The Mackintosh Bride

by Debra Lee Brown

  “Don’t touch me!

  I’m not one of your whores.”

  She fought the tears welling in her eyes. What a little fool she was! Why should she care with whom he lay?

  Oh, but she did care.

  And then he laughed. A hearty laugh the likes of which she’d never heard from him. She whirled on him, her face blazing. He shook his head and his laughter died. “My whores? Think ye I went, as well? To Inverness to rut with that chattel?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “Nay.” His smile faded.

  Her head pounded and her thoughts whirled in confusion. “But…I thought—”

  “Nay, lass.” He reached for her. She did not resist as he pulled her into his arms.

  She looked up at him and his expression softened. Warmth radiated from his body. Her hands moved instinctively to his chest.

  His voice was a whisper. “What I desire lies not in Inverness…!”

  The Mackintosh Bride

  Harlequin Historical #576

  Praise for Debra Lee Brown’s debut title

  “In THE VIRGIN SPRING we are gifted with a remarkable story. The fast pace, filled with treachery, mystery and passion left me breathless. I am convinced this is the beginning of Ms. Brown’s climb as a bestselling author.…”

  —Rendezvous

  “Debra Lee Brown pens an enjoyable tale of intrigue and adventure.”

  —Romantic Times Magazine

  “THE VIRGIN SPRING should be read by all lovers of Scottish romances.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  #575 SHOTGUN GROOMS

  Susan Mallery & Maureen Child

  #577 THE GUNSLINGER’S BRIDE

  Cheryl St.John

  #578 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

  Jacqueline Navin

  THE MACKINTOSH BRIDE

  DEBRA LEE BROWN

  Available from Harlequin Historicals and

  DEBRA LEE BROWN

  The Virgin Spring #506

  Ice Maiden #549

  The Mackintosh Bride #576

  To Sherri Browning,

  Barbara Simmons and Michelle Collier-Johns

  With love and heartfelt thanks

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  The Highlands of Scotland, 1192

  The girl tethered her pony in the forest and made her way on foot to the hidden copse. Shrouded in dawn’s mist it seemed a sinister place, so changed from the afternoons she and Iain had lazed by the brook and basked in the sunlight streaming through the trees.

  She moved cautiously over fallen branches and dried leaves, concealing her approach. A feeling of dread washed over her as she crouched low and parted the gorse bushes that stood like sentinels at the entrance to the thicket.

  Jesu, he was here! He was safe!

  Iain lay sprawled at the water’s edge, bedraggled and still as death, his plaid wrapped carelessly around him. Infused with fear and relief, she crept forward and knelt beside him. His face, so gentle in sleep, was streaked with dirt and blood breached by small rivulets of still-damp tears.

  The horrors of the night before came crashing in on her. Her heart went out to him and her own eyes welled. Fighting tears, she focused on the image engraved on his silver clan brooch: a cat reared up on hind legs, teeth and claws bared at the ready.

  ’Twas like him—fearless and brave—yet unlike him in its hard demeanor. Iain was different, tender, unlike any boy she’d known. On impulse she grazed a hand across his brow.

  “Mackintosh! To arms!” He sprang into a crouch, nearly knocking her over. When his wild eyes found hers, he relaxed.

  “A-are you hurt?” She reached for his bloodstained plaid.

  “Nay!” He pulled away. “Ye shouldna be here, girl.” His reprimand stung, more so as he wouldn’t meet her gaze. He slumped back to the ground like one of her rag dolls.

  She longed to comfort him, but knew not how. “I came as soon as I heard.”

  He stared into the mist, his face twisted with pain. “My father is dead—murdered—by the Grants. I couldna save him. I—I wanted to, but I couldna.” His tears ran fresh and he fisted his hands at his sides, his knuckles white with tension.

  Risking another rebuke, she placed her small hand on his large one. Surprisingly, he allowed it. He opened his palm to hers and at last met her gaze. She reveled in this show of trust, this small acceptance of her love, though she thought her heart would break from the torment she read in his eyes.

  “Iain,” she said, measuring her next words. “Your father slew Grant’s son, Henry. Many witnessed the deed.”

  “Nay!” He shot to his knees and pulled her toward him. “’Tis a lie. ’Tis some foul treachery. John Grant was my da’s friend. He would never harm his son. Never!” For a moment he gripped her shoulders so tightly she feared he would crush her.

  She breathed at last and worked to quell her emotions. Time was short. The light grew white and flat around them. Soon she’d be missed from the stable. ’Twas dangerous, her being here with him. If someone should find them together—

  Iain fidgeted and something winked a brilliant green from under the plaid bunched at his waist. Fascination overpowered her anxiety. “What is that?” She pointed at the object.

  He fumbled in the folds of his plaid and, to her astonishment, withdrew from his belt a magnificent jeweled dagger.

  “Jesu,” she breathed, marveling at the weapon’s hilt. ’Twas crafted of silver and gold, a dozen precious gems embedded in its intricate design. The hairs on her nape prickled as she recognized dried blood crusting on the wicked-looking blade. “Where on earth did you get it?”

  Iain laid the dagger at her feet. “Ye must hide it for me until I can return.”

  “Return? But, where are you going?”

  “I dinna know. Away. We must leave Findhorn Castle. ’Twill no’ be safe to stay. There are too few of us left to defend it.”

  “Nay—you cannot!” She grasped the front of his mud-streaked shirt. “What of your clan, the alliance?”

  Why just yesterday he’d told her of his father’s dream of peace, to align four Highland clans: his own—Mackintosh, his mother’s people—Davidson, and Macgillivray and MacBain. Clan Chattan, he’d called it. Clan of the Cats.

  Her clan was not among them. ’Twould never be. Not now.

  “There will be no alliance. Clan Chattan is no more.” He took her hands in his, projecting a quiet strength that was almost frightening. The arrogant boy she’d known was gone. “I am The Mackintosh now. I must protect my mother and my brothers.”

  “Who would dare harm them?”

  “Grant.” He all but spat the word.

  “Nay, he would not! The laird is a kind man. He—” Iain’s eyes narrowed and she swallowed her words.

  “Aye, well…Perhaps not him, but others in his household.”

  She knew of whom he spoke and shuddered at the thought. Last night in the stable yard she’d seen the bloodstained weapons and ruined livery, the frothing mounts, their eyes wild in the aftermath of some hideous carnage.

  Without warning, a chill wind
blasted through the copse. Hundreds of crisped leaves rained down on them in a shower of gold and cinnabar from the larch limbs above their heads. Absently, Iain plucked one from her tangled hair.

  The mist was lifting. She pulled the edges of her cloak together and looked skyward, gauging the time by the rapidly growing whiteness of the morning sky. “When shall you leave?”

  “Soon.” He looked away and he, too, seemed to measure what time they had left. “Today.”

  “Nay!”

  For months they’d met, once each sennight, here at their secret place. No one knew of their trysts, neither his clan nor hers. Why, her father would tan her hide did he know how far she rode from home. And yet, more than once she’d had the strangest feeling they weren’t alone here. Even now.

  “When shall I see you again?”

  “I dinna know,” he said quietly.

  She remembered the dagger that lay among the dead leaves between them. ’Twas heavy and seemed almost a sword next to her delicate child’s frame. Iain watched her with interest as she feathered a tress of hair from her head. She drew the blade of the dagger across it and the lock fell away in her hand. He tensed as she plucked a chestnut hank from his thick mane and freed it with the blade.

  Working quickly she fashioned a circlet of their hair, chestnut and gold, braided with a strip of Mackintosh tartan she cut from the end of his plaid. She placed the circlet into Iain’s hand and he studied it, rubbing the newly forged braid between his fingers.

  “What is it?”

  “A lovers’ knot.” Her cheeks warmed from the blush she knew he could see. “My mother made one for my father to keep with him whenever they were apart. She’s French, you know.”

  Nay, he didn’t know. In fact, he knew nothing about her family. She’d never told him anything about herself, not even her true name. ’Twas a game they played—one that had vexed him terribly. On each occasion they met, she’d pretend to be someone different. Her gaze strayed to the blood on his plaid, and she knew the time for games was long past.

  His hand closed over the circlet. He gripped it for a moment before tucking it carefully into his sporran. Then he grasped the jeweled dagger and thrust it into the loamy earth between them. “It willna be long,” he said. “I will return. For you and for this.” He nodded at the dagger.

  For her. He’d return for her! “Do you swear?” She searched his face, willing him to answer.

  “Aye, I swear.” He stood abruptly and looked down at her, blue eyes dark as midnight. “The Grants will pay. I willna rest until my father is avenged. Until every last one of them is dead.”

  “All of them?”

  Before he could answer, the sound of hoofbeats broke the stillness of the forest. A tree branch snapped not far from where they stood.

  “Listen—horses!” She scrambled to her feet.

  Iain spun and narrowed his eyes toward the sound, straining to see through the mist. Voices carried over the gurgling of the brook. “They’re coming.”

  Jesu, she must not be found here! “I must go.” She backed away from the sound of the approaching riders, then turned to run.

  “Wait!” Iain yanked the dagger from the ground, hacked a piece of plaid from off his shoulder and wrapped the jeweled weapon inside it. “Here. Take it. Hide it. I will return.”

  She clutched the bundle tight to her chest as if it would stop the pounding of her heart. She stood for a moment looking up at him, memorizing his face, his eyes, the gentle strength of his countenance.

  And then she was gone.

  “Girl! Your true name!” Iain called after her. “I dinna know it.” But ’twas too late. The mist enfolded her like a cold, white shroud.

  He turned to meet the approaching riders.

  Chapter One

  Eleven years later

  Reynold Grant studied the parchment that held the key to his future….

  I, Beatrix d’Angoulême, firstborn of Comte Renaud d’Angoulême, emissary of Philip II of France, do on my deathbed acknowledge my natural daughter, Alena, as sole heir of my fortune and estates, in accordance with the laws of this realm.

  ’Twas dated May 1184, signed and witnessed, the gold-and-purple seal of Angoulême affixed at the bottom.

  A smile bloomed on Reynold’s face. He tucked the parchment back into its hiding place amongst his dead uncle’s things and paced the rush-strewn floor. Aye, ’twas a brilliant idea. Position and power for the taking. And who better to seize it than himself?

  His cousin Henry was eleven years dead, and his uncle, John Grant, fresh in the ground. Who was there left to stop him?

  The grim, wide-eyed face of a boy flashed briefly in his mind. That boy would be a man now, and Reynold knew he’d come for vengeance, for what once had been his.

  A knock sounded at the door. Reynold snapped to attention as his kinsman, Perkins, entered the chamber.

  “You sent for me, Laird?”

  Laird. Aye, the title suited him, as he always knew it would. He moved to the writing table by the window. “I wish ye to deliver a message.”

  Leaning over the desk, he hastily penned a note. He signed the missive with a flourish, folded the parchment in half, and handed it to the waiting Perkins.

  “To whom shall I deliver it?”

  He studied Perkins’s dark, wiry form. The man was weak and greedy. He liked that about him. “Alena Todd,” he said. “The stablemaster’s daughter.”

  “Ah…” Perkins’s dark eyes shone. “Pretty.” He tucked the parchment into the folds of his plaid. “But surely you wish the note delivered into the hands of her father.”

  “That cripple? Nay, I do not.” He shot Perkins a pointed look. “The message is for her. See to it at once.”

  “But…She reads?”

  “Aye, she does. One of my uncle’s insane notions.”

  Perkins frowned. “I see. ’Twill be delivered right away, Laird.” He moved toward the door, then stopped. “Oh, I nearly forgot. The sentries report Mackintosh warriors in the forest, a day’s ride from here.”

  “How many?”

  “Three. Four perhaps.”

  “Hmph. Did they recognize any of them?”

  “Nay, they did not.”

  Reynold waved a hand, dismissing him. “All right, off with you. I want that note delivered now.”

  Perkins nodded and slipped from the chamber.

  “Mackintosh, eh?” Reynold strode to the window and looked out on what was now his demesne. “’Tis time I finished that business.”

  He couldn’t keep his mind on the hunt.

  Iain Mackintosh leaned against the rotted stump and unstrung his longbow. The morning mist had disappeared, divided by shafts of sunlight. He unfurled his plaid, still damp from a night in the heather, and pulled it ’round his shoulders against the chill air.

  For the second time that day he caught himself absently fingering the circlet of hair he carried with him always. The strip of plaid securing the braid was frayed and worn, but his memory of the girl was not.

  When he’d been old enough, he’d returned to their secret copse. ’Twas dangerous as hell. The Grants held the lands for a half day’s ride on all sides of it. Covertly he’d searched village after village, stared into the faces of countless lasses, but he never found her. Christ, ’twas impossible! He didn’t even know her name, let alone her clan.

  A whistle pierced the silence of the forest, jarring him from his thoughts. He vaulted onto his waiting horse and guided the roan stallion toward the sound. A few minutes later he caught sight of his kinsmen leisurely making their way toward him. Neither rider had game to show for the morning’s effort.

  “Hamish, ye missed the shot then?” he called out.

  “Aye, dammit all to hell. ’Twas a beauty, too.”

  The last Iain had seen of them that morning, Hamish and Will had been hot on the trail of a red stag.

  “Two days out from Braedûn Lodge and we’ve nothing to show for it,” Will said.

  “Ye�
��d best go back with something, Will.” Iain shot his friend a mischievous look. “Ye wouldna wish to disappoint a certain lass.”

  Hamish spurred his mount forward, even with Iain’s roan. “Lass? What lass?”

  Will blushed scarlet, the tips of his ears pink as a bairn’s.

  Iain grinned. “A particular lady’s maid.”

  “Edwina?” Hamish boomed. “She’s as old as the Craigh Mur standing stones. Will, I didna know—”

  “Not Edwina, ye fool!” Will’s voice cracked. “’Tis… ’tis Hetty,” he said, as if he’d just realized it himself.

  “Ah…Hetty.” Hamish’s eyes lit up. He winked at Iain and continued his taunting. “She’s a bonny one.”

  Will jerked his mount to a halt. “Aye, she is, but I dinna want ye noticing.”

  Iain and Hamish dissolved into laughter. After a moment Will’s frown melted into a grin, and the three of them continued south through the larch wood forest.

  “And what about you, Iain?” Hamish said. “What of all the lovely lassies your uncle Alistair’s paraded past ye?”

  Iain had never told Hamish about the girl. About his promise. He’d never told anyone. “I’ve no time for such foolery.”

  “Aye, perhaps not. But ye’ve been a bear of late. ’Tis time we made another trip to Inverness.”

  Iain recalled their last visit, made some months ago. Drinking and wenching, and then more drinking. His most vivid memory of the trip was the two-day headache that plagued him afterward. ’Twas the last thing he needed. Nay, his restlessness was driven by something far deeper than the lack of a woman in his bed.

  ’Twas time.

  His mother had passed, God rest her soul, and his younger brothers were old enough to make their own way should he fall in battle. Aye, ’twas time to reclaim what was his and to bring the cur responsible for his father’s murder, his clan’s ruin, to justice under his sword.

  The memory of that night burned fresh in his mind. All evidence had pointed to his father’s guilt, but Iain would never believe it. Never.

  He had to have that dagger! Strangely enough, ’twas not the jeweled weapon that haunted his dreams, but the vision of a dirty-faced sprite in leather breeches, a few stray leaves clinging to her wild tumble of hair.