She pushed herself away from him, stumbling backward into Owen’s arms. Her face burned with rage. The warrior steadied her but made no move to assist her. She looked up at him and he cast her a cool, even glance, his expression unreadable.
Reynold laughed. She held her ground and shot him a murderous look. He reached out, ripped her dirk from the sheath at her waist, and flung it to the floor behind him. “We’ll not have a repeat of our last meeting, wife.”
“Do not call me that.”
“Why not? ’Twill be fact soon enough.” He turned to one of the soldiers who lounged against the stone wall of the chamber. “Get the priest.”
She felt a smile curl at the edges of her mouth and, with more confidence than she felt, let it break across her face. “There’s not a priest in all the Highlands would wed us against my will. Now or any other day.”
His cool eyes roamed over her. He broadened his smirk. “And why is that, my sweet?” He reached out to stroke her hair and his hand closed over the thick braid.
She looked up into his finely chiseled face. She could see the resemblance now—the high cheekbones and long, straight nose. It sickened her, and she almost lost her nerve. His fist tightened and he pulled her close, until his face was inches from hers. Her eyes locked on his.
“Because I’m John Grant’s daughter.”
For a long moment the only sounds were the crackling hearth fire and the creaking of the warriors’ leather battle garb.
Reynold blinked, and the malevolent smile fled his lips.
She had him. She could see it in his eyes. He loosened his grip on her hair. Before he could recover his composure, she drew the parchments from the pocket of her gown and thrust them at his chest. “’Tis true, cousin.”
He grasped the documents and unfurled them. He glanced only briefly at the French missive, then turned to the other. ’Twas as she had suspected. He already knew of her French lineage, her connection to the court of Philip the Second. ’Twas the sole reason he’d wished to wed her.
But he hadn’t known she was his uncle’s child.
As Reynold scanned the document written in her father’s hand his face blanched. His eyes widened as he read it again, slowly this time. Then he stared at her, his expression a cold fusion of horror and fascination. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Nay,” he whispered. “’Tis a lie.”
“’Tis the truth. You’ve only to look at me to see it is so.” She plucked the documents from his hand and, meeting no resistance, quickly rerolled them and stuffed them back into her pocket. She glanced briefly at Perkins who had read enough over his laird’s shoulder to understand his position. A thin smile cut his pock-marked face.
“Now,” she said, “I’m going to the council.”
She turned to leave, but Reynold grabbed her braid and jerked her back. She winced with pain, her scalp burning, and looked to Owen for help. She saw caution in the warrior’s eyes as he took a step forward and moved his hand to the hilt of his broadsword.
“This changes nothing,” Reynold said. He half dragged her back toward his writing table and flung her to the floor in front of the hearth. She landed hard, the breath rushing from her.
“Perkins, find that bloody priest! And the rest of you, out! All except you.” Reynold pointed at Owen. “Come here and hold her. I dinna want her leaving.”
Fear balled up inside her. She scrambled to her feet as Owen moved quickly behind her and grabbed her arms. Sweet God, would he not help her?
Reynold shrugged off the leather strap belting his broad-sword to his back and set his weapon on the table behind him. Perkins and the other soldiers left the chamber.
“Now, cousin,” Reynold hissed, moving toward her, “prepare yourself for your vows.”
Hot tears stung her eyes. She fought to control the fear that racked her body and caused her heart to beat wildly in her chest. Surely the priest would hear her and would believe. Surely he could not force her.
Owen gripped her shoulders and while Reynold’s back was turned pressed his lips to her ear. “Courage,” he whispered, and squeezed her once, firmly.
She almost swooned with relief. She blinked back her tears and tried to prepare herself for whatever Owen intended to do.
Reynold turned and towered over her.
“You are too late,” she blurted.
“Too late for what?”
She tipped her chin and glared up at him. “I—I am no longer a maid. I have made a gift of my virginity to another. Your enemy.” ’Twas risky to bait him like this, but she didn’t care. Mayhap the revelation would buy her time.
Reynold narrowed his eyes. His face contorted, flushed crimson to the roots of his white-blond hair. “Whore,” he breathed.
She read Reynold’s intention a split second before he slapped her hard across the face. The blow stunned her. In a protective move, Owen pulled her back against his chest.
Reynold raised his hand again.
“Enough!” Owen roared, and shoved her sideways. He drew his sword, metal screeching, and pointed it at Reynold’s chest. He glanced at her. “Run, quickly—that way!” He pointed to an interior door on the other side of the room. “The council meets belowstairs. Find them! Tell them.”
“Perrkiins!” Reynold yelled.
The door to the corridor crashed open and Owen’s men burst into the chamber. In the momentary chaos Reynold jumped backward, grabbed his sword, and unsheathed it in one quick motion.
Alena bolted to the interior door and jerked it open. She turned in time to see the flash of metal as Reynold plunged his broadsword deep into Owen’s shoulder.
Owen crashed back against the stone hearth, his face a mask of shock. “Run, lass,” he choked as he slid to the floor.
She hesitated, wanting desperately to help him. Reynold whirled on her, bloodied sword in hand. As Owen’s men surrounded him, she fled into the connecting chamber.
Doors and hallways, room after room, all ran together as she raced from the echoes of shouting warriors and the ring of metal against metal. She ran down the corridor, away from the din, then spun toward a tiny stairwell she saw out of the corner of her eye.
Lifting her skirts, she bolted down the steps, stumbling on the uneven stones. By the time she reached the bottom the keep was in an uproar. Soldiers charged through the front entrance and up the main stairs.
Alena raced past them, ignored and undetained, as they hastened abovestairs in response to their laird’s cries. She burst through the door to the great hall. Jesu, ’twas empty! Where was the council?
There was no time. In truth, she half suspected Reynold controlled them, anyway. She shot out the door and into the courtyard, stumbling down the steps. Destiny waited, ears cocked, restlessly stamping the earth whilst a stable lad tried to calm him and the other nervous mounts.
“Stop!” The voice belonged to Perkins.
Without thinking, she leaped atop the stallion’s back, spurred him forward and looked back only when Destiny had set his sights on the main gate and was racing toward freedom.
Perkins danced wildly in the courtyard, shouting and waving his arms toward soldiers and horses. He threw himself on one of the mounts and started after her, leaving battle-dressed soldiers in his wake.
Destiny thundered out the open gate, nostrils flared, breath steaming, every muscle straining. Alena leaned low over his sleek neck and urged him fly like the wind.
Only one thought possessed her, consumed her, drove her like a madwoman southwest into the wood…
Four hundred Grant soldiers pushed on toward Findhorn Castle and would lie in wait for Iain Mackintosh and those who rode at his side.
Chapter Sixteen
He was too late. He could feel it.
Iain pushed the thought from his mind and reined his sweat-soaked mount to a halt just outside the cover of the larch wood. He slipped from the saddle with a grunt. They’d ridden hard nearly two days and a night and the exhaustion was beginning to show in his men’s faces
and stiff bodies.
Forty of his best warriors, Davidson and Mackintosh, watered their horses in the brook at the edge of the wide, low glen. Waves of wild grasses, heather and wildflowers undulated in the breeze, rippling with color and scenting the air with the unmistakable fragrance of high summer.
’Twas Midsummer’s Day and, by his reckoning, they were still hours from Glenmore Castle. He swore under his breath. If Grant had so much as touched her, Iain would make certain he died a slow, horrible death.
They’d been forced to follow a circuitous route across the vast Clan Grant demesne to avoid sentries and the scores of soldiers who patrolled the southwest border. The detour had cost them hours. There had been no other way. Stealth was required if Iain was to get her back. He hadn’t the manpower to lay siege to Glenmore. He squinted at the sun, judging the time—nearly midday. “Damn!”
Hamish knelt by the muddy edge of the brook and examined innumerable deep hoof prints and the occasional boot print marking the soft earth.
Iain looked out over the glen and could plainly make out the trampled swath running east to west, confirming his suspicions and the news his scouts had conveyed. “How many?” he asked, casting Hamish a sideways glance.
“Hundreds,” Hamish said, rolling a clod of soft earth between his fingers.
“How long?”
The warrior wrinkled his nose and touched the tip of his tongue to the ruddy-brown clay. “A day, maybe less.” He rose with a grunt and looked to Iain with raised brows.
“Aye. They’ve arrived at Findhorn, then.”
The edge of Hamish’s mouth curled in a half smile. “Mayhap, but they dinna know they are expected.”
“Let’s hope that’s the case. Alistair led his warriors out two days ago. He’s certain to arrive first.”
“Aye, but will Gilchrist be able to convince Macgillivray and MacBain to join us?”
“They’ll come—but when and with how many I canna say.”
“Ye dinna know for sure they’ll support ye,” Hamish said quietly, out of earshot of the other men.
Iain met his friend’s steady gaze. Hamish was right, but there was no turning back now.
The Chattan. The four. ’Twould be the first time since his father’s murder all the clans would meet. “Christ,” Iain breathed, and turned to mount his steed.
A shout went up among his men.
He pulled himself into the saddle and adjusted the long-bow resting casually over his shoulder. He reined his mount toward the group of warriors, but couldn’t see what caused the commotion.
“Hell and damnation!” Hamish hurled himself onto the back of his mount and pointed a beefy finger off in the distance. “Iain, look man!”
Iain shaded his eyes and scanned the wide glen in the direction Hamish had indicated. He rose in his stirrups as his gaze lit on a lone rider astride a black warhorse, skirts flying, charging at breakneck speed across the open meadow.
“Alena!” he cried, and kicked the roan forward.
A score of warriors broke from the cover of the trees on the opposite side of the glen and bore down on her in hot pursuit.
Iain charged forward through his own pack of clansmen, scattering their mounts. “Come on!”
In well-practiced moves, his men leaped onto their saddles and spurred their steeds forward, flanking him.
The wide, grassy meadow dipped gently in the center. Iain urged the roan faster toward Alena and her pursuers who were clearly visible now, yet more than a furlong away. As the riders closed in on her, Iain’s throat constricted. He leaned forward in the saddle urging the roan faster still.
Hoofbeats thundered. His heart slammed in his chest. His gaze narrowed, blocking out the sky, the waves of wild grasses and bordering wood. His only focus was the woman he loved, the brave lass who would willingly give herself to a beast for the sake of her family, her clan and for him.
A flash of metal jolted him upright. Iain watched in horror as a rider broke from the oncoming pack—a small, dark man, sword drawn and wielded high above his head. Panic seized him as the rider closed the distance to her.
Iain’s blood raged, every muscle in his face and neck taut as a bowstring. His cry of fury and anguish roared over the thunder of hoofbeats and the battle cries of his men.
Destiny faltered, recovered, and Alena’s pursuer was suddenly on her, both of them racing toward the center of the glen, his broadsword poised to strike her down.
A hundred yards to go. Iain was out of time.
His own men drew their weapons, metal glinting in the afternoon sun, but too late.
He jerked the reins, pulling his stallion up short. The horse reared, nearly flinging him to the ground, but Iain dug in with his knees. Eyes riveted to Grant’s henchman, he stood in his stirrups and drew an arrow into his bow.
Instinctively his warriors spread out, laying open a clear path for his shot. Fifty yards, forty. Destiny thundered toward him, Alena clinging to the stallion’s back.
The henchman raised his sword.
Iain nocked the arrow and sighted down the shaft. Her life hung in the balance and with it his very soul. He loosed the arrow.
The henchman swung his weapon down. At the last moment he jerked and pitched sideways off his mount, the feathered tip of Iain’s shaft protruding from his chest.
The bow slipped from Iain’s hands and he collapsed into his saddle, shaking with relief. Sweet God, he’d almost lost her! He was suddenly aware of tears stinging his eyes. He shrugged off the wave of emotion and spurred his mount forward, his gaze locked on hers.
The roan and the black nearly collided. Alena flung herself toward him and in their desperate attempt to embrace, both she and Iain slipped awkwardly to the ground. He pulled her to him and her arms went ’round his neck. She choked back an anguished sob against his chest.
His own control shattered. He gripped her tightly, burying his face in the warmth of her hair, his own tears spilling hot into the golden nest.
They knelt together like that amidst the tall grasses and brilliant waves of summer flowers, barely aware of the battle that raged not a hundred feet from them. He covered her face in small, fervent kisses while running his hands lightly over her body, instinctively checking her for injury.
Pulling back, he gazed at her through glassy eyes. Her face was radiant, lit from within, belying the suspicion and doubt that had racked his soul. How could he have questioned her love? He choked back a ragged sob and pulled her tightly against his chest.
Awareness came crashing in on him as Destiny reared and stumbled. The battle raged around them, swords ringing, the stench of blood sharp and shocking against the fragrant summer heather.
He pulled Alena to her feet, grabbed the stallion’s reins and thrust them into her hands. “Get to the trees. Now!” He lifted her onto Destiny’s back.
“But—”
“Do it!” he ordered, and slapped the stallion’s rump. He watched her as she spurred the black into a gallop and made for the wood. Then he vaulted onto his mount, drew his sword, and cast himself headlong into the battle.
’Twas over quickly.
Alena watched the fighting from her position in the larch wood. Iain, Hamish and the others vanquished the soldiers whom they outnumbered two to one, without one injury to their own.
Guilt and shame twisted her belly. She had wanted Iain to strike them down—her own kinsmen—Grant warriors, many of whom she had known since childhood. Tears stung her eyes. She drew a steadying breath, sickened by her own feelings.
She watched as Iain dismounted and stood over Perkins’s crumpled body. He kicked at it and, seeing no movement, placed a booted foot upon the henchman’s chest and jerked his arrow free. He snapped the shaft in two and cast it to the ground.
A short time later Iain left his men to join her amidst the larches and bays bordering the glen. To her relief, he reined his mount beside hers and pulled her into his lap.
Her heart soared. She wrapped her arms around him as
he claimed her mouth in a deep, yet tender kiss. She gave herself up to his comforting strength and let her body go limp in his embrace. She felt and shared his desperation and his relief.
After a moment she broke the kiss and looked up at him. His face was streaked with mud and sweat; a few bloodied fingerprints trailed across his forehead. She wiped them away, then let her fingers trace the angular line of his jaw.
“They are all dead, then?”
“Aye.”
A shudder coursed through her. “They were my kinsmen.”
With a gentle touch he tilted her chin up. Clear, blue eyes willed her to his gaze. “They would have killed ye, love. They nearly did.”
She nodded, her eyes welling. On her own, or under another’s influence, she was a threat to Reynold. If he couldn’t control her and use her for his own purpose, he’d surely kill her.
Her tears broke and she clutched Iain to her, burying her face in the warmth of his chest. She shuddered in long, uncontrollable sobs, powerless against the emotions racking her body.
Iain rocked her gently in his arms, the roan stallion swaying under their weight. He whispered sweet words of love and comfort against her hair, stroking her back, calming her, enveloping her in his warmth. He tilted her chin again and kissed her tears away.
“I—I had to warn you,” she said, her voice shaky.
A bittersweet smile graced his mouth. “Oh, my brave, bonny lass.” He tightened his embrace.
She drew herself up in his arms, the urgency of her mission buoying her strength. “Reynold has dispatched four hundred warriors to Findhorn Castle. ’Tis a trap, Iain. He means to—”
He pressed a callused finger to her lips, stilling her words. “Shh-hh… ’Tis all right, love.” He kissed her forehead. “I know what he plans and we’ve seen their tracks. Ye mustna worry.”
“Then—”
“Aye. Alistair rode a hundred men north to Findhorn two days ago. And Gilchrist has gone to raise the Macgillivrays and the MacBains.”
She stiffened in his arms. “The Macgillivrays? The alliance.” A sick feeling washed over her. “Then…then you’ve married her.”
The Mackintosh Bride Page 21