The Mackintosh Bride

Without warning she felt the darkness again, like a black veil shrouding her heart. The night of the murders burned bright in her memory, even now, so many years later.

Aye, she remembered it all…John Grant returning to the keep, the body of his son, Henry, tied like baggage across his mount. Later that night, Reynold—he was but twenty then—had thundered into the stable yard with forty warriors demanding fresh horses. They’d reeked with the stench of blood, and a cold fear had seized her. A fear she still bore.

Mostly, though, she remembered him—the boy, Iain Mackintosh—his face, his promise, vivid still in her memory.

I will return.

She’d ridden often to their secret copse those first years after the slaughter, but had seen no sign of Iain nor any of his clan. He’d broken his vow.

After a while she’d just stopped going, and as she grew into a woman her father had tried everything to make her a suitable match. She’d have none of it, of course. Any one of the men he’d selected would have made her a fine husband, yet…

Oh, ’twas ridiculous! He was never coming back. The years she’d spent dreaming of Iain Mackintosh were years wasted. They’d been children, for pity’s sake. Still, she was not yet ready to wed. Her parents needed her, her father especially. He could never run the stable on his own. Perhaps in another year, or two, or—

Oh, hang it all! Now was not the time for such thoughts. She must keep her mind on the task at hand. She urged the gelding faster.

This summons to the castle was puzzling, indeed. Why had Reynold asked for her? Surely he would speak with her father should the matter concern the stable. Robert Todd had wanted to accompany her, but the note said she should come alone.

’Twas safe enough. She knew the wood better than any clansman, and had traveled unescorted since she was old enough to ride. A mischievous smile bloomed on her lips as she recalled the afternoons she’d spent with Iain at the copse.

’Twas warm for so early in the summer. The scent of heather and pine permeated her senses. Her mother had insisted she wear a special gown, an heirloom, really: a pale yellow silk that Madeleine Todd had brought with her from France years ago, when she was just Alena’s age.

She’d wanted to wear her riding boots, but her mother wouldn’t hear of it. Instead she’d donned a pair of soft kidskin slippers that complemented the gown. At her waist, as always, she wore the small dirk her father had given her.

The castle was in sight. Time to switch to…what had her father called it? A position befitting a lady. She maneuvered around and smoothed her skirts, covering her bare legs. “Sidesaddle, indeed.” What a ridiculous way to sit a horse. Invented for women by men, no doubt.

She made her way into the bailey and guided her mount toward the keep, exchanging greetings with her kinsmen. Near the steps she dismounted and handed the chestnut’s reins to a waiting lad.

Perkins greeted her inside. She didn’t know him well and he made her nervous. ’Twas said Reynold met him during his travels last year. His dark brows rose as he raked his eyes over her body, appraising her as she would a new horse. “The laird is expecting you. This way.” He indicated the stone steps leading to the castle’s upper levels.

A few minutes later Perkins left her alone in what appeared to be the laird’s private rooms. The chamber was rich with tapestries and ornate furniture. Rushes, woven into an intricate pattern, covered the stone floor. The day was warm, but a fire blazed in the hearth nonetheless.

A sound caught her attention. A door stood ajar at the end of the room and without a second thought she moved closer to listen. She recognized men’s voices. One of them was the laird’s, though she could not make out his words. ’Twas an argument, it seemed. Reynold’s voice grew louder, and she jumped as something—a fist, mayhap—slammed on a table. Then he roared a name that made her heart stop.

Iain Mackintosh.

He’d be a man now, a warrior. Oh, but he was always that. The half smile slid from her lips as she wondered if he’d taken some elegant lady to wife. A lady of fortune and property. His childhood boasts still burned in her ears. She pushed the thought from her mind. Whatever he was now, ’twas apparent Iain Mackintosh had angered her new laird.

She inclined her head toward the door and strained to hear more. Sharp footsteps moved rapidly across the flag-stones. In the nick of time she jumped back. The door crashed open.

Reynold Grant stood before her, cool blue eyes drinking her in. She had never been so close to him before, and that closeness sparked her fear. He was about thirty, she guessed, tall and well-muscled, with fair skin and white-blond hair tied back in a leather thong. He was an imposing figure in the Clan Grant plaid—all warrior, and chieftain. The burnished metal of the sword and dirk belted at his waist caught the light.

She didn’t like the way he openly leered at her, and avoided returning his gaze. “Laird. You sent for me.”

“Alena,” he said slowly, pronouncing each syllable as if her name were some newly minted word. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, his eyes drawing her in. “How lovely ye are. Such beauty shouldna be hidden away in the stable.” He loomed in close, and she fought the urge to step back.

“I have a matter to discuss with ye.” To her relief he dropped her hand and walked toward the window. He cast a brief look outside. “What think ye of this place?”

The question took her by surprise. “’Tis…very fine. Surely one of the greatest stone castles in Scotland.”

“Aye, ’tis true.” He approached her, and she tensed as he again took her hand. “How would ye like to live here?”

His question confused her, and she knew it showed on her face. “I do live here, Laird, in my parents’ cottage, at the training stable not a half league away.”

He chuckled softly, as if in response to some private joke. “Nay, lass. How would ye like to live here, at the keep…with me?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” An awful premonition welled inside her. She tried to draw her hand away, but he held it fast.

“How old are you, Alena?” Reynold pulled her close. “Ten and nine, sir. Almost twenty.” Why on earth would her age interest him? Why had he sent for her?

“Ten and nine. Far past marriageable age, and yet ye are not wed.” He arched his brows and smiled down at her. “Why?”

So that was it.

Her cheeks flushed hot. She yanked her hand away and looked him in the eyes. “I do not desire marriage, Laird. I wish to remain at the stable. There is much work to—”

“Not desire marriage? Surely your father doesna support this view.”

Her suspicions were confirmed. Her father had put him up to this. “Nay, Laird, he does not.”

“Nor do I. In truth, I’ve summoned ye here to tell ye that ye will be wed, and soon.”

She did back away then, incredulous. “Wed? To whom?”

A smile broke across his ghost-white face. “To me. On Midsummer’s Day.”

Iain guided his mount down a steep, wooded ravine. He wasn’t familiar with this part of the forest and moved cautiously, scanning the trees for any sign of movement.

Hamish and Will had continued south when Iain veered east tracking a red stag, the biggest he’d ever seen. He’d strayed onto Grant land at some point, but no matter. He’d soon have his game and be gone.

His kinsmen would wait for him at Loch Drurie, hours away from where he was now. He studied the afternoon sky, judging the light. There was time enough, but where was his prey?

The ravine was choked with gorse and whortleberry, making the footing difficult for his horse. Stands of larch and laurel rose up to touch the sky. It reminded him much of the copse, their secret place. His and the girl’s. Sunlight pierced the emerald canopy, transforming the wood into a fairy forest of shadow and light.

He moved silently, directing the roan toward a stream near the bottom of the slope. Breathing in the cool, earthy scent of the forest, he scanned the surrounding foliage.

There! He saw it!

The red stag, drenched in sunlight and frozen against a backdrop of green. Fifty yards upwind, at most seventy-five. Few archers could make such a shot, but in his mind’s eye Iain could already feel the weight of the stag on his back as he lifted it onto his horse. Aye, this one was his.

The stallion, trained to the hunt, stood motionless as Iain strung his longbow. He dipped into the grease pot that hung at his waist and ran his fingers lightly along the bowstring, his eyes never leaving his prey.

The stag stepped forward and dropped its head, raking the ground with a hoof, then shook its great body sending a spray of water droplets flying from its coat.

’Twas now or never. Crossing himself, Iain offered up a wordless prayer to his patron saint. With a practiced hand he drew an arrow into the bow and sighted down the shaft to his prey.

This was the moment above all others that thrilled him. The years of training, preparation, the foregone pleasures—all proved worthwhile in that brief moment before he loosed the arrow toward its mark. A Mackintosh never missed.

Then it happened.

The stag’s head shot up, ears pricked. A second before he heard the commotion, Iain sensed what the stag already knew—Riders!

“Saint Sebastian to bluidy hell!”

The stag bounded into the cover of the forest. Iain forced his mount sideways into the shadow of a larch, checked the placement of his other weapons, and leveled his bow at the sound.

A chestnut gelding crashed through the trees on the opposite side of the ravine, its rider a blur of yellow and gold driving the horse toward the stream at the bottom. At the last possible second the chestnut vaulted itself over the churning waters. The horse landed badly, flinging its rider to the ground.

Iain scanned the ridge line in all directions but saw no others. He guided his steed cautiously down the slope, arrow still nocked in his bow. The roar of the stream was deafening.

The chestnut writhed on the ground in pain. Its rider lay sprawled, facedown, a few yards in front of the horse. Good God, ’twas a woman! As Iain approached, she pushed herself to her knees and looked up, stunned from the fall.

His breath caught.

Her hair was a tumble of light—wheat and flaxen and gold—framing a round face with a slightly pointed chin. Her gown was ripped across the shoulder and the fabric gaped, exposing the swell of one creamy breast. Iain let his gaze linger there for a moment. She was spattered with mud, and a trail of bloody fingerprints snaked over her from neck to waist.

As she emerged from her daze she stiffened at the sight of him towering above her on the roan. Their eyes locked. She snatched a bloodied dirk from her belt and brandished it before her.

Iain had never seen a more beautiful woman in his life.

The thunder of hoofbeats wrenched him from his stupor. Horsemen were descending the ravine, sunlight glinting off their livery. Clan Grant livery.

The woman glanced back at them. He saw recognition, then fear, grow on her face. She scrambled to her feet and backed toward her horse, a white-knuckled grip on the dirk.

The warriors saw them and slowed their descent. Iain counted ten, maybe twelve. Too many. His decision made, he slung his longbow over his shoulder and offered the woman his hand. “Come on, lass, they’re nearly upon us.”

She studied him for a moment, glanced back at the riders, then sheathed her dirk and started toward him. Three quick steps and she stopped. “My horse!” she cried and turned back toward the injured beast. “I must help him.”

Christ! He quickly restrung his bow, nocked an arrow, and loosed it into the gelding’s breast. The horse shuddered once, then lay still.

The woman whirled on him. “You killed—”

In one swift motion he leaned from his mount and swept her into his lap. He spurred the roan up the hill, away from the approaching riders, and wondered what in bloody hell he’d gotten himself into.

Chapter Two

So much for hunting.

Iain reined his lathered stallion to a walk. They’d outridden the warriors, but on his life he knew not how. The terrain had been rugged and steep, and his steed already spent when the chase had begun.

The woman had swooned—from shock and exhaustion, no doubt—but not before she’d driven the roan to break-neck speed. Iain had never seen anything like it. As they’d topped the ridge above the ravine she’d leaned far forward in the saddle, her hands resting lightly on the stallion’s neck. ’Twas almost as if she’d whispered something to the beast. The steed had responded immediately, had flown past larch and laurel, dodging stumps and boulders, leaving the Grants far behind.

Securing one arm ’round her waist, he draped the woman’s legs over his thigh. Her head lolled back, spilling flaxen tresses across his plaid. Wisps of the fine hair grazed his bare leg like a thousand silken fingers. Her full lips were parted. “Holy God,” he breathed, and fought the overwhelming urge to kiss her.

Feelings stirred inside him that he couldn’t explain: fierce protectiveness, awe, desire. He pushed them from his mind. Who had time for such foolishness?

He guided the roan toward a small creek and dismounted carefully, the woman in his arms. He laid her gently down onto a bed of wild grasses near the water’s edge. They would be safe here, for a while at least.

God’s truth, she was lovely. He hadn’t spent much time with women. He’d been far too busy working toward the day he’d clear his father’s name. That day was coming, and soon.

With a strip of cloth cut from his plaid, he washed the blood and caked mud from her face and neck, hesitating a moment before moving to her shoulders. He swallowed hard as he watched the rise and fall of her breasts with each slow, steady intake of breath.

A few stray leaves clung to her hair. As he plucked them from their golden nest he had the strangest feeling he knew her. Nay, ’twas impossible. He was certain he’d never seen her before. Hers was not a face a man would soon forget.

Examining the fine silk of her gown, he wondered about her family, to which clan she belonged. She was a lady, surely. Her mount had lacked distinctive markings or livery. In fact, the gelding had neither saddle nor stirrups. She’d ridden bareback and outrun the Grant. Now that was impressive.

On impulse he clasped one of her hands in his and ran his thumb lightly over her palm. ’Twas rough and callused, surprisingly so. A lady, surely, but with the hands of a servant? No matter. He’d solve the mystery soon enough.

“Wake up, lass,” he whispered, and rubbed her cool hands between his.

She felt like ice.

Aye, except for her hands. They were warm. Oh, what a terrible dream. She drew a breath and opened her eyes. “Jesu!”

A huge warrior knelt above her, a dark shape against the setting sun. “Nay!” She wrenched her hands free of his grip and thrashed at him with her fists.

“Easy, lass, easy.” The warrior grabbed her wrists to still her struggle. “You’re safe, you’re safe now. No harm will come to ye.”

She stiffened in his grasp, then relaxed, letting her head fall back onto the soft pillow of heather. Oh, God, ’twas all true then!

The warrior held her hands in his, stroking the backs of them with his thumbs. Against all reason, she was not afraid of him. In truth, she felt strangely comforted by his presence. She felt…

Safe.

With a start, she remembered her pursuers. She bolted upright and scanned their surroundings for signs of the riders. “Where are they? What—”

“Shh…Dinna fash.” The warrior coaxed her into lying back down. “We’re well away from the soldiers and they willna follow us here.”

He revealed a square of damp cloth, hesitated for a moment as if to gauge her response, then pressed it to her brow. She lay still and let him do it.

His face intrigued her. ’Twas thoughtful yet strong, with finely chiseled features, and framed by a mane of deep brown hair. One thin braid strayed from his temple, and he absently pushed it back from his face. His expression was intent, and his eyes—those eyes—from where did she know them?

Jesu! He was sponging the rise of her breasts with the cloth. She sat up and batted his hand away.

“You’re hurt,” he said. “The blood. Let me—”

“Nay!” She pulled the edges of her tattered gown together, covering her half-exposed breast. A flash of heat rose in her face, and she knew her cheeks blazed crimson. “’Tis…not my blood.”

With revulsion she recalled Reynold Grant’s hands on her. Their brief meeting had gone from bad to worse once his intentions were made clear. Why in God’s name did he wish to wed her? ’Twas unfathomable. She was nothing, no one. He was laird and could have any woman he wanted.

He wanted her.

And used her parents’ vulnerability to ensure her compliance. Did she not wed him on Midsummer’s Day, he’d turn them out. Without the clan’s protection, with no way to make a living, they’d perish.

Jesu, what had she done?

When she’d refused Reynold, he came at her and she’d panicked. In her struggle to get away she’d done something stupid. She’d cut him. On the face. Her dirk was in her hand before she’d even known what she was doing. ’Twas raw instinct, self-defense. Any maid would have done the same to preserve her virtue. She’d fled the keep and bolted into the forest on the waiting gelding. She didn’t think, she just rode, faster and faster until—

The warrior’s intense gaze pulled her back to the moment. He sat back on his heels, allowing her some space. “Have they…did they…harm ye, lass?”

His eyes beamed concern, and her heart fluttered. “Nay, I’m well. Truly.” She pulled the gown tighter across her breasts, crossing her arms in front of her.

He leaned forward and offered her the damp cloth. “There’s no need to fear me. I willna harm ye.”

She accepted the square of plaid and wiped it across the curve of her neck, remembering with a shudder the soldiers who’d pursued her.

The warrior retrieved a leather bladder from the saddle of his horse and offered it to her. “Here, drink this. ’Twill calm ye.”

Eager to slake her thirst, she took a long draught from the waterskin and nearly choked. “Wha—what is it?” she sputtered, and started to cough.

The warrior laughed. “A wee libation my brother concocted.”

“’Tis terrible.” She tried to catch her breath as the drink burned a path of liquid fire down her throat.

“Aye, ’tis.” He chuckled. “But it’s kept me warm on many a night in the rough.”

She cleared her throat and felt a pleasant heat spread throughout her chest. She relaxed a little and handed the skin back to him.

He sat beside her, cross-legged, and she noticed for the first time his powerful physique: broad shoulders and long, muscular legs. Her mind drifted. She imagined the well-muscled chest and arms that lay hidden beneath his plaid and rough woolen shirt. He caught her staring, and her cheeks flushed hot. Quickly she looked away.

“So,” he said. “What did ye do to incite a dozen Grants to run ye to ground like a rabbit?”

Her gaze flew to his, and she caught his half smile. “I did nothing! And I was not run to ground like a rabbit. I was doing just…fine.”

“Aye, and I’m the king o’ Scotland.” His blue eyes flashed amusement. “Another moment and The Grant would ha’ been on ye.”

“If my horse hadn’t faltered, I’d have outridden them easily.”

The warrior put a hand to his chin and stroked a twoday growth of stubble. “Your horse? Ye are a Grant, then.”

“Nay! I am not.” The question unnerved her and instinct compelled her to shield the truth from him. For now, at least. “Were I Grant, think you I’d flee my own kinsmen?”

“Oh, so ye were running away.”

“Aye—nay!” He was twisting her words. She felt herself panicking. “I didn’t say that.”

The warrior leaned closer, his face inches from hers. ’Twas as if he stared right into her soul. “So, what were ye doing, then?”

“I was—I was—Wait! Who are you?”

The moment the words left her lips she knew.

He wore a common hunting plaid of muted browns and greens. As the last rays of the sun glinted off his clan brooch she recognized the emblem: a wild cat, reared up on hind legs, teeth and claws bared at the ready.

The warrior did not give his name. No matter. His face, those eyes—She would know him anywhere. He was Iain Mackintosh, her childhood love.

Chapter Three

Nothing in her girlish dreams had prepared her for this chance reunion.

She scrambled to her feet, shrugging off his attempt to help her. Her heart fluttered and she felt strangely light-headed. She told herself ’twas the drink and not the reappearance of Iain Mackintosh that caused her head to spin.

She took a step toward the roan stallion, her thoughts racing. Perhaps if she was quick—

Iain’s hand gripped her elbow, and she froze. “What’s your name, lass?”

“’Tis, um…” She knew she was a poor liar. Perhaps part of the truth would suffice. “A-Alena. My name is Alena.”

“Alena? ’Tis no’ a Scots name. Ye have the speech of a Scot, though ’tis strange.” She could see his mind working. “There’s something else about ye seems familiar.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She turned away and absently stroked the stallion’s neck. “Nay, I know you not.” She could feel his eyes on her, and a chill of excitement shivered up her spine.

“Your surname—to which clan do ye belong?”

Clan? Oh no! She needed time to think. About Reynold, her parents, about him. ’Twas by sheer luck Iain had found her in the wood. She must not forget that. ’Twas not as if he’d come looking for her. Why, he might kill her, or ransom her, if he knew she was a Grant. Nay, she must think of a plan. She turned and put on her boldest face. “I—I am Alena. That is enough for you to know.”

He stood stock-still, a carefully controlled anger simmering in his eyes. ’Twas apparent no one dared speak to him so, or hadn’t for long years. She recalled their childhood sparring.

His voice was deadly calm. “When I question ye, woman, ye will answer me. With the truth.” He seemed to grow larger before her eyes. “Now, tell me your surname.”

“I will not.” She must not. She pursed her lips and riveted her gaze to his, the challenge set.

For a moment she thought he might strike her. Instead he loomed, motionless, fists clenched at his sides, and glared at her. She held her ground and glared back.

“Suit yourself, then. I’ll leave ye as I found ye.” He brushed past her and vaulted onto his horse.

In eleven years he hadn’t changed a bit. He was still the most arrogant, maddening boy—well, man—she’d ever known. He nudged the roan toward the forest road. Jesu, did he truly mean to leave her?

She glanced skyward. The sun had set and the first stars peeked out at her from a flawless cerulean sky. ’Twould be deathly cold in no time. No mount, no weapons save her dirk, and her clothing reduced to rags. She looked a beggar and, she had to admit, she’d behaved badly. She regretted her impertinence. After all, he was only trying to help her.

As if he’d read her mind, he turned the steed. By the set of his jaw and the steely look in his eyes she knew his intention.

“Oh, n-nay, w-wait—”

Ignoring her protest, he leaned from his mount and swept her off her feet into his lap. One muscled forearm closed like a steel trap around her waist. His breath teased her hair.

Surrender seemed her only choice. For now. She sank back into the warmth of his chest and wondered what on earth she was going to do.

They rode in silence for what seemed hours. Alena tried several times, without success, to position herself astride the horse. Each time Iain held her fast across his lap.

At last he slowed the stallion to a walk and stopped in a clearing on the far side of a wooded ridge. The moon was little more than a sliver. Below them in its eerie light she spied the milk-white surface of a long loch.