The Mackintosh Bride

by Debra Lee Brown

  Iain pulled his mount up short. Alistair, Margaret and their small party would be traversing the pass in a matter of days on their return to Braedûn Lodge. They traveled with an escort of less than twenty warriors. The question was, did Grant know this?

  Hamish pressed his mount even with Iain’s, interrupting his thoughts. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” Iain said, and spurred the roan toward home.

  Just past sunset the sky was transformed into a clear azure field flecked with the first evening stars. Braedûn Lodge lay but a half league away. Iain directed his stallion upward through the wood and the roan increased his speed, sensing his nearness to home.

  Iain shook out his plaid and ran his fingers through his tangled hair. At least he was dry, if not clean. He rubbed a hand over his bare arm— ’twas thick with the grit of three days in the saddle. His shirt was filthy and earlier he’d balled it up and jammed it under his saddle.

  A small tarn lay just below the lodge. Iain left the main path and directed his stallion toward it.

  “Iain,” Hamish called, “where are ye goin’, man? The house is just ahead.”

  “Aye, but I think I’ll have a swim first.”

  Hamish’s bellowing laugh rang in Iain’s ears as he made his way to the water’s edge. Aye, when had he ever stopped to bathe before reaching the house? His kinsmen continued on and he was left to his thoughts.

  Foremost on his mind was Alena. Saint Sebastian, what would he do with her? There was no doubt in his mind she was the woman Grant sought. But why? What was she to him? As he stripped and dove into the cool water, he ground his teeth and fought back the image of Alena in Reynold Grant’s arms.

  Nay, there wasn’t a shred of truth in the small henchman’s words. Alena was a maid, an innocent. But Grant had had his hands on her, Iain was sure of it. And she’d fought him off and fled.

  Who was she? Why wouldn’t she tell him, trust him?

  The icy water cooled his body and cleared his mind. He strode dripping from the tarn and shook his head like a dog. In seconds he was dressed.

  He mounted his stallion and spurred him up the hill toward the estate. Only a few warriors stood guard along the stone wall. They raised their weapons in silent greeting as he rode through the entrance.

  Something was not right.

  The main courtyard was all but deserted. Music and laughter echoed from the direction of the lodge. His horse moved instinctively toward the stable yard. Good God, ’twas ablaze with light! A huge bonfire had been built inside the enclosure. A dozen couples danced to a rollicking tune, spurred on by what appeared to be the entirety of his uncle’s household, drinking and making merry.

  “What the—”

  And then he saw her.

  Alena whirled light on her feet, her long, wild hair whipping about her like golden flames. She wore a gown of dark green wool. Iain recognized it as one of his mother’s. The laces had been pulled tight to outline every voluptuous curve of her body.

  His loins stirred; his heart slammed in his chest at the sight of her.

  “Holy God,” he breathed, and reined his horse to a stop just outside the enclosure. He dismounted, threw off his weapons, and secured them to the horse’s saddle. Young Jamie appeared out of nowhere, snatched the bridle from Iain’s hand and led the weary stallion away.

  Iain moved slowly through the open gate and into the stable yard—a man in a trance—his eyes riveted to Alena, a vision not of this earth.

  The music ended and she skidded to a stop, breathless, her face flushed from the dance and the heat of the fire. Her cat-green eyes flashed surprise as she turned and caught sight of him. A radiant smile lit up her face, and Iain knew then that he would never give her up. Never.

  Chapter Ten

  Alena stood, transfixed, held captive by Iain’s gaze. Her hard-won resolve of the past few days burst into flame and was reflected, bright and short-lived, in his eyes. It blazed to ash and drifted away on the cool night breeze.

  He stood but a few paces from her and she drank in the sight of him. His chestnut hair, nearly auburn in the firelight, dripped water that ran in snaking rivulets down his bare chest and arms.

  His outward expression was reserved, controlled, but she perceived an almost aching need, an unrequited desire smoldering just below the surface. He wore no weapons save one of the two dirks he kept belted at his side. She saw him as a warrior, nonetheless—a conqueror, and she the vanquished.

  This was the man she wanted. He was the reason she had never married. She knew that now. She loved him fiercely. She always had. She always would.

  “Iain,” she breathed.

  He stepped toward her, but she was yanked away into the crowd of revelers. Stumbling sideways, she caught Gilchrist’s mischievous grin as he pulled her into his arms and guided her into the next dance. The music was lively and the young warrior spun her in so many directions she lost sight of Iain in the throng of clanfolk.

  And then he was there.

  Iain brushed his brother aside and swept her into his embrace. One hand splayed across the small of her back and the other caught her own as he slowed their pace and directed her toward the entrance to the stable.

  He stopped at the open door but did not release her. They stood motionless for a moment, their eyes fixed on each other. She was conscious of the warmth of his hand on her back and trembled slightly as he inched it upward.

  Jesu, he was going to kiss her! In front of the entire clan!

  She slipped from his embrace and into the stable. Duncan, Gavin and the rest of the stable hands were busy unsaddling the lathered mounts that had borne Iain’s party.

  Without thinking, she brushed past them and darted through the labyrinth of structures connected to the main stable. When she reached the foaling shed, the last of the buildings, she stopped to catch her breath.

  The door to the stable yard was closed and the window covered. All the same, a warm glow illuminated the shed from the small hayloft window overlooking the bonfire outside. The shed was empty save for some piles of fresh straw. Duncan must have boarded the mare and her colt elsewhere for the night.

  Why had she run? She’d wanted Iain to kiss her, to touch her—more than she’d ever wanted anything. The knowledge of it thrilled her.

  Quiet footsteps approached. ’Twas him. She held her breath and waited for him to speak. He stood behind her, so close she could feel his breath on her hair. A rush of excitement coursed through her as he ran his hands lightly up her arms. Succumbing, she melted into his solid warmth.

  “Alena,” he whispered, grazing the side of her face with his lips. He turned her in his arms.

  “You came back.”

  “Did ye think I wouldna?” He smiled.

  “I—I didn’t know if…when you would.”

  He tilted her chin and brushed his lips across hers. “Oh, lass, I wanted to stay away, but I couldna.” He kissed her lightly again. “I rode like the devil himself to get here this night.”

  “But Grant—”

  “Shh…there’s naught to fear from him. Ye are under my protection now.”

  She started at his words. What could he possibly know? Mayhap Duncan revealed some piece of information. Nay, even the old stablemaster didn’t know the truth of her plight. Grant’s men in the forest! Perhaps…

  Her mind raced, but Iain’s kisses distracted her from all rational thought. His hands moved over her back as he pulled her closer. She looked into his eyes and was at once and forever lost. He kissed her long, tenderly. She moaned softly in surrender.

  He gripped her tighter and deepened the kiss, his tongue parting her lips and exploring her mouth with an urgency that she, too, felt. Her hands roamed his bare back, and he growled low in his throat with pleasure. She boldly returned his fervent kiss, darting her tongue into his mouth, teasing, tasting.

  He moved his hands lower, caressing the rise of her buttocks, pulling her tight against the hardness of his growing passion. She thought she wou
ld go mad with desire. Pushing back against his chest, she broke the kiss.

  “D’ye wish me to stop?”

  “Nay,” she breathed, and ran her hands brazenly over the tight musculature of his softly furred chest.

  She didn’t think he could possibly hold her any closer, yet he pulled her tighter still, crushing her breasts against him.

  “Oh, lass, I dinna care who ye are. I want you.”

  “Iain,” she breathed, and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “D’ye want me?” His eyes, cloudy with passion, searched hers.

  “Aye.”

  “Say it. Say the words.”

  God help her, she longed to shout them. “I want you.”

  He bore her back in a powerful embrace and claimed her mouth with his. Before she knew what was happening, he swept her into his arms and strode to the ladder leading to the hayloft. Hoisting her over his shoulder as if she were a sack of grain, he climbed the short distance to the top and tossed her onto a bed of new straw.

  She lay there breathless, her heart racing. Iain hovered over her, his body inches from hers, his eyes searching her face again in silent question. She breathed in the clean, male scent of him and was overcome by her own reckless desire. Without another thought she drew him down on top of her.

  He possessed her mouth and she opened for him. Their tongues mated in wild abandon as he ground his hips feverishly against hers. She felt the full measure of his desire and reveled in her own newly discovered passion.

  She was wanton, sinful, and she didn’t care. Her body was on fire and only he could quench the flame. She could feel him trembling above her and knew he was close to losing control. She wanted him to take her, here, now. She willed it with her eyes, her body, her very soul.

  He broke the kiss and gazed at her through slitted eyes, his breathing ragged and shallow. “Stop me now, or I fear I willna have the strength to stop later.”

  She didn’t want to him to stop. Not ever. She closed her eyes and arched against him. He showered her face with small, fervent kisses, brushing her forehead, her eyelids, moving down across her cheeks, the line of her jaw, her neck, until she thought she would die from pleasure.

  He reached tentatively for the laces at the back of her gown. Her eyes fluttered open and met his. She smiled, and he kissed her softly on the mouth. He struggled to loosen the ties, and when they were free he yanked the gown off her shoulders, revealing her breasts.

  She held her breath as his eyes roamed the creamy expanse of her skin, lingered on her taut, dusky nipples, and returned once more to meet her gaze.

  “Ye are more beautiful than any imaginings I ever dared to conjure.”

  She slid her hands into his damp hair and arched her back as he drew her nipple into his mouth.

  “Oh, sweet heaven.” Joy surged within her.

  The door to the shed crashed open, jolting her out of the near-dream state she’d succumbed to.

  Iain pushed himself off her. One hand flew to the hilt of his dirk, the other pressed her flat into the straw. He willed her with his eyes to remain motionless. She quickly pulled the bodice of her gown back into place.

  Jamie’s breathless voice called up to them, “Iain! I—I mean, Laird. Gilchrist says ye must come quick!”

  Iain hesitated all of a second. “Saint Sebastian to bluidy hell!” He swung his legs over the edge of the loft, shot her a brief, crooked smile and dropped to the ground.

  She exhaled as she heard their footsteps leave the shed and the door bang shut behind them.

  Iain adjusted his plaid and followed Jamie through the crowd, dodging dancing couples and clanswomen carrying trenchers of food and flagons of ale. He smiled thinly at the warriors who called out and raised their ale cups to him as he snaked his way through the merry swarm and out the stable yard gate.

  Jamie sprinted ahead into the courtyard toward a group of men, Gilchrist among them, who crowded around the stone steps leading to the house.

  Gilchrist turned and Iain caught his brother’s grave expression. “The scouts,” Gilchrist said, “returned from the northern border.”

  Iain elbowed his way to the steps. His two best scouts, bedraggled and filthy, rested on the smooth stone entrance. Their mounts were nowhere in sight. A Davidson warrior offered each of them an ale cup, hastily procured from a passing reveler. Iain waited until they had slaked their thirst before he spoke.

  “Drake, what happened?”

  “Laird—” Drake coughed and sputtered from what was clearly his first draught of liquid in some time. “Grant himself—the laird—”

  “And the MacBain,” the other scout added. “Due north o’ Findhorn Castle.”

  “On Mackintosh land?” Iain knelt before the scouts and questioned them at eye level.

  “Oh, nay,” Drake said. “’Twas much further north—on MacBain land.”

  “Ye were there?” Gilchrist asked him.

  “Aye, we didna expect to be, but we happened upon a large detachment o’ Grant soldiers—a war party by the look o’ them—better than three score.”

  “Led by Reynold Grant himself,” the other scout said. “I’ve only seen him the one other time…but I’d know him anywhere, that spawn of hell.”

  Iain knew the one other time to which the scout referred—the night Reynold Grant wreaked death and destruction upon the Mackintosh clan.

  He swallowed hard. A huge paw of a hand clapped him on the shoulder. Hamish’s great figure loomed over him. Their eyes locked and Iain nodded then turned his attention back to the scouts. “How long ago was this?”

  “Four days,” Drake said. “They passed from their own land west into ours and traveled half a day along the border between the Mackintosh and MacBain holdings. We tracked them until they turned north, and that’s when they met The MacBain.”

  “The lairds themselves spoke, one to the other?” Iain asked.

  Both scouts nodded.

  “Hmph.” Iain stood, and the small crowd of men parted as he paced a small circle. He looked up suddenly, remembering. “Where are your mounts?”

  The scouts cast sheepish glances, first at each other, then at the stone steps below their feet. “Taken,” Drake said quietly. “We tethered them about a quarter league from their meetin’ place and approached on foot. There were so many warriors, of both clans, scouring the wood, we had to go far out o’ the way to get back. By the time we’d returned to where we had left them, our steeds were gone.”

  “So they know ye were there,” Iain said.

  “Aye.”

  “But ye werena caught,” Gilchrist offered, a little too brightly.

  Iain scowled at his brother. He ground his teeth, and the group of warriors fell silent, waiting for him to respond. He knew ’twas a two-day ride at best from where the scouts had lost their mounts back to Braedûn Lodge. They wouldn’t have been able to secure fresh horses from the few Mackintosh kinsmen who resided near Findhorn Castle. Too many Grants patrolled his father’s old demesne.

  Nay, the poor sods must have run the whole way to arrive on foot in only three days. Iain smiled at them. “Ye did well.” They grinned in what he knew was relief and proceeded to drain their ale cups. “I must think on this. Gilchrist, Hamish—I’d have a word with ye.”

  He walked back toward the celebration, but stopped just outside the stable yard gate. Gilchrist and Hamish joined him. He watched the revelers absently, not really seeing them, considering the events of the past few days and the options at hand. “So, what think ye of this news?”

  Hamish stroked his beard in contemplation. “Well, it appears Grant has swayed MacBain to his side.”

  “Perhaps,” Iain said. “Perhaps not.”

  Four days—time enough to meet with The MacBain, then ride south to the place where Iain and his men had happened upon them. “And now the bastard thinks to meet with Macgillivray,” Iain said. “Or mayhap murder the Davidson laird and his lady. ’Twould further his cause for certain.”

  “W
hat?” Gilchrist gripped his arm.

  Iain recounted their meeting with Grant along the southeast border, and his fears for both Alena’s safety and that of their uncle and his party.

  “Bluidy hell,” the young warrior swore. “What will ye do?”

  Iain studied his brother’s face. He’d always thought of Gilchrist as a boy, but at ten and eight he was a man, a Mackintosh warrior. Iain was proud of how the ridiculously handsome lad had grown into a respected leader of men. He was as quick with his wits as his sword, and ’twas far past time he tested both.

  Iain eyed him. “What would you do?”

  “Me?” Gilchrist croaked.

  “Nay, Father Christmas. Of course, you. And be quick about it.”

  Gilchrist squared his shoulders. “I’d ride forty warriors south, tonight, and meet our uncle’s party before they take leave of their Macgillivray escort at the border.”

  Iain nodded. “Aye, so do it. And take Hamish with ye. He knows well the route and the wee pass Alistair and Margaret must traverse between the two clan holdings.”

  Gilchrist turned to leave, his blue eyes alight with the promise of adventure.

  Iain pulled him back by his shirt. “And Gilchrist, dinna leave tonight, man. Some o’ the men ye must take just now rode in with me. Give them a rest. The morrow is soon enough.”

  He caught Hamish’s look of relief and smiled. “And now, my friend, I’d like a word with my brother in private.”

  “Aye, Laird.” Hamish reverted to the formal address he used when others were present. “Methinks I’ll find my bed. ’Twas a long ride.” He turned and strode toward the men’s barracks on the opposite side of the courtyard.

  “So,” Gilchrist said, settling back against the fence. “What d’ye want to know?”

  “To begin with, what in bluidy hell is this?” Iain waved an arm at the throng of revelers inside the stable yard, most of whom appeared to be exceedingly drunk.

  “Oh. ’Tis a celebration.”

  “I can see that, ye dolt! But what are ye celebratin’ and why on God’s earth are ye doin’ it now?”

  Gilchrist grinned. “Well, ’tis on account of Conall’s new colt being born and all.” He shrugged as if that should make perfect sense to Iain.