Highland Daydreams (3 page)

“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.

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.

Thinking back over the past two weeks, Bram had to admit that he had not paid much attention to her. The lass often hid in the dark corner of her cell and kept to herself. Bram knew that whatever her reason for imprisonment, it was none of his business. Only now did he begin to feel guilt and shame for not intervening on her behalf. After all, the lass had saved his life, and no woman he had ever known had shown such bravery as this daring lass had. But he accepted that he could not have saved her any more than he could have saved himself. Whatever the reason, she seemed more resilient and resourceful then he had given her credit for. And now with her cowering before him, he wondered if it was his appearance that frightened her so. Bram promised himself that before returning to his own homestead, he would safely see her home and back into the arms of her family.

Bram gently took the tray from her and set it near his pallet on the floor. He sat back down and ate every small morsel on the tray while Lara quietly stood motionless. It had been what seemed like forever since he’d had a real meal. His last food had been meat from a dead mouse the guards had given him, but it only resulted in the mouse coming back up along with the other contents of his stomach. With his belly full, and the slight relief he got from the whiskey, he looked back at Lara who was now looking at him wide-eyed as if she were witnessing a wild animal devouring its meal.
     

With her mouth agape, Lara stared at Bram. The moonlight shined through the barn door allowing her a better view. Hunched over on the ground, he ate as wildly as a starved animal. His eyes looked fierce yet his face displayed a look of pity. His cheeks and chin were covered by a thick tawny beard making it hard for Lara to see what he truly looked like under the mass of hair. He was bare chested wearing nothing but his kilt.

Lara did not recognize his clan because the colors were faded and worn. His bulky arms showed off his sculpted muscles and his chest had a small patch of hair that curled around over his sternum. Lara’s eyes trailed lower to his stomach. At the sight of it, Lara bit her bottom lip when she saw a scar across the side of his gut that looked as if it should have taken the life from him. It was deep, still showing some areas that hadn’t yet scabbed over, and would create a permanent scar. Across his shoulders were streaks of dried blood and specs of dirt and sand. She watched as he struggled to move freely.

“Ye are injured,” she said as she stepped closer to him, wanting to examine his wounds.

“I am fine,” he replied.

“Nay, ye are covered in blood and I am sure that yer wounds will become infected if they are not mended and washed properly,” Lara insisted.

Before he could protest, Lara grabbed a rag that hung on a rusty nail and dipped it inside a bucket containing rain water. Wringing it out, she walked back to Bram and cautiously sat down next to him. Sitting so close, she could feel the heat radiate off his skin. It caused her to worry that he may already have succumbed to fever.

It was only due to her concern for him that she made the bold move. She did not know what came over her or where she gained the courage to be so presumptuous. But she had seen a great deal of battle wounds before and what happened to them when not mended properly.  

“Lie down on yer stomach,” she instructed.

Bram looked at her awkwardly, wondering where the quiet and shy lass had gone.

“Go on now,” she ordered.

Not wanting to argue, Bram rolled over and laid flat, resting his head on his arms. Without touching him, Lara examined his wounds. She was thankful that the welts and gashes were not as bad as she had imagined, for she had no salve to put on them. She lifted the cloth in her hand and gently dabbed it on his wounds. Bram winced.

“Does it hurt? I am sorry. I am trying to be as gentle as I can,” Lara said, worried that the pressure she applied was too much for him to bear. She tried to press softly but perhaps he was in more pain than he would admit.

“Nay, lass. ‘Tis only cold.”

Lara let out a sigh of relief and continued to minister to his wounds while her other hand rested firmly on his shoulder.

“May I ask...why were ye imprisoned?” Lara whispered quietly.

She prayed it wasn’t because of some evil deed such as rape or murder. She waited several moments for him to answer.

“A month or so ago, I was in Falkirk battling the English alongside William Wallace when I was injured. I was knocked unconscious and unable to defend myself. When I woke, I was bound in irons. After a week they moved me to Cumberland where ye were.”

“William Wallace! Are ye a Highlander then?” she asked, though there was no doubt in her mind that he was. His muscular size, long hair, and plaid told her all she needed to know.

Her father had told her grand stories when she was young about the Highlanders; how they treated their women and favored their drinks. He said that Highlanders were selfish beasts and cared for their women like Englishmen would care for their cattle. Lara wondered if Bram would have treated her differently had she not saved him. She also wondered had she known he was a Highlander from the start whether she, too, would have made a different choice. Either way, for now all they had were each other.

“Aye, lass. I be a Highlander.”

Bram kept his eyes closed tight. It was not the pain or the coolness of the water that bothered him. It was Lara’s hand that had troubled him so. It was soothing and made his blood run hotter. With his head to the side he stared at her exposed legs, then to her waist, but dared not to look any higher. Bram sat up and took the cloth out of Lara’s hand.

“I havnae had a chance to thank ye, but I must ask, why did ye do it? Ye risked yer life, saving mine. Ye also took a man’s life, which couldnae have been easy on ye. If ye’d waited another moment or two, ye would have been caught.”

“I have prayed and repented to God many times for taking that guard’s life, but it was either his or mine. I saved ye because,” her voice trailed off as if she was uncertain herself why she had saved him.

“Aye?” he said encouraging her to finish.

“Because of yer fearlessness. Ye withstood every lashing and still stood proud. It was yer honor and strength that I admired and I couldnae let ye die there. It was worth the risk,” she replied hoping she did not sound too naïve.