The Mackintosh Bride

by Debra Lee Brown

  “What is it, lass?” His voice was ragged and his face flushed from their kissing.

  “It’s…I…” She had no idea what she wanted to say to him. An impulse to tell him everything washed over her, but she beat it back and stood silent, looking up at him.

  His face looked stricken, suddenly, as if she’d said something unexpected and unwelcome. “Are ye married, then? Is that what you’re tryin’ to tell me?”

  She choked back a half laugh. “Nay. Of course not.”

  The tension drained from his face, then he frowned as if something else occurred to him. “Betrothed, then, to some great laird, mayhap?”

  Reynold Grant’s face flashed huge and vile before her, a burning imprint on the backs of her eyelids. Anger erupted inside her. She pushed the image from her mind. “Nay, I am betrothed to no man.”

  She read triumph in his eyes, and for some reason that made her bristle. Her anger at Grant and her fear of her own unbridled response to Iain’s desire compelled her to lash out. “And if I were, t’would be none of your concern.”

  Iain’s expression hardened. He caught her arms in a steely grip. “Ah, but t’would be verra much my concern. Can ye no’ guess why?”

  She felt his warm breath on her face and was conscious of her racing heart. “Nay, I cannot imagine.” But she could imagine, and the truth of it both thrilled and frightened her.

  She stepped back, shaking, and Iain released her. Before she knew what she was doing, she scrambled to the base of the ruins and pulled herself onto the stallion’s back. Iain stood rigid atop the pile of rubble, fists clenched at his sides, his gaze burning into her. Without a word she spurred his mount down the hill and into the forest.

  Reynold Grant slammed a fist on the table. The impact of flesh on wood echoed off the stone walls of Glenmore Castle’s great hall. “Where is she? I want her found and brought to me! Is that clear?”

  Perkins stood before him with a senior soldier and two others. They all disgusted him. Useless idiots. He could have retrieved the girl himself by now.

  The senior soldier spoke. “’Twas a Mackintosh who carried her off, Laird.”

  Reynold drummed his fingers on the table. “You’re certain?”

  “Aye,” Perkins said. “We followed them far to the southeast, to Davidson land.”

  Reynold considered the implications. “Alistair Davidson. Hmph.” He pushed back his chair and rose from the table. “’Tis his uncle.”

  Perkins smiled, but the soldiers raised their brows and exchanged confused looks. “Whose uncle, Laird?” the senior soldier asked.

  “His uncle, ye twit! Alistair Davidson is Iain Mackintosh’s uncle.”

  The name sparked immediate recognition among them. The senior soldier half grinned. “The Mackintosh laird would dare to travel alone across Grant land?”

  Reynold glared at each of them in turn. His nails dug into his palms as his fists tightened around the imaginary neck of his enemy. “He was on my land, and I didna know it?” His barely controlled rage showed in the fearful expressions of the men who stood before him. “And where were all of you when this insult occurred?”

  The soldiers fidgeted and would not meet his eyes. Perkins stood smirking and silent. Reynold fought the urge to smash his ugly little face into the table.

  He strode to the massive hearth and leaned against the cool stones, staring into the fire as if it held the answers to his questions.

  He’d get her back, but how? ’Twould be premature to raise his army and take her. Nay, he wanted it all: Findhorn Castle, the Mackintosh lands, and Alena of Angoulême.

  He’d hoped to wed her first, before waging war against Mackintosh. The alliance with France would be useful. And the tie to England.

  Nay, he’d wait. He wouldn’t risk the possibility Mackintosh would raise the Chattan against him. He’d find a way to draw her out. In the meantime, he’d drive the wedge between the clans deeper. MacBain. Aye, he was the one to sway.

  Reynold turned toward his men. “Perkins, I want ye to arrange a meeting—quietly—with the MacBains.”

  A thin smile creased Perkins’s mustached lips. “Aye, Laird. Leave it to me.”

  “And the rest of you—” Reynold eyed the soldiers. “What news from our scouts?”

  The senior soldier’s face brightened. “The Davidson laird and his wife have crossed to Macgillivray land.”

  Now this was interesting news. “And their escort?”

  “Only twenty of their own. But they ride under the protection of The Macgillivray.”

  Perkins interrupted. “Aye, but on his return Alistair Davidson must first travel east ’round the mountains bordering our land before riding north to Braedûn Lodge.”

  Reynold knew there was a reason he put up with Perkins’s insolence. The man was clever. T’would be of great benefit to have the Davidson laird out of the picture.

  Reynold waved a hand. “Leave me. I must think.” He slumped into a chair by the hearth and stretched his legs toward the fire. Behind him he heard the retreating footsteps of his men.

  He cleared his mind and recalled the lovely skin and wide green eyes of Alena Todd. Stablemaster’s daughter indeed. “Ha!” The bitch was bred of nobles and kin to royalty. And soon she would be his.

  His eyes clouded. ’Twas Mackintosh who had her now. A sour taste coated his mouth. The sooner Iain Mackintosh joined his father in hell, the better. Reynold ground his teeth and gripped the velvet-covered arms of the chair.

  “Nay, Iain Mackintosh, ye won’t be keeping her long.”

  The hare blinked, transfixed, from a thicket of whortleberry and gorse.

  Iain reached instinctively for his bow. It wasn’t there. “Damn the woman!” He kicked up some stones in the direction of the hare and swore again under his breath.

  He’d been walking an hour and guessed it to be another league or more to his uncle’s estate. He quickened his pace, scanning the forest in all directions.

  She’d had the audacity to commandeer his mount. And he let her do it! “Fool, idiot!”

  He checked his weapons for the tenth time: broadsword, two dirks, and the small sgian dhu in his boot. ’Twas enough. The roan stallion had carried his longbow, another sword and a dirk. And where was his mount now?

  Where was she now? On her way back to retrieve him, ready to offer sweet, apologetic kisses? His loins stirred at the memory of her lips, full and swollen—autumn apples ripe for the picking.

  “Och!” He beat the image from his mind. More likely she was halfway back to Glenmore Castle bearing news of all she’d seen and heard. Hamish was probably right. Even now the vixen could be meeting with her Grant lover, reporting Iain’s every move, tallies of his weapons, the status of his men.

  He stopped and breathed a sigh, studying for a moment the brilliant blue of the sky through the trees. “Nay, she’s no’ a spy.” And there is no lover. Of that he was sure.

  She was a maid. God’s truth, her kisses were those of an innocent, but her passion…He sighed again. Her response to him had been immediate, wanton. And he’d been dangerously out of control. No matter who she was, he couldn’t allow that to happen again.

  Who was she?

  He was so smitten with her he’d completely forgotten the purpose of seeking her out that day. He’d meant to question her again about her identity, her clan. Those intentions had vanished the moment he looked into her eyes.

  Above all, he must stay focused. He had plans to make, promises to keep.

  He leaned against a stout larch and let his gaze wander up the wrinkled bark. Pressing his face against its rough texture, he was reminded of another tree in another forest far from here, its surface riddled with scars from the hundreds of arrows he and the girl had shot into it during those long afternoons.

  The girl.

  He smiled to himself and dipped a hand into his sporran, drawing out the lovers’ knot the wee lass had given him long years ago. He ran his fingers over the fine texture of the braid—che
stnut and gold, the Mackintosh tartan still bright after years of abuse tumbling about in the badgerskin bag.

  He’d vowed to return for her, and return he would. A child’s promise, but a promise nonetheless. And who was she? It occurred to him he didn’t know her name, either. Iain laughed. God’s blood, how many mystery women could one man abide? No matter. He’d find her. And the dagger.

  A flurry of memory and emotion swept over him. He thrust the token back into his sporran as the sound of crashing brush startled him to attention.

  What now? He reached instinctively for the hilt of his sword, but stayed his hand when he recognized the three riders climbing through the wood. Hamish and two Davidson warriors.

  One of them led a fourth mount—the roan stallion, its saddle empty.

  Chapter Seven

  Iain’s heart skipped a beat. He charged down the slope and met the riders halfway, skidding to a halt in front of Hamish’s great warhorse. He nodded at the roan’s empty saddle.

  “Where is she?”

  Hamish grinned, to Iain’s annoyance, then cocked a bushy red brow. “At the stable. Where else?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled. “Ye found her then, and brought her back.”

  “Nay. She came chargin’ out o’ the wood at a full gallop and drove your mount clear over the wall at the back o’ the house, right into the stable yard.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  Hamish’s eyes lit up. “Och, ’twas quite a sight, too—her wild hair flyin’ and those bonny cheeks flushed red as ripe cherries.”

  A vision of Alena atop the roan throbbed in Iain’s head. He stared vacantly into the wood.

  The two Davidson warriors made lewd comments.

  “Enough.” Iain shot them a hard look, and their faces sobered.

  He whistled and his mount trotted forward. Vaulting onto the stallion’s back, he turned toward home. “Let’s away. The day’s nearly gone.”

  Hamish followed and raised a brow in question. “Well, Iain, what think ye of her now?”

  “God’s truth, Hamish, I dinna know what to make of her.”

  “Nor I. But this is how I see it…” Hamish stroked his beard and leveled his gaze at him. “The lass had a fair chance to run, but she didna.”

  “Nay, she did not. But why?” A number of possibilities occurred to him. He gave the roan a light kick and the horse quickened his pace.

  A burst of laughter broke his concentration. He turned to see Hamish grinning, exchanging knowing looks with the two warriors. He glared hard at the three of them.

  “Hell, man,” Hamish said, “why don’t ye swive her and have done with it?”

  Every muscle in Iain’s body tensed. He bit back a retort, surprised by his own anger. Hamish read it in his eyes and immediately softened his expression. The two Davidson warriors sensed it, too, and moved on, leaving them alone.

  Iain met Hamish’s bright eyes. Eyes that had seen the years of Iain’s struggle to rebuild their clan, eyes that had witnessed his pain and unrelenting guilt over his father’s murder, eyes that held a wealth of understanding.

  The tension drained from his body. He smiled weakly at his friend and shrugged.

  “Aye, well,” Hamish said quietly. “So that’s how it is between ye.”

  He recalled the silken heat of Alena’s skin against his mouth, her cat-green eyes clouded with desire—and something more.

  For him there was also something more, something beyond a need of the flesh. Aye, he wanted her, and badly. But the ache in his gut told him that one lusty romp ’neath the furs wouldn’t quench the fire that burned within him, that burned for her.

  “Aye,” he breathed. “That’s how it is.”

  He nudged his mount forward again, and this time Hamish didn’t follow.

  The mystery that was Alena continued to gnaw at him.

  What more could there possibly be between them? Since his father’s murder, he’d lived his whole life in preparation for the bloody vengeance he would wreak against the Grants—one Grant in particular. There wasn’t room in his life for a woman. There never had been.

  Oh, he’d had his share of youthful tumbles with willing wenches, but none had left any lasting impression on him, none had made him feel as she had. He shook off the muddle of emotions that threatened to consume him.

  His clan had been scattered to high heaven, but he was still their laird. His people depended on him to regain their homeland, their honor. And he would, or go to his death trying.

  Braedûn Lodge was in sight, and he spurred the roan homeward. ’Twas time to act.

  Alena supped in her room that eve, ignoring Hetty’s and Edwina’s attempts to coax her belowstairs. She feigned exhaustion from the day’s activity and bade the women offer her apologies to those assembled in the great hall.

  Truth be told, she needed time alone.

  Iain’s kisses had left their burning imprint on her lips and in her heart. She was heady with the memory of his embrace, the clean, masculine scent of him, his powerful hands blazing a trail across her body as if she were some new uncharted land.

  She whispered his name and ran her fingers lightly over her lips, across the line of her jaw and downward, tracing the path his mouth had blazed across her virgin skin.

  No man had ever roused such feelings in her.

  She was not surprised at her response to him. From the moment she’d seen him looming over her in the forest, his penetrating eyes reaching right into her soul, Alena knew he was the one.

  She slept poorly that night and woke just after dawn. The bed coverings were bunched at her feet, and her shift clung damp and twisted to her body.

  She had dreamed of a wide green glen bursting with wildflowers. She was there, riding the black at a full gallop, the wind whipping her hair behind her. Iain appeared, long-bow in hand. She thrilled at the sight of him, but there was something in his expression that unnerved her. Fear. He looked past her, but at what she knew not.

  She shrugged off the last vestiges of sleep and cast the unsettling remnants of the dream from her mind. She rose, dressed quickly in her work clothes, and made her way to the stable yard, eager to begin the training of the new Percherons.

  Duncan met her at the gate. “Good morrow, lass. Are ye ready to begin?”

  “Aye, ’tis a fine day for it.” They paused for a moment and studied the cloudless sky.

  She noticed Gavin leading a mare, heavy with foal, toward one of the small outbuildings, and nodded her head toward the pair. “How soon is her time?”

  “A sennight—perhaps less. Come, I’d like ye to see her.”

  She followed the old stablemaster into the structure. ’Twas larger than it looked on the outside and had been set up as a foaling shed. The floor was covered in sweet-smelling straw. A small hayloft overlooked one corner.

  Gavin tethered the mare. “What think ye, Alena, of our prize broodmare?”

  She ran her hand over the animal’s lustrous coat and down each flank. The mare nuzzled her hand and she smiled. “A Scottish Clydesdale. She’s very fine.”

  “Aye,” Gavin said. “One of our own.”

  “And who is the sire?”

  “The black,” Duncan said, and grinned as if he were the proud papa himself.

  “The Arabian.” Alena’s interest grew. “’Twill be a beautiful foal.”

  “Aye, but I expect a difficult birth. This is her second issue and the first near killed her in the bearin’.”

  “Whose mount is she?”

  “Young Conall’s,” Gavin said. “A gift from his mam.” Ellen Mackintosh had died recently. ’Twould be a tragedy for Iain’s brother to lose the mare, too.

  She studied the Clydesdale’s swollen belly. “Then why did you breed her again?”

  Gavin fought a smile. She lifted her brows in question.

  “Weel, ’tis the black,” Duncan said. “We couldna keep him from her. When her time came, he all but leveled the stable to get to her. I’ve ne’er s
een the like of it—at least no’ with horses.” His eyes sparked mischief.

  A blush warmed her cheeks. She snatched a handful straw from the ground to hide her embarrassment. “I can do this.” Gavin stepped back as she went to work on the mare’s coat. “I’m sure you have others to see to.”

  “Not today. Half the mounts are gone—with the laird.”

  “Iain is gone?” She tried to sound casual, but knew by Duncan’s interested expression she hadn’t succeeded.

  “Oh, aye,” Gavin said. “To Inverness with Hamish and some others.”

  Inverness was at least two days’ ride from Braedûn Lodge. A small ache settled in the pit of her stomach. “When shall they return?”

  Duncan started to speak, but Gavin cut him off. “A sen-night, mayhap. There’s only so much drinkin’ and wenchin’ a man can take, aye?”

  “Drinking and…?” The ache deepened.

  Duncan frowned hard at his son. “Be off with ye, lad. Take young Jamie and Fergus and round up the new group. We’ll follow directly.”

  Gavin shrugged, cast his father a sheepish look and left.

  Purposefully, she turned her attention back to the mare and continued her grooming with increased rigor. Duncan reached out and stilled her hand, but she would not meet his eyes.

  “Dinna fash about it, lass,” he said gently. “Aye, he might have gone to Inverness with the others, but what Gavin said—about the wenchin’ and the drinkin’— ’tis not his way.” She smiled weakly at the old man, and he squeezed her hand in his gnarled paw. “Come, we’ve got mounts to break.”

  She tossed the straw to the ground and followed Duncan from the shed. A sudden thought made her stop short. “Duncan? Did Gavin meet Father Ambrose? Was he able to get word to my parents?”

  “Oh, aye. He met the priest near dark, yester eve, on the forest road. ’Tis done.”

  Relief and tenderness welled inside her. “Bless you.”

  From dawn until nightfall each day Alena worked in the stable and collapsed each evening, exhausted, on her bed. Between the three of them they’d made excellent progress with the new mounts.

  Iain had left his brother Gilchrist in charge of the estate. Most of the other Mackintosh clansmen had ridden with Iain, save his youngest brother, Conall, and Will, who kept a constant watch on her.