The Mackintosh Bride

Never had she been so far afield.

Iain guided the roan toward the water. The smell of wood smoke grew sharp as they approached the shore. They snaked along the bank until they reached an enormous standing stone positioned at the water’s edge. ’Twas a marker of some kind. Here he turned his mount back into the wood. A campfire flickered in a clearing just ahead.

What was this place?

Two warriors stood just inside the firelight, their features outlined in its warm glow. One of them called out as they approached the clearing. “The hunter returns at la—Saint Columba, will ye look at that!”

The men approached them, mouths agape, their gazes riveted to her. The bigger one—Jesu, they were both huge!—recovered his tongue first. “A bonny prize, man, but she doesna look much like a red stag.”

Iain shifted beneath her in the saddle. “She weighs as much as one. Here, take her.”

Before she could dismount, Iain lifted her off his lap and dumped her into the waiting arms of the huge warrior. As he set her down she felt her knees buckle. Hours of sidesaddle riding pinned across Iain’s thighs had lulled her limbs to sleep.

The second warrior rushed to support her, his puppyish face brimming concern. Alena smiled at him, and he beamed. She regained her balance and shot Iain a look of pure murder.

Iain scowled down at her, his eyes flashing blue-gray steel in the firelight. “Hmph.” He dismounted, tangled a foot in the stirrup and nearly crashed to the ground. A litany of curses rattled under his breath.

The big warrior’s bushy red brows shot up and he exploded into laughter. “Well, ’tis plain whose arrow struck whom.” Iain’s glare silenced him, but mirth still danced in his eyes.

“I found her in the forest.” Iain tethered his steed and turned toward his kinsmen. “Her mount was lame.”

“You killed him!” she said.”

It had to be done. There was—”

“He was a valuable gelding. I could have sav—”

“Silence!”

A chill shot through her. Iain Mackintosh was not a boy anymore. She’d do well to remember that. Her situation here was precarious at best.

Ignoring her, Iain turned toward his burly, red-haired kinsman. “Grant soldiers, a dozen or so. Chasin’ her.”

Surprise registered on the faces of both warriors. They exchanged glances, then studied her with renewed interest, their eyes drawn to her torn and bloodied gown. Her cheeks flamed. She pulled the ragged edges of her bodice together, but did not look away.

“Are ye hurt, lady?” the gentle one asked her.

“Nay,” she replied, “just…cold.”

The two men stepped toward her, each fumbling to unwrap his plaid. With a sharp look Iain stayed their hands. The one with the gentle eyes and puppyish face shrugged, then coaxed her to the fire. Iain watched them, but did not follow.

She held her hands out to the crackling blaze and fought off the chill of the night. Her mind raced, but one thing was clear—Iain was a Mackintosh, and she was a Grant.

“Enemies,” she breathed.

“Eh?” The young warrior eyed her, his brows furrowed in question.

“Oh, ’tis nothing. I was just…”

A leg of venison lay spitted across the fire. Her mouth watered at the delicious smell of the roasting meat. Her stomach growled again, loud enough for the warrior who sat beside her to hear. He cut a portion from off the spit and divided it between them. She thanked him for his kindness and set upon the juicy slab as if it were her first meal in months.

They ate in silence and, once finished, she turned her attention to him. She was amused by his blush and tentative return of her glance. He was as tall as Iain, but slighter, with thoughtful brown eyes and a calm demeanor.

She smiled. “My name is Alena.”

“’Tis an honor, Lady Alena. I’m called Will.”

The name suited him. She was about to tell him she was not a lady, only a stablemaster’s daughter, but thought better of revealing any more about herself than necessary.

She gestured toward the burly warrior standing with Iain at the edge of the firelight. “And your friend?”

“That’s Hamish.”

“Hamish.” His most striking feature, other than his enormous size, was his wild mass of fire-bright hair. He had a thick red beard and hands the size of small hams. She remembered the mirth in his clear blue eyes and his bellowing laugh when Iain nearly tumbled from his horse. She liked him, this giant of a man.

“And the other?” She nodded at Iain.

“Oh. Iain, ye mean?”

She was right! She would have bet her life on it. She had, in fact. A tiny smile bloomed on her lips.

“He didna tell you his name?”

“Nay.” She arched a brow in question. “Iain…?”

“Mackintosh. The Mackintosh. Our laird.”

“Laird?” This did not surprise her. “You speak so…frankly to him. He allows it?”

“Oh, aye. The three of us ha’ been friends since boyhood, since the old laird, Iain’s da, ever since he was—”

“Will!”

Both of them froze. She looked up to see Iain scowling at them from the opposite side of the fire. Her mind had been on Will’s explanation and she hadn’t heard Iain approach.

“We’ll rest here tonight.” Iain’s eyes drifted to the spit over the fire and his expression softened. “What’s for supper? Venison?”

“Aye,” Hamish replied as he came up behind him. He rested one huge paw on his laird’s shoulder. “Some of us were no’ as lucky in the hunt as others.” The warrior winked at her, and she suppressed a smile.

Iain grumbled something under his breath and shrugged off his kinsman’s hand. They both sat down to eat. Iain seemed at ease here at the loch, much more so than when they’d been riding.

She realized they must be miles from Clan Grant land. They’d ridden steadily upward through the larch wood, farther into the Highlands, and away from Glenmore Castle. How would she ever get back? Her parents would be worried sick.

Midsummer’s Day.

Reynold’s words throbbed in her head like a drumbeat. Nay, she would not think on it. Not now. Not yet.

Suddenly chilled, she stretched her arms toward the fire. Her shredded bodice gaped, and she moved quickly to cover herself. Across the campfire Iain watched her as he feasted on what remained of the venison leg.

“Lady Alena,” Will whispered. “I’ve a sewing needle and a bit o’ thread. Comes in handy all too often in the rough. Would ye like to borrow it? For your gown, I mean?”

“Aye.” She smiled at him. “My thanks.”

Will dipped into his sporran and pulled out a square of cloth pierced by a needle trailing a goodly amount of thread. “This should do.” He handed it to her.

To her surprise, Iain stood and unpinned the clan brooch that held his plaid in place over his shoulder. He unfurled a long length of the hunting tartan and cut it away with his dirk, then tucked the rest into his belt. “Here, lass,” he said, and tossed it over the campfire into her lap. “Ye can wear this whilst ye do your sewing.”

The gesture touched her. She was reminded of him as a boy, how one minute he seemed not to care about her and the next, well…

She held his gaze for a moment, then thanked him and rose, turning toward the cover of the forest. Before she could take a step, he said, “No’ that way. Go down by the loch. ’Tis…safer.”

She read something in his eyes, a stoic sort of honor she remembered well. She knew then that he meant to protect her, even though he knew not who she was.

At the water’s edge she dropped Iain’s plaid and wrestled with the laces of her gown. The garment was bloodstained, mud-caked, and ripped in a dozen places. But ’twas her mother’s gift to her, and she would salvage it somehow.

She worked the laces free and pulled the fine silk over her head. Draping the gown carefully over the standing stone marking the clearing twenty yards away, she turned toward the water and drew a heady breath of night air.

A stiff breeze penetrated the thin fabric of her shift. Feelings of relief and freedom washed over her. She was safe here, with Iain, as long as he didn’t discover her identity. She must think of a plan, but not tonight.

Exhaustion consumed her and she wavered slightly on her feet. Best get this over with quickly. She tore a strip of cloth from the hem of her shift and dipped it into the frigid water. ’Twas the briefest, coldest sponge bath of her life. She grabbed Iain’s plaid and wrapped it around her. ’Twas warm from his body and held the strong male scent of him.

She felt herself drifting and succumbed to the dreamy exhaustion. Sinking to the ground, she drew her knees up close to her chest and rested her back against the ancient standing stone marking the path back to their camp. She pulled Iain’s plaid tight and nestled her cheek against its warm folds. Just for a moment she would rest her eyes.

Visions flashed bright against the midnight backdrop of her eyelids: white-blond hair against a bloodred field, ice-blue eyes cold as death. She shuddered at the brink of sleep, then let go the awareness of her surroundings and drifted deeper.

In her mind’s eye she saw the boy, his wild hair and tear-streaked face, the jeweled dagger clutched to his heart. The image faded, and in its place crouched a silver cat, sleek and muscular. And finally the man, the warrior, his indigo eyes burning into the very depths of her soul.

She sighed as a gentle hand cupped her cheek. She was lifted free of her burdens and carried home, warm and safe in his arms.

Through slitted eyes Alena perceived the gray dawn. Heat radiated from behind her, and she backed against the solid warmth. A comforting weight, hot as a firebrand, moved over the curve of her waist and came to rest just below her breast.

She felt…wonderful.

Her eyes flew open. The campfire directly in front of her was reduced to smoldering ash, and the bundled forms of two sleepers lay flanking it. A shock of red hair poked out from one of the plaids. Of course! Hamish and Will.

And Iain!

Alena lifted the plaid and saw Iain’s bare arm draped over her. She felt the heat of his body at her back, the thin fabric of her shift the only barrier between her skin and his. He snored lightly, his hot breath ruffling her hair. Taking care not to wake him, she wriggled out from beneath his heavy arm and scrambled to her feet.

On a nearby rock she spied her gown, folded neatly and covered with a square of plaid to protect it from the morning dew. She shook out the pale yellow silk and saw it had been mended with dozens of small, straight stitches, and had been carefully cleaned of the mud and blood that had covered it the night before. She glanced at the sleeping pile of plaid that was Will and smiled.

Wasting no time, she pulled the gown over her head and laced it as best she could. Her hair was a tangle of curls in the mist. She leaned forward, letting her thick mane hang nearly to the ground, and combed it through with her fingers.

A minute later she gasped as two large boots came into view through the honey-wheat curtain. She whipped her head back and found herself face-to-face with Iain. Her eyes widened.

He stood before her with hands on hips, studying her, it seemed, with no small amount of curiosity. She tipped her chin and met his gaze, determined to not let him intimidate her.

“They’re green,” he said plainly. “I hadna thought so last night.”

“What are green?”

“Your eyes.” He stared at her for a moment then turned back toward the fire ring.

Gooseflesh rose on her skin, but not from fear.

She excused herself and returned to the loch to gain some privacy for her morning ablutions. The sun rose over the treetops in the east and cast thin fingers of light across the mist blanketing the water.

Alena gazed at the ancient standing stone and tried to recall exactly when and how she’d ended up half naked, rolled in a plaid with Iain Mackintosh.

The foursome burst out of the larch wood into the open terrain: a rugged and rocky carpet of green sprayed with clumps of late spring wildflowers. The air was fresh and full of the scent of the Highland heather blanketing the hillsides in amethyst waves. ’Twas lovely, and reminded her of the days she and Iain had spent together when he was twelve and she eight.

So very long ago, she reminded herself.

They rested awhile by a small brook, taking a meal of oakcakes and cheese. Their horses grazed nearby, contented, nibbling at the sweet, wild grasses.

Alena walked over and studied the roan, running her hands down each leg and along the stallion’s well-muscled flanks. He was a fine warhorse, and well cared for. English Shire bred with native Clydesdale, she suspected. She examined the other two mounts and found them to be the same. Not as powerful, perhaps, as Iain’s steed, but excellent warhorses all the same. Whoever had bred and cared for them knew what they were doing.

Standing back, she looked them over again, hands on hips, and nodded her approval. Iain’s eyes bored into her back. She straightened her spine and faced him.

“If our mounts meet with your approval, Lady, we’ll be on our way.” He mounted and offered her his hand.

Waking that morning in his arms had unnerved her. The way their bodies fit together, the way she’d felt in his embrace…Nay, they weren’t children anymore.

She ignored Iain’s proffered hand and moved toward Will who was strapping a cloth bag of provisions onto his black gelding. “May I ride with you this afternoon, Will?”

“O’—o’ course, Lady. I’d be most—” The words died in his throat as Iain urged the roan toward them and scooped Alena into his lap.

Jesu, not again! She kicked and struggled, but he held her fast. “Must you do that?”

He spurred the stallion up the hill as she wrestled to position herself astride the horse. Her gown was twisted and rucked to her knees, exposing her ankles and calves to his view. She quickly smoothed the thin silk to cover herself.

Each time she tried to lean forward, away from him, Iain roughly pulled her back against his chest. By God, she refused to be held in his lap like a bairn! “I am perfectly capable of sitting a horse without assistance, thank you.”

“Ye might fall off,” he replied evenly.

She bristled at his comment. “I’m the best rider, man or woman, of my clan.”

“Oh, aye? And what clan is that?”

“That’s not your business.” She pulled forward again, out of his grip.

His thick forearm closed around her, just under her breasts, and jerked her firmly back against his chest. “Oh, but it is my business, lass. And dinna fool yourself. I’ll find out who ye are.” His voice was chillingly calm. The skin on her nape prickled.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Home. And there I intend to keep ye until I know what your connection is to Grant.”

Her heart fluttered and her mouth went dry. Jesu, what was she going to do? And where, exactly, was home?

A while later they topped a bald ridge, and she marveled at the view. The larch forest lay far below them. Beyond it was a great glen. In the distance a thin line snaked silver down the valley: the river Spey, its meandering path leading north toward Glenmore Castle—and Reynold Grant.

At least now she knew where she was.

Her eyes glassed as she remembered the events of the previous day. It seemed a lifetime ago she had fled. Her parents would be frantic by now. Somehow she must get word to them she was safe. Now that she’d had time to think about it, she realized her father would have never sought a match for her with their new laird. Nay, this was Reynold’s doing alone. But why?

She wiped at her eyes, pushed the thoughts from her mind, and focused instead on the beauty of the Highlands and the man who held her close to his beating heart. There would be time to sort it all out. Midsummer’s Day was weeks away.

Iain released his grip on her and struggled with something behind her. The stallion fidgeted beneath them as a whoosh of oatmeal cloth cut across her peripheral vision. She turned in the saddle to see Iain, bare-chested, jamming his woolen shirt into a leather bag that hung from the horse’s livery.

“It’s bluidy hot,” he said, and pulled her back against him, spurring the roan upward and south along the ridge line.

It dawned on her that he was leading them farther away from both Mackintosh and Grant land. Where on earth were they going?

Will and Hamish lagged behind after stopping to transfer a good-size stag—Will’s prize from yesterday’s hunt—from Hamish’s horse to Will’s.

The afternoon grew warm, and she lifted her face to the sun. Already her skin was bronzed from weeks working outdoors with her father’s new mounts. A light spray of freckles barely noticeable in the winter months appeared across her nose each summer, much to her mother’s vexation. She smiled at the thought.

Growing up a lady’s maid at the French court, Madeleine Todd had definite ideas of how a lady should dress and how she should behave. Alena had shunned most of her mother’s well-meaning attempts to transform her into such a creature, preferring instead the freedom of loose clothing and a simple coiffure for her work at the stable.

Reaching behind to her nape, she gathered her mass of thick hair and pulled it free. She’d been sitting on it. Iain pulled her back against his chest and their bare skin connected. Immediately she realized her mistake. She’d forgotten the dipping neckline at the back of her gown.

He was pure heat and the chestnut curls of his chest hair were slightly damp, sending a wave of sensation through her like nothing she’d ever experienced. She was conscious of his muscular thighs pressed up against her buttocks, gently undulating with the motion of the stallion beneath them. The thin cloth of her garments and the light wool of his plaid did little to shield her from the inferno of his body.

There was something she must know, and now seemed as good a time as any to ask him. “Iain?”

He grunted in response. ”Last night, at the loch. I—I don’t remember…”

“Oh,” he said, seeming to know what she meant. “I found ye asleep by the water and carried ye back to the fire.”

She recalled her dream, and a pleasant shiver coursed through her. “But…when I woke up, I was—you were…”

“Aye, well, ye didna expect I’d take the chance of ye stealin’ off in the night, did you?”

Nay, she did not. ’Twas clear he wasn’t about to let her go anywhere. For now, at least.

A few hours later they passed into another small forest, less densely wooded than the lands to the northeast. The stallion fell into a well-worn path and increased his speed. Of his own accord he broke into a gallop. Iain did nothing to slow his pace. They flew past pine and laurel and up over a broad, green hillside, the steed pushing harder as they gained the top.

“Jesu!” She sucked in a breath.

A great lodge of timber and stone loomed before them, its chimneys billowing a smoky welcome to the weary travelers. ’Twas big as a castle, twenty rooms at least, positioned at the top of a hill and surrounded by a thick rock wall. She could see the tops of cottages and other buildings peeking out above the stones.

“What is this place?”

“Braedûn Lodge,” Iain said. “Home of my uncle, Alistair Davidson, and my aunt Margaret.”

Of course! Iain had often spoken of his mother when they were children. Ellen. Yes, that was her name. Ellen Davidson Mackintosh. She must have fled here with her sons when Iain’s father was killed and the Grants laid claim to Findhorn Castle.

Iain directed the stallion into the great courtyard. Kinsmen shouted words of welcome to the three warriors as they approached. She noticed the bronze clan badges they wore in their bonnets, and the Davidson plaid, different from the Mackintosh colors Iain and his kinsmen sported.

Their smiles and greetings turned to wide-mouthed looks of surprise as they noticed her perched atop the roan, Iain’s arm wrapped possessively ’round her waist.

The spectators made way for the stallion who seemed to know exactly where he was going. She spotted a large stable and training yard ahead, set just off from the lodge. Iain’s steed made for the gate.

As the riders passed the main entrance to the lodge, she spied a young woman standing on the steps leading up to the great door. Dressed simply and clutching a basket of wildflowers to her breast, she was a tiny thing with delicate features and dark hair. Alena guessed her to be sixteen or so, the plumpness of childhood still noticeable in her peaches-and-cream face.

Will guided his mount to the steps and stopped. The girl beamed a smile at him, radiant as summer sunshine. His face flushed scarlet as he returned her gaze. With a nod of his head he indicated the red stag strapped to the back of his horse. Its broad rack of antlers was impressive, even to Alena. The girl voiced her approval, and Will puffed up in the saddle, nearly bursting with pride.

Hamish and Iain were still chuckling when their mounts halted just inside the stable yard. Two lads sprang forward and the warriors dropped their reins.

An older man with silver hair, dressed in a Mackintosh plaid and leather riding boots, stood waiting for them to dismount. His bright eyes were riveted to hers. Strange. She almost felt she knew him. ’Twas silly. She’d never seen him or this place before.

Iain began to lift her from the saddle. Sweet Jesu, not again! She struggled out of his grip. “Will you please un-hand me! I’ve dismounted hundreds of horses under my own power.”

He threw up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right! As ye wish, vixen.”

She caught that last word, mumbled under his breath, and shot him a look that could freeze water.

He threw a leg over the back of the roan and dropped to the ground. He glared up at her for a moment with those stormy eyes, then turned to the silver-haired man and softened his expression. “Duncan.”

“Laird.” The man smiled warmly. “Welcome home.”

Iain clapped his kinsman on the back and strode toward the horse trough butted up against the stable where Hamish was already washing the road dust from his burly arms.

Alena was still mounted. The old man, Duncan, approached her, offering a strong, leathery arm. He had a kind face that was weathered with years of work in the sun. She smiled and leaned against him for support as she slid from the stallion’s back.

Their gazes locked. He grinned, and a strange premonition washed over her.

“So, Alena Todd, what brings ye to Braedûn Lodge?”

Chapter Four

There was no reasoning with the man.

Alena paced the wooden floor of the richly furnished bed chamber and fought to control her anger. Before she’d had a chance to recover from Duncan’s startling recognition of her, she’d been whisked off to the main house and installed in a room abovestairs.

She’d protested the choice of accommodation, but Iain would have none of it. It made much more sense for her to sleep in the stable, she’d argued. He’d laughed and told her he wanted her where he could keep an eye on her.

What was she, a prisoner?

The room was beautiful. She ran a hand over the brightly colored stitches of a hanging tapestry. A fire blazed in the hearth and a large wooden tub sat before it, presumably for her bath. ’Twas a luxury afforded to few, and she had to admit ’twas preferable to a frigid dunk in the stable yard water trough. Even now, Hetty, the young woman she’d seen on the steps talking to Will, was in the kitchen seeing to the hot water.

A large window looked out over the stable yard where Duncan inspected the hooves of the mounts they had just ridden in on. Two stable lads, and another man who looked a younger version of Duncan, wiped down the lathered coats of the three horses. Duncan stood back and barked instructions. ’Twas as she’d suspected. Duncan was the stablemaster.

How on earth did he know her name?

The door to her chamber opened, forcing her thoughts to the task at hand. Hetty directed two men with steaming buckets toward the tub. Behind them marched an old woman, a Mackintosh plaid draped over her hunched shoulders. She stood with hands on hips, eyeing the men as they poured the water into the vessel, making sure, it seemed, they didn’t spill a drop.