The Mackintosh Bride

by Debra Lee Brown

  Lady Elizabeth Macgillivray. Beautiful and rich, but she was also snobbish and mean-spirited. Alena bristled at the recollection of Elizabeth’s rude remarks about her gown. No matter. Alena would soon be gone from here, and Iain would have his bride and his alliance.

  Her tears welled again and she battled them into submission. She could not allow herself to think about the future. A future without Iain. She must focus on this night alone, on her escape. ’Twould be dangerous, but she would succeed.

  The demesne was heavily guarded, but Alena was certain she could slip over the low spot in the wall at the back of the stable yard without being seen. With Destiny as her mount, once she was safely away from the lodge no one would be able to stop her. She recalled the lay of the land, spread out before her that day atop the ancient ruins.

  “Aye, I’ll find the way home.”

  Shivering, she padded to the bed. Earlier she’d tried to sleep but had just lain there, her mind racing. Nay, there would be no sleep for her tonight, nor tomorrow—not until she reached the Clan Grant demesne and her parents’ cottage.

  For the tenth time she inspected the things she meant to take with her. She would wear the breeches, boots and wool shirt she’d borrowed from young Jamie, and a plaid for warmth. But ’twould be too dangerous to ride into Grant territory wearing the Mackintosh colors. One of her kinsmen might kill her before he recognized her as one of their own. She’d take a Davidson plaid. She’d need the warmth and ’twould be safe enough.

  She rolled the pale yellow gown, her mother’s gift to her, into a small bundle and laid it aside along with the plaid.

  “Now all I need is a bit of food and a wineskin of ale.” ’Twould be foolish to try and ride that distance without some sustenance.

  Earlier that day she had collected some bread and cheese from the kitchen. She’d also lifted a half-full wineskin from off one of the mounts in the stable yard. Unfortunately Hetty had found her stash, hidden under the bed, and had taken it away with her that evening, muttering something about vermin.

  “Blast the girl!”

  Well, she’d just have to get more. She considered waiting until ’twas time to leave but discarded the idea at once.

  Should someone see her, ’twould be too difficult to explain what she was doing in the kitchen, dressed for a journey, in the wee hours of the night. Nay, she would go now, in her nightclothes. Should someone see her, she could simply say she was hungry.

  She grabbed the plaid, shook it out and whirled it ’round her shoulders, pulling it close about her. She padded to the door and lifted the latch. All was quiet.

  It had been quite a celebration that evening to welcome home the laird and lady. Most of the men had still been hung over from the festivities in the stable yard the night before. They should all be abed now, and sleeping soundly, she hoped.

  Still, this was no time to risk discovery. She stepped into the drafty corridor and, instead of turning left toward the main staircase that led to the great hall, she turned right, intending to use the small stairway at the opposite end of the corridor—the one the servants used between the upper floors and the kitchen.

  She crept quietly along the corridor, keeping close to the wall. There were no torches alight on this floor, only the pale glow of the tapers and the hearth fire from the great hall below to light her way. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  She passed a door on her right and stopped to listen. ’Twas Iain’s chamber, she was sure. She’d seen him come and go from it several times. She gripped the plaid tighter about her and closed her eyes for a moment, fighting the overpowering urge to simply walk through the door and into his arms.

  She forced herself to take a step, then another, moving quickly to the end of the corridor. She reached the stairs and put a hand out to steady her descent. The last thing she needed was to pitch forward into blackness and break her neck.

  Creeping silently down the curving stair, she felt the pleasant warmth of the kitchen hearth fire rise up to meet her. A warm glow softened the darkness and the smell of fresh bread buoyed her spirits. At the bottom of the steps she stopped and peeked tentatively ’round the corner into the kitchen.

  The room was empty.

  One of the Davidson dogs snored comfortably by the hearth, surrounded by a litter of clean, white venison bones. She stepped gingerly past him and headed for the larder.

  A chill suddenly gripped her. A light breeze billowed the hem of her thin night rail. She stopped and turned to see from whence it came. Scanning the room, she saw nothing. She turned back toward the larder but before she could take a step she felt the breeze again.

  This time she padded silently ’round the kitchen, looking for the source of night air. Ah, there it was! The small door leading to the garden stood open. She’d best close it against the chill night.

  She reached for the latch and froze.

  Iain sat on a bench, not twenty feet from her, resting against the smooth stones of the garden wall. Highland heather, a tangle of wildflowers and fragrant herbs surrounded him. In the ghostly moonlight he resembled more fairy spirit than warrior.

  In his hands he cradled a circlet, a child’s heartfelt gift: a braid of hair bound with a strip of tartan, the soft moonlight illuminating the marked contrast of chestnut against gold.

  The plaid slipped from her shoulders to the floor as she gripped the door frame for support. The tears she’d fought so desperately welled again, unbidden and unstoppable.

  She watched as he fingered the lovers’ knot affectionately, almost reverently, and was certain her heart would break from the magnitude of his tenderness.

  “Jesu, help me to be strong.”

  He looked up then, his own eyes dark and glassy, his face a mask of despair. The face of a boy who wept for his father, the face of a warrior who knew no peace from his inner torment.

  And in that moment she was lost forever in a fierce, immutable love that smote to dust her hard-won resolve.

  Chapter Thirteen

  She was really there.

  A woman, an angel—some ethereal creature all gossamer and silvered gold in the moon’s pale light. A gentle breeze lifted wild tendrils of hair from off her face and molded the diaphanous silk of her night rail to every curve of her body. She drew a breath and her breasts swelled against the milky fabric, nipples taut and ripe.

  She was the Madonna.

  Venus rising from a turbulent sea.

  Iain crushed the circlet in his fist and before he could rise she rushed toward him, an angel in flight. He opened his arms, and she fell to her knees before him.

  She wept, silver tears reflecting the moonlight. Her pain was replete, visceral, and he hungered to embrace it and fuse it with his own so they might burn together, bright against the dark promises that would keep them apart.

  She tried to pry his fingers open, and he resisted, suddenly fearful of losing her should she find the token he bore. She persisted, and for some reason he relented; he opened his hand and the lovers’ knot sprang forth. She studied it for a moment with a kind of awe, then looked up at him, eyes luminous silver in the milky light.

  Oh, how he loved her. He cupped her face with shaking hands. Nay, she would never understand. How could he tell her? How could he not? “Alena,” he breathed, and leaned in to kiss her.

  “Nay.” She pulled back from him, her eyes huge and liquid.

  He started to speak, wanted to tell her everything, but her fingers pressed lightly against his lips, stilling his words. “Do you not know me?”

  “What?” He searched her face, brushing her tears away with his thumbs.

  “Look at me!” Her hands trembled as she lifted the circlet, chestnut and gold, between them as if it were some holy relic.

  Anxiety gripped him. He felt as if all he knew, the infallible tenets that had shaped his life, were suddenly suspect. He ran his fingers through her hair, fisting a handful of spun gold, and drew it toward him.

  Her eyes begge
d him, implored him to see.

  And then he did see.

  “Lass,” he breathed in wonder, his eyes darting back and forth from her hair to the braided circlet she held in her hand.

  She grasped the front of his plaid and pulled him toward her. In a dream state he slid from the bench to the ground. Was it possible? She swayed in his arms and he steadied her, bracing himself against the faltering of his own liquid limbs.

  She murmured his name, tears brimming, her face contorting in anguish.

  His own eyes welled again. He gripped her shoulders tight, afraid to believe. Afraid not to. “It is you!”

  “Aye.” She tucked the circlet into the folds of his plaid, over his heart. “It’s me.” Her hands cupped his face and in her eyes, her gentle touch, he read an almost painful longing.

  “But…how? When did you know me?”

  “From almost the first I saw you.” Her mouth bloomed in a smile. “You’ve not changed all that much, you know.”

  He grinned and pulled her into an embrace, recalling the perpetually dirty face and wild, tangled hair of the sprite he once knew. “You have.” He drank in the sight of her, accepting what his heart knew as truth. “I canna believe I didna see it. I felt it, but…”

  He claimed her mouth in a desperate kiss, needing to touch her, taste her, prove to himself she was real. Aye, she was his. She always had been. ’Twas meant to be.

  He breathed in the warm scent of her and felt his heart swell with tenderness. Her tears were hot, salty on his lips as he peppered her face with small, fervent kisses. “Dinna weep, love.”

  “But you weep.”

  “For joy,” he said, stunned by the magnitude of his feelings. He kissed her again.

  She wiped his tears away and smiled up at him, her face radiant in the moonlight. Oh, that he could freeze this one moment in time forever.

  “So tell me, what is your name?”

  Her smile broadened and her eyes lit up. “’Tis Alena.”

  They both laughed.

  “I am glad, for ’tis the name that haunts my dreams and the one I whisper in my prayers.”

  She drew herself up for another kiss. They knelt on the hard, stony soil of the garden, but she seemed not to care. He lifted her. Their lips met and she trembled in his arms.

  He must know. He had to ask it.

  “Alena,” he whispered against her lips. “What is your surname, your clan?”

  Her body went slack in his arms. Her voice was the barest whisper. “Please, let us not speak of it this night.”

  Her face clouded with doubt and what he knew was fear. Nay, he wouldn’t force her. He must win her trust. “Oh, lass, I dinna care if ye are the devil’s own daughter. I love you.”

  “I have always loved you.”

  He held her for a moment, committing to memory her fresh, innocent beauty, the adoration in her eyes. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life.

  Then he bore her back and kissed her thoroughly. Her arms shot ’round him and she returned his kiss with an ardor that surprised him. He was all too aware that the thin silk of her shift was but a flimsy barrier between him and her bare flesh. He rolled his hips against her and watched her response. Her eyes were vitreous, passionate, her lips wet and parted, swollen from his rough kisses.

  The ache in his gut, the anxiety that gripped him at the thought of ever losing her, laid bare to him the magnitude of his love. “Marry me, Alena. Marry me.”

  Her soft brow furrowed. ’Twas not the response he’d expected. He moved a hand over the curve of her waist and upward, cupping her breast, and felt the sharp beat of her heart beneath his hand. “Say you’ll marry me.”

  Her eyes glassed with new tears. “’Tis my heart’s desire, but—”

  “Then it shall be so, as soon as this business with Grant is done.”

  “Nay! Promise me you will not go against him. He is very powerful. I’m afraid for you, Iain.”

  “Dinna worry about such things.”

  “But—”

  “Hush now,” he murmured against her lips. “Ye must trust me, love, to do what’s best.”

  He would protect her with his life, with all he commanded—no matter who she was—and wouldn’t have her anxious over events far beyond her control.

  His mouth moved over the moonlit curve of her neck, her skin afire against his lips. She moaned softly and he blazed a trail of brief, delicate kisses across her collarbone.

  “Iain,” she breathed. “Make love to me.”

  Oh, he intended to. He couldn’t help the low, guttural sound escaping his throat. He gripped her tighter and grazed his teeth along her bare shoulder. Her hips surged against him and his desire flared, his body stiff with need. Before he realized what he was doing, he’d slipped the gossamer night rail from off her shoulder.

  The silky fabric slid and caught on the hardened tip of one perfect breast. He tasted his way lower and her breaths grew short, like the panting of some wild, beautiful creature. He willed himself to stop, but his body ignored the plea.

  With his teeth he drew the silk over the edge, revealing her small areola. ’Twas lovely, virginal—a smooth, dusky ivory in the moonglow. He circled it with his tongue, then drew the ripe nipple into his mouth and began to suckle.

  She gasped and gave her weight up to him, her body quivering in his embrace. His own body quickened, his loins afire, as he gripped her tighter, kneading her buttocks and grinding his hips against her.

  “Aye,” she cried, and dug her nails into his shoulders.

  He was seconds away from losing all control. His head pounded, his blood screamed through his veins. His only thought was to bear her back onto the cool ground and slake his desire within her yielding body.

  Mustering all his discipline, he pushed himself away from her, his passion barely in check. “Nay, love. No’ like this. No’ here in this place.”

  Her face bloomed in a seductive fusion of innocence and passion. His need was all-consuming, but his determination to honor her, love her as she deserved to be loved, stayed his hunger. “We should wait for the wedding.”

  With a trembling hand he slid her shift back onto her shoulder, covering her exposed breast. “In the marriage bed where I was born—I and my father before me—there I will make you mine.” He kissed her softly on the mouth and felt a joy the likes of which he’d never known.

  But she could never truly be his, could she?

  A surge of emotion welled inside her and she choked back a sob, her eyes clouding again with tears. A vision of Reynold Grant flashed briefly, hideously, in her mind. She held tight to Iain, willing the image away. “I do not wish to wait. Make love to me, Iain. Now, tonight.”

  “Oh, lass.” His eyes grew dark and searching, his desire all too evident. “Are ye sure?”

  She was never more sure of anything in her life. She moved his hand to her breast, her eyes locked on his, and pressed it against her body. “Aye.”

  They came together in a desperate embrace, doubt and fear reborn into hope and unfettered joy. His mouth seared her skin with frenzied kisses. His hands were everywhere, fondling, stroking, and her desire exploded into furious passion.

  He swept her into his arms, and the shock of it left her breathless. He shot to his feet and carried her back into the kitchen. She clung to him, breathing in his musky, male scent, allowing her lips to roam the hot pulse point of his neck.

  He tightened his grip on her, then tripped over the dog who lay slumbering on the hearth. “Bluidy hell!”

  She laughed and held on tight as he recovered his footing, ducked into the stairwell, and bounded up the steps with her in his arms.

  “Hurry,” she whispered against his neck, no longer shocked by her own wantonness, not caring about anything beyond this one night, this moment in his arms.

  He bore her silently down the dark, empty corridor. Shifting her weight in his arms, he fumbled with the latch of his bedchamber door. A second later they were inside.
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  She’d never seen his room and her first impression was that it was small, much smaller than the one she occupied. ’Twas sparsely furnished with a simple bed flanked by a chest on one side and a plain wooden chair on the other. Atop the chest rested an elaborately carved box, a cup and an ewer. There were no tapestries on the walls, nor were there rushes on the bare, wooden floor. A fire burned low in the hearth and cast a warm glow about the otherwise spiritless place.

  Iain carried her to the bed and set her gently down beside it. He looked at her with longing, his eyes indigo pools, his face handsomely ruddy in the firelight. She would always remember him so, no matter what happened.

  He slipped the belt that held his broadsword from off his shoulder and leaned the weapon against the hearth. Then he removed the two dirks sheathed at his waist. She’d never seen a man undress before. She watched in fascination as he tugged off his boots and tossed them out of the way.

  Her heart thrummed in her chest as he unbuckled the wide leather belt that held his plaid in place ’round his waist. He hesitated for a moment, then cast it aside. The plaid slipped to the floor, leaving him naked but for his shirt.

  She yearned to let her eyes roam the long, muscular expanse of his legs, but willed herself hold his gaze. The night was still; silent but for the crackling of the fire.

  He undid the laces of his shirt then paused. “Are ye sure?”

  She nodded.

  “Do ye know what…to expect?”

  “Oh, aye. I’ve seen it many times.”

  His brows shot up in surprise, and she knew he’d mistaken her meaning. Her cheeks flamed. “With horses, I mean.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched in a smile. His eyes sparkled with tenderness. “Oh. Well, it’s no’ quite the same.”

  Without preamble, he stripped the shirt off and cast it aside. He stood naked before her, his body bathed in the hearth fire’s golden radiance.

  Her eyes widened of their own accord. She held her breath, transfixed by the virile beauty of the warrior who stood before her. She did let her eyes stray then, slowly roaming the landscape of his athletic form.