The Mackintosh Bride

by Debra Lee Brown

  She had supped with the three young warriors twice now, and on both occasions they’d talked of nothing but Iain—his bravery and skill with a bow, both clans’ respect and loyalty for him, and his fierce love of his people, Mackintosh and Davidson alike.

  She’d pressed them to tell her more of Iain’s relationships with the neighboring clans, but they always managed to steer the conversation away from that topic. Once she’d even mentioned the Grants by name, and Will and Gilchrist had both gone quiet. Only young Conall spoke, but was quickly silenced by a harsh look from his older brother.

  Her days were filled with activity, but the nights seemed endless and offered her little distraction from her thoughts. Her parents’ safety, her clan, her future—all weighed heavy on her. But foremost in her mind was Iain. She tossed and turned in the ornate bed, unable to clear his visage from her mind.

  In whose bed was he now?

  She rebuked herself for allowing the question to cross her mind. Why should she care? He obviously cared nothing for her. She was naught but an outlet for his lust. Had she not escaped him at the ruined keep—

  Her heart fluttered at the thought of what might have occurred.

  She rose from her bed and padded barefoot to the window. Pulling back the fur covering, she gazed out at the night sky. A thousand stars blinked back at her, cool and luminous against a field of midnight.

  Where was Iain now?

  Wenchin’ and drinkin’.

  Days later, Gavin’s words still stung. She snatched the fur window cover and ripped it from the wall. Iain was merely a man, base and crude. The moment she’d refused him he’d gone in search of another woman. Or women. The thought sickened her and fed her anger, both at him and at herself for acting the smitten virgin.

  Gooseflesh rose on her skin as a chill wind blasted through the window. She hurried back to bed and dove, shivering, beneath a pile of plaids and furs.

  She would leave this place and return to her parents, her clan. They needed her, they loved her.

  And then there was Reynold Grant.

  Alena crouched in the stable yard, one of the black stallion’s great hooves perched upon her knee. With an iron tool she cleaned and shaped his rough nail. The steed snorted, but allowed her ministrations.

  Duncan encouraged her partnership with the horse. She was, in fact, the only person the stallion would permit to ride him. Alena dug inside the pocket of her breeches for the bit of raw cabbage she’d scrounged from the kitchen that morning, and fed it to her happy charge.

  On their way into the stalls the black became suddenly agitated. She held fast to the bridle and whispered soothing words in his ear as the clatter of livery and the thud of hoofbeats drew her eyes toward the stable yard gate.

  A group of Mackintosh warriors, grim-faced and spattered with mud, herded their mounts past the house and into the enclosure. Iain led the pack. Hamish followed with a number of others she recognized.

  She stiffened her spine and tipped her chin as Iain rode past her. Prepared for some curt greeting, she was stunned when he rode on, silent, purposefully not looking at her, merely scowling in her direction.

  “Hmph.” She turned on her heel and headed for one of the outbuildings, pulling the black in her wake. Hamish’s soft chuckle sounded behind her. She bristled.

  Once inside she watched Iain from the window. He dismounted, tossed his reins to Gavin, and headed for the watering trough. He turned briefly in her direction. She ducked out of sight.

  A moment later she peeked over the window frame. Iain stood with his back to her, stripped of his shirt, his plaid bunched at his waist, and vigorously washed the mud and road dust from his body.

  Her gaze fixed on the sinewy muscles of his back and shoulders working beneath his skin as he splashed water over his torso. “Jesu,” she breathed, and willed herself to look away.

  She busied herself in the shed, rearranging brushes and tools, and by the time she stole another glance from the window he was gone.

  He stayed clear of her the rest of that day and the next. In the great hall both evenings she was offered not her customary place to Iain’s right, but a seat at the opposite end of the table, wedged in between two Davidson warriors.

  ’Twas fine with her, if that’s the way he wished it. She had more important things to think about. Escaping the Davidson stronghold was the most pressing, and not easily accomplished. Midsummer’s Day loomed close.

  Hamish had been absent the previous evening, but tonight he appeared and boasted loudly from across the table of his kinsmen’s exploits in Inverness. Alena caught herself listening for Iain’s name in the recounting of these bawdy adventures, but ’twas never mentioned.

  On several occasions she looked up from her trencher to find Iain appraising her coldly, his mouth rigid, his eyes blue steel.

  Her sentiments exactly.

  She excused herself early to check on the pregnant mare before retiring to her chamber. The Clydesdale’s time was near, and she had promised Duncan she’d assist with the delivery.

  After that, she’d find a way to leave Braedûn Lodge.

  Late that night the door to her chamber crashed open.

  Alena bolted upright, plaids and furs flying. She scrambled to the edge of the bed and reached for her dirk, which hung in its sheath from the bedpost.

  A small, hunched figure holding a lit taper moved quickly toward the bed. Alena let her breath out as she recognized the old clanswoman, clothed in her shift, a Mackintosh plaid draped around her shoulders. “Edwina, what’s amiss?”

  The old woman’s withered face shone in the candlelight. Her eyebrows peaked as a grin broke across her face. “’Tis time, lass. The foal is coming.”

  Chapter Eight

  There was no time to dress.

  Iain hefted his broadsword and charged out the door of his chamber, stark-naked, clutching his plaid. He’d heard the commotion and now saw the torchlight at the end of the hall. In three strides he was there, brandishing the sword before him.

  The two figures froze. The taller whirled on him, and Iain saw a flash of steel as a small dirk whistled from its scabbard. He dropped the plaid and wielded his sword with both hands.

  And then he recognized her.

  Alena’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth as if to speak but no words came forth. For a moment they stood there, unyielding, gazes locked, weapons at the ready.

  He surveyed her garments: breeches, boots and a loose woolen shirt. Her hair was swept up, coiled close to her head. ’Twas small wonder he didn’t recognize her.

  Her face blazed scarlet, and he suddenly remembered he was unclothed. He snatched his plaid from the floor and wrapped it awkwardly around his waist.

  A cackle of laughter burst from the second figure. The hunched shape could be only one woman. Edwina. Iain scowled at her in the half light.

  Alena sheathed her dirk and turned away.

  “No’ so fast.” He stepped in front of her. “Where are ye off to, dressed like that, at this time o’ night?”

  Her cheeks were still flushed and a few tendrils of loose hair spilled over the collar of her shirt, glinting gold in the torchlight. God’s truth, she was lovely.

  Her eyes darted back and forth as if she didn’t know where to look, then finally lit on his. She tipped her chin and pursed her lips in that defiant pose he found amusing. “Duncan needs me. The mare is foaling.” She brushed past him.

  He stood there for a moment and watched the light dance off the walls as the two women descended the staircase. Ten minutes later he was dressed and at her side in the foaling shed.

  Duncan handed her a bundle of rags, and Alena set them on the straw-covered ground. The mare lay heaving on her side. Iain watched as she soothed the laboring beast with comforting words and gentle strokes. Oh, that he were the beneficiary of such consolation. He marveled at the mare’s tranquil response to her calming touch.

  Crouched beside the horse’s great belly, she elbowed Iain out of the way a
s she moved toward the mare’s head. He sat back on his heels and watched her, silent.

  “You’re not needed here,” she said, not looking up from her work. “Duncan and I can manage.”

  How dare she speak to him so? He was laird and she was, well…He was more determined than ever to find out. He looked at Duncan who leaned against a post, arms crossed, one brow arched in amusement.

  Not needed? Iain grabbed the bundle of rags and inched closer to Alena. “’Tis no’ a job for a lady.” Surely she’d agree and defer to him.

  To his astonishment her eyes flashed fire. “Ha!” She looked as if at any moment she’d spit venom. “’Tis the job you leave us. Men spawning like trout wherever they please, and women left to bear their wee-uns and clean up the mess after.”

  What had come over her? He shot Duncan a questioning look, but the stablemaster just shrugged in response.

  She checked the mare’s eyes and ran her fingers gently along the inside edge of the horse’s mouth. “And besides, I’ve assisted dozens of births. Some of the finest warhorses in Scotland were issued from my stable.”

  Iain could well believe it. The woman had spirit, he’d grant her that. “Oh, aye,” he said, “and what stable might that be?”

  She shot him a nasty look and continued her evaluation of the mare.

  He watched her, marveling at her quiet command of the situation. She moved with an economy of motion around the mare, poking and prodding, gently massaging, her small hands seeking and discovering clues to the horse’s condition.

  Duncan held back and allowed her to do what she would, appraising her skill as a master would an apprentice.

  Iain studied her, as well, but for different reasons. He’d foresworn this mad attraction to her the afternoon at the ruins and had quit Braedûn Lodge that night to strengthen his resolve. But five days away from her and two more avoiding her did naught to cool his ardor.

  Her face haunted him by day, and by night his dreams were rich with the feel of her firm body ’neath his hands, the scent of her hair, the taste of her warm skin.

  He knew in his heart he couldn’t give her up. “Damn.”

  She glanced up and caught him watching her.

  Even now he felt the last of the thin barrier he’d tried to erect between them shatter and fall away. As he watched her movements—slow, deliberate, with a patience and single-mindedness that awed him—he felt his heart moving toward her in a way he couldn’t explain.

  And he knew she shared his affliction. Her passionate response when he’d kissed her had laid bare her desire. But he’d seen more in her eyes, felt more in her innocent kisses, than physical hunger.

  They were connected, somehow, he and she.

  He knew it. He felt it, and knew she did, as well.

  She sat back on her heels and rolled up her sleeves. He drank in the beauty of her slender forearms, golden in the torchlight, finely muscled, tapering to slim wrists. He longed to take her hands in his and press his lips to the undersides of those wrists, to feel her pulse throb gently against his mouth.

  She reached past him toward a bucket of water and inadvertently brushed his arm with hers. He tensed and felt her do the same.

  “Lady,” he said, placing his hand gently on her shoulder. She drew back, rigid, and flashed tentative eyes at him. “Let me.” He picked up the bucket and set it down beside her.

  “My thanks. I—”

  The mare shuddered, and Alena quickly focused her attention on the panting beast whose breathing had become more labored. She sprang to her feet, skirted around him and knelt beside the mare’s rear legs. In a move that surprised him, she placed one hand soothingly on the mare’s rump and with the other gauged her condition.

  ’Twas fair strange how she didn’t look at the mare, but stared unfocused at the wall and seemed to know by touch what was occurring. He looked to Duncan who stood smiling down at her as would a proud father regarding his child.

  “’Tis time,” she said.

  Duncan knelt beside her. He examined the laboring horse and the opaque sac that pressed outward from the birth canal. “Aye.”

  The mare let out a shrill whicker and bucked her rear legs, toppling Alena to the ground. Iain rushed to help her but she fought against his grasp. The pins that held her hair tight against her head loosened, and her wild tresses tumbled free.

  “Unhand me!” She scrambled to her knees and shot him a surly look.

  What had he done, he wondered, to elicit such a response from her? He sat back on his heels and considered her nasty disposition. One moment she’d been panting in his arms, and now this unfathomable coldness.

  He hadn’t much experience with women, beyond the bedding of willing wenches when his need distracted him from his work. He’d put off taking a wife, though his uncle had paraded by him every eligible virgin from a half dozen clans. Any of them would have made a good political match, and most were lovely, but he’d always held back.

  He’d vowed first to regain his life, his honor, his home. Aye, and he’d made another vow. One born in a wood by a stream in the mist, eleven years ago. He looked with longing at Alena and found himself questioning the price of that pledge.

  The mare bucked again, and Alena caught his eye. “Place your hands here,” she said, and put her hands on the horse’s flank. “Try to keep her still.”

  He did as she bade him, and she examined the mare in earnest. Duncan lifted a torch from its sconce on the wall and knelt beside her, offering her more light.

  Iain watched as she pushed her sleeves higher and assessed the situation. The mare shuddered again, and he tried to soothe her with steady hands.

  Alena worked by touch. At last she met his eyes and, to his surprise, she didn’t look away. He held her gaze and felt the corners of his mouth bloom in a smile. She smiled back and his heart beat faster.

  The mare shuddered and Alena’s expression sobered. The beast’s breathing became labored, deep. “’Tis time.”

  Alena pulled gently at the saclike bubble, tearing it enough to reveal one slick, black hoof. Iain realized with a shock that what protruded was a rear foot.

  “The foal— ’tis the wrong way ’round!” Her eyes sought Duncan’s and the stablemaster looked at her, grim-faced.

  “’Tis what I’d feared,” Duncan said. “’Twas the same with her last issue.”

  “Wh-what did you do?”

  Duncan shrugged and looked way. “We didna have a choice. We had to save the mare.” He rose stiffly, plucked a few tools from a nearby table and returned to Alena’s side. Iain recognized the implements. Beside her Duncan laid two knives, one of them curved, and a small iron hook.

  Her face blanched. “N-nay, you will not.”

  Duncan lowered his eyes.

  “It must be done, lass,” Iain whispered. “Duncan’s right.”

  She stared blindly at the wall of the shed, then he saw a change come over her. She drew a breath and met his gaze. “Nay. The foal will turn. I will turn it.” She shot Duncan a confident glance. “I’ve done it many times. ’Twill be all right.”

  Iain studied her face. Tiny beads of perspiration broke across her forehead. She clenched her teeth and with one hand swept the evil-looking tools aside.

  Before either of them could respond, young Jamie came bursting through the door to the shed. “I saw the light. Is it come?”

  “No’ yet, lad,” Duncan said.

  Alena turned to the boy. “Jamie, I’ll need a long leather strap. Go and cut one from a bridle. And some thin rope. Mayhap a bowstring would do.”

  Jamie looked at the stablemaster, and Duncan nodded his agreement. “Aye, Lady,” the boy said, and turned to leave.

  “Wait, lad.” Iain rummaged in his sporran and drew out a long bowstring, one of two spares he kept at all times. “Here,” he said, and offered it to Alena.

  She smiled. “My thanks.”

  Iain watched her as she moved quickly, piling more fresh straw and assembling the things she would need
. During the next hour she worked to turn the foal.

  Her face, slicked with perspiration, shimmered in the torchlight. The loose shirt clung to her damp body, outlining the swell of her breasts and the curve of her small waist. Iain was more than distracted by her. He was aroused, and fought to focus his attention on the mare.

  The Clydesdale’s breathing grew rapid and shallow. Duncan moved quickly to examine her. “’Tis too late, lass—we’re losin’ her.”

  “Nay! We’re not.” One arm sheathed to her shoulder, Alena worked to turn the foal, grunting with the effort. Then she eased back and withdrew her arm from the mare’s body.

  For a moment all was still. Iain offered up a silent prayer.

  To his astonishment, the mare suddenly convulsed and one slender foreleg shot from her body. Another followed. The mare pushed again, and Iain recognized a wet black nose. The foal’s head emerged, and Duncan laughed in relief.

  Alena crouched closer and positioned her arms under the awkward bundle. The mare strained. One final push and the new babe slid into the world.

  “I’ll be damned,” Iain said.

  Collapsing backward on the straw-covered floor, Alena cradled the slick black bundle in her lap. The air was thick with the smell of new life.

  The foal thrashed and struggled, kicking its spindly legs in an effort to stand. As Alena opened her arms the foal sprang to its feet and wobbled, quivering, toward its mother.

  Iain had witnessed many births in the stable, but never one that moved him as this one did. ’Twas her that moved him. Her strength, that iron will, and a quiet confidence she didn’t realize she possessed.

  The mare scrambled to her feet and emitted a low rumbling nicker, announcing to the world the birth of her son. She licked dry her babe’s wet coat. The foal nudged his head against the mare’s belly and soon after Iain heard the gentle suckling sounds of the newborn at his mother’s teat.

  Alena’s trembling hand caught his forearm, and he sucked in a breath. She turned to look up at him. As he met her gaze a dazzling smile broke across her face. He drank her in and felt a tightening in his chest. Nothing in his experience prepared him for this one moment of clarity.