“And your speech,” Margaret said, interrupting her thoughts. “’Tis Scots and yet ’tis…different.”
“Oh, aye,” she said absently, her mind still working on the Macgillivray connection. “My mother is French and she—” Jesu, would she give herself away to this woman so easily? She glanced quickly at Margaret and caught her raised brows.
No matter. Margaret Macgillivray Davidson was a high-born lady and would not know of Robert and Madeleine Todd, stablemasters to Clan Grant. Alena forced herself to relax and continue with her work.
“Ah, yes, that would account for it.” Margaret’s voice was placid, unsurprised. She finished with the gowns and folded her small white hands in front of her. “Now, we missed you at the midday meal. You will join us for supper.” ’Twas a command, not a request.
Jesu, how would she muster the strength to sit at table with Iain and his bride and not betray her feelings? Her mind searched for a suitable excuse but she could think of nothing that would not create suspicion. Resigned to it, she nodded her assent and forced the words from her mouth. “I’d be honored, Lady.”
“You must call me Margaret.” She stepped closer and grazed long fingers over Alena’s cheek, letting them rest for a moment on her chin. Her eyes were warm and…knowing.
Jesu, Margaret knew her!
She felt it in the depths of her soul. But how? How did she know her? Duncan? Nay, he gave his word he wouldn’t yet speak of it, and Alena trusted the old man.
Father Ambrose? He must have recognized her and made his knowledge known. If so, they would all know she was a Todd—and of Clan Grant. But nay, this wouldn’t explain the lady’s recognition of her.
How could this be?
Alena’s mind raced. “Um, Father Ambrose…he will be at table this night?”
“Aye. We do not often see him. ’Tis a pleasure and a blessing to have a man of God among us.”
“Aye, it is.” Then, of a sudden, the obvious purpose of the priest’s visit slammed into her. She turned away and grasped the carved oak bedpost with both hands. Her throat went dry and her voice was but a rasp. “He is here to perform…the wedding?”
Margaret did not answer.
“Iain’s—I…I mean, the laird’s wedding?”
“Ah, aye.” Margaret’s voice was lilting, almost cheerful. “’Twould make sense to take advantage of his presence, would it not?”
Alena felt the hot sting of tears and for the third time that day fought for control. “Then Iain…does intend to wed?”
“From all I’ve seen and heard this day, it appears my nephew has every intention of marrying—and quickly.”
Alena sucked in her breath and closed her eyes against the hot torrents brimming there. White-knuckled, she dug her nails into the burnished wood of the bedpost.
Margaret’s footfalls moved toward the door. “But there is one question yet unanswered, child. Who shall be the bride?”
Chapter Twelve
She was late.
Iain ground his teeth and drummed his fingers impatiently on the huge oak table. The great hall was teeming with warriors who swilled their ale and related wild tales of the events of the past few weeks.
Alistair had taken his customary place at the head of the table on the dais near the hearth. The wood fire blazed and crackled behind him, casting a warm glow on the rest of the diners. Margaret sat on the bench to her husband’s left while Iain fidgeted in the seat to his uncle’s right, which afforded him a view of the wide staircase and entry.
Much to his displeasure, Elizabeth Macgillivray, attired in a revealing scarlet gown that left little to one’s imagination, had been seated next to him. She’d spent the past quarter hour attempting to engage him in trivial chitchat. Fortunately, his brother Gilchrist sat opposite them and was all too happy to secure the lady’s attentions.
Iain’s gaze drifted farther down the table to Father Ambrose who was wedged uncomfortably in between Hamish and Will with no way to politely escape their litany of bawdy jokes and made-up tales. Iain snorted in mild amusement then turned his attention to his ale cup, which he’d barely touched.
He’d tried all afternoon, without success, to see Alena alone. Three times he’d requested entry to her chamber—the third time his patience worn so thin he was tempted to grab an ax from the wall and split the door asunder. But he was refused on each occasion. Now he was desperate to speak with her, to make her understand there was no truth to this bride business.
He cast a sidelong glance to Elizabeth. Aye, she was pretty and alluring in that gown, but she held no interest for him. Normally he’d welcome the opportunity to bed a willing lass and think himself lucky to have one so fair. But her hair was all wrong. ’Twas dark, as were her eyes.
When Iain closed his own eyes he saw cascades of tumbled wheat and flax, and eyes the color of spring moss. Not pale, white skin, but burnished gold with a spray of freckles across the nose. Not some pretty plaything, weak and helpless, but a woman bonny and braw with a passion to match his own. A woman not afraid to take risks. A woman like Alena.
God help him, but he’d have her and no other.
He drew a breath and focused his eyes on the staircase. Where the devil was she? He was about to send Edwina in search of her when a pale yellow swirl at the top of the landing caught his attention. She floated down the staircase like some bright apparition, and he wasn’t the only man in the room to notice.
She wore her hair loose, a firefall of burnished gold in the warm glow of the hearth fire. She approached their table, head held high and eyes darting from one clansman to another, purposefully avoiding his gaze. The honey-silk gown she’d had on when first he’d seen her in the Highland wood suited her. Simple and elegant, ’twas a startling contrast to Elizabeth Macgillivray’s garish attire.
The gown had been cleaned and repaired, all traces of Reynold Grant’s despoilment gone. Iain stiffened, remembering the bloody fingerprints that had covered it the day he’d found her. Christ, he should have killed the whoreson when he’d had the chance.
He bristled at the nods of approval and lusty grunts drifting from the end of the table where half a dozen warriors sat transfixed by Alena’s presence.
Awkwardly, he pushed back the bench with his thighs, jostling the Lady Elizabeth who proceeded to spill her wine. He stood to offer Alena a seat, but she ignored him and walked tentatively toward the other end of the table.
Gilchrist shot to his feet. “Lady Alena. Will ye honor me?” He indicated a place on the bench between his seat and Margaret’s.
Alena hesitated, studying his brother’s irresistible smile, then accepted the seat, which placed her directly across the table from him and Elizabeth. Her cheeks flushed a demure peach, and she lowered her eyes to avoid both his gaze and Elizabeth’s noticeable scrutiny.
“We are so pleased you have joined us, my dear,” Margaret said, and affectionately patted her arm.
Alena flashed his aunt a thin smile. “Thank you, my lady.”
Alistair said nothing but watched her with interest. He glanced at Iain and cocked a brow.
“Hmph.” Iain looked evenly at his uncle for a moment, then lifted his ale cup and drained it in one swift motion.
“Alena,” Gilchrist said, “have ye met the Lady Elizabeth Macgillivray?”
Iain narrowed his eyes at his brother and made a mental note to murder him as soon as the meal was done. Alena looked up, and for a moment her eyes met Iain’s. His heartbeat quickened and he fisted his hands in his lap.
“I am pleased to meet you, Lady,” she said.
Ignoring Alena’s greeting, Elizabeth slid closer to him on the bench. “So, this is the horsewoman. She is the talk of Braedûn Lodge, is she not?”
Iain kept his eyes on Alena. “Aye, she is a woman of skill and knowledge where beasts are concerned.”
Alena’s cheeks flushed and she again riveted her gaze to the table and the steaming trenchers of food before them.
“Ah, beasts.” Elizabeth drew herself up
, her lips a hair-breath from his ear. “But what of her skill with men?” she whispered.
To his astonishment, he felt Elizabeth’s slippered foot graze his booted leg. He ignored her outrageous boldness. He was desperate to speak with Alena alone, but willed himself to get through the meal.
He noticed Elizabeth staring at Alena, her dark gaze inspecting, scrutinizing. She cleared her throat—a high, delicate sound. “Alena, ’tis an unusual name for a Scot. What is your clan?”
Her wine cup halfway to her lips, Alena froze. Iain leaned forward, as did the others at the table, straining to hear her answer over the din and raucous laughter echoing off the stone walls.
Alena sipped at her wine and met Elizabeth’s cool gaze. “I hale from far away.”
“Aye, well that would explain it—and your clothes.” Elizabeth smirked and flashed her dark eyes at Iain. “I havena seen a gown like that in years. ’Tis truly a relic.” She tittered, covering her mouth with a small white hand.
Alena lowered her cup. Her expression hardened to stone; her eyes burned a green, catlike fire. She drew a breath and Iain felt a stirring in his loins as he watched the gentle heaving of her breasts ’neath the close-fitting gown.
“Aye, ’tis old,” she said. “’Twas given me by someone I hold dear.” Her voice was deadly calm, and Iain thought her magnificent.
Elizabeth giggled. “A lover?”
Gilchrist shot him a mischievous grin.
The chatter at the table again ceased, and all waited for her reply. Iain realized that he, too, was waiting.
“Nay,” she said. “The gown was a gift from my mother.”
He exhaled, relaxing the taut muscles of his face. His heart raced, and he caught himself smiling stupidly at Alena’s response. He glanced at his uncle and aunt, who, for the second time this day, exchanged identical looks of surprise. They studied Alena with renewed interest as she began to pick at the roasted meat on the trencher she shared with Gilchrist.
“’Tis the loveliest gown I’ve e’er seen,” Iain said quietly, willing her to look at him.
At last she lifted her eyes and met his gaze.
With his own eyes he projected his awe of her strength and innocent perfection, his intense desire, his love and his torment—reaching out to her, bidding her to see.
And she did see.
He read it in her face, so startlingly beautiful, framed with a fire-gold halo that spilled like some alchemist’s molten treasure over shoulder, breast and waist. He felt her recognition and something else—something that shook him to his very core.
She loved him.
He knew it, breathed it, drank it in like a thirsty beggar who’d wandered for years in a wasteland. Their eyes locked and Iain was barely cognizant of the others watching them.
A second later she broke his gaze and the moment vanished. Oh, but she couldn’t take it back. And he would never forget it.
She turned her attention to the end of the table where Will and Hamish sat beside Father Ambrose. Iain looked past the pouting Elizabeth to better see their faces.
The two warriors were busily stuffing themselves with meat and bread, washing it all down with huge gulps of ale. The priest sat quietly between them, silent, his eyes on Alena.
Iain had met Father Ambrose but a few times. He was new to the Highlands and to the church, recently ordained, so Iain had heard. He was a young man, thin and nervous looking. He supposedly traveled among the clans, performing weddings, baptisms, last rites and the like. He might be able to provide some useful information about the comings and goings at Glenmore Castle if he, perchance, had passed that way. Iain would remember to ask him.
Alena didn’t look at the priest, but kept her eyes moving as if she were afraid to hold his gaze. Something was odd about her reaction to him, and Ambrose’s fixation on her.
“Hamish,” Ambrose said suddenly. “’Tis said that Reynold Grant bartered with your laird for some unnamed woman. His lover, I think she was.”
Iain choked on his wine. Alena jolted to attention and riveted her gaze on the priest.
“’Tis said he offered gold for her return.”
Hamish looked up from his trencher, still chewing, and caught Iain’s stony expression. He glanced briefly at Alena then said, “Aye, well, Iain told him—The Grant—that we’d no’ seen such a woman.”
Alena didn’t move a muscle. Her face was blank, but her eyes grew wide with trepidation. Iain longed to hold her, calm her fears. And to find out the truth of things.
Hamish smiled, still chewing, and pointed his knife at the priest. “But if we had, d’ye think our laird would give her up to his sworn enemy, just like that?”
Ambrose glanced speculatively at Iain. “Nay, I don’t think he would.” He sipped his wine and said, “So, there’s to be a war.”
The table went dead quiet. All eyes turned on the priest.
“And where did ye hear that, Father?”
Ambrose flushed, as if he just this moment realized he’d gone too far. “Why, the…t-talk’s all over the Highlands. And at Glenmore Castle.”
“I’d have a word with ye, Ambrose.” Alistair’s face was stone. “Later.”
“And, Father,” Iain said coldly, “whilst we are honored to have a man of God among us, ye’d best be moving on. I’m certain there’s many a clan could profit from your services.”
Elizabeth Macgillivray squeaked beside him.
The priest flit his eyes to her, to Margaret and Alistair, then back to Iain. “But surely—”
“The morrow should prove a good day to travel. My brother, Gilchrist, and a score of warriors will see ye safe to our border.”
Elizabeth shifted on the bench beside him and screwed her reddened lips into a pout. “But—”
“On the morrow.” Iain held his cup aloft for the serving maid who sprang forward to refill it.
The corners of Gilchrist’s mouth curved in a wry smile, and for a moment Iain met his brother’s gaze.
He returned his attention to Alena who’d gone shock-still with the news of Grant. He tried to coax a glance from her but failed. He was reluctant to speak to her directly for fear, once he started, he’d pour his soul out in front of his family, his clan and their guests.
Nay, he must wait until they were alone. And then he’d speak his heart.
She was in some deep trouble, that much Iain knew. He must persuade her to trust him, to enlist his help. She wouldn’t be forced to reveal the truth, and he no longer wished to force her. He loved her. He wanted her to trust him, to seek his aid, and his love.
And he wanted to trust her—with his heart, his pain, his plans for his clan and his hopes for the future. But what future could there be for her with him? In truth, he could very well be dead within the week, should he face Grant as planned.
His warriors were more than ready, itching for battle, and loyal to his cause. Mackintosh and Davidson alike supported his claim, but their numbers were small compared to Grant’s vast army. Even if they could reclaim Findhorn and rout the Grants from off his land, the vermin would return and in huge numbers.
He needed the support of all the Chattan clans, and to count on the Macgillivrays and the MacBains was foolish. They would require more than Iain’s words to condemn Reynold Grant for his past sins. Proof was needed of his treachery, and of the innocence of Iain’s father on that night long ago.
He must find that jeweled dagger!
’Twas the only way now. But how?
“When will ye make your move, lad?” Alistair whispered.
He met his uncle’s gaze. “In two days, perhaps three. There is something I must do first.”
An image of the girl clutching the plaid-wrapped dirk to her breast flashed briefly in Iain’s mind. He turned and caught Alena watching him.
Bloody hell, what was he going to do?
“Iain.” Alistair tugged on his shirtsleeve. “There is something ye need know.”
“Tomorrow,” he said, not listening.
Alena lowered her eyes. She pushed back from the table and abruptly stood. “Laird, Lady,” she said to Alistair and Margaret. “I bid you pardon me. I’m very tired and would retire now.”
His aunt smiled at her. “But, child, you’ve hardly touched your food. Won’t you stay awhile longer?”
“Thank you, Lady, but nay.”
She turned to leave and Iain saw his chance.
He shot from his seat. “Alena, I’ll escort ye to your chamber.”
He bolted ’round the table, but she moved to Gilchrist’s side and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, nay, Laird. Do not trouble yourself. Your brother has already offered.”
Gilchrist grinned and cocked a wiry, blond brow. “Oh, aye,” he said, rising quickly from the bench. “I’d be honored, Lady.” He extended his arm to her.
Iain offered his hand, as well, but Alena stepped away and wouldn’t meet his eyes. She took Gilchrist’s proffered arm and pulled him quickly to the staircase.
Iain watched them ascend, his gut churning, until the hem of her gown disappeared with a swoosh at the top of stairs.
In another hour the moon would set. ’Twas nearly time.
Alena leaned against the window frame in her chamber and stared at the bright orb that just last night had beamed full and glorious, as had her heart.
Iain’s love words, his heated kisses, their bodies writhing together in desperate need—it all seemed a lifetime ago, crushed by the cruel events of this day.
She felt chilled suddenly, and briskly rubbed the goose-flesh from her arms. Hetty had helped her undress and had insisted she don the gossamer night rail Lady Margaret had given her that afternoon. Alena had resisted at first, but then relented, knowing ’twould be the only time she’d ever wear it. She ran her hands over the nearly sheer silk and felt her nipples harden beneath the wispy fabric.
“Jesu, give me the strength to leave him.”
She recalled Iain’s curious behavior at supper. He’d actually shunned Elizabeth’s attentions. Every time Alena had looked up from the table, Iain was staring at her, not at the small dark beauty who’d soon be his wife.
The Mackintosh Bride Page 15