The Mackintosh Bride

by Debra Lee Brown

  A kind of horror gripped her as Madeleine drew a rolled, yellowed parchment from the crevice and offered the document to her. With trembling hands she accepted it.

  “Read them,” Robert said.

  “There are two, ma petite, one rolled inside the other.”

  She unfurled the brittle paper and separated the two documents. One was written in French, the other in her native Scottish. She chose the latter and spread it carefully on the table.

  As she began to read, a roil of emotions churned inside her. She was helpless to fight the tears which sprang to her eyes.

  “’Tis written in the hand of the old laird, John Grant,” she said, awed. “Aye, here is his signature and his seal at the bottom. ’Tis dated mere months ago!” She choked back a sob and looked up at them. “It says here that he, John Grant, is my father.” She shook her head, not wanting to believe it. “Nay, ’tis not so.”

  Tears welled in Robert Todd’s eyes. He reached out a craggy hand and grasped one of hers. “Aye, lass, John Grant was your father, and my friend. He penned that document the very hour we broke the news to him. Insurance, he’d called it, in case…Well, ye know what happened afterward.”

  “But…” She pulled her hand away, stunned, and turned to the woman she would always think of as her mother. “What does it mean?” A wave of nausea washed over her. “Mother?”

  Madeleine’s eyes glassed, and Alena saw her battle the torrent of tears threatening to erupt. “Read the other, ma petite,” she said, her voice thin and shaky.

  Alena spread the second parchment with trembling hands and quickly scanned its contents. Her gaze was riveted on the signature and seal at the bottom. “Beatrix d’Angoulême,” she breathed. “’Tis true then.”

  “Your maman,” Madeleine whispered.

  She read the document carefully, translating from the French. “‘Alena of Angoulême, sole heir of my fortune and my estates…’”

  “That is you, ma petite. Your maman wrote this on her deathbed, not an hour after you were born. I was her lady-in-waiting, her friend.”

  Alena sat there, barely able to speak, her thoughts racing. She shook her head in denial but could see the truth of it in their eyes. “Tell me about her. Tell me about my…mother.”

  “She was a beauty,” Madeleine said, her brown eyes alight with the memory.

  “Aye, she was, lass,” Robert said, “and your da, John Grant—from the moment he looked upon her he loved her. ’Twas over twenty years ago now, the laird and I traveled to the French court of Philip the Second. John’s first wife, Henry’s mother, had died the year after her son was born.”

  Alena had heard the story when she was a girl. The old laird had not taken another wife. She had always wondered why, and was now about to hear the answer.

  “John took me with him to France. We were to buy horses, Arabians from Spain, sold through someone he knew in Angoulême.”

  “That’s where I first met your father—I…I mean, Robert,” Madeleine said.

  “Aye, and ’twas where John Grant met Beatrix of Angoulême. I’d known the laird long years. We were lads together when my own da ran the stable here and his da was laird. I’d ne’er seen John so taken with a woman before—not even his wife, whom he loved. He was well into his thirties when he met yer mother, and she…weel, she was but ten and nine.”

  “Like me,” Alena said.

  “Aye, but ye are even bonnier, and she was a rare beauty. Ye have her hair, all spun gold in waves down to yer waist. But ye’ve got John’s eyes, green like a cat’s.”

  She unconsciously wound a tress of hair around her hand. ’Twas true, she looked nothing like Robert and Madeleine Todd who were both small and dark. She always wondered about the dissimilarity. She was tall and fair, as John Grant once had been—as Reynold was now.

  Cousins. A small shudder coursed through her.

  Madeleine edged closer along the bench, eager it seemed, to tell her everything now that the secret was revealed. “They loved each other, your mother and father. But she was betrothed to another—a rich comte, a man of great power in France. She was titled and wealthy in her own right but would not go against her father’s wishes. So they met in secret, Beatrix and John Grant. Robert and I carried their letters back and forth and arranged for their trysts.”

  “Aye, and that’s when I first came to love ye, Maddy.”

  Madeleine blushed. “Beatrix sent John Grant away, determined to wed the comte according to her father’s plan. But when it was learned she was with child, she was sent away to have the babe in secret, and I with her. Her parents were furious she wouldn’t reveal the father’s name. A few months later you were born.”

  “And…my mother?”

  “Dead at childbed.” Madeleine paused to let her take it all in. “I feared for you, ma petite. Of what would become of you. So I did a foolish thing.”

  “No’ so foolish,” Robert said, and shot her a half smile.

  “I took you and I fled. I crossed the channel, and from England sent word to Robert.”

  “And you told the laird, and he sent for me.” He had wanted her! Somehow, that made it all bearable.

  “Nay,” Robert said. “The laird never knew about ye. Nor did I, ’til a few months ago.”

  “What?” Her head spun, each new detail jerking her emotions into a roil of confusion.

  “I kept it all a secret.” Madeleine grasped her hand. “For fear of losing you, ma petite. I swore on your mother’s deathbed I would care for you, protect you, always.”

  Alena grazed a hand across her cheek. “And so you have.”

  “In the letter come from England, Maddy lied—said she’d had a babe. And naturally I thought…”

  “You thought I was yours!”

  Robert nodded.

  “But, all this time? All these years?”

  “I never told the secret,” Madeleine said. “It was…”

  “’Twas wrong, Maddy,” Robert said. “Dead wrong. But I dinna fault ye for it.”

  “I loved you.” Madeleine’s tears broke, and Alena embraced her.

  “And I you. Both of you.”

  “Robert came to England and brought me, and you, back here to Scotland. I married him the day we arrived at Glenmore Castle.”

  “Aye, you’ve told me many times you could have wed any number of wealthy Frenchmen,” Alena said, marveling at the tale.

  “’Tis true, ma petite, but none of them captured my heart as did Robert Todd, stablemaster to Scotland’s Clan Grant. And you…you are like my own child, wrought from my own body, so close was I to your mother.”

  “And the laird, John Grant…he never knew then, that he was my father.” Remorse welled inside her. The old laird had been a good man. He’d always been kind to her and the Todds. A flood of random memories washed over her.

  “Oh, but he did know, in the end,” Robert said. “The day ye turned ten and nine Maddy came to me with the secret. I went straightaway to the laird with a copy of the parchment ye hold there.” He nodded at the French missive. “That very night John Grant was killed.”

  She remembered the mystery surrounding the old laird’s death. A chilling thought occurred to her. Aye, ’twas the only explanation that made any sense. “Reynold must have known! He must have found out, and…”

  “Aye, and killed him,” Robert said. “Why, I can only guess. But I suspect he was after the match with ye, and the laird wouldna approve it.”

  “He killed him! His own uncle.”

  “Your father,” Robert said.

  ’Twas too horrible to comprehend.

  “So you see, ma petite, you do not have to wed Reynold.” Madeleine wiped away her tears and smiled. “Not now.”

  “Aye, I see.”

  “We must go to the council.” Robert pushed back from the table. “The elders. We must tell the tale and show the documents. They will know what to do.”

  Alena rerolled the parchments and stuffed them into the pocket of her gown. Today
was the solstice, Midsummer’s Day, the longest day of the year. As such, sunset was hours hence. She was exhausted, in desperate need of sleep, and time to think. But there was no time.

  She didn’t want to be highborn, neither French nor Scots. She wished to live quietly, with the only parents she’d ever known. Raise and train horses, be of use to her family and her clan. There was one other thing she wished—so much her heart ached with the wanting—but ’twas impossible now.

  Iain would truly hate her, if he knew the truth. The irony of the situation made her laugh amidst her tears. Think what it would have meant, if she’d wed him. Iain would have aligned with a powerful clan, indeed. One who boasted near a thousand warriors amongst all its families.

  Clan Grant.

  Iain would have wed her, Alena Grant, cousin of his most hated enemy.

  Nothing went as planned. An hour later Alena spurred Destiny up the hill toward the keep, surrounded by Reynold’s men. The sentries had not allowed Robert and Madeleine Todd to accompany her. Now what would she do?

  The day was cool and clear, the scent of summer heather thick in the surrounding forest. She had donned a simple gown of soft, rose-colored wool and arranged it as modestly as she might whilst riding astride. Her hair was plaited and hung in a thick, gold rope over her shoulder. She pushed it away and unconsciously checked the position of the dirk belted at her waist and the rolled parchments hidden in the deep pocket of her gown.

  They rode in silence for a time, then the senior soldier reined his mount in line with hers. “Lady, ye are no’ sportin’ the gown the laird commanded ye wear.”

  “Nay, I am not.”

  A thin smile creased the warrior’s mouth. “He’ll no’ be pleased.”

  “I expect he will not, but ’tis of no consequence as there will be no wedding today.”

  The soldier raised a brow but did not question her.

  Her statement was bold, but she had to do something, trust someone. She knew this man, this captain in Reynold’s army, and wondered whether or not he might aid her. She must find out, and quickly.

  “You are Owen, are you not?” she said. “One of the laird’s captains.”

  He smiled at her, surprise and delight in his eyes at her recognition of him. “Aye, lass.”

  “How long have you served the laird?”

  “Reynold, ye mean?”

  She nodded.

  “No’ long. Since the old laird’s passing. A pity, that, God rest his soul. He was a great man.”

  “Aye, he was that—and more.”

  “Before he died I was his senior soldier. Now I serve his nephew.”

  Spurred by his comments, she decided to be bold. “And what think you of Reynold’s leadership?” She fixed her gaze on him and watched for some reaction.

  He nudged his mount closer. “Ye’ve witnessed his leadership with your own eyes. What would any man who loved his people think of such a laird?”

  She allowed the corners of her mouth to turn up just slightly. Owen held her gaze. “So,” she said. “Should another challenge his position and the council back him, you would support a…change?”

  The warrior casually scanned the blank faces of his men. Alena knew they listened but he did not seem to care. “I would support this…change,” he said. “In fact, there is talk already afoot.”

  “Is there?” Heartened by this news, she drew the rolled parchments from the pocket of her gown. “Owen, if John Grant had had another child, besides Henry, would you serve that issue with the same loyalty as you showed the old laird?”

  Owen narrowed his eyes. “I would.”

  She separated the parchments and handed him the Scottish missive, tucking the French document back into her pocket. She watched as he unfurled it.

  Owen scanned the parchment and nearly fell off his mount. He looked at her, astonished.

  She edged Destiny closer and grasped his forearm. “Will you help me, should I need you?”

  He placed a gauntleted hand over hers, his expression grave. “I would protect ye with my life. But what think ye to do?”

  She frowned as she took the document from him and returned it safely to the pocket of her gown. “I know not—yet. I cannot predict how Reynold will take this news of my paternity.”

  “Methinks he willna be pleased.”

  “I must reach the council, the elders. They will know what to do.”

  “They meet today, as we speak! In the great hall.”

  She urged Destiny into a trot, and Owen and his men stepped up their pace. She pressed further. “Know you George Grant?”

  The warrior’s brows shot up. “Reynold’s cousin—aye, and your cousin, as well, I suppose.”

  She nodded.

  “He’s a bit young, but he’s led his own, near five hundred folk, since his father died two years ago. He is the one, truth be told, who thinks to unseat Reynold.”

  “Think you George would come to my aid should anything happen this day?”

  Owen’s expression hardened. “Aye, lass, methinks he would. But rest easy that no harm will come to ye whilst I yet live.”

  “My thanks, Owen. You are a good man.”

  This news of George’s intentions buoyed her courage. They rode the rest of the way in silence and she felt strangely comforted by the way Owen and his warriors closed in around her, protecting her, it seemed, though the captain had uttered not a word to his men.

  The main gate lay open and the party entered the bailey, riding directly to the keep. Few folk were about and she thought it strangely quiet. Two of her father’s stable lads rushed from the small castle stable and steadied their horses whilst Alena, Owen and his men dismounted.

  “Keep them close at hand, lads,” Owen said, eyeing the boys. “Come,” he said, “we shall all go together.”

  Alena followed the warrior up the stone steps to the keep. They were met at the door by Perkins and two dozen of Reynold’s henchmen. “He’s abovestairs, in his apartments.” Perkins eyed Owen suspiciously. “I shall take her from here.”

  “But—”

  Owen shot her a cautionary look. “Fine. I will go with you.”

  There were too many of Reynold’s men, she realized. More than enough to subdue Owen and his warriors should it come to that. Jesu, how would she ever get to the council?

  Perkins whisked her up the staircase, Owen and his men in their wake. He pushed her down the corridor to the door she remembered as the entrance to Reynold’s chambers.

  “Perhaps I should go in alone,” she said with more conviction than she felt.

  “Nay, lass, I will accompany you.” Owen turned to his men. “The rest of ye remain here. And keep your ears and eyes open.”

  The warriors nodded. Perkins knew something was afoot. He narrowed his eyes at her before knocking on the huge wooden door.

  “Come.” The voice was Reynold’s.

  She tripped the latch and entered the room, Perkins and Owen on her heel.

  Reynold sat at his writing desk, a cup in his hand. Three other warriors Alena didn’t recognize leaned casually against the far wall. All eyes were on her.

  Reynold stood and moved ’round the desk to face her. “Owen,” he said, his icy gaze leveled at her, “I see ye’ve brought my bride.”

  “Aye, Laird,” Owen said from behind her.

  “Ye have arrived earlier than I expected, but no matter.” He smiled, and Alena felt a chill snake up her spine. “’Twill give me time to get to know my wife before we speak our vows.”

  She stood her ground as he approached her.

  Reynold lifted his hand. She heard the leather and metal of Owen’s garments and weapons creak behind her. Neither of them moved. Reynold grazed a finger down the side of her face. Her anger stirred, as did her fear.

  “Ye are not wearing the gown I had fashioned for ye.” He scowled at her for a moment, then his features softened. “No matter. There’s plenty of time before the ceremony for someone to fetch it.” He edged closer. Just as she s
tepped back, the door behind them burst open.

  A soldier entered and, from the look of him, Alena could tell he’d been riding all night. “Laird,” he said, breathing hard. “Our sentries on the western border were found dead yester noon. A dozen of them.”

  Reynold approached the soldier, grabbing him by his plaid. “Who did this and where are they now?”

  “We…we know not, Laird. By the look o’ the ground ye can tell there were many. Riders they were, two score or more.”

  Reynold released him and the frightened soldier took a step back. “We found a bonnet with this pinned to it.” He reached into his sporran and drew out a silver badge: a cat reared up on hind legs. Attached to it was a sprig of red whortleberry.

  Alena choked back a gasp, her eyes riveted to the badge.

  Reynold spun toward her. “Mackintosh, our neighbors. Remind me, wife, to thank them for the hospitality they showed ye.” He called for Perkins, and the wiry man appeared at his side. “Is all in place?”

  Perkins grinned and shot her a dark look. “Aye, Laird. Four hundred ride to Findhorn Castle as we speak. They will be there long before The Mackintosh arrives.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “What treachery is this?”

  Reynold snorted, towering over her, hands on hips. “What, think you to reprimand me? I am but preparing a warm welcome for our neighbors. A welcome into hell.” He laughed and Perkins and the others joined him. She heard Owen’s deep voice behind her, chuckling with them.

  Her blood boiled and her cheeks flushed hot. She fisted her hands at her sides and willed herself remain silent.

  Reynold ran a hand up the sleeve of her gown, and she tensed, returning his icy stare. “Oh, aye,” he said. “We heard of his movements on the border yesterday. He thinks to recover Findhorn Castle. Let him think again. To challenge me with that ragtag pack he calls a clan? What a farce. Even with his uncle’s support, they number but a fraction of my army.”

  Reynold meant to annihilate them. She could see it in his eyes. She must do something, but what? “I—I must go. Back to my parents’ cottage.” She turned to leave. “There are things—”

  Reynold grabbed her arm. “Nay, I want ye here where I can enjoy you.” He pulled her to him and, before she could protest, he kissed her hard, his tongue thrusting against the hard line of her lips.