Relief washed over her. Each night she prayed that they were safe, as well. “Thank you, Duncan.”
They walked out into the stable yard and were bathed in sunlight. Alena shook off a chill and raised her face to its warmth.
“And now, lassie, perhaps ye can do something for me?”
“Aye, anything.”
“Ye’ve a talent with horses— ’tis plain to see. Rob taught ye well. We’ve a new group of Percherons to break before high summer.” Duncan indicated the enclosure that lay at the end of the stable yard farthest from the lodge.
A small herd of horses grazed in the wild grass that grew, untrammeled, at the edges of the corral.
“Gavin’s a good lad—does the work o’ two men, but we could use another pair o’ skilled hands.” The stable-master looked at her, gauging her ability, it seemed. “Are ye game, lass?”
“Oh, aye. I’d be pleased to help.” And relieved to have something to occupy her hands whilst she considered her next move.
“Weel, then, ye willna be much use to me in that.” He nodded at her attire, the too tight woolen gown. He then pointed at the stable lads newly arrived from their beds to work, still rubbing the sleep out of their eyes. “See if young Jamie or Fergus has a pair o’ breeches that will accommodate ye.”
She nodded. If she were here at the stable Duncan would be able to keep an eye on her. She smiled to herself. He and her father were two of a kind.
Iain adjusted the bracer on the youth’s forearm, checked his shooting glove and finger stalls, and slapped him on the back. “Have at it, lad.” The boy grunted as he drew the longbow slowly back. “More,” Iain said. “Aye, that’s it. Now sight along the shaft.”
He stepped back and appraised the boy’s form. The target, a standard English archery butt, was positioned thirty yards away.
“Shoot!” he ordered.
The boy loosed his arrow and with a whoosh it found its mark, piercing the haystack just left of the bull’s-eye.
“Good lad! Now, do it again, and this time imagine the center of the target as if it were your enemy’s heart.”
Iain stepped back and scanned the training grounds. A half dozen Davidson youths honed their archery skills using the four butts that were positioned anywhere from thirty to fifty yards away. Iain moved into line with the farthest target.
Hamish approached from the direction of the house just as Iain was stringing his bow. He stopped and smiled at his huge friend. “What brings ye to the butts, Hamish? Are ye ready to take up a real man’s weapon?”
“Nay, not I. I prefer a well-forged sword.” Hamish reached over his shoulder and patted the hilt of the weapon sheathed across his back. He nodded at the boys who practiced in the yard. “How goes it with the lads?”
“Well, methinks. Another year and most of them would best any English yeoman.” Iain smiled at his charges, then squinted at the sun, judging it near midday. “After their meal, would ye spend some time with them at swords—and double-headed axes, as well?”
“Ye drive them hard, Iain.”
“Aye, but ’tis for their own good. Every clansman should be well skilled—and in all weapons. A warrior doesna always know what enemies lie in wait, nor what weapons will be at hand at the time.” He met Hamish’s eyes and read in them an unsentimental understanding.
“Your father, again.”
“Aye.” Iain dipped two fingers, well-callused from years of pulling a bowstring, into the grease pot tied to his belt, then pulled an arrow from his quiver.
“It wasna your fault, man.”
“I had no weapon. I could have saved his life, but I had no weapon.” He sighted down the arrow’s shaft and imagined Reynold Grant’s face at the center of the target. The arrow sliced the air with a whistle, piercing the target dead center, fifty yards away. “I was a fool.”
“Ye were a lad, a boy of twelve. No match for a skilled warrior. Had ye a weapon, ye would likely not ha’ lived to use it.”
“Perhaps not. But we’ll never know, will we?” He shot Hamish a hard look, pushed away the guilt gnawing at his gut, and drew another arrow from the quiver.
Hamish let it go. “So.” He cocked a brow at Iain. “I see ye’ve every Davidson arrowsmith, fletcher, smithie and tinker in the land makin’ weapons. What are your plans, Laird?”
Iain eyed him. ’Twasn’t often Hamish addressed him as “Laird.” “As soon as Alistair returns, we’ll make ready. I intend to spend next winter at Findhorn Castle.”
“D’ye think he’s convinced the others to join us?”
“The Macgillivrays for certain.” Iain nocked his arrow and let it fly. “Damn!” It pierced the target right of center. “The MacBains, I know not. We must wait and see what news my uncle brings.”
“So be it.” Hamish looked at him hard, his generally merry expression now sober. “And the girl?”
“Alena. Aye, I know what you’re thinking. Is she a Grant? And if not, could she still be in league with him somehow?”
Hamish nodded. “’Tis possible. Ye said yourself those who followed her were clearly Grant soldiers.”
“Aye, they were. But…” Iain rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin. “Nay, she isna one of them. She was running and she was afeared.” He recalled the wild look in her eyes when first he saw her sprawled on the ground in the wood.
“She could be a spy. It wouldna be the first time a neighboring chieftain used a woman so.” He paused then said, “They can be verra clever, Iain, at…well…coaxing a man into believin’ their story.”
Iain threw down the bow, unstrapped the quiver of arrows from his back and tossed it along with the grease pot onto a pile of equipment on the ground behind him.
“Nay, she’s no’ a spy.” He’d be damned if she was. Irked by the very idea of it, he started for the house, then looked back. “Will ye mind the lads?”
“Aye, Laird.” Hamish whistled at the group of boys who were stowing their gear, preparing to head to the house for the midday meal.
Iain wasn’t hungry. His stomach roiled, in fact. He walked around to the back of the stable yard and saw Jamie, one of the stable lads, leading the roan into a meadow to graze. The horse was unsaddled, but Iain didn’t care. He needed some time alone, to think, away from the bustle of the Davidson estate. Moments later he was mounted and making his way into the wood at the back of the house.
As he guided the roan through the trees, he considered Hamish’s words. What if she were a spy? Nay, she couldn’t be. He pushed the thought from his mind. What Grant spy would save young Conall’s life?
The image of Alena clinging to the back of that wild black stallion flashed before Iain’s eyes. His throat went dry. What the hell had she been thinking? By God, she was the most annoying woman. The way she dared speak to him—so impudent, so fiery.
So beautiful.
When he’d found her asleep by the loch, the moonlight casting a silver halo around her face, he’d wanted to gather her up and crush her against him.
His loins stirred with the memory of her firm body, light as a feather, as he’d carried her back to the campfire and laid her upon his plaid. He’d battled every instinct urging him to kiss her, compelling him to take her right then and there. God’s truth, he didn’t know what had stopped him. Except, mayhap—
Nay, he didn’t truly care about her. What was she to him?
He fought the emotions welling inside him. She seemed so damned familiar. So comfortable, the way their bodies fit together atop his horse or rolled in his plaid before the fire. As if she were meant for him.
A branch slapped him in the face and he jerked the stallion away from the offending tree. He’d been riding in a stupor, like some besotted pup! Well, he’d think no more on it. He had work to do, plans to make, a war to wage.
A promise to keep.
He slipped his hand into the badgerskin sporran that hung at his waist and fingered the circlet of hair within. A lovers’ knot, the girl had called it.
; Aye, and keep it he would.
Nothing would stop him. Least of all some headstrong, fire-tongued wench. Beauty or no’, he’d have none of her. And mayhap Hamish was right. Mayhap she was a spy.
An hour later, back at Braedûn Lodge, Iain jerked the roan to a halt and stared openmouthed at the sight before him. Alena rode bareback astride the black devil who just yesterday nearly cost his brother Conall his life.
She directed the steed ’round the training ring in a slow canter, her easy grace and fresh, unspoiled beauty disarming Iain completely. ’Twas as if the hour he spent in the wood clearing his head had never happened.
The black seemed to respond to her voice and the subtle commands of her every movement. Iain could feel his own growing response to her movements, as well.
She was dressed in a pair of worn leather breeches that outlined the curve of her hips and small waist, and a loose woolen shirt that did little to control or conceal the movement of her breasts as the stallion picked up speed. Her hair flew out behind her, wild and free, a waterfall of light tinged with amber and wheat.
She reined the black abruptly to a halt, her back to him, and leaned forward to praise her charge. Iain’s gaze was riveted to her shapely breech-clad bottom.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement at the end of the yard. It seemed he was not the only spectator admiring Alena’s skill with the black. Not to mention her other attributes.
He urged his mount forward. Will and Gilchrist perched on the gate to the training yard, engaged by Alena’s every move. A handful of Davidson clansmen leaned against the fence, equally captivated.
“Sons of—” He spurred the roan forward, driving the stallion directly toward the group of clansmen. At the last moment they scattered and Iain forced the roan against the gate, knocking Gilchrist and Will to the ground.
“What are ye gapin’ at?” He turned to the clansmen. “Get back to your duties!” In an instant they were gone, dispersed in the direction of the house and courtyard.
Alena trotted up on the black as Iain maneuvered his mount through the gate and into the yard. Will and Gilchrist righted themselves and brushed clods of mud from their plaids.
“Gilchrist, did no’ I ask ye to oversee the weapons inventory?”
“Aye, ye did.” His brother’s blue eyes flashed mischief.
“Well, be gone with ye, then!”
“Aye, Laird.” The corners of Gilchrist’s mouth turned up as he skulked away.
By God, what was he running here, a circus? Gilchrist’s casual attitude was enough to make his blood boil. He turned to Will, who looked up at him expectantly. “You, as well.”
“But, Laird, ye told me to mind her.” Will nodded toward Alena, who was still mounted on the black.
“Aye, and now I’m tellin’ ye to mind your other duties. Be gone! I’ll watch her myself the rest of this day.” And every day, he thought, casting Alena a sideways glance. Her cat-green eyes were appraising him. Damn her!
Edwina appeared at the gate. Lord, now what? Her eyes blazed and she pointed a wrinkled finger at Will. “I’ll have a word with ye, lad, about young Hetty.”
Will’s face colored and he took a step back as the old woman approached him.
“And dinna pretend ye dinna ken what I mean.” She grabbed Will by his shirt and pulled him from the stable yard in the direction of the house.
Alena laughed. ’Twas like the music of clear, running water. Aye, and that’s what his head needed. A good, cold soaking. He turned to her and scowled. “What are ye laughing at?”
“At Will. He’s smitten with her.”
“With whom?”
“Why, the girl, Hetty, of course.”
Iain snorted and the stallion fidgeted underneath him. “He’s not. Will’s a warrior. His mind is on his duty to his clan. And to me.”
“A warrior he may be,” she said, “but any fool can see he’s in love with her.”
Her green eyes flashed, and Iain felt his defenses crumbling. “And fool he is, should it be so.”
She squared her shoulders and tipped her chin. By God, she was impertinent. And lovely. She turned the black and spurred him toward the stable. Before she could reach the entrance Iain cut her off and grabbed the stallion’s bridle. Both horses nearly reared. She looked at him, expectantly, as if he were a wayward bairn about to explain some bit of mischief.
He bristled and set his jaw. “I wish to speak with you. Now.” He’d find out the truth about her if he had to wring it out of her. He nodded toward the forest behind the stable yard. “Ye shall ride with me.”
She tipped her chin higher. “As you see, I’m engaged with this animal.” She turned the black out of his path and nudged him forward.
“Engaged with—” He jerked the bridle and prevented her escape. ’Twas then he noticed Duncan leaning casually against the door frame of the stable entrance, smiling like an idiot.
Iain snorted. “Saint Sebastian to bluidy hell. Have it your own way, lass.” He urged the roan forward and swept Alena onto his lap. “Aye, go ahead, fight me.”
She struggled uselessly—he rather enjoyed it—then managed to position herself astride the horse. He goaded the stallion out the gate and toward the woods behind the house. After a minute Alena settled back against his chest, surrendering to his will. Hmph. ’Twas about time.
She was still now, her head resting just below his chin. He breathed deep of the fragrance of her hair, redolent with spring and summer and fall, and seasons yet unknown—but that he was intent on exploring.
God help him, he wanted her. She was like no other woman he’d ever known.
She was perfect.
Chapter Six
She was a shrew.
Iain didn’t know whether to kiss her or to kill her. During their ride Alena had tried how many times—he’d lost count—to slip from his mount’s back? Finally he’d snaked his arm tight about her, and had no intention of letting her go.
The roan labored up a steep hill and charged out of the forest onto a stark, windswept ridge. Iain urged the steed toward the top where the stone walls of an ancient keep lay, black and daunting, in ruin.
He loosened his grip on her and was astonished she didn’t bolt from his arms. The woman was completely unpredictable. She rested calmly against his chest. The wind blew up golden tendrils of her hair that tickled his face. Lord, he felt good.
From this height they could view his uncle’s entire demesne. Davidson land stretched out for miles in all directions. Braedûn Lodge was a tiny speck below them, beyond the forest through which they’d come.
“’Tis beautiful,” Alena said, surprising him yet again.
He studied her face, a mere hairbreadth from his own. Her eyes, pale green in the full light, fixed on the horizon. For the first time he noticed her lashes: dark at the roots and turning to pure gold at their tips.
“Aye, lass. Beautiful.” He ran both hands lightly up her arms, and she shivered at his touch. “Are ye cold?”
“Nay.” She turned and looked up at him.
At that moment he would have bartered his soul to the devil to be lost in her eyes forever.
God’s truth, she bewitched him. And he knew not why. He wasn’t the same man when he was near her. Hell, he hadn’t been the same man since he’d found her. The truth of it unsettled him.
He swung a leg over the horse’s rump and dropped to the ground. He reached for her, but something made him stop short of circling her waist with his hands. He looked up at her, willing her to fall into his arms.
Alena hesitated, trying to make sense of her conflicting emotions. She shouldn’t be here alone with him. She could think of a dozen reasons why she should kick the roan into a gallop and flee, but all of them escaped her when she gazed into Iain’s eyes. Jesu, he was everything she wanted.
The only thing she wanted.
’Twas so easy to lean from the saddle and slip into his arms. He caught her ’round the waist and, without another thought, she wrap
ped her arms around him, her fingers tangling in the chestnut hair at the nape of his neck.
He drew her into his embrace, his big hands sliding down to cup her bottom. She shouldn’t let him hold her this way but, heaven help her, she thrilled at the feel of his hands on her. Her breasts were crushed against his chest and she felt his heart pound fierce as a drumbeat. She marveled at the heat of his body and the strength of his embrace.
What was happening to her? Her cheeks flamed and a rush of heat consumed her. Her mouth went dry. She parted her lips and wet them with her tongue.
And then he kissed her.
Once, twice. Oh, ’twas heavenly. His eyes held a question and in answer she breathed his name. “Iain.”
She’d been kissed before, but never like this. His lips nibbled at hers, gently at first, teasing and tasting. His eyes narrowed to slits, the image of a wildcat plundering its prey.
The stubble of his beard raked across her skin as his lips moved to her neck. A shiver shot up her spine. She closed her eyes again, succumbing to the dreamlike state that threatened to consume her: pure heat and desire, the likes of which she’d never known.
Iain growled at her response and claimed her mouth again. His tongue slid along her lips, forcing them apart. She felt feverish, light-headed, as his tongue mated with hers.
She realized he was shaking, and perceived a barely controlled urgency growing within him. She clung to him and dug her nails into the front of his shirt. Wanton desire, fear and confusion all raged within her as she felt the evidence of Iain’s own desire pressed hard against her body.
Her eyes flew open.
She pushed him away, breaking the kiss, but Iain held her fast in his embrace. His eyes smoldered passion, deep blue heat. His heart pounded against the flat of her palm.
“Nay, I cannot,” she breathed. She struggled free of him and stumbled toward the burned-out ruins of the ancient keep. His footfalls sounded behind her. She scrambled to the pinnacle of blackened rubble and stood for a moment, her back to him, trying to catch her breath and make sense of her feelings. His hands lit on her shoulders. She collected herself as best she could and turned to face him.
The Mackintosh Bride Page 7