The Mackintosh Bride

When they’d finished, the men left the chamber and Hetty unrolled the heavy deerskin window covering to keep out the breeze and ensure their privacy.

She supposed she should be friendly, though the old woman did not seem overly warm. She risked a smile. “My name is Alena.”

“Aye, Lady, so I’ve been told. I’m Edwina. Now strip off and get into this tub before the water goes cold.” She opened a leather pouch and emptied it into the steaming water. A burst of fragrance filled the air.

Hetty slipped behind her and, with expert fingers, released her laces. “’Tis a lovely gown, Lady.”

All this formality made her uncomfortable. “Please, won’t you both call me Alena.”

Edwina arched a brow. Hetty pulled the bedraggled gown over Alena’s head. The old woman inspected it with more than casual interest. “It’s a wreck,” she decreed. “What were ye doin’ in it, sloppin’ pigs?”

She recalled with revulsion Reynold Grant’s hands splayed across the fine yellow silk. “Something like that.”

“Weel, ye’ll need some new clothes. This is past savin’.” Edwina tossed the gown to the floor.

“Oh, nay!” she cried as she struggled out of her shift. “It’s very dear to me.”

Hetty retrieved it from the floor. “I’ll make it right for ye, Lady.”

“My thanks, Hetty.”

Edwina led her to the steaming tub. Alena stepped into it and was instantly bathed in its aromatic warmth. She sank into the deliciously hot water and closed her eyes.

Oh, ’twas heavenly. Two days hard travel and a night in the rough had taken its toll on her. Edwina stooped and began to lather her hair with soap. The scent of heather and rosemary permeated her senses. She succumbed to the old woman’s practiced ministrations and let her head go heavy in her hands.

But relaxation did not come. A score of unanswered questions whirled in her mind, and she knew she could not rest until some of them were answered. She decided to start with something innocuous. “What position have you in the household, Edwina?”

“I am—I was—maid and kinswoman to Lady Ellen Mackintosh.”

“Iain’s mother.”

“Aye.”

“You said was. Do you no longer serve her?”

“Nay. She’s dead. Now dunk.” Edwina pushed firmly on her head.

Alena held her breath and slipped below the surface to rinse the soap from her hair. She came up sputtering. Edwina scooted around to the side of the tub and began to scrub her arms.

“I’m sorry. When did it happen?”

“At Beltane.”

Barely a month ago. No wonder Iain seemed so irritable. She would remember to treat him more kindly.

She was curious about what had happened after the Mackintoshes fled their own lands. “Lady Mackintosh—she lived here with Iain?”

“Aye, and the other two lads, as well. We came to Braedûn Lodge right after the—” Edwina met her questioning gaze with a hard look. “Lady Ellen was born here,” she said flatly.

“Oh, I see.”

Edwina scooted to end of the tub and started on her legs.

She decided to be bold. “And what of Findhorn Castle?”

“Held by the Grants these eleven years. Not a one lives there, but Grant soldiers surround the demesne, foulin’ the lands and waters with their filth. May they be damned to hell.”

Edwina was scrubbing the skin off her! Alena tucked her legs under her. “Och, sorry, my lady,” Edwina said, and continued with a more gentle hand. “I forgot myself, thinkin’ on those vermin.”

Vermin. So this is how it was. She’d been right to conceal her identity, after all.

“And how stands Iain?” She knew the answer, but voiced her question all the same. “Grant is his enemy?”

“That’s puttin’ it mildly. Reynold Grant killed his father. ’Twas a nasty piece o’ work, that.”

She had shared Iain’s anguish that chill, gray morning so very long ago. “Aye, it was,” she whispered.

“Eh?”

“Oh, I—” She’d best change the subject. “I understand this is the home of Iain’s uncle. Alistair, I think he said his name was.”

“Aye, Alistair Davidson is laird here. And a finer man ye’ll ne’er meet.” Edwina held out a large towel.

Alena stepped from the tub and into it. “I didn’t see him when we arrived.”

“Nay. He and Lady Margaret are away on business. They’re no’ expected back for a fortnight.”

Edwina completed her vigorous rubbing, and Alena stepped from the towel, her skin pink and glowing in the firelight. Hetty held out a clean shift and helped it over her head.

The girl indicated a small stool by the hearth. “Come sit by the fire, Lady, and I’ll comb out your hair.”

Edwina hurried toward the door. “Supper’s in an hour. I’ll send up a gown for ye to wear.”

“My thanks, Edwina.” Alena turned to smile at her, but the old woman had already gone.

Hetty seemed intent on staying, despite Alena’s protests that she needed no help with her hair. Finally she relented, and sat on the stool as instructed. Hetty’s gentle strokes coupled with the warmth of the fire made her sleepy.

She was exhausted, if truth be told, and a menagerie of random thoughts jumbled their way through her mind. She fought the weariness and sat tall, willing her eyes stay open.

Hetty began to hum an old lullaby. For some reason Alena was reminded of Will, the gentle warrior whom Iain Mackintosh called friend. “Hetty,” she said. The comb stopped in midstroke. “Do you have a sweetheart?” The comb pulled, and Alena cried out.

“Och, sorry.” Hetty resumed the long, gentle strokes. “Not a sweetheart, exactly. But there is a lad I fancy.”

“It’s Will, isn’t it?”

The comb pulled again. “How did ye know, Lady?”

“I saw the way he looked at you on the steps when we arrived.” She felt Hetty’s fingers tremble as the girl drew the comb through her hair.

“Really? D’ye think he took much notice of me?”

“Oh, I’d say he did. Will’s a fine man.”

Hetty stared into the fire with huge, liquid eyes, oblivious to all else. “He’s a Mackintosh warrior—one of the laird’s closest kinsmen.” She sighed and turned her eyes on Alena. “D’ye think there’s any hope for me, Lady?”

Alena smiled to herself, the image of a besotted Will fresh in her memory. “Oh, I think there’s more than hope.”

Hetty placed the brush on a chest near the bed. “I’ll leave ye, now, to get some rest before supper.”

As soon as the door closed, Alena dragged herself to the bed and collapsed into the soft pile of furs. She was exhausted, but didn’t think she could sleep.

Edwina’s words troubled her. Grant soldiers surround the demesne…May they be damned to hell.

Alena hadn’t known about the soldiers at Findhorn. Over the years she had questioned her father about the Mackintoshes, but Robert Todd had given her only vague answers that held little information.

It must be terrible for Iain—his home overrun by her kinsmen. To her knowledge he’d done nothing to reclaim it. Was it any wonder? Reynold’s army numbered near a thousand men. From what she knew, few Mackintosh warriors remained. She’d seen only a handful of Iain’s clan here at Braedûn Lodge. Perhaps there were others in the north.

It dawned on her that Iain would be signing his own death warrant should he challenge Reynold Grant. Her stomach tightened, and she buried her face in the soft furs.

There was no use denying it. She loved him still. The truth of it raced hot through her veins.

She recalled Iain’s first words to her that morning. They’re green. Your eyes. He had seen her, held her, in her shift. The memory of his arm around her waist and his breath, hot on the back of her neck, lit tiny sparks at her very core.

She should tell him the truth.

About her, about Grant’s threat to her family, and the wedding he planned that she could see no way out of. Oh, she longed to tell him. But ’twould only force him into the thick of her troubles. What would he do, then? Perhaps nothing. Why would he?

He’d broken his vow. He’d never returned.

Her insides twisted tighter. She meant naught to him. A childhood playmate, no more. He might not even remember her. After all, she had never once given him her true name.

Oh, but how he’d looked at her yesterday when he sponged the dirt and blood from her skin, his eyes full of tenderness and concern.

What if he did care?

Nay, she would not tell him. She would not risk his life on her behalf. For truth, what could he do? She must deal with Reynold Grant on her own. Tomorrow she would think on it.

Her mind drifted, and she burrowed deeper into the warmth of the furs.

Music. Nay, birds. Larks. Alena’s eyelids fluttered, and she squinted against the sunlight breaching the window.

Hetty tied off the rolled deerskin drape. “Did ye sleep well, Lady?”

Judging by the intensity of the daylight, Alena knew ’twas well past dawn. “What’s the time?” she said, and pulled herself from the bed.

“Ye’ve missed breakfast, but I saved ye some ale and a bit of cheese.” Hetty nodded her head in the direction of the hearth, where a small tray sat atop a table.

“My thanks.”

“Ye were sleepin’ so soundly last night, like a babe. Edwina said not to wake ye. Iain—the laird, I mean—kept askin’ to see ye, but Edwina wouldna allow it.”

“Did he?” The butterflies in her stomach gave way to knots when it occurred to her that Iain might have found her out—who she was, and why she was running.

“Aye, he did, and he wasna happy when Edwina stood and blocked the door and wouldna let him enter.”

So, the old woman was kinder than first impressions would have led her to believe. “Please tell Edwina I thank her for preserving my…privacy.”

Hetty smiled, then opened a trunk at the foot of the bed and retrieved a gown of pale green wool. She laid it on the bed and turned to help Alena into it.

This was really all too much. She was not used to having someone dress and undress her. “Hetty, I really don’t need you to fawn over me. I can dress myself.”

The girl looked as if she’d been wounded. “Ye are not pleased with me, Lady?” Her doe eyes glassed.

“Oh, Hetty.” She clasped the girl’s hands in hers. “I’m very pleased with you. It’s just that…well, I’m not used to so much attention.”

Hetty’s face brightened. “Oh, ’tis no trouble. I like doin’ for ye. Edwina says I must take good care of ye or Iain—I mean the laird—will be angry.”

“Will he?” A smile tugged at her mouth.

“Oh, aye. Ye should have seen him last eve, worried about ye like a mam frettin’ over a bairn.”

She felt herself flush and pulled the gown over her head to hide the evidence from Hetty.

“’Tis lovely on you.”

Alena shrugged off the compliment. She’d never thought much about such things. Most of her days were spent in breeks and leather boots. “Whose gown is it?”

“It belonged to Lady Ellen, when she was young.”

“Iain’s mother? Do you think I should be wearing her clothes? Wouldn’t Iain be angry?”

Hetty snatched the hairbrush from the table and pulled it through Alena’s hair. “Oh, nay. Edwina says the laird would find it charming.”

Charming? A question that had burned in her mind since her arrival, could no longer go unasked. “Wouldn’t it be better if Lady Ellen’s clothes were given to Iain’s wife?” She held her breath and waited for Hetty’s answer.

“Oh, nay, he’s not married. He doesna even keep a mistress.”

Her heart skipped a beat.

“Now, that Gilchrist—he’s another story, if ye take my meaning.” Hetty shot her a knowing look.

“Who is Gilchrist?”

“Gilchrist Mackintosh, Iain’s younger brother. And a handsomer lad ye’ve ne’er seen. Except for my Will, of course.”

Both of them jumped as a crash of timber sounded from the stable yard. All at once men were shouting over the angry snorts and distressed cries of a horse. Alena moved quickly to the window and looked out.

A black stallion rampaged through the yard, rearing in anger against a training tether pulled tight around his neck. Duncan, and a man who looked a younger version of him, were trying, without success, to calm the distressed beast.

She was shocked to see a lad of fourteen or fifteen lurking dangerously close to the rearing steed. Duncan waved him off but the lad would not give ground.

“Who is that boy, Hetty?”

“Saints preserve us! That’s Conall Mackintosh, the laird’s youngest brother.”

The stallion reared again, and the boy inched closer. Without another thought Alena shot from the room, barefoot, raced down the staircase and burst outside. The black reared again. The boy ducked under the steed’s hooves and tried to grab the bridle.

“Conall!” The voice was Iain’s, but he was nowhere in sight. “Move away, lad!”

The boy ignored his brother’s command. The stallion bucked as Duncan jerked on the tether. A crowd gathered around them, frightening the beast into greater frenzy. Conall moved in and reached for the bridle.

She knew the steed would rear.

“Boy, you’re too close!” She shot forward and grabbed him. Conall stumbled backward, and they both tripped to the ground. For one heart-stopping moment she thought she’d been too late. The stallion crashed to earth, his powerful hooves landing inches from the boy’s head.

There was no time. She could see in the stallion’s eyes that he would rear again. She scrambled to her feet, unsheathed her dirk and cut the training tether. He was free. In a smooth motion that was second nature to her, she grasped the steed’s mane and pulled herself onto his bare back. A split second later he lurched ahead.

There was only the one thing she did well, and this was it.

Without benefit of tether or bridle, she guided the black in a wide circuit around the stable yard. The tensed muscles of his neck relaxed as she stroked his sweat-drenched coat and whispered words of comfort into his ear. In seconds he’d calmed to her voice and touch.

Duncan scooped Conall from the dirt and bore him safely out of the way. She glanced briefly at the old man and shrugged.

“Weel, I’ll be damned,” he said, and stroked his silvered beard.

This was not how she’d intended to start her day.

She slowed the stallion to a walk. ’Twas then she noticed Iain standing alone at the stable yard gate, the crowd parted around him. She had the distinct impression he was not happy with her actions.

His face flamed red as an autumn apple. His eyes were live coals. Even at ten paces she could see the tendons tightening in his neck.

Jesu, what would he have had her do? Stand by helpless? She met his gaze, and what she read there unnerved her far more than had the incident with the stallion. She was barely aware of Duncan helping her down from the horse and leading him away.

In three steps Iain covered the distance between them and stood glaring down at her, hands fisted at his sides. She forced herself to not move. He was so close she could feel his breath on her face.

Before she could say anything, he turned abruptly toward his brother Conall who leaned casually against the fence. Iain grabbed him by the collar and near dragged him toward the house. “Hamish! Will! To me. Now!” he bellowed.

The small crowd that had gathered burst into a cacophony of laughter and general chatter. Words of praise—and chastisement—were shouted in her direction. Aye, she supposed it was stupid of her. Both she and the boy could have been hurt.

Duncan, along with the other man who had helped him with the stallion, appeared at her side and led her to a bench by the water trough. She was more shook up than she’d first realized. She collapsed on the wooden seat.

“There, there, lass. Ye did a fine job.” Duncan rested a hand paternally on her shoulder.

“The boy,” she said. “Is he all right?”

“Conall? Dinna worry yourself about him. More than likely he’s wishin’ he was back under the black’s hooves.”

She frowned, and the other man laughed. “Aye,” he said. “Iain’s givin’ him a thrashin’ he’ll no’ soon forget.”

“He wouldn’t hurt him?” She’d never seen Iain so angry, yet she suspected a goodly portion of his wrath was reserved for her.

“Weel,” Duncan said, fingering his beard, “Conall may no’ sit much for the next day or two. But nay, lass, he wouldna truly hurt him.”

“Aye,” the younger man said. “He loves that boy like a son.”

“When their da was killed,” Duncan said, “’twas Iain who raised the lad, and the other, as well.”

“Gilchrist, you mean.”

“Aye. They’re both fine, braw laddies. Thanks to Iain.”

The younger man knelt beside her. “Are ye all right? Can I draw ye some water from the well?”

“My thanks, but nay.” His concern touched her. She pressed her hand lightly on his arm. “I’m well.”

“More afeared o’ the laird than that stallion, I’ll wager.” Duncan’s voice was primed with amusement.

“Aye, you have that right.”

“Och, dinna worry, lass. He’ll come ’round. He’s a stubborn one, and as much as I love him he can be dumb as a stone sometimes.” Duncan shot her a meaningful look, but she had no idea what he was trying to tell her.

More than anything, she wanted to ask him how it was he knew her surname, but she preferred to wait until they were alone. She turned to the younger man. “My name is Alena.”

“Aye, so I’ve heard. I’m called Gavin.”

“Gavin,” she repeated.

“My son.” Duncan beamed a smile and slapped the young man on the back.

Before she could comment on the resemblance, Hamish appeared, towering over them, a huge grin on his face. “Lady,” he said, “I’m to escort ye back to the house.”

Iain’s instructions, no doubt. No matter. She was starved and had had enough excitement for one morning. Her conversation with Duncan would have to wait. It seemed whatever he knew about her, he had kept it to himself.

Or had he?

She recalled Iain’s bloodred face.

She rose and accepted the warrior’s arm. “Lead the way, Hamish. I’m so famished I could devour a horse.”

He grinned down at her, blue eyes flashing mirth. “I thought ye just had.”

Alena spent the afternoon exploring the Davidson stronghold and meeting the clanfolk who lived there. The incident with the stallion had spread like wildfire, and those she met eyed her with no small amount of suspicion.

Hamish never left her side—not for one moment. Iain’s orders. She hadn’t seen him since that morning and caught herself more than once wondering where he was and what he was doing.

Beyond the stable lay the archery butts and a large training ground where the clan’s warriors honed their battle skills. These were Iain’s own additions to the Davidson demesne, Hamish told her. The place was a bustle of activity that afternoon, and Hamish barred her entrance from the area.

He was probably there.

Just as well. After witnessing Iain’s rage that morning, Alena wasn’t sure she was ready for a chance meeting just yet. Besides, she had no desire to cut short her afternoon excursion.

In every place they walked, from the kitchens at the main lodge to the farrier’s to the brew house, she spied odd stashes of weapons: broadswords, longbows with sheaves of arrows, double-headed axes, and dirks of every variety. Braedûn Lodge looked more like an armory than an estate. When she questioned Hamish about the weapons he just shrugged and said “’twas Iain’s doing.”

She recalled the arms Iain bore while hunting—two swords, a longbow, two dirks that she could see, and probably others that lay hidden on his person.

What did it all mean?

She knew not, but had a bad feeling about it. After exhausting Hamish with a bevy of questions he didn’t answer, and when the sun dipped low in the sky, she returned to her chamber to ready herself for supper.

Hetty’s attempt to coax her into donning a more lavish gown failed. The borrowed pale green wool suited her fine. ’Twas simple and reasonably comfortable, though tight about the bodice. She resisted Hetty’s bid to coif her hair, and wore it loose about her, as always, a wild tumble of honey-gold cascading to her hips.

Raucous chatter rose from the great hall as she descended the staircase to join her hosts. Or jailers. She wasn’t sure which to call them. Alena stopped near the bottom step and searched the crowd for familiar faces.

There were eight or ten tables filled with people, many of whom she had met that afternoon. Most were attired in the Davidson plaid. What few Mackintosh clansmen there were stood out among the rest.

The table closest to the hearth was raised on a dais, so the men seated there were visible to everyone in the room. Iain sat at the head, flanked by Conall on his left and another young man dressed in Mackintosh colors on his right. Hamish and Will sat farther down with a number of other warriors who sported the Davidson tartan.

Hamish smiled broadly at her while Will bore his usual, puppy-dog expression. Only Iain scowled, and when Alena met his gaze she lifted her chin in provocation. Perhaps ’twas the gown that irritated him.

The young warrior seated to Iain’s right stood and extended his hand. “Lady Alena,” he called out, “will ye join us?”

He was nearly as tall as Iain, but not as well-muscled. He had Iain’s strong features and the same stormy eyes, but the resemblance ended there. Iain was dark, with wild chestnut hair, and a brooding sort of expression. This man was blond, like her, and wore a dazzling, almost dangerous smile. He looked as if he could charm a lass right out of her shift. She was mildly shocked at her own bold appraisal of him. He could only be one man—Iain’s brother, Gilchrist.

She made her way to the dais, took the young warrior’s proffered hand, and a moment later found herself seated between him and Iain. A half dozen men offered their drinking horns. Not sure how to respond, she looked to Iain. Their eyes locked, but a sour expression ruled his face. He snatched his own goblet from the table and placed it in front of her.

“Thank you,” she said, and lifted the ale cup to her lips.

The blond warrior turned to her and said, “I am Gilchrist, second son of Colum Mackintosh.”

So, she’d been right. Hetty’s description of him was accurate. “I am happy to meet you, Gilchrist,” she said.

Across the table young Conall sat, transfixed, staring openly at her. His boyish good looks reminded her of the young Iain. A rush of tenderness overwhelmed her. She smiled at the lad and he nearly fell off the bench. Iain shot him a disgusted smirk.

“What’s the matter, Conall, laddie, have ye ne’er seen a lady before?” Gilchrist said.

“Never one so fair, truth be told.”

Iain snorted and muttered something under his breath Alena could not make out.

Gilchrist slid closer along the bench. “Nor have I.” To her astonishment, he covered her hand, which rested lightly on the table, with his own.

Aye, Hetty was doubly right. This one was a rogue.

“Enough!” Iain smashed his fist onto the table, causing trenchers and goblets to jump. Like lightning, Gilchrist removed his hand from hers.

Delight shivered up her spine at Iain’s overwrought response to his brother’s harmless flirtation. She fought to maintain a serious expression, but felt the corners of her mouth edge upward. She dared not look at Iain, and turned instead toward the other end of the table.

Hamish rubbed a beefy paw over his face, trying without success to squelch his laughter. The other warriors at the table, Mackintosh and Davidson alike, seemed vastly amused by the little scene.

’Twas time to break the ice.

She turned and caught Iain staring at her. He instantly dropped his eyes and feigned a healthy interest in the trencher of venison that rested before him.

“Iain, I—”

“All save a few call me Laird—but I shall allow ye to call me Iain, if ye wish.” He speared a hunk of meat with his dirk and raised it to his mouth.

Good God, he was arrogant. Mayhap the insufferable boy she remembered lived still inside the man.