow healthy and strong, breathing northern island air.
She had no doubt, together they would grow old.

Anne
scarcely heard Friar Pat’s prayers. Calum’s crystal blue eyes shimmered and
stared at her with the hunger she loved to see. He spoke his vows, and somehow
she uttered hers. When Friar Pat pronounced them man and wife, Calum shuttered
his eyes with his long lashes and kissed her—an impassioned joining of lips
that staked his claim forever. This truly was the happiest day of her life.

THE END

The
Highland Henchman

~Book Two: The Highland Force
Series~

Coming
April 28, 2014, by Amy Jarecki

Chapter
One

Scotland.
The Firth of Clyde ~ 1 April, 1568

The
activity on the deck stilled when the ship turned east and entered the Firth of
Clyde. All eyes cast to the inlet. Entering Lowland waters always bore a risk.

His
golden eagle perched on his shoulder, Bran scanned the waterway with the bronze
spyglass. “Ruairi’s galley sails ahead.” He strained to identify pennants on
the ships beyond. “MacNeil of Barra and MacLeod of Harris as well.”

Laird
Calum MacLeod grasped the ship’s rail beside him. “Do ye see the MacDonald
pennant?”

To
allay all doubt, Bran surveyed the Firth waters one more time. “Nay.”

“Cannons
stand down,” Calum bellowed and circled his hand above his head. “Continue on,
Master John.”

Bran
turned and leaned his backside against the galleon’s hull. “I never considered
I’d become a knight.”

Calum
smooth his hand over the eagle’s brown feathers. “A Highland henchman needs a
title to garner respect in the Lowlands.”

Knighted
by the Highland Chieftain only a few hours ago, some might view the honor as
contrived, but Bran’s chest swelled. He owed his life to Calum. With his father
dead, the clan had considered Bran an outcast, until he turned twelve and the
laird took him under his wing. Now one and twenty, Bran’s dedication to the
clan had been rewarded.

Griffon’s
claws clamped into Bran’s shoulder harness as the eagle stretched his back.
Bran chuckled. “I aim to win the tournament and show all the might of Raasay.”

Calum’s
weatherworn hands grasped the rail beside him. “That’s what I like to hear. I
didna train ye to be me henchman for naught.”

“How
many contestants do ye think there’ll be?”

“We’ll
find out soon enough. Lord Ross invited all the Hebridean clans. I’m sure
there’ll be quite a gathering.”

“Why
do ye think he’s holding the tournament?” Bran slipped a piece of bully beef
into Griffon’s beak. “Lowlanders hate Highlanders.”

The
salty wind picked up and Calum tugged his feathered bonnet lower on his brow.
“Me guess is he’s up to something.”

“Then
why’d we come?”

“And
miss a chance to gain respect for me clan?” Calum shook his head. “Never.
Besides, Lord Ross would have anarchy on his hands if he lifted a blade against
us. He wants something, mark me.”

“Are
ye inclined to give it—ye ken, what he wants?”

“Have
I taught ye nothing since yer father passed? Ye never give something for
naught, lad.”

“I’d
consider no less. Ye have me sword, on that there will nay be a question.”

The
ruddy chieftain leaned in, his warm breath skimming Bran’s cheek. “Stay close.
Keep yer eyes open. The tournament will be over soon enough and we’ll be back
in Raasay with Anne and the boys.”

“Weigh
anchor,” shouted John Urquhart, Calum’s quartermaster and right-hand man. With
John on Calum’s right, Bran now occupied the left—a fearsome trio they made.

Bran
counted the galleys moored at the estuary of the River Clyde which flowed into
the firth from the town of Glasgow—six boats, all laden with cannon, but none
as impressive as Calum’s
Golden Sun
.
With eighteen guns, the galleon and crew would lie in wait should any
skullduggery arise.

Once
the skiff had been lowered, Bran stood behind his laird with Griffon perched on
his shoulder. He wrapped his fingers around the basket-weave pattern of his
hilt, scanning the sea and shore for suspicious activity. Instructions were to
gather with Sir George Maxwell at Newark. Horses would be provided for the
short ride to Halkhead House in Renfrewshire.

Bran
didn’t like it. Though every Hebride chief was accompanied by his henchman,
they were leaving their greatest weapons behind.
The Golden Sun’s
cannons would be of no use ten miles inland.

***

Enya
squinted at the target. Pulling the string of the long bow even with her ear,
she held her breath. The string rolled to the tips of her gloved fingers. She
released.

A
quick flutter of her heart accompanied her grin. “Spot on the middle.”

With
his breeches a tad too small and his new boots oversized for his body, Rodney
ran up to the target and yanked out the arrow. “Hells bells, you should’ve been
born a lad.”

Enya
walked up and stuck her finger in the hole. “Wouldn’t that have been something?
Instead of picking fabric for fancy dresses, I’d be on a ship sailing for the
South Seas right now.”

The
young squire’s eyes popped. “And miss the tournament?”

“Well,
perhaps after the tournament. I would never be able to resist an opportunity to
show up a gathering of brawny knights.”

Rodney
flexed his muscles. “Do you think I’ll be a knight one day?”

“Of
course you will. ’Tis why Robert named you squire.” She squeezed the lad’s
scrawny arm. “You have strong bones and at two and ten, you’re nearly as tall
as me, I’ll say.”

“But
not as dead-on with a bow as you.”

“Yet.”

Together
they walked back fifty paces and Enya held out the bow. “Your turn. Let me see
your best.”

Rodney
concentrated on the target. White lines strained around his lips as he let his
arrow fly. It hit the target inches below the bull’s-eye.

“Not
bad.” She pulled another arrow from her quiver and handed it to him. “Try
again, and this time, keep your fist even with the top of your ear.”

He
grinned and followed her instruction.
How
long would the young laddie listen to the likes of me—a mere woman?
Soon
he’d be off patrolling the borders with her brother, Robert, and she’d be left
behind at Halkhead while her father arranged her marriage.
Oh what a wretched parcel of miserable affairs I have to look forward
to.

Enya
wanted to patrol the borders—see the world, or Scotland at least. She loved to
listen to tales of Robert’s travels. She dreamed of riding a white steed and
saving the poor from starvation. But she was stuck at Halkhead House, the
youngest of Lord Ross’s six daughters.

Her
mother always berated Enya for daydreaming. “You must take more interest in
your embroidery, dear,” Mother scolded endlessly while tearing out Enya’s
horrific mistakes.
Embroidery. Baa
.

“Did
you see that?” Rodney asked.

Enya
snapped her head toward the target. Rodney’s arrow stuck in the bull’s-eye—not
in the middle like hers had, but close. “Excellent. See? All it takes is a
little adjustment and you’ll hit your mark every time.”

The
muffled rumble of horse hooves echoed in the distance. Rodney gaped at her as
if it were Christmas morn. “They’re coming.”

Enya
grabbed his hand and headed through the copse of trees. “Let’s watch from atop
the hill. They’ll not see us up there.”

Nearly
out of breath, they reached the crest just as the long line of horses carrying
robust Highlanders ambled into view. Large men rode toward them with plaids
draped across their shoulders, helms on their heads, targes in one hand and
pikes with deadly spearheads in the other. Some had their claymores strapped to
their backs and others carried the large swords in scabbards on their belts.

“They
all look so…inexplicably tough,” Enya said.

Rodney
peeked out from behind an enormous oak. “They look like a mob of heathens if
you ask me.”

With
their long hair and massive exposed legs, Enya could see his point. Lowland men
would never be caught baring their knees or wearing kilts. But a basal stirring
swirled deep inside. These sturdy men were proud, strong and focused.

Enya
watched an imposing warrior ride directly beneath her hiding place. Unable to
look away, her breath caught. Even bigger than the others, his chestnut hair
curled out from under his helm. On his broad shoulder perched a great golden
eagle. She’d seen falconers before, but never one with a bird as impressive as
an eagle.

His
fist grasped the reins easily, as if he were holding a thread of wool. His
plaid covered his thigh just above the knee, leading to a powerful calve which
rested against the horse’s barrel. Gaping at the warrior’s exquisitely muscular
frame, Enya bit her lip.

Riding
beside a man with an ornate breastplate, Enya guessed the warrior was
An Gille-coise
—a henchman paid to
protect his laird and his clan. His gaze flicked across the scene like a
hunter, or the hunted. Simply looking at him made her stomach tense.

His
eyes darted up the hill and Enya froze. Crouching behind the clump of gorse in
full yellow bloom, no one should have seen her, but the warrior’s gaze fixed on
her as if she were waving a torch. In a flicker of a heartbeat, time slowed.
Her mouth went dry as their eyes met. His jaw tensed and his line of sight
trailed to the bow in her hand.

“That’s
got to be the biggest man in the entire world.” Rodney’s amazed voice broke
through her trance.

Enya’s
hand flew to her chest to quash her pounding heart. “You think so?” Taking a
deep breath, she wouldn’t let on the warrior had affected her in any way. But
her fingers trembled as she watched the parade proceed through the heavy iron
gates of Halkhead House—until he turned and regarded her over his shoulder.
Does he think I’m going to pull out an arrow
and shoot him in the back? Perhaps he does.

Rodney
yanked her hand. “Come. Let’s go watch.”

Enya
hesitated and stared down at her olive-green kirtle. A plain day dress, her hem
was caked with mud. She ran her hands over the simple white coif she’d slapped
on top of her head that morning. She looked frightful and knew it. “You go.
I’ll spirit round the back. If Mother sees me like this, she’ll have one of her
spells.”

Rodney
shrugged. “Och, you look fine.”

Enya
feigned a smile. “You ken Mother. She ordered all that fabric for me.”

The
lad blew a raspberry and raced down the hill without her. A long breath
whistled through Enya’s lips. At eight and ten, she’d been to court on a number
of occasions. Mother had always made her put on a show of finery, but she
didn’t care for it. She preferred simple kirtles allowing her more freedom of
movement for things like archery and horseback riding.

However,
that brawny warrior’s eyes raking across her face and fixating on her longbow
made her cheeks burn. She didn’t want him or anyone else gawking at her dirty
gown. Besides, Enya’s mother would be furious if she raced into the courtyard
with a bow and quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder. A folly to use the
secret entrance in daylight, she’d skirt through the woods, head around back,
go in through the kitchen and tiptoe up to her chamber.

Edging
around the woods proved the easy part, but once she hit the rear side of the
manse, her brother, Robert, popped in front of her. “There you are.”

Caught
.
Enya snapped her hands to her hips and challenged him. “Why aren’t you in the
courtyard greeting our guests with Father?”

“Why
aren’t you?”

“I’m
not the heir.”

“Touché.”
Robert raked his hand through his hair. Enya was well aware he didn’t approve
of her father’s reasons for holding the tournament. “Actually, I heard the horses
and was heading there now. Must welcome the barbarians, you know.”

“Don’t
let Father hear you say that.”

“And
why not? He feels the same.”

“Not
when we’re asking them for help.”

“Very
well.” He licked his finger and rubbed Enya’s cheek. “How do you manage to turn
into a guttersnipe every time you venture outside?”

Her
hands flew to her cheeks. “Really?”

“You’d
better not let Mother see you.”

“I
was just heading in to clean up.”

“Hurry.
Father wants us all in the great hall for supper. The Hamiltons will be here.
You dare not be late.”

Enya
cast her gaze skyward and headed for the door. She wanted to forget about Lord
Claud Hamilton and his supposed interest in her. The few times she’d seen him,
he’d reminded her of a rooster strutting among a gaggle of hens.

***

Heather
shook her finger under Enya’s nose. “I’ve no idea how we’ll turn you into a
beauty by supper. Your mother will take it out of my hide for certain.”

Enya
wrapped her hands around the accusing finger and kissed it. “You worry far too
much.”

Though
she adored Heather almost as if she were a second mother, Enya hated to be
doted upon. She looked at the torturous fine-toothed comb in her serving maid’s
hand and took her seat at the vanity. Heather started at the ends and yanked
the comb through Enya’s red tresses. “You should have put your hair in a snood
before you went out this morning. There wouldn’t be half the knots. How you
manage to mess my handiwork as soon as you leave the chamber is a mystery to
me.” She let out a noisy sigh. “You should have been born a boy.”