The Mackintosh Bride

by Debra Lee Brown

  “Aye, and he’d have to, would he no’, to unload that strumpet?” Still pacing, Iain dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand.

  Margaret arched a dark brow.

  Alistair promptly ignored the gesture. “I’ll not have ye speak that way of Elizabeth. She’s a widow—and young and bonny still, as ye can see. Can she help it if she’s captured the attention of one or two warriors?”

  “One or two? She’s bedded most o’ the chieftains across a half dozen clans.”

  Alistair scowled.

  Margaret raised her other brow to join the first, pursing thin rose lips in her husband’s direction.

  “Hmph,” Alistair muttered and shifted in his chair.

  Iain strode to the window and peered down into the small garden tucked between the back of the house and the stone wall of the estate. What he saw did not surprise him. Gilchrist walked arm-in-arm with Elizabeth Macgillivray through the maze of herbs and summer wildflowers that had bloomed anew since the heavy rain.

  Iain screwed up his face as she tittered in response to one of his brother’s inane witticisms. “Look at the two o’ them. Well, that didna take long, did it?”

  “Huh?” Alistair rose.

  Iain tossed him a thin smile. “Macgillivray’s daughter—the chaste widow—and my brother, ever on the lookout for a new conquest.”

  Alistair glanced out the window. “Hmm…”

  Iain returned to the hearth and dragged the padded stool to the table where his aunt sat. He plopped down as Alistair reclaimed his seat in the chair opposite.

  “All right,” Iain said, “what’s to be done, then?”

  Margaret rested a long elegant hand on his arm. “Iain, tell us about Alena.”

  Alena.

  Iain recalled how she’d drawn away from him when she spied Elizabeth Macgillivray gloating like the bloody queen of Sheba from atop her fat mare. He’d read the shock, then pain, on Alena’s face when the woman was introduced as his bride.

  So help him, he was going to kill his brother. Ten and eight Gilchrist may be, but he wasn’t too big for a thrashing. Iain pressed the palms of his hands against his temples and groaned.

  He’d sensed the instant before Alena had bolted toward the stable yard that she was going to do it, and had grabbed her arm. She’d looked up at him with huge glassy eyes, her anguish a hot knife to his gut.

  She’d wrenched out of his grip and snaked through the throng of mounted warriors crowding the stable yard gate. By the time Iain had made his excuses to his uncle and aunt and their guest, Alena was nowhere to be found.

  “Bluidy hell,” he muttered.

  “You love her,” his aunt said.

  “What?” Iain looked up.

  “And she loves you.”

  “I dinna know what—”

  Margaret patted his arm, stilling his protest. “’Tis plain to see.”

  “Aye, lad, ’tis,” Alistair said.

  Iain glanced from one to the other. “Hell, I dinna even know who she is.”

  Alistair and Margaret froze in their chairs, each mirroring the other’s shocked expression. They both spoke at once, but Iain waved them off.

  He stood and resumed pacing as he related how he’d come upon Alena in the wood and rescued her from her Grant pursuers. When he revealed his encounter with Reynold, and his attempt to barter for Alena’s return, his aunt’s eyes went wide.

  “Iain, there are things you must—”

  “Margaret, enough!” Alistair boomed. “We willna speak more of this.”

  “But—”

  “I would see it played out awhile longer.”

  “What played out?” What the devil was going on? Iain narrowed his eyes and studied his uncle.

  “Now, lad, when your father died—”

  “Was murdered,” Iain said.

  “Aye, well…from that day forward I’ve raised ye as my own and watched ye grow into a fine warrior—a leader, a laird.”

  Iain snorted.

  “Aye, laird ye are—The Mackintosh—and ye’ll reclaim what’s rightfully yours. But ye must be canny, son. The time is right. Both Macgillivray and MacBain are open to the alliance, but ye must be willing to meet them halfway.”

  “Meet them I will, but I willna wed that woman.”

  Margaret looked hard at her husband. “Alistair, The Macgillivray is my cousin. ’Tis a good bond we have. He’s for us and for Iain. With or without the marriage.”

  “Mayhap, but ’twould be a certainty if Iain wed the daughter.”

  “But ’tis not required,” she said.

  Iain eyed the marriage contract signed by the Macgillivray laird. “Hmph.” He rolled it tight and stowed it in the folds of his plaid. “And what of The MacBain? Gilchrist told ye, no doubt, of his meeting with Grant.”

  “Aye,” Alistair said, “and we knew of it already. We met with him ourselves just days before. He made it plain he was not committing—not yet, at any rate. He’s not a man who joins easily with others.”

  “Nay, he’s not.” Iain recalled MacBain’s reluctance to join the alliance the night his father had called the summit at Findhorn Castle. There be men here who would as soon stick a dirk in yer back as call ye friend. MacBain’s words had been a black portent of the events of that night. Iain shook off the dark memory.

  “And ye will remember that business with his sister.”

  “I remember it.” MacBain’s sister had been promised to Henry Grant. ’Twould have made a formidable alliance.

  “When Henry was slain,” Alistair said, “The MacBain was forced to marry her off to one of his lesser chieftains. Though your father was butchered in retribution, MacBain blames the Mackintoshes still for his ill fortune.”

  “The MacBain will be compelled to join us. I’ve something that will convince him of the truth of things.” Iain’s hand moved absently to the sporran belted at his waist. He rummaged inside and withdrew the small circlet of hair. ’Twas powerful, eternal. As was his vow.

  The girl would be a woman now. Who knew if she’d kept the jeweled dagger? And if, by some miracle of heaven, she had, how on God’s earth would Iain find her, know her? He smiled at the memory of her small dirty face and forever-tangled hair. He’d loved her then. She was bonny and brave and…

  A sudden vision of Alena atop the black filled his mind’s eye. Christ, ’twas madness. All of it. He rose to leave and his uncle followed him to the door.

  “Are ye certain ye wish to make this war on Grant? ’Tis not necessary, lad. Ye’ve a home here, always, with us.”

  Iain smiled thinly. He studied Alistair’s weathered face and rich brown eyes. “Aye, and I’m grateful to ye, Uncle, for all ye’ve done. But I must do this thing. For my father and for my clan. For Gilchrist and Conall.” He squeezed the lovers’ knot tight in his hand. “And for me.”

  Alena stared blankly from her window at the stable lads grooming mounts in the yard below. She was trembling, and fought the new bout of tears welling in her eyes. She made fists of her hands to stop them shaking, digging her nails into her palms until the pain sharpened her anguish.

  A bride. Iain’s bride.

  At Gilchrist’s words her stomach had lurched, her face had blanched—she’d felt it. She’d run blindly to escape the threat of Iain and the others seeing her reaction: the tears that had sprung immediate and unbidden to her eyes. She’d made her way to the back of the house and had rushed up the small stairway from the kitchen to the abovestairs corridor and the sanctuary of her room.

  Both Hetty and Edwina had tried to coax her belowstairs for the midday meal, but she would not go. She could not go. Iain had come twice to her room already, but she’d barred the door and ignored his pleas to speak with her.

  She was a fool.

  Had she really thought Iain Mackintosh could love her? She had, and her naivete sickened her. Aye, his desire was plain, but that’s all it had been—lust. And she’d been ready to spread her legs for him like some common whore.

  She tu
rned from the window and leaned back against the cool, stone sill.

  Iain must have known about Elizabeth Macgillivray all along. He’d even tried to tell her this morning that what had happened last night—their fierce and unbridled passion—had been a mistake. ’Twas wrong, he’d said. I dinna want ye to think… What? That it meant something to him? Why would it? He was a laird and she was a stablemaster’s daughter. A servant. Nothing.

  Alena had overheard from her window the conversations in the stable yard below about the proposed alliance with Macgillivray, the strength a match between Iain and the laird’s daughter would bring. Not to mention the lands, the wealth—all the things Iain had told her so long ago he wanted, and would wed for.

  So where did she fit in?

  What had he said when they were children? Ye can fletch my arrows, lass, see to my warhorse… And take care of his other needs, too, she supposed.

  She sank to the bed and toyed with the fabric of her borrowed gown, rubbing the soft nub of pale green wool between her fingers. Hetty had insisted she change. Alena had complied, so shocked by the arrival of Iain’s bride she’d scarcely noticed Hetty had wrestled her out of her breeches and shirt, slipped a gown over her head, and had combed out her ever-wild hair.

  Alena examined her callused hands, made so from years of work. Work she loved. She snorted. All the gowns in Scotland would not make her a lady the likes of Elizabeth Macgillivray.

  The woman was beautiful and rich. A worthy bride for Iain. One who would bring him the sorely needed manpower he must have if he were to challenge Reynold Grant for the return of Findhorn Castle.

  Iain needed the alliance. Without it, he had not the numbers to wage a war and win. But Iain would challenge Grant with or without Macgillivray’s help. Of that Alena was certain.

  She closed her eyes against stinging tears and for the dozenth time told herself she must be strong. Iain would marry Elizabeth Macgillivray and have his alliance. She would return to her clan and wed Reynold Grant. ’Twas the only solution.

  As Reynold’s wife and as mistress of Glenmore Castle she would be in a position to influence her husband’s actions and certain events. Perhaps she could persuade him to give up Findhorn Castle. Should Iain gain the support of the Chattan clans he would be a formidable force, one Reynold might think twice about challenging.

  She recalled the cold brutality that burned like a thin, icy flame in Reynold’s eyes. Nay, Grant was a man who’d not willingly give up anything of value, least of all his enemy’s vanquished holdings.

  And Iain would not be satisfied until blood ran hot from his sword. I willna rest until every last one of them is dead. Stalwart words for a boy of twelve, but a vow Alena knew he meant to keep. Jesu, was there any way out?

  She took some comfort in the fact that, as Reynold’s wife, she would be able to protect her parents. She drew breath and exhaled slowly, getting a grip on her turbulent emotions.

  “Bear up. There’s more at stake here than your foolish heart.”

  She knew what she must do. She must leave right away. But how?

  The demesne was teeming with warriors, scores of Mackintosh and Davidson clansmen. She was certain she could outride any man, but did not want to create a situation where she would be pursued.

  Nay, ’twould have to be a stealthy departure, one best achieved at night while most were abed. The demesne was heavily patrolled and the walls of the estate guarded, but she would find a way. She must.

  A soft knock sounded at the door of her chamber, and Alena froze. ’Twas not Iain’s sharp, insistent rapping, nor was it accompanied by Hetty’s rattling of the door latch. ’Twas someone else. “Who is there?” she asked.

  “Margaret Davidson,” the calm, musical voice answered. “Might I speak with you, child?”

  She hesitated a moment, then slipped the bar from its position across the heavy oak door. She opened it cautiously and peeked out. Margaret Davidson, the mistress of Braedûn Lodge, stood alone in the corridor, her arms piled high with clothing.

  Alena swung the door inward—what else could she do?—and stepped aside as Margaret glided into the room and moved purposefully toward the bed. She tossed her burden onto the plaid coverlet as Alena quickly rebarred the door.

  A smile, bright as the summer sun, graced Margaret’s smooth, lineless face. “Alena, child, let me look at you.” Her voice was warm, almost tender, as she floated toward her and took Alena’s hands in hers.

  Without warning, Alena felt a sharp longing for her own mother and fought the tears glassing her eyes.

  Margaret scanned her features with both an interest and a recognition Alena found unnerving. The lady squeezed her hands then let them go. “You are lovely, and Ellen’s gown suits you remarkably well.”

  Embarrassed, she brushed her hands over the soft green wool. “Oh, I…didn’t mean to wear her…Edwina and Hetty thought—”

  “Edwina and Hetty were right. And Iain, as well.” Margaret waved at the pile on the bed. “And here are some other things of Iain’s mother’s I thought you might like. They are beautiful clothes and are in need of someone with your stature and grace to do them justice.”

  She peeked over Margaret’s shoulder at the garments on the bed. “Oh, I could not. ’Twouldn’t be proper. Mayhap Iain’s…betrothed—” the word stuck in her throat “—would want them.”

  Margaret dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. She moved gracefully to the bed and began to unfold and smooth the gowns she’d brought with her. “Nonsense, Elizabeth has gowns enough to clothe the whole of Scotland.”

  Alena remembered the half dozen horses laden with trunks that had pressed into the courtyard behind Lady Elizabeth and Father Ambrose. “Oh, but of course she would.” Her cheeks grew hot. “How stupid of me.” She moved to assist Margaret who was busy inspecting the garments that now covered Alena’s bed.

  “Besides, methinks Elizabeth Macgillivray wouldn’t cherish them as might another. Ellen was very dear to me and to her sons. I’d not see her things cast off onto the rag heap.”

  “Oh, nay. They are beautiful and far too fine for me.”

  “Nonsense. Now here’s a lovely thing.” Margaret un-tangled a white garment from the twisted pile of gowns and lightly shook it out.

  Alena gasped. The shift was made of the barest whisper of fine, sheer silk and had long, translucent sleeves. A chain of delicate lavender thistles joined with soft green stems was embroidered along the low rounded neckline. “’Tis lovely,” she whispered. “Like the gossamer wings of a dove.”

  Margaret’s eyes shone as she held the garment aloft. “’Twas Ellen’s—the night rail she wore to her bridal bed. Now there was a fine marriage, the one betwixt Ellen and Colum Mackintosh.” Margaret’s smile faded to a wistful sort of frown. “She was like a sister to me, but she was ne’er the same woman after Colum was…after he died.”

  Margaret paused, then her face brightened again. She turned the delicate shift in her hands. “’Twas only worn the once—and not for very long, methinks.” She arched a brow and her eyes twinkled with mirth.

  Alena smiled awkwardly, her face flushed with heat. She knew little of such things. But she would have known more were she and Iain not interrupted in the hayloft last eve.

  “’Twill bring good fortune and many sons to the lass who wears it.” Margaret thrust the night rail into her hands. “Here, you’ve the figure for it.”

  “Oh, nay, I—”

  Margaret forced Alena’s hands to close over the thin fabric, stilling her protest. She handled the shift gently, turning it over and over, stroking the fine, soft weave.

  A pristine and naked emotion welled inside her. She clutched the night rail to her breast, fighting a tide of despair and regret for the marriage bed that would never be, the sons she’d never have.

  Iain’s sons.

  Margaret’s hand on her shoulder brought her to attention. The lady’s eyes were drawn to the trunk that lay open at the foot of the bed, where Alena�
�s borrowed clothes and pale yellow gown were folded neatly as if in preparation for something. Margaret frowned and in inquiry raised a thin brow.

  “Oh,” Alena said. “I thought to move into the stable, so as to make space for the Lady Elizabeth.” And to better my chances of slipping away in the night. “There are few rooms here for guests, and as she is to be Iain’s…bride—”

  “The stable?”

  “Aye.”

  Margaret studied her. “I’ve heard naught but praise for the magic you’ve worked with Duncan’s mounts. I admire women with skills. ’Tis even better when they rival a man’s.” A corner of her mouth curved in a wry smile. “Sewing and keeping the house are fine for some, but not all.”

  She met Margaret’s appraising gaze. The lady’s eyes sparkled like deep blue pools. She felt drawn into them and comforted, somehow, as if this woman understood her, and approved. She smiled back, then laid the gossamer night rail on the bed.

  “You might be good with horses, child, but I’ll not have you sleeping with them. You will sleep here in this room. Elizabeth has already been installed in a small chamber belowstairs. ’Twill suffice.”

  “But—”

  “Besides, I want you close to us…to Iain.” Alena caught her even gaze. “My nephew told us of how you came to be here, how he came upon you in the wood.”

  Alena looked away and began to arrange the pile of gowns on the bed. Her hands trembled and she worked quickly to hide her discomfort. “Aye, ’twas most fortunate for me he happened to be hunting in that place.”

  “And most fortunate for him, methinks.”

  Her mind raced, searching for a new subject—something that had naught to do with her or with Iain. “Your accent,” Alena said abruptly, “’tis unusual.”

  “I was born a Macgillivray, in the Highlands, but grew up in the Borderlands with my mother’s people. When I wed Alistair I came here to the Davidson stronghold, which is not far from my birthplace.”

  Alena nodded politely. A Macgillivray. Margaret would have some stake in this marriage between Iain and one of her clan. And yet she seemed to dismiss Lady Elizabeth at every turn.