“Nay, I didna think ye would.” The voice was Duncan’s. He stepped out of a nearby stall and tossed Will a sack of fresh straw. “Conall’s mare could use a groomin’, and I expect ye’d like to see the colt.”
“Aye, I would.” Alena smiled.
“Off with ye, then. I’ll have other chores for ye later.”
She turned to leave, then remembered something. “Duncan, I never properly thanked your son for conveying that message for me.” Oh, would that her parents were here, safe.
Will narrowed his eyes, and she realized she’d made a blunder. Secrets were near impossible to keep in a place like this. She must be more careful.
“’Twas nothing,” Duncan said nonchalantly, and returned to his work.
She and Will snaked their way to the foaling shed through the labyrinth of connected buildings. The mare stood feeding from a trough on the wall. The colt pressed in close, attached himself to one of her teats and began to nurse. Both mother and babe looked well.
Alena proceeded to wipe down the mare’s coat with handfuls of straw whilst Will pulled up a stool and sat down to watch her.
“What did ye mean in there?” he said. “What message?”
For all his relaxed demeanor and unassuming expressions, Will didn’t miss a thing. Iain had chosen his companions well.
“Oh, ’twas nothing.” Jesu, she had better change the subject, and fast. “So, uh, where is your laird?”
“Away. On business.”
“Aye, so everyone says. But where?”
“Dinna worry. Hamish is with him, and a score of clansmen. And knowin’ Iain, he’s carried half the Davidson arsenal along with him.”
This was news, indeed. She leaned into her work, feigning indifference to their conversation. “And why would he need such weapons?”
“Och, like as he wouldna. The Grants are no match for the Mackintosh—fancy weapons or no.”
“The Grants?” She froze in midstroke.
“Besides, their horses are slow and could never keep pace with our steeds.”
She whirled on him. “What do you mean, slow? I myself—” Jesu, what was she saying!
Will rocked back on the stool, his arms crossed over his chest, and sucked on the long piece of straw he held between his teeth. He cocked a brow in question.
“I—I mean, when they pursued me I was hard-pressed to outrun them.” She swore silently to herself for reacting to his obvious bait. She redoubled her efforts with the mare. “Their mounts seemed quite fast to me.”
He didn’t respond, so she pressed on. “But why would Iain—I mean, your laird—wish to meet up with the Grants?”
“Oh, he doesna especially want to meet them—well, not yet, at any rate. It’s just that we’d heard they were in the wood, on the border of their land and ours—well, the Davidsons’.”
Alena knew the huge demesne that belonged to Clan Grant stretched from near Inverness in the north, south to the Grampian Mountains, and bordered in turn the lands of each of the four Chattan clans: MacBain, Mackintosh, Davidson and Macgillivray. She also knew it wasn’t often Reynold’s warriors patrolled the wood this far south.
“What would bring Grant so far from home?” Will leveled his gaze at her. “I thought, mayhap, ye’d tell me.”
Her blood chilled in her veins. She looked away. “And what would I know of the Grants?”
“I dinna know,” he said far too casually.
The sounds of scuffling and laughter echoed from the connecting buildings. The commotion grew louder and Will rose from the stool.
Conall and Jamie burst through the doorway of the foaling shed. They skidded to a stopped, eyes wide, as Will loomed before them, one hand on the hilt of his dirk.
He relaxed. “What are ye doin’ runnin’ about the place like a pack o’ wild dogs?” His voice was stern, but Alena saw warmth in his soft brown eyes. “Jamie, have ye no’ got work to do?”
The stable lad looked sheepish and fidgeted on his feet. “Aye,” he said, and shuffled backward out of the shed.
“And you,” Will said, and took a step toward Conall. “Look at ye.” The warrior shook his head, eyeing the youth’s appearance.
Conall’s shirt was wet and rumpled and had come un-tucked from his plaid, which was twisted on his body and streaked with mud.
“But—”
“Och, lad, ye’ll be a chieftain one day. Ye’d best start to act like one.”
The youth’s face crumpled. Will made a low, rumbling sound in his throat and slapped him affectionately on the shoulder. “All right, lad. See to your horses. Lady Alena shouldna be doin’ your work for ye.”
Conall’s expression brightened. He peeked around Will’s tall frame at the mare and her colt. His eyes finally lit on Alena, and she smiled. “Oh, good morrow,” he said, and grinned at her. He skirted Will and knelt beside the colt who was busily nursing.
Alena handed him the bag of straw, and Will relaxed against a post.
“I never did thank ye, proper,” Conall said. “For saving my mare. And the colt.” His green eyes sparkled as he drank in the sight of the gangly black colt secured to its mother’s teat.
She studied him and was surprised to find he favored Iain more than she’d first thought. His hair was a wild, red-gold mass, much lighter than Iain’s, but with the same tiny braids at each temple that the Mackintosh warriors seemed to favor.
Conall was much taller than her already. Alena guessed he’d equal Iain in stature before too long. His eyes were intense, and had the same fathomless quality about them as did Iain’s. But it was his face that most reminded her of his eldest brother: strong, angular, with prominent cheekbones and a long, straight nose. He was a handsome youth and would grow into a striking man.
She suddenly remembered Will’s words. Iain had gone in search of the Grants. Jesu, what was he thinking?
She reminded herself he was a skilled warrior who’d spent years preparing to face his enemy. He was not a man who made hasty decisions. Whatever he did was well thought out, every move carefully considered. She must trust his judgment, but could she trust him with the truth about herself?
Nay, she could not.
And soon it wouldn’t matter. She would return to her clan the morning after the celebration. Her future was already determined, and she could foresee nothing that would alter that bitter destiny.
Iain glared across the ravine at the riders, not believing his eyes. Three score Grant warriors, thrice the number of his own party and sporting battle regalia, peppered the ridge opposite them.
It had rained for two days straight. Iain and his men were soaked to the skin, their plaids hanging on them like wet rags. The smell of sweat, wet wool and lathered horse nearly choked him. He shook off a chill and glanced sky-ward. Patches of blue snaked haphazardly among the angry clouds. ’Twas clearing.
He returned his attention to the riders. Not since the days following his father’s murder had he seen so many Grants this close to his uncle’s land. The ravine between them ran roughly north-south for half a league, and divided Grant land from Davidson along the southeastern edge of his uncle’s demesne.
Something foul was afoot, but he knew not what. He slid a hand across his body in silent inventory, brushing the hilts of both dirks, the longbow slung across his shoulder and the leather strap belting his broadsword to his back. He flexed his muscles and the sword’s leather sheath pressed reassuringly against him.
Hamish stroked his beard, his gaze riveted to the enemy, then nodded.
“Nay,” Iain whispered. “They are too many.”
“’Tis at worst three to one. We’ve gone up against less favorable odds and prevailed.”
Iain moved a hand to his bow and rubbed the smooth, hardened yew between his fingers. He was the only archer. “Aye,” he murmured, judging he could fell at least a half dozen of them before they reached the small creek at the bottom of the gorge. “’Twould no’ be impossible, but is it wise?”
“That’s w
hy ye are laird and not me. ’Tis your decision.”
He caught Hamish’s wry grin out of the corner of his eye. A thin smile breached his own lips. Aye, it was his decision, and he wasn’t about to start something he was not yet prepared to finish.
As he turned his mount, something caught his eye. A glint of polished steel crept across the ridge line. What the devil? He pulled the roan up short.
The light was flat, and Iain couldn’t make out the rider’s face as he picked his way carefully between thick stands of larch and laurel on the opposite side of the gorge. Grant warriors opened a path before him, goading their mounts to the side to let him pass.
The rider was large and sat tall in the saddle, his plaid covering his head. Another followed him: dark and small, sized almost as a youth, and attired all in black. A strange duo, for certain. Iain had a bad feeling about them.
Without warning the tall one spurred his mount from the shelter of the trees into the open. Iain’s fist closed over his bow. A cold ray of sunlight breached the clouds and illuminated the cloaked figure.
Christ, it couldn’t be. All the hairs on Iain’s nape prick-led. The warrior threw back his plaid and shook the water from his white-blond hair. Bile rose in Iain’s throat as he met that familiar, cool blue gaze.
All at once he was transformed into that defenseless boy of twelve. Visions of that night crashed over him, unbidden, shattering his confidence and the strength mustered from years of unrequited bloodlust and rage. He closed his eyes and let the memory suck him in….
The air was cool and thick with the scent of new oak mingled with last year’s crush. Iain stepped carefully, feeling his way in the dark, along the damp stone wall of the wine cellar. His father had asked him to remain in the great hall with Uncle Alistair and the other Chattan lairds when he took Reynold and Henry Grant belowstairs. But Iain felt uneasy. Something drew him, compelled him to follow.
The faint glow ahead grew into a warm yellow light as his father lit a wall sconce from the taper he carried. Iain ducked quickly behind the last row of casks, and stole along the wall, straining to hear their conversation.
His father’s voice rose up in a shout. Heedless of discovery, Iain sprang forward toward the commotion. He turned the corner at the end of the row of casks and stopped dead in his tracks.
Henry Grant lay prone on the stone floor, his plaid dark with blood that seeped from a wound in his back. The warrior’s face was shock-white, his eyes wide and still. Iain’s father knelt over the body, gripping a dirk, blood dripping from its tip.
Nay! It couldn’t be so. Iain refused to believe what his eyes made plain.
Metal flashed in the soft light as Reynold Grant stepped out from behind a row of casks, broadsword drawn and raised. Iain stared, unable to move, as Reynold looked from the body of his cousin Henry to Iain’s father.
A slow smile spread across Reynold’s face. “Grants! To me, to me!” His voice echoed shrilly off the stone walls of the cellar.
His father’s eyes narrowed and a slow recognition overtook his astounded expression.
Iain stood, transfixed, his back pressed against the wet stones of the cellar wall. Reynold had not seen him. His father rose, then slid back to his knees, the point of Reynold’s broadsword at his throat.
Saint Sebastian, he must do something! Iain checked himself for a weapon—a dirk, his bow, anything he could use to defend his father. He frantically scanned the room for anything he might wield. There was nothing! He stood motionless, helpless.
The chamber exploded with light. Grant soldiers bearing torches swarmed into the cellar, swords and daggers drawn. Iain knew they searched among the rows of casks for their laird’s son.
Reynold hovered still as a statue, waiting. Rounding the last row of casks, the soldiers skidded to a halt behind him. All were silent, appraising the scene before them: Henry dead on the floor, Iain’s father kneeling over him, bloody dagger in hand.
For a moment Iain heard only the sound of water dripping from the stones behind his back, and the wild beating of his own heart. Something made him turn toward the staircase.
John Grant stood alone on the bottom step, silent and grave, looking past his murdered son and his nephew, and into the face of a man he’d called friend. Colum Mackintosh.
Reynold spoke in what was almost a whisper. “The Mackintosh hath slain my cousin.”
Iain watched in horror as Reynold plunged his sword into his father’s throat.
The cellar erupted in anarchy. Soldiers charged down the staircase, a roil of bodies and weapons. The stench of blood quickly overpowered the familiar warm scents of wine and oak.
The voice of The MacBain rang clear above the rest, in prophecy more than declaration, “There willna be peace. This night, nor any other.”
Hamish elbowed him out of his dream state. “’Tis The Grant himself,” he whispered.
Shaking off his momentary stupor, Iain leveled his gaze at the blond warrior and tightened his grip on his bow. “Aye, that’s him.” He’d know him anywhere. Never would he forget those cold eyes.
He gauged the distance—no more than twenty yards—a ridiculously easy shot. He imagined the feathered butt of his arrow protruding from Reynold Grant’s chest, his face a twisted death mask.
Iain also knew without looking that his kinsmen waited for his signal. The slightest nod from him and they would attack. He held his ground, unmoving, and waited to see what Grant would do.
The air was thick with anticipation—a gnawing, nearly overpowering hunger for blood.
Finally, the small dark rider moved toward his laird. Reynold Grant leaned over and whispered something to him. ’Twas time, then. Iain slipped the longbow from his shoulder.
To his surprise, Grant’s henchman spoke. “Mackintosh!” he called across the ravine. “We ride in search of one of our own.”
One of their own? He shot Hamish a sideways glance, then continued his stare down with Grant.
“And who might that be?” Hamish called back.
“A woman.”
Every muscle in Iain’s body tensed. His mount stirred beneath him. He nodded imperceptibly, his gaze still riveted to Grant’s.
“A woman?” Hamish called out. “Who is she?”
The small man hesitated, darting his eyes toward his laird. “She’s…but one of the laird’s whores. Of no consequence, but a beauty, is she not? The laird would like her back.”
Blood raged through Iain’s veins, pulsing white-hot to his face. One hand shot toward his dirk. The other gripped his bow so tight he thought ’twould split asunder.
“Steady,” Hamish whispered.
“He’s willing to barter for her,” the small henchman called back. “A bit of cattle, perhaps, or gold.”
Reynold’s head jerked toward his kinsman. Iain caught the almost invisible shrug of the small man’s shoulders.
“This…whore,” Hamish said. “What makes ye think she’d be here, so far from Glenmore Castle?”
“Ah,” the henchman said. “She hath fled. ’Twas a…lover’s quarrel, you see.”
A thin smile crept across The Grant’s face. Iain’s blood began to boil.
“You’d best not turn your back on her,” the henchman said. “She’s quite skilled with a dirk.”
Grant’s smile exploded into a snarl. Iain studied the thick, dark line that scarred his face from eye to chin. The image of Alena streaked with bloody fingerprints, her gown torn away across her breast, flooded Iain’s senses. A visceral rage seared his gut. By God, if the whoreson touched her—
Grant smiled at him suddenly. Iain had never in his life wanted to kill a man more than he did at that moment.
“Easy, man,” Hamish whispered through clenched teeth.
The small, dark henchman rose up in his saddle. “So, will you barter?”
“Nay!” Iain shouted. “We havena seen such a woman.”
The Grants, all save Reynold, inched gauntleted hands toward their swords. In a flash, Iain’
s kinsmen did the same.
Three to one.
Iain swore under his breath. ’Twasn’t the time or the place to take him down. If he killed Reynold now—and, by God, he so lusted to do it he tasted blood—the whole of the Grant army would bear down on Davidson and Mackintosh alike, with a vengeance Iain didn’t wish to contemplate.
Nay. Only when he had everything in place, when he knew he could win, would he raise his hand against this godless viper and smite his soul to hell.
Eighty riders sat motionless, livery creaking, awaiting their lairds’ commands. The air was heavy and still. Iain fixed on the thudding of his heart and the gentle rushing of the creek at the bottom of the ravine.
And then to his surprise, Reynold Grant raised a cautionary hand. His smile broadened. Taking a last, long look at Iain, he touched a gauntleted finger to his brow in farewell, turned his steed, and spurred him back up the hill.
Iain exhaled. Christ, he didn’t even realize he’d been holding his breath. Grant’s soldiers waited until he was safely away, then followed their laird over the ridge top.
“Well,” Hamish said. “I’ll be damned.”
“Aye, and every one of us.” Iain slung his longbow over his shoulder and grimaced at his friend. “Let’s go. I dinna like this place.”
The sky cleared. Iain drove his kinsmen hard, riding through the night and all the next day, in hopes of reaching Braedûn Lodge by nightfall. There was little conversation during the journey and Iain used the time to sort out the mysteries that plagued him.
Grant. Iain was stunned the powerful laird didn’t engage him. He’d had the advantage but didn’t press it. Why? And what was a war party, headed by the laird himself, doing so far south? Reynold couldn’t have known Iain and his men would be there. ’Twas a chance encounter, he was certain.
He tilted his head back and sucked in a breath. Think, man. The only route much traveled in that remote part of both their lands was the pass that joined the Macgillivray demesne to that of the Davidson’s. His uncle Alistair used the route occasionally on his diplomatic journeys.
That was it!
The Mackintosh Bride Page 11
