To her surprise, George released his hold on her. She moved quickly between the two men and watched with them as her cousin wielded his sword against her lover, the husband of her heart. ’Twould be a battle to the death.
Scores of random thoughts raced through her mind as she grappled for a way to stop it. Nay, there was no stopping it. She read the bloodlust in Reynold’s eyes and the determination in Iain’s. A wave of fear and nausea gripped her.
They circled each other like two feral predators, eyes locked and broadswords hefted. The first blow came without warning, and she jumped as steel clashed against steel in a flash of light. The two men grunted and pushed off, one sword against the other.
“Is he good?” Hamish asked, his gaze fixed on the battle.
“The best I’ve seen,” George said.
“Hell and damnation.”
“And your laird—he is skilled with a sword?”
Hamish grunted. “Skilled, aye, but ’tis no’ his strongest suit.”
She recalled Iain’s longbow and quiver lying in the trampled grass near his mount when first she arrived at the battlefield. Her love for him grew with her fear.
Reynold lunged and their swords clashed again as he drove Iain back against the wall of warriors. The circle widened to accommodate their movements and the clansmen urged them on with shouts that carried on the rising wind.
A sheen of sweat broke out on Iain’s face and torso as he met her cousin’s thrusts and lunges stroke for stroke. Reynold grinned as they both pushed back and circled once again. The shouts of the crowd died to a hush. All she could hear was Iain’s labored breathing and the pounding of her own heart.
In a low, chill voice, Reynold baited him. “Your father died squealing like a stuck pig on the end of my sword.”
Iain’s eyes blazed fury. He raised his broadsword with both hands and let out a roar that shook her to her bones. He lunged and brought the weapon crashing down. Reynold deflected the blow, but with a dull thunk his blade was smote in two. He fell back on the trampled grass, his eyes wide with shock.
The Chattan warriors cheered Iain’s name as he pinned Reynold to the ground, the point of his sword at Reynold’s throat. Her cousin’s face drained of all color save for the thin, red scar. She saw the lump in his throat as he tried to swallow.
Iain towered over him, his chest heaving, sweat streaming down his face and torso. He pressed the point of his sword enough to draw blood, and a crimson pool formed in the hollow of Reynold’s throat.
Reynold frantically scanned the crowd, but no one met his eyes. His gaze lit on Alena and her throat constricted as his expression implored her to intervene.
Hot tears welled in her eyes. She fisted her clammy hands at her sides and willed herself hold his gaze. His face was drawn and tight, the near-mad, icy fire gone from his eyes. And with it her fear.
He was a man, but she saw only the boy whose mother had abandoned him to slake her lust for wealth and power. All she felt now was pity, and regret for the cousin she would never have.
With her eyes she sought Iain’s pained face. His brow was furrowed, his jaw clenched tight. He stood, transfixed, his broadsword poised at Reynold’s throat. He glanced quickly at George, who nodded his assent.
The shouts of the warriors died. The Chattan warily eyed the Grants, their hands moving to the hilts of their weapons.
Alena scanned the crowd and was surprised to see none of her kinsmen raised even a hand, nor did they seem distraught their laird was about to draw his last breath.
Without thinking, she took a step toward Iain, then froze. He held her glassy gaze for the barest second, but in that brief span a lifetime of emotion passed between them.
The moment passed and Iain hefted his sword with both hands. Reynold’s body tensed. The two locked eyes. With a cry of rage and pain, Iain drove his father’s sword into the soft earth not an inch from Reynold’s head. “I am The Mackintosh! And Findhorn my demesne. Get ye gone from here and dinna return. Ever.”
Iain jerked his sword from the ground, his whole body shaking. Not looking back, he strode toward his kinsmen. Alena started after him but George pulled her back.
Out of the corner of her eye something flashed silver. In the next instant Reynold was on his feet, dirk in hand, lunging at Iain’s unprotected back.
She screamed and Iain turned, brandishing his sword. Hamish lurched forward, hefting his battle-ax, but froze as a brilliant flash of color cut the air.
Iain’s sword found a home in Reynold’s chest. After a moment he yanked it free. Reynold jerked hideously, then fell forward into the tall grass, the jeweled dagger embedded in his back. She was vaguely aware of George who had stumbled past her after releasing the weapon.
For a moment no one moved.
Then the world spun and she fell to her knees, her tears erupting in hot waves of relief. Suddenly Iain was there, his arms around her, whispering words of comfort and love, peppering her face with small, fervent kisses.
She clung to him and wept.
The lairds of each clan—Mackintosh, Davidson, Macgillivray and MacBain—gathered on the small hillock above the battlefield in the shadow of Findhorn Castle. Alena stood by Iain’s side, grateful that he waved George Grant over to witness the proceedings.
“Clan Chattan!” Iain shouted, raising his wineskin.
Three hundred Highland warriors echoed the cry, their broadswords and battle-axes lofted high.
The Chattan lairds drank. Alena looked with pride and admiration on her beloved—the man who, against all odds, brought harmony to their clans and, more importantly to her, exorcised his demons and found his own peace.
George nodded. “All is as it once was. As it should be.” He turned to her and offered his hand. “Come, cousin, there is much to sort out amongst our own clan.”
She looked to Iain but did not speak. He held her gaze, blue eyes cool, and was also silent. They stood there for a moment, trying to read each other’s thoughts.
She realized he was giving her the choice—to return to her clan or to remain here with him. She edged closer and suddenly felt his arm ’round her shoulder. The corners of his mouth turned up in a smile. Her heart soared.
They both looked to George and Iain said, “There is another alliance we have yet to discuss, Grant.”
George raised a tawny brow and studied them. “I see. And you, cousin…do ye also wish this alliance?”
“I do,” she said. Iain squeezed her shoulder. She looked up at him and smiled.
George stepped toward her and took her hand. She felt Iain tense. His jaw tightened and his smile faded, leaving a barely disguised scowl in its place.
“With Reynold dead,” George said, “and were I to lead our clan, the council is certain to bless us should you join with me. ’Twould be an excellent match. Politically, I mean.”
She withdrew her hand from George’s gentle grasp. But before she could speak Owen pushed forward and said, “And what of the Todds? The stable? D’ye wish to abandon all ye’ve built there?”
“Nay, I do not, but—” She looked to Iain, but his expression was unreadable.
There was a commotion behind her. She turned just as Duncan’s son, Gavin, burst through the throng of clansmen. “Pardon, Laird,” he said, nodding at Iain. “’Twould seem there will be much to occupy a stable mistress here in this place.” Gavin waved an arm in the direction of the castle. “But I’ve always had a yearnin’ to see the Clan Grant stable.” He looked to George. “Me da had thought to foster me there with the Todds, before all of this. I am quite skilled and would gladly lend a hand there. If ye’d permit it.”
Alena reached blindly for Iain’s hand at the same time he grasped hers. She smiled at Gavin, nodding her assent, then looked to George, imploring him with her eyes to agree to this plan.
George looked the stableman up and down. He cocked a brow and said, “Aye. ’Tis settled then.” He turned to his steed and pulled himself easily into the saddle. His warriors s
at mounted and ready, awaiting his command. George turned to leave, then pulled his mount up short and shot Iain a stern look. “Mackintosh.”
Iain stepped forward, and Alena moved to his side.
George narrowed his eyes at him. “Whilst in your care, should so much as a hair on her head be harmed, I shall return—for your head.”
Iain matched her cousin’s glower. “Ye have naught to fear, Grant, for I love the lady more than my life and would protect her to my dying breath.”
The edges of George’s lips curled and his eyes softened. “I thought as much.” He reined his steed east, and his warriors opened a path before him. “Each year at Michaelmas we have a bit of a celebration. I should be pleased if ye would come, and bring my cousin along with ye.”
Iain smiled thinly. “If my wife so desires it, we will come.”
George nodded, and in a thunder of hoofbeats the Grants departed, the vast army moving like insects over the green and golden fields.
Relief washed over her. She had so much to tell Iain, so many things to explain. But before she could even begin, he swept her off her feet. She clung to him as he strode to Destiny and lifted her onto the stallion’s back. To her surprise he vaulted up behind her. The black immediately protested, but she soothed him with soft words and affectionate pats.
“He doesn’t like you,” she said.
Iain grinned. Securing one arm ’round her waist, he took the reins from her hand. “Well, love, he’ll just have to get used to me, now won’t he?”
Epilogue
Six Months Later
A hundred beeswax tapers lit Findhorn Castle’s great hall, the room a cacophony of sights and sounds and smells.
The bride glided down the curved, stone steps and into the arms of her new husband. He kissed her on the lips and the throng of revelers cheered, lifting their ale cups high. The musicians struck a merry tune and the couple began to dance.
Across the room, near the hearth, Alena and Iain smiled on the newlyweds. They watched as Will and Hetty spun faster and faster, red-faced and breathless, to the lively music.
“Is it as fine, do you think, as was our wedding?” Alena asked, tilting her head back to catch Iain’s eye.
“Nay, wife,” he said and smiled. “No’ as fine as that.” He pulled her back against his chest and she rested her head under the hollow of his chin.
“I suspect, husband, there will be another wedding here. And from the look of things, it could be very soon.” She nodded to the alcove under the stairs where Gilchrist had again cornered Elizabeth Macgillivray and was madly kissing her.
Iain laughed. “Nay. ’Tis only another of my brother’s short-lived fancies. ’Twill no’ last.”
“Mayhap not.”
The wonderful aromas of roasted pig and venison, wild greens and fresh-baked breads drifted from the tables next to them. She scanned the room and smiled, pleased with the decorations and the overall restoration they’d accomplished these last few months.
The stables were coming along, as well, but there was much yet to be done. She must remember to ask Iain about their next visit to Glenmore Castle. She wanted to see the Todds—the parents who loved her and had raised her as their own, the father who’d taught her all she knew of horses and breeding. Gavin wrote they had acquired some new mounts from Spain. Perhaps she could make some trades…
Hamish stumbled by, an ale cup in each hand, interrupting her thoughts. Both she and Iain laughed as the big, burly man crashed into one of the long tables laden with food. Young Conall rushed to help him but only succeeded in spilling ale over both of them.
Never had she dreamed of being so happy.
Iain drew his arms through hers and wrapped them ’round her swollen belly, cradling the babe within. His cheek grazed her hair, and she closed her eyes as he planted delicate kisses on her upturned face, his warm breath her gift of life.
“I love you, wife,” he whispered into her hair.
“And I you, husband.”
He held her close, and in that moment she knew their future together, his love a herald of all the joys to come.
ISBN: 978-1-4603-5991-4
THE MACKINTOSH BRIDE
Copyright © 2001 by Debra Lee Brown
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