The Mackintosh Bride

by Debra Lee Brown

  Who then?

  A cold fear gripped him. He secured his dirks to his belt and took up his sword. Nay, it couldn’t be so. He wouldn’t believe such a thing.

  His mind raced as he threw wide the door and raced down the dark corridor to her chamber. Grasping the door latch, he stood there motionless, eyes closed, his heart hammering in his chest, not wanting to believe what in his gut he already knew.

  She’d never told him her surname. And he hadn’t pressed her because somewhere deep inside him he already knew what she was.

  He swallowed hard and opened his eyes. Hand shaking, he tripped the latch and pushed open the door. A small flame danced atop a beeswax taper that rested on the table, bathing the room in a warm glow.

  Alena’s bed hadn’t been slept in. The silk night rail lay, carefully folded, along with the rest of his mother’s clothes, on top of the mattress.

  She was gone.

  Iain moved to the bed and grazed his fingers over the delicate silk of the embroidered shift. A lump rose in his throat.

  Perhaps she was at the stable. Aye, that was probably it. She was passionate about her work and always rose early. But as he turned and fled the room, taking the steps at the end of the corridor two at a time, he knew in his heart he wouldn’t find her there.

  He raced past clansmen slumbering in the great hall, pulled open the huge front door, and ran toward the stable, the chill air raising gooseflesh on his bare chest and arms.

  All was quiet. He slowed his pace to a walk and strode quickly across the training yard. The gray light of dawn gave an unearthly cast to everything it touched, the morning awash in a sea of shadows and pale, flat light. He yanked open the door to the stable and froze.

  “What the—”

  Duncan sat before him on the earthen floor, his back to a post, his arms crudely bound behind him with a leather bridle. He was gagged with a strip of tartan that had been cut from his own plaid.

  “Saint Sebastian to bluidy hell!” Iain scanned the shadows for intruders, his sword raised.

  Eyes wide, Duncan beat his head against the post and made excited, muffled sounds through the gag. Seeing no one else and nothing out of order, Iain knelt and jerked the gag from the stablemaster’s mouth.

  Duncan coughed and sputtered.

  “Where is she?” Iain grabbed the front of his shirt.

  “G-gone.”

  Christ, he knew it! With one quick jerk he hauled Duncan to his feet. “Where? How, man?”

  “On Destiny, the black, not three hours ago.”

  “But—”

  “Her name is Alena Todd. She is the daughter of the Clan Grant stablemaster.”

  “What?” Iain fought the sudden urge to wretch. He jammed his sword into the hard-packed earth and grabbed the old man by the shoulders. “Nay.”

  “Aye, ’tis true.”

  Bile rose in the back of his throat. A cold pain balled within him. His body went slack and he took a step back to steady himself.

  She had…betrayed him.

  Hamish’s words came rushing in on him. She could be a spy, in league with Grant.

  Iain shook his head, staring dumbly at Duncan, who struggled in vain to free himself of the tethers still binding him to the post. He was aware of the heat of his own blood screaming through his veins. Rage ignited his gut, searing away his momentary anguish.

  “Nay!” He lunged at the nearest wall, smashing his fist into the brittle wood, chips flying, the pain jolting him to the shoulder.

  “But, Laird!” Duncan shouted. “Iain, there’s more.”

  He wasn’t listening. His body burned so hot he felt a sheen of sweat break upon his skin.

  “Ye must stop her, man.”

  “Nay,” he said through gritted teeth, fists white-knuckled against the wall. “Let her go. Back to her laird.”

  “But, Iain, ye dinna understand. Grant means to—”

  “Enough!” he roared, and butted his forehead viciously against the wall. Ignoring Duncan’s pleas for release, he stumbled down the row of stalls, kicking in timbers as he went. Horses reared, snorting and neighing, beating the ground with their hoofs. He passed the black’s empty stall and paused, seething.

  Destiny she’d named him. Ha! ’Twas cold, premeditated mockery at his expense. He kicked at the stall and continued down the row.

  In the last enclosure his own roan stallion struggled against his tether, alarmed by the racket and the anger in his master’s voice. Iain released him from his restraint and grabbed a bridle off a hook on the wall. Securing it to him, he vaulted bareback onto the beast and spurred him back down the row of stalls.

  Duncan struggled with the leather ties that bound him, his face red with anger. Iain didn’t care and had no intention of releasing him. Foolish old man. He’d let the woman best him and get away. Christ, she’d duped them all.

  “Laird, ye must stop her! She means to—”

  “Nay! I know well enough what she means to do, but it doesna matter. She’s no’ worth pursuing, and I’ll need every man to stand with me against The Grant. ’Tis time.”

  He leaned from his mount and jerked his sword from the hard-packed earth. Duncan’s protests were stifled as the roan burst into the stable yard and Iain kicked the stable door closed behind him.

  In the pale light of the approaching dawn, he drove the roan toward the back of the yard and up and over the low spot in the stone wall. Just as she had done, no doubt. Unseen by the sentries, he urged the stallion into a gallop, up the hill and into the forest. He needed time to think, to clear his head, to get a grip on his anger.

  He didn’t rest until he broke through the forest at the top of the ridge an hour later, his horse lathered and wheezing, himself breathless, his rage unabated.

  During the fast, furious ride he’d turned over in his mind every moment he’d shared with her these past weeks. He’d recalled every detail, every seemingly innocent thing she’d said from the moment he’d rescued her in the wood to their passionate coupling of the night before.

  It all made sense to him now. She was a ruthless vixen, Grant’s pawn, and well versed in the game. ’Twas lies, all of it.

  He reined the exhausted stallion to a halt before the blackened ruins of the ancient keep. Dawn shattered the still, cerulean night, a few scattered stars yet visible. He inhaled deeply of the cool air and looked out over the quiet landscape, shocked into wakefulness by the first blinding rays of the summer sun.

  Slipping from the stallion’s back, he let his knees buckle, and thumped cross-legged on the ground. He buried his head in his hands and gripped his hair, his eyes squeezed shut.

  He’d let himself love her and she’d—Christ, he still couldn’t believe it.

  “Ye fool! Ye bluidy, besotted fool!” His shouts echoed off the barren landscape, startling larks and small hares who rested nearby.

  He’d believed her, had cast off his natural suspicion and succumbed to her charms, her lies. What had he been thinking? He was laird, and yet he’d allowed himself to become vulnerable, and in a way he’d never thought possible.

  He’d trained relentlessly, had become a warrior, skilled and shrewd. He’d shaped his uncle’s soldiers and what was left of his own kinsmen into an efficient, tightly knit army, albeit a small one. For years he’d planned his revenge, controlled and directed his overpowering bloodlust, waiting until the time was right to make his move.

  Now, mere weeks before execution, his carefully laid plans were compromised—not by an army or even a warrior, but by a woman, a stablemaster’s daughter.

  “Saint Sebastian to bluidy hell!”

  He’d never forgive himself. Never. But he’d have his revenge. By God, the River Spey would rage scarlet with their blood before he was done.

  Squinting at the brightening sky, he fisted handfuls of the rocky earth where he sat. He drew a deep draught of air and fought to control his emotions. He must think. He needed a plan.

  Alena would have given Grant the dagger. ’Twas the
only proof of Iain’s father’s innocence, and his only hope of unequivocally aligning the Chattan clans against Grant. She would also give him the marriage contract, proof of Macgillivray’s support. Iain would lose that element of surprise, and Grant would know from Alena’s information how many men he commanded, the number of mounts they possessed, what weapons they had.

  No matter. He would forge his alliance and strike them down. Avenge his father’s murder and the decimation of his clan, take back his castle and his lands. This was his destiny and no one would keep him from it.

  There was only one way now.

  Iain ground his fists into the earth. He would marry Elizabeth Macgillivray—today.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Leaving him was the hardest thing she’d ever done in her life.

  Alena wiped hot tears away with the back of her hand and guided Destiny onto the forest path leading north toward Glenmore Castle. She’d ridden the black hard, half the night and all this morn, stopping only once to water and rest him.

  In the wee hours before dawn she’d crossed out of Davidson territory. Her dark hunting plaid blended easily into the muted colors of the forest, and Destiny moved almost stealthily, as if he knew they were in danger.

  At this pace she’d make Glenmore Castle by dawn tomorrow. ’Twas soon enough. She would have this one day to herself, to reflect on all that had happened these past weeks.

  She ached for Iain’s touch, his sweet words of love. During the hard ride the night before she wouldn’t allow herself to think on him, fearful she might surrender to her emotions and turn back toward Braedûn Lodge. But today she inhaled the cool, green scents of the forest and let her tears flow unchecked.

  Their lovemaking had been passionate yet tender, and she was not prepared for the emotions Iain’s declaration of love wrought within her.

  Wife, he’d called her. Wife. Would that it were so.

  She’d lost herself in him then—reveling in his tenderness, his passion, in his strength. She’d loved him that second time with a desperate, wild abandon.

  Before she’d slipped quietly from his chamber she’d turned to take in one last image of him, stretched naked on the fur-covered bed. His body was relaxed, sated, his face strong, so beautiful in sleep, the fall of his chestnut hair a burnished aura about his shoulders in the dying firelight.

  She loved him fiercely, without reserve, and would give her life to keep him safe. Aye, would that it were so easy. Instead she would endure his hatred, his certain marriage to another, and her own submission to a man so frightening she shuddered to think on it.

  She recalled the thin, spidery letters of the marriage contract between Iain and Elizabeth Macgillivray. ’Twas a stroke of genius on her part to have taken it. As soon as he was freed, Duncan would reveal her identity. Iain would wed the Lady Elizabeth and have his alliance. It must be so. There was no other way.

  Then what?

  She would give herself to Reynold Grant and wed him on the morrow. Midsummer’s Day. She’d insure her parents’ safety and, as wife of the laird and mistress of Glenmore Castle, she’d do what she could for her clan.

  But one question still nagged at her. Why did Reynold want her? Why? She’d been over it a hundred times in her mind and could not fathom a reason. She was the daughter of a stablemaster. Why would a great laird make such a match? He had nothing to gain from it—no lands, no wealth, no alliances.

  Reynold plotted some foul treachery, of that she was certain. He’d actually tried to barter for her return! Jesu, she’d almost swooned at the supper table when the priest related the tale.

  But none of this explained her importance to Reynold. Perhaps Iain was the link. Could Reynold know of their childhood friendship? She did not see how he could. No one had known of it, save Duncan. And if Reynold had known, of what consequence was it? She knew little about the Mackintoshes, certainly nothing that could help the Grants defeat Iain.

  But wait…Of course! She possessed something of Iain’s—something important.

  The jeweled dirk!

  She tensed, and Destiny jerked to a stop. The stallion’s sweat-covered coat steamed in the late-morning chill. He snorted and thumped the ground with an impatient hoof.

  Aye, that was it! Reynold must know she has it. But what is it? Whose is it? When she’d questioned Iain about it he didn’t answer. Whatever its significance, Alena knew she must never let the dagger fall into Reynold’s hands.

  And what of Iain? If he possessed it, how would he use it?

  She spurred Destiny on and wrinkled her brow as a chilling thought occurred to her. Iain lusted for blood. Not just the return of his castle and lands. She recalled the clansmen stockpiling weapons in the courtyard at Braedûn Lodge.

  Aye, and Reynold Grant’s blood alone would not sate him. She could see that now. Iain would raise the Chattan against all her people.

  Until every last one of them is dead.

  Iain guided his spent mount down into the wood toward Braedûn Lodge. The sun was high and he threw back his plaid to let it warm his bare chest and arms.

  He was calmer now, and could think clearly without rage blinding his judgment. ’Twas a lesson he’d learned from his father, God rest his soul, and had worked to instill in his brothers. Though he hadn’t practiced it well himself this day. In his anger he’d left poor Duncan bound to the post in the stable.

  The roan picked his way carefully down the forested slope. Iain allowed his mind to wander, sifting through the details of Grant’s treachery. ’Twas clever of Reynold to have sent a maid to woo him—and one whom he knew, or had known. One he would trust.

  He brushed his hair away from his face and breathed in the fresh scents of the forest. Still, some things didn’t make sense, and nagged at his mind as he rode.

  Why didn’t Alena reveal herself from the start? ’Twould have saved weeks. The masquerade only delayed his trusting her completely. If he’d known she was the girl from his past earlier, he would have allowed her close to him sooner. He might have told her more of his plans. As it was, he hadn’t told her much, nor had his men.

  He wrinkled his brow and unconsciously urged the stallion into a trot. Other things about her, what she’d said, her reactions to him and to others, didn’t make sense were she Grant’s pawn.

  The day he’d found her fleeing from the soldiers, ’twas fear he’d seen in her eyes, the look of a trapped animal as they closed in on her. Aye, and that last night at table she’d visibly paled when Father Ambrose had recounted the chance meeting with Reynold and the laird’s attempt to take her back.

  Nay, her reactions had been pure—not an act for his benefit, but truth. Christ, what did it mean?

  He recalled her face twisted in anguish in the soft moonlight of the garden. Her lips had trembled when she told him who she was. And her tears…Aye, they’d been real and wrought from a bright fusion of pain and joy, as were his.

  He gripped the roan’s back tightly with his thighs and urged him faster through the wood. His mind began to race, pummeled with memories of her voice, her touch, the things she’d told him, and those things left unsaid.

  When he’d asked her to marry him she’d said, ’Tis my heart’s desire, but…But what? Their lovemaking had been more wondrous than any he’d ever experienced. ’Twas as if their two bodies shared one heart, one soul. He’d never felt like that with anyone before—nay, he’d not even thought it possible.

  He loved her.

  And she loved him. Like a bolt of lightning the truth struck him. She did love him, and yet she’d gone back to Grant. Why?

  He kicked the stallion, a short command escaping his lips. The roan reared, then burst into a gallop down the long, wooded slope, dodging trees and bushes as Iain spurred him into a mad race toward home.

  He glanced at the sun streaming through the trees. “Bluidy hell.” Aye, he’d been a fool, all right, but of a different sort than he’d first suspected. Why hadn’t he listened to Duncan? The stablemaster had tried t
o tell him, begged him to listen, but he wouldn’t.

  He’d let her go. Christ, he’d let her go! He’d never forgive himself if anything happened to her, if Reynold touched her, harmed her in any way.

  He leaned forward and urged the roan faster. By God, he’d get her back safe or die in the trying. He pushed all thought from his mind and focused on the ride ahead of him. The slope began to flatten but the trees were thick and the ground uneven; he’d dare not push the stallion faster.

  Shouts sounded from the woods ahead. He strained his eyes to see. Riders! He moved a hand instinctively to his bow. A shout went up again, and he recognized his kinsmen: Hamish, Will and one of his uncle’s warriors.

  They nearly collided when he didn’t slow his pace. Hamish’s dappled gelding reared. The other two mounts sidestepped out of Iain’s way as he thundered past them. He looked back and waved them follow.

  Hamish drove his mount until he nearly caught him up. “She’s gone!” he shouted over the thunder of hoofbeats.

  “I know she’s gone, ye mullet!” Iain shouted back.

  “But, Iain, ye must—”

  “Aye, man, now let’s fly!” He spurred the stallion faster as the trees began to thin. His kinsmen fell into pace behind him.

  Less than an hour later the foursome burst from the wood. Iain drove the roan clear over the low spot in the wall at the back of the house and landed hard in the stable yard, knocking the breath out of him. Hamish and the others pulled up short, then spurred their mounts around to the main gate.

  Directly ahead of him, not twenty paces away, Father Ambrose sat atop a fat mare, dressed in traveling clothes, his meager belongings strapped to the back of the saddle. Duncan was adjusting the bridle. Both men looked up at him, mouths agape, eyes wide.

  Iain dropped neatly to the ground. He threw off his bow and quiver, patted the heaving chest of his mount and strode toward them.

  Duncan was the first to react and stepped toward him, hands on hips. “Weel, it’s about time ye—”