Keeping her arms close to her sides, Lara kept her head lowered. Ashamed of her ragged dress and nappy hair, Lara bit her bottom lip hoping not to be ridiculed by the woman.
“Good God lass, what happened to ye?
Lara did not know how to respond. She knew nothing of this woman nor whether she could be trusted. She certainly could not tell the woman who she was and from where she had just escaped. Lara remained silent. Glancing over to the warrior, she looked for some indication as to what to do or say to the old hag but he stood quiet, staring at her blankly. In the dim light of dusk, she could only feel his stare.
“What is yer name?” she asked rather impatiently. “Well now, dinna be shy. Speak up lass.”
“Lara,” she quietly responded, giving the woman nothing more than her first name.
“It’s good to meet ye, Lara. My name is Rowena,” she said, then turned her attention back to the warrior. “The lass can sleep inside. As fer ye, there should be plenty of hay fer ye in the barn. Tomorrow mornin’ I expect ye to have the horses brushed down and the chickens fed. When my husband, Innes, returns in the mornin’ he can tell ye what else needs to be done. He works as a blacksmith in the village so he is away often. We lost our last farmhand, so much is needed to be done. If ye prove to be well worth the hire, I shall e’en pay ye,” the woman offered to the warrior.
“Thank ye, my lady,” he said in a more grateful tone.
Lara followed Rowena towards the front of the house. Before turning the corner, the woman turned back and asked, “Laddie, what do I call ye?”
The warrior cleared his throat before speaking.
“Bram, my lady. My name is Bram MacKinnon.”
Grateful for the woman’s hospitality, Bram eagerly walked towardss the barn. He welcomed the fresh air and a dry pallet. The past two weeks had been hell on both his body and his mind. As he entered the barn, he noted a stack of hay in one of the abandoned stalls. Grabbing a large heap of it, he arranged the hay into flat layers on the ground. Bram laid his weary body down upon a wool sack he had found and placed on top of the hay. He swore to the heavens that he would forever lie in that spot and not move another muscle.
Rolling to his side and placing his arm underneath his head, his muscles twitched as pain shot down his right arm and lower back. He yearned for a tankard of whiskey to drink away his pain or knock him out completely. His body felt as if he had been tied up and dragged by a horse running at full speed.
Stretching his arms wide, he rubbed his shoulders to loosen his tense muscles. Carefully, he lifted the blood-stained tunic over his head and tossed it onto the ground; his back still sore from the lashings. Lying back, he tried to close his eyes for just a bit but his effort failed miserably.
Overly exhausted, Bram knew he needed to rest, but sleep eluded him. It was the silence that plotted against him, denying him the rest he so desperately needed. For every time he closed his eyes; he was back on the battlefield. The flashbacks were vivid; waking nightmares. The sound of metal clashing, the buzzing of arrows whizzing through the air and the smell of death all around him. But it wasn’t actually the battle that haunted him. In all of his twenty three years, he had been in battle many times and not once had it changed him. But a pair of dark blue eyes belonging to an English soldier haunted his dreams. Those eyes belonged to the man who had pierced his sword into Bram’s abdomen causing him to lose so much blood it rendered him unconscious.
Bram hoped fate would allow him to face that man again someday. Looking down at his stomach, he saw the ghastly scar that was still continuing to heal. He could still feel the heat of the Englishman’s blade every time he looked at it; a memory not so easily forgotten.
The imprisonment he endured was nothing compared to witnessing his Scottish brethren slaughtered that rainy day. Bram felt he should have been among them. He recalled the heavy rainfall washing the blood and mud away from his face. He was shaken awake and carried off in a wagon pulled by two black horses draped in the English royal colors until he awoke in the dungeons at Cumberland.
Bram had expected his execution to come quick, but the Earl of Cumberland had delayed the trials while he was attending the marriage of his cousin, the Duke of York, to Lady Rosalind of Northumberland. Bram learned many valuable things while listening to the guards talk amongst each other; things he was most anxious to rely back to William Wallace and Robert the Bruce. But most importantly, to his own brother, Rory, Laird of Clan MacKinnon.
Over and over, Bram struggled with why his cousin Ewan, who had fought aside him, had left him on the battlefield to die. When Bram had regained the strength to lift his head out of the muck, he had seen a group of his fellow Scotsmen retreat towards the woods along with Ewan. Ewan was more of a brother to him than his own brother Rory. His brother felt that Bram’s adventurous temperament was more a burden than a blessing. Ewan, however, was different. He still knew how to enjoy adventure, unlike Rory. Bram knew that he could not fault Ewan for leaving him behind. He would only have left if he thought Bram was dead.
His thoughts turned to home. He missed the sights, the smells, even his overbearing brother. It had not been the first time he had been away from Dunakin Castle. In fact, he had left for weeks at a time on several occasions, gallivanting across the Highlands, meeting with the neighboring clans as well as visiting his favorite French whore, Genevieve.
How he wished to be with her now, to feel the soft touch of her bosom. To Bram, women were made for bedding and breeding. His brother Rory blamed his arrogance about women on Elspeth, a young, dark-haired maiden, he’d once loved who had turned her attentions to Rory. Bram had thought to marry the lass, but she had broken his heart. After her untimely death he viewed marriage as a fool’s game, and there were far too many women who willingly offered to lie on their backs for him without it.
Bram had never missed an opportunity to lift a lass’ skirt. Even though he would leave them without words of commitment, he always accepted the consequences thereafter. He had two sons already. Colin, his oldest at seven summers, born to Marietta, and Connor, a wee laddie of four summers, to Fiona.
Never committing to either lass, Bram gratefully welcomed the bairns into his life. Thinking about his two young lads now weighed heavy on his heart. He felt full of guilt for leaving them. But he knew they were brave lads, and they would believe that their father had died heroically in battle. Still, the emptiness in his chest had him longing for home.
Chapter 3
Bram’s head perked up when he heard the sound of a stick breaking under one’s foot. With pure instinct, he rose, ready to defend himself. As he stood with fists tightened, Lara entered the barn holding onto a trencher of food and drink. The tray was full of dried venison, bread, and a small-sized mug of whiskey. Bram silently thanked the heavens for the whiskey.
“I thought ye might be hungry,” she whispered keeping her head low as if she were a servant offering up a meal to a king.
“Aye, I am,” he answered.
As he reached out for the tray, her hands began to tremble.
“I’ll no’ hurt ye lass,” he whispered, hoping to ease her mind. Noticing that she continued to keep her head down, Bram wondered if she was afraid of him. She was not like the women that usually caught Bram’s eye. This lass was scrawny, small chested, and her skin was as pale as sheep’s wool. Her long black hair was a dull tangled mess.