The Mackintosh Bride

by Debra Lee Brown

  “A party for a horse. Christ, Gilchrist, is there no excuse too paltry for ye to break open every last hogshead of Alistair’s ale and stumble drunk around a bonfire as big as a house?”

  His brother’s face fell. “’Twas really for Lady Alena that we did it. I—the whole clan wished to do something to show their gratitude for Conall, and the colt.”

  Iain paused to watch the dancers. He hadn’t seen his kinsmen so merry in months. “Aye, well, ’twas a bonny idea.”

  “Alena thought so, too. She was most appreciative of—”

  His hackles rose as he recalled Alena twirling brightly in Gilchrist’s arms. “And about Alena…I asked ye to watch her, no’ court her like a smitten youth.” He elbowed his brother hard in the ribs.

  “Och, I was but makin’ sure she didna get lonely whilst ye were away.”

  Iain shot him a hard look.

  “Besides, ’tis another Mackintosh who’s smitten, me-thinks.” Gilchrist grinned and pulled a long green straw from Iain’s rumpled plaid.

  “Hmph.” He scowled at the crowd. Then another interpretation of his brother’s words struck him. He grabbed Gilchrist’s arm. “Who? Which Mackintosh? Give me the man’s name.”

  Gilchrist dissolved into laughter, and Iain thought seriously about putting his fist through his brother’s handsome face.

  “Oh, brother,” Gilchrist chuckled, “I wish our mother, God rest her soul, could have seen ye like this. ’Tis verra amusing.”

  Alena had looked stunning in his mother’s gown. Iain fought back a wave of emotion. “Go on, then, choose your men, and see you’re away by dawn.”

  Iain narrowed his eyes as he spied Will leaning against the water trough. Hetty was standing not a foot from him. The two were holding hands, lost in each other’s eyes, and looked for all the world like a pair of lovebirds. Iain snorted. “And take him with you,” he said, nodding in Will’s direction. “Christ—a celebration. War’s brewin’ and ye’ve organized a bluidy dance!”

  Gilchrist smiled and ambled toward the house. Iain leaned against the fence, staring blindly at the ground under his feet. A vision of Alena, lying naked and eager in a bed of sweet new straw, filled his mind.

  “Bluidy hell, what was I thinking?” To bed her in the hayloft as if she were one of Gilchrist’s willing milkmaids? Nay, he wouldn’t dishonor her so. ’Twas more than one passionate night he desired from her—much more.

  He pushed himself away from the fence and moved toward the stable yard entrance. As he strode through the gate he felt a sharp tug on the back of his thick leather belt. He whirled and looked down into the wrinkled, scowling face of Edwina.

  She thrust a clean shirt into his hands. “Here,” she said. “Dress yerself.” Before he could respond she scurried into the night.

  He pulled the shirt over his head, tucked it quickly into his kilt, then secured his plaid to his shoulder with the silver clan brooch. His gaze traveled past the bonfire to the small hayloft window of the foaling shed.

  Let her still be there, he prayed silently to himself, and wove his way through the crowd toward the shed. He threw open the door and leaped onto the hayloft ladder. Three steps later he was at the top, staring blankly at an empty bed of straw.

  She would tell Iain everything.

  Gavin offered her a foot up, and Alena mounted the black stallion. She guided him around the smoldering remains of last night’s bonfire and out through the stable yard gate. The sky was clear and the air warm. Summer had come, and with it unforeseen events that had irrevocably changed her life.

  The courtyard was unusually quiet. She had noticed this morning that a sizable number of horses were missing from their stalls. Gavin had made no comment when she’d asked him about it.

  Just before dawn she’d heard a commotion in the stable yard, but thought it only the remains of last night’s revelers and had burrowed deeper into her bed, letting sleep reclaim her. She would ask Iain about it after she had answered all of his questions about her and Reynold Grant.

  She tilted her head back and let the sun warm her face. She’d dressed this morning in her work clothes—worn breeches and light woolen shirt, her hair loose, as always—and wondered now why she had not donned a gown instead.

  He’d called her beautiful.

  She ran her hand absently along her throat and recalled his hot mouth on her skin. Her passion had nearly equaled his, and she wondered if he would think her too bold.

  She spurred the black forward toward the main gate. Gavin had told her he’d seen Iain astride his mount, patrolling the outer wall of the estate. She wanted to speak to him right away. Now, in fact.

  Midsummer’s Day was but five days hence. Time was short.

  She passed the armory, which was a bustle of activity. Three fletchers worked crafting arrows. She saw hundreds of them sheaved and piled in neat stacks outside the good-size building. The farriers from the stable worked alongside the man whom Duncan had said was the Davidsons’ master weapons craftsman. Dozens of broadswords, dirks of all lengths, and double-headed axes lay in stacks at their feet.

  They were preparing for battle.

  She smiled weakly as she passed the laborers, but they didn’t look up from their work. A chill ran up her spine as she considered the implications to both clans, Mackintosh and Davidson, of a full-scale war against Reynold Grant and his army.

  She must stop it. ’Twas madness.

  She must make Iain see the folly of engaging Reynold in battle. There was no possible way for Iain to win. Unless he had resources that were, as yet, unknown to her.

  She approached the main gate and was surprised to see it closed. The huge larch log that normally lay propped against the stone wall was now in place across the heavy gate, barring entrance and exit. Half a dozen Davidson warriors stood at attention on the scaffolding that hugged the wall, looking outward toward the forest below them.

  One of them, a man Alena recognized, turned as she approached. “I wish to go out,” she said. “Can you please open the gate for me?”

  Two other warriors turned and the three of them stared at her. Not one moved from his post.

  Perhaps they didn’t hear her. She would speak louder. “I wish to—”

  “Nay, Lady,” the man she knew called down to her. “I canna open the gate. The Mackintosh’s orders.”

  “But I wish to see him—The Mackintosh. If you would but open the gate I could—”

  “I’m sorry, Lady, but I canna. The laird instructed us no’ to let ye out. For any reason.”

  A small crowd had gathered to watch her interaction with the guards. She was more than mildly irritated by their presence and the warrior’s refusal to let her pass.

  “We’ll just see about that.” She had it in mind to make a run at the low spot in the curtain wall at the back of the house, where once before she’d easily cleared the top on Iain’s stallion. She started back toward the stable yard when she heard a scuffle behind her.

  She turned her mount and saw that three of the guards had left their posts and were sliding the wooden bar back from its position across the gate.

  Well, they must have thought better of preventing her exit. She whispered to her mount and he eased forward until he stood but a nose from the gate. The guards swung the huge doors inward and the black retreated, step by step, until the gate creaked past him, leaving him nose to nose with—

  Iain’s roan.

  She caught the look of surprise on Iain’s face before both horses reared. She clung desperately to her mount’s back so as not be flung to the ground.

  Iain was not as lucky. Several warriors sprang forward to assist him as he groaned from his sprawled position in the dirt just outside the gate. He waved them off and scrambled to his feet.

  Alena sat quietly on the black, swallowing her laughter, and proffered the most innocent expression she could manage. Iain grabbed the bridle. The black started.

  “Get down from that horse. Now.”

  From one minut
e to the next she never knew what to expect from him. Well, his rudeness she would not abide.

  “Nay, I will not. He’s my horse and I’ll ride him when I like.” As soon as the words left her mouth she regretted them.

  Iain’s eyes blazed. She could see he was struggling with how to respond. At any moment he was likely to yank her from the beast’s back and carry her off, as seemed his wont.

  A tall Davidson clansman elbowed his way through the crowd and nodded at Iain. Alena recognized him as one of the warriors who’d been at table with Gilchrist on the day she’d asked to leave. “She’s right, Laird,” the warrior said. “The stallion is hers.”

  Iain narrowed his eyes at the man. “What?”

  “Aye, ’tis true. Gilchrist made her a gift of the beast whilst ye were away south.”

  Iain swore under his breath, then handed the bridle to the Davidson warrior. “Aye, all right.” He reached for her, but stopped just short of touching her. “But ye will come with me now, lass.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief and slipped into his waiting arms. He set her on the ground and waved the small group of clanfolk back to their duties. Their mounts were led away. Iain grasped her hand and pulled her along after him.

  “Ye will never defy me again.” His voice was sharp with thinly veiled anger, and something more.

  “But—”

  “D’ye hear me?” He jerked her arm and she stumbled.

  He turned to catch her and pulled her into his arms. She could feel his heart pounding. He grabbed her chin so she was forced to look into his stormy eyes.

  “Dinna ye know how dangerous that black beast is?” His voice was thick with emotion. “I’m doin’ my best to keep ye safe, but ’twould be easier if ye helped.” He grazed his lips lightly across hers and released her from his embrace.

  “But he’s no danger. Well, not to me, he isn’t.”

  He grabbed her hand again. She struggled to keep up with his long stride as he pulled her toward the house.

  “Even Duncan says so. He may not be fit for others to ride, but he responds well to me.” She pulled Iain to a stop. “Let me keep him, please. I’ll have need of a good mount.”

  He searched her face and she could see his resolve crumble. He growled and she knew she’d won. “Och, all right. But ye mustna ride him unescorted. No’ as yet.” She nodded her head enthusiastically. “And ye canna leave the estate. ’Tis too dangerous.” She frowned and Iain eyed her sternly. “D’ye understand? ’Tis for your own safety.”

  He was right. She knew nothing of his recent dealings with the neighboring clans, but she’d heard talk of the Grants and the MacBains, and knew she should heed his words.

  “Aye, I understand.”

  His expression softened and he smiled. “Good. Now, what have ye named him?”

  “The black?” She’d given some thought to that. “Destiny,” she said.

  “Destiny?”

  “Aye.”

  “’Tis a strange name for a horse.”

  She beamed a smile at him and felt a tightness in her chest. “Not so strange, methinks.”

  Iain grazed the back of his hand across her cheek. “I’ve something I would speak with ye about. About last night.”

  Her cheeks warmed. “There is something else I would speak to you of first.” She must tell him who she was, and about Grant’s threats to her family. Time was short.

  “Come, lass,” he said, and pulled her toward the stone steps leading to the house. He lifted her onto the second step so her eyes were even with his, and held her lightly around the waist. “Now, about last night, what we did—I did—in the hayloft. ’Twas wrong.”

  “But—”

  He put a finger to her lips. “Shh. Now let me finish. ’Twas wrong, and I dinna want ye to think—”

  The thunder of hoofbeats interrupted their conversation. Iain’s hand shot to the hilt of his sword. He relaxed when he saw the riders come into view. A grin graced his ruggedly handsome face.

  She knew now why so many of the stalls had been empty that morning. She guessed there to be at least fifty warriors clattering through the gate, heavily armed and in full battle dress. They approached the house and turned past the steps, heading for the stable yard.

  A cry went up among the clanfolk in the courtyard. “Davidson! Davidson!” The warriors guarding the gate unsheathed their swords and lifted them in silent tribute.

  Gilchrist led the company. Alena thought him magnificent in his studded-leather armor, his long, flaxen hair catching in the breeze.

  With him rode Hamish, Will and two people she did not know but guessed to be Alistair and Margaret Davidson, the laird and lady of Braedûn Lodge. They sat astride twin white geldings, and Alena thought she had never seen so fair and regal a couple.

  “Laird, Uncle,” Iain called warmly to the tall, lanky man. “We didna expect ye for some days yet.”

  Gilchrist nudged his mount closer. “We met them on the forest road not two hours south of the house. They came up over the mountains, avoiding the pass altogether.”

  “’Twas wise, Uncle,” Iain said.

  “Aye.” Alistair nodded, smiling broadly at his nephew. “I would speak with ye later on this and other matters.”

  Alena could see a slight resemblance between the two. Alistair Davidson had tawny, flowing hair, just graying at the temples, and warm brown eyes. In the saddle he looked to be as tall as Iain, but not as heavily built. He had the same long, straight nose and finely chiseled features, which Alena now realized were bequeathed to Iain from his mother’s people. She guessed the laird to be in his mid-forties. He appeared fit and a warrior still, yet he did not bear that rough, hardened edge about him as did Iain.

  Iain nodded then turned to Margaret and bowed. “Lady, let me bid ye welcome home.”

  The lady of Braedûn Lodge was the most elegant woman Alena had ever seen. There had been few noblewomen at Glenmore Castle. John Grant, the old laird, had had no wife in Alena’s lifetime. The little she knew of such highborn women came from the stories her mother had told her of the French court, from the days when Madeleine Todd, née Fouret, was a lady-in-waiting. Before she’d wed Robert Todd and had come to Scotland.

  Margaret Davidson was cloaked in her clan’s plaid and threw it off to reveal dark hair, coiled tight about her head in thick braids that bore the barest hint of silver. Her skin was pale alabaster, striking against her scarlet gown, and set off by clear blue eyes.

  Alena thought, self-consciously, of her own freckled, sun-bronzed features and wild tangle of hair. She surveyed her inappropriate garments, wiped her hands on her breeches and struggled to meet the lady’s penetrating gaze.

  Iain surprised her by taking her hand in his and guiding her down the steps. “Uncle, Auntie, this is Alena.” His voice projected a quiet reverence that made her blush. She, a stablemaster’s daughter, presented to them as if she were some highborn maid.

  Alistair and Margaret arched their brows and exchanged brief looks. For a moment they hesitated, and Iain squeezed her hand tightly in reassurance. Alena realized she was holding her breath and exhaled as the laird and lady smiled warmly at her.

  “Alena,” Margaret said, “we are most pleased.” Her voice was engaging, almost melodic. Alena smiled up at her.

  “She is here with us under my protection,” Iain said.

  Alistair studied her closely. “Ye are welcome in our home, lass.” His eyes sparkled with what Alena thought a hint of recognition. She quickly averted her eyes from his discerning gaze.

  The mounts fidgeted and nickered as Will and Hamish nudged their horses apart to allow two more riders to approach the steps.

  Oh, no!

  Father Ambrose sat before them on a swaybacked mare, mopping his sweaty brow with a frayed piece of cloth. He nodded at Iain then frowned at her; whether in recognition or disapproval of her attire, Alena didn’t know. He was a young priest, newly ordained and sent to serve a number of clans. Alena had met him only once and prayed
he would not remember what she looked like.

  Her attention was drawn to the other rider, a small, lovely woman with delicate white skin and bound hair as black as a raven’s wing. She had dark, wide-set eyes and rose-blush lips. She looked to be about Alena’s age. She was beautiful, and something about the way she looked at Iain with those huge, knowing eyes made Alena uncomfortable. She bristled and let go his hand.

  Iain smiled at the young woman and looked to Gilchrist for an introduction. “And who is this fair lady, brother?”

  Gilchrist grinned from ear to ear, a mischievous glint in his bright blue eyes. “Iain, may I present Elizabeth Macgillivray—your bride.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Alistair had truly gone mad this time.

  Iain paced along the edge of the slate hearth in his uncle’s apartment, purposefully kicking up the border of newly laid rushes covering the floor. “Aye, I want the alliance,” he said, “but I willna take his daughter to wife to have it.”

  Alistair Davidson sat in the elaborately carved chair that was his favorite and drummed his fingertips lightly on the oak side table. His expression was unreadable, but Iain knew well what was his uncle was thinking.

  Briefly, he glanced at his aunt Margaret who sat silent in the chair opposite her husband. She shot Alistair an I told you so look that told Iain she’d not been in favor of this plan.

  “You’re wearing a groove in the floor, lad. Sit ye down.” His uncle indicated the richly padded stool tucked just to the side of the fireplace.

  Iain continued to pace. “Why did ye have to bring her here? Ye knew I wouldna wed her.”

  Margaret smirked at Alistair. “Your uncle thought if you saw her, how lovely she is, you might agree to the match.”

  Iain snorted.

  “Come, lad,” Alistair said. “It doesna matter if she favors a toad. The important thing is Macgillivray offered her, and if ye wish the alliance ye’d best take her.” He reached into the folds of his plaid and withdrew a rolled parchment. “Here’s the marriage contract, and it’s verra generous. He’s offered lands, two small lodges and gold.”