The roan stallion jerked and Iain snapped to attention. Pushing the dark memories from his mind, he glanced quickly about him, instinctively checking the position of his weapons. All was well. He soothed the beast with a few gentle words, then looked back at his kinsmen.
“Hamish, what d’ye hear from Findhorn?” It had been years since Iain had looked upon his ancestral home. Few were left there now, living in the crofts outside the curtain wall. The keep, he’d heard, had fallen into disrepair, the lands overgrown and wild.
Hamish’s brows shot up. “No’ much is changed. Grant soldiers patrol the woods there still.”
“But the clansmen who remain have no’ been idle.” Will nudged his mount forward, even with the roan.
“Aye.” Hamish nodded. “They are loyal to The Mackintosh and stand ready to support ye.”
Iain shrugged. “They are brave men and true to my father’s memory.”
“You are laird now,” Hamish said. “They are loyal to ye.”
“Aye, I’m laird.” And ye all know why. His father was dead—murdered—and he’d done naught to stop it. Iain clenched his teeth, his mouth dry and bitter. He snatched the kidskin bladder hanging from his saddle, tilted his head back, and took a long draught.
“What will ye do?” Will asked.
“I’ll claim what’s mine, and strike down those who stole it from me. I should have done it long ago.”
He’d burned to do it, in fact. For years that’s all he’d thought about. But his mother’s clan was small, and Alistair Davidson a prudent man. He’d barely let Iain out of his sight whilst he was growing up. And once he’d grown, Iain realized he bore the weight of not only a man’s responsibilities, but a laird’s. Nay, he could not have risked so many lives on a fool’s mission.
“How do ye plan to take them?” Hamish asked. “Grant commands a sizable army.”
Iain had spent years considering that very point, obsessed with the strategies and tactics of war, honing his battle skills and those of his remaining clansmen to a sharp-edged perfection.
At any time John Grant could have hunted him down and murdered what remained of his people. But he hadn’t. That fact, coupled with Grant’s sheer numbers, had been enough to quell Iain’s bloodlust—for a time.
But things were different now. John Grant was dead, murdered some say, though no one knew who did it. His nephew, Reynold, was laird now. Iain spat. Aye, everything was different.
“We canna do it alone,” he said. “That much I know.”
“All the Mackintosh would follow ye into battle.” Will’s face shone with a loyalty that tore at Iain’s gut.
He smiled bitterly. “So they would. But I willna bring death and destruction to what’s left of my clan.” Few of his father’s warriors had escaped Reynold Grant’s retribution for his cousin Henry’s murder. The best of them had been slain, and their blood lay heavy on Iain’s own hands. “Nay,” he said, “we will come at him with ten score or none.”
Hamish looked hard at him, blue eyes fixed in question.
“Aye.” Iain nodded, holding his friend’s gaze. “I mean to raise the Chattan.”
“Clan Chattan—the alliance!” Will’s eyes widened.
“Davidson is for us.” Hamish absently twisted the hairs of his beard between thick fingers, weighing their options, Iain suspected. “Your uncle is laird. They will follow him.”
“Aye, if he agrees.”
“But what of Macgillivray and MacBain?” Will asked.
“Leave them to me.”
Iain grew weary of their conversation. The morning’s white sky dissolved into the pale blue of afternoon. He stretched and repositioned his longbow over his shoulder.
“’Tis a fine day for hunting.”
She was master now, and squeezed her thighs together gently across his back to make the point. The gelding responded at once, trotting forward, graceful and compliant. Alena Todd was pleased. Of the new Arabians, the chestnut had been the most headstrong. Now he was hers.
The Clan Grant stable produced the finest horses in Scotland, swift and powerful, with unparalleled endurance. Her father would be pleased with this one. Would that he could have broken the mount himself.
The accident seemed a lifetime ago. Alena was twelve when Robert Todd was thrown from a stallion, permanently injuring his spine. He could still walk, but would never again sit a horse without great pain. Afterward, she’d moved easily into the roles her father could no longer perform: breaking new mounts to saddle, transforming them from wild, headstrong creatures into warhorses fit to bear the clan’s warriors.
She urged the chestnut around the stable yard, leaning slightly forward to maintain her balance. She, herself, never used a saddle, preferring the subtle communication achieved bareback between rider and mount.
“Alena!” The stable lad’s voice startled her. She slowed the gelding as Martin jogged across the enclosure waving a folded note. “Perkins said ’tis for you.”
“For me?” She wiped her hands on her worn leather breeches, and Martin handed her the parchment. “What ever could it—” She opened it, and the question died on her lips.
A half hour later, after enough fanfare to last her a lifetime, Alena urged the gelding up the hill toward Glenmore Castle’s keep.
The training stable was built away from the keep, a half league down the wooded hillside where there was more space and better grazing. She was glad for the distance. It afforded her more freedom than if she’d lived among the rest of her clan. Stable lads ferried mounts between the Todds’ stable and the small castle stable that housed the laird’s steeds.
The laird.
Alena shuddered. She’d seen Reynold Grant at the old laird’s burial just days ago, though his uncle’s untimely death seemed not to grieve him overmuch.
Reynold was his nephew by marriage, so the story went. When Reynold’s father died, his mother abandoned him to marry again for the wealth she’d always craved. Her English husband had no use for her unwanted son, so John Grant took Reynold in and raised him as his own. Though ’twas common knowledge Reynold and Henry never got along.
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 a
s 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, arro
w 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.
The Mackintosh Bride Page 2
