Iain shot him a hard look and pushed past him, stopping before the mare. He looked into Father Ambrose’s wide brown eyes and read fear. Aye, he ought to be afraid.
Iain grabbed him by the front of his robe, hauled him from the saddle and dumped him on the ground. The terrified priest crab-walked backward in the dust. Iain leaned down and yanked him to his feet. “All right, priest, tell me what ye know.”
Father Ambrose looked to Duncan for help, but the old man stood silent, stroking his white beard, one brow cocked.
“Alena!” Iain roared, and prodded the priest’s chest with a finger, driving him backward. “Alena Todd of Clan Grant—the stablemaster’s daughter.”
Hamish and Will burst through the stable yard gate and slipped from their mounts. They rushed to Iain’s side but he waved them back, his eyes focused on the priest.
Father Ambrose trembled under Iain’s glare. “I—I do not know her.”
Iain grabbed him roughly by the neck of his robe and leaned down so his forehead touched the quivering priest’s clammy skin. His voice was low, his rage barely controlled. “Speak now, priest, or prepare to meet your maker.”
Father Ambrose nearly swooned in his grasp as Iain gripped the hilt of his dirk. “All right, all right! Don’t be rash. I’ll tell you what I know.”
Hamish and Will edged closer. Duncan stepped up, flanking them. Gavin, who was leading the roan into the stable, dropped the stallion’s reins and joined their huddle.
“I—I carried the message to her parents that she was here, safe with ye, just as Gavin bade me.” His eyes darted quickly to the stableman, then he lowered his eyes.
“There’s more,” Iain said. “I see it in your face. What else?”
“The…the laird is to take to wife an unwilling bride—a woman of his own clan—on Midsummer’s Day. I can’t say for certain, but it must be the same woman, aye?”
Iain felt his jaw go slack. “Midsummer’s Day? Saint Sebastian, ’tis tomorrow!”
“Aye, tomorrow, ye dolt!” Duncan spat, elbowing Iain roughly, his eyes bright blue fire. “I tried to tell ye, but ye were a ravin’ madman! Now ye’ve lost another three hour!”
Iain spun on him. “Ye knew! Ye knew her and her parents—that she was a Grant? Ye knew all this time and ye didna tell me?” He shot a murderous look at Gavin. “And you?”
Gavin shrugged and lowered his eyes.
“Aye, I knew her,” Duncan said, and met his furious gaze. “But she begged me no’ to tell ye. She wanted to tell ye herself, in her own way. I promised her I’d get word to her parents. I knew naught of all this—Grant’s plans, his treacheries—until yester eve. ’Twas then I put it all together. And then…weel, everything happened so fast.” He paused and dropped his head, blankly studying the dusty ground. “I’ve failed ye, Laird. I should have come to ye straightaway.”
Iain fisted his hands at his sides, working to control his emotions. He clapped a hand on Duncan’s shoulder. “’Tis done now,” he said quietly. “And the blame’s no’ on your head but mine. Now go. I’ll need a fresh mount, the swiftest ye’ve got.”
He turned toward Hamish and Will, but Duncan grabbed his arm. “There’s more, Laird.”
“More? What bluidy more?” Duncan hesitated, all eyes on him. “Speak man!”
Duncan reached into the folds of his plaid, drew forth a rolled parchment and placed it in Iain’s hands. “I saw her hide it in the hayloft of the foaling shed. She didn’t see me, and after Gavin cut me loose I found it.”
Iain didn’t have to read it to know ’twas the marriage contract offering him Elizabeth Macgillivray. Rather than take it with her and risk Grant finding it, Alena had hidden the document here, safe among his own clan. A wave of emotion swelled in his chest.
He crushed the parchment in his hand and cast it to the ground. “Will,” he said. “Go and find my uncle. Hamish, raise every man, Mackintosh and Davidson. ’Tis time.”
“Aye, Laird,” both answered in unison and raced from the stable yard.
Iain jogged after them and turned at the house, taking the steps two at a time.
“Laird,” Hamish called after him, “to where do we ride?”
He leveled his gaze at the warrior. “Glenmore Castle.”
A crooked smile broke across his friend’s ruddy face. Hamish drew his broadsword and raised it high. “Excellent!” he cried, and ran toward the men’s barracks.
Iain burst through the door to the house, raced up the stairs and down the corridor toward his chamber. The door was ajar. As he stepped through it he collided with Hetty. “What the devil now?”
The lass screamed and jumped back into the room, her eyes like a frightened hare’s. Edwina stood hunched just inside the doorway, hands on hips, her gaze narrowed at Iain, her wrinkled face twisted into a scowl.
’Twas then he noticed his bed had been stripped. Hetty clutched the bundle of sheets in her arms. He followed Edwina’s gaze to the traces of blood, crimson against the ivory linen.
“Get out!” he bellowed.
Hetty jumped and they both scurried from the room. Edwina shot him a hard look as she turned into the hallway.
He knelt before the chest flanking his bed and plucked his father’s gold ring from the items scattered across its top. He studied it for a moment, swallowing hard, then jammed it onto his finger. In one swift motion he swept the wooden surface clean and the rest of the items clattered to the floor.
Eleven years the chest stood closed.
Iain released the latch and threw back the lid. There it was. His father’s bloodstained plaid—the one he wore the night Reynold Grant plunged a broadsword into the soft flesh of his throat. Iain ran his hand over the rough, woolen fabric, black and hardened with dried blood, then pushed the garment aside.
The bright glint of steel winked at him from the bottom of the chest. He gripped the hilt of his father’s sword and drew it from its resting place. Marveling at the weight of it in his hand, he rose and held it aloft.
For this one day he’d lived his whole life.
For the sake of his mother and young brothers he’d swallowed his pride and had accepted his uncle’s charity, living under his roof, plotting, waiting, until the time was right. The years of training, sacrifice and single-mindedness—all would come to fruition this day.
He was The Mackintosh, and the time had come to raise the remnants of his broken clan and strike down those who had wronged them. ’Twas time to reclaim what was his: Findhorn Castle, his father’s lands, and the valiant woman who would be his wife.
His and no other’s.
Iain gripped the sword and felt the blood scream hot through his veins, flushing his face with the heat of vengeance. “By God, I’ll get her back, and let no man who values his head stand in my way.”
Alistair appeared in the doorway, breathless. “She’s gone, then?”
“Aye.” Iain pulled his own sword from its sheath and cast it onto the bed behind him. He sheathed his father’s weapon in the empty scabbard.
Alistair leveled his gaze at him. “Come with me now, nephew. There’s more to this tale ye’ve yet to hear.”
Dawn blazed through larch and laurel, casting cold fingers of light across the forest floor. The previous day and night had seemed the longest of Alena’s life. She’d ridden progressively north and eastward, and was now but a half league from Glenmore.
The lack of sleep and hard ride had finally caught up with her and with Destiny. She was exhausted and so was the stallion, though he had not faltered, not once on the long journey.
For the past hour she’d been followed by mounted warriors. Directed, really. They were her own kinsmen and rode just within her sight, but did not approach her. At first she’d made for the training stable and her parents’ cottage. She was desperate to see them, to make certain they were safe. But the soldiers wouldn’t allow it. They herded her like a sheep to the slaughter toward Glenmore’s keep.
Toward Reynold Grant.
S
he needed all her courage now, all her strength. She must be canny and sharp, have all her wits about her. Above all, she must show no fear. She had something he wanted and that gave her power. She would wield that power now, for her parents’ sake.
And for Iain’s.
For Iain she’d ride into the mouth of hell and stand before the devil himself. A high, shaky laugh escaped her lips. Aye, that was exactly her plan.
The keep loomed cold and gray before her. She had stopped some time ago—long before the soldiers appeared—to water Destiny, and had changed from breeks and shirt into her yellow gown, the one she’d worn the day she’d fled Glenmore’s keep.
The warriors closed in on her as she approached the curtain wall and rode as her escort. She knew most of them, she realized, and smiled thinly as they flanked her. Only one returned her smile. The rest looked away, their faces stone.
She spurred Destiny forward through the main gate and into the bailey. Everywhere she looked she saw the defeated faces of her kinsmen. The old laird, John Grant, had passed only months ago, but already his nephew Reynold had worked unspeakable evils on his own clan in his lust for dominance and power.
She’d overheard Gavin tell of it one night in the stable. The news had come from traveling tinkers out on the forest road. Duncan had not repeated the tale to her, and she hadn’t asked. She didn’t want to know.
She longed for things to be the way they were before the old laird’s death, before Reynold’s treachery, and Iain’s love. Nay, ’twas far past time for such regrets. She had to face the facts.
The clashing of steel on steel jolted her from her thoughts. A crowd was gathered in the courtyard just outside the keep. She urged Destiny forward and breached the knot of clansmen. ’Twas early morn, and she was not prepared for what she saw.
“Jesu,” she breathed. Her stomach twisted in fear.
Reynold Grant stood panting, stripped to the waist, a sheen of sweat about his face and torso. In one hand he wielded a broadsword, in the other a dirk. His blond hair spilled loose about his shoulders, a few sweat-soaked tendrils clung to his face. He was the image of what a warrior should be. If Alena did not know him for the cruel manipulator he was, she might think him almost handsome.
A few steps behind him an older clansman, not a warrior but a farrier, lay in the dirt, gripping a battered wooden shield. His eyes were pure fear.
She reined Destiny to a halt and mustered her courage. A thin smirk bled across Reynold’s face when he saw her. Her gaze was drawn to the angry red scar jagging from cheekbone to chin. She remembered when she’d cut him, and unconsciously moved her hand to the dirk belted at her waist.
Perkins stepped from the crowd. “Take her!” he cried. The mounted warriors rode forward.
“Nay!” Reynold sheathed his sword and cast his dirk to the ground. “Let her come.”
She fought desperately to control both her fear and her revulsion. She nudged Destiny forward until the stallion stood but a pace away from him.
Reynold cocked a white-blond brow, his face a mask of cold satisfaction. “So, ye’ve come back.”
“Aye,” she said, forcing herself to hold his gaze.
“I knew that ye would. Smart lass. How did ye get away?”
The crowd fell silent, leaving only the sounds of birds overhead and a dog barking somewhere in the distance. She ignored his question.
A malevolent smile spread across his face. His gaze roamed over her as he moved closer. He smelled of sweat and blood. Her stomach lurched.
“No matter. You’re here, and a bonny bride ye will make.” He sauntered around the stallion, grazing a hand across the animal’s flank. Destiny snorted at his touch. “’Tis a fine mount ye have. A wedding gift is it, from Iain Mackintosh?”
Alena gripped the reins and bit back a comment.
Reynold grabbed her ankle.
Her heart leaped to her throat. Destiny stirred beneath her.
Reynold’s eyes locked on hers. “The wedding is tonight.”
She gritted her teeth as he ran a sweaty hand under her gown and up the length of her bare calf. She willed herself not move. She must be calm, purposeful, and not give in to her fear. “My…my parents. Are they well?”
“Oh, aye. Fat and flourishing. And they’ll continue so, now that you’re here.”
Thank God for that! She forced herself to relax. “I would spend this last afternoon with them…if it please you. After that you may do as you wish with me.”
He withdrew his hand from her leg at last, and ran it along his scarred face. “Oh, I intend to, lass.”
Against her will her eyes widened. He read the panic she felt and laughed. “I’m not a monster, ye know.”
She begged to differ but held her tongue.
“Verra well. Have your afternoon. Ye shall come to me at sunset. A priest is come from Inverness to witness our vows. I’ll send a suitable gown to your parents’ cottage. See that ye wear it.”
“But I have a gown.” She indicated the pale yellow silk.
“That rag? Dinna insult me. Ye shall wear the gown I’ve chosen. Now go.”
He turned and unsheathed his sword. Metal flashed in the afternoon sun. He eyed the farrier who now stood cowering against the stone wall of the keep, his battered shield poised in defense across his body. “There’s other sport to be had this day.”
Aye, and it sickened her. She leaned forward, fisting handfuls of Destiny’s mane. She would leave before this sport recommenced, yet she had to know if her suspicions about Iain and the dagger were right. “Laird,” she called out. “There is one question yet unanswered.”
Reynold stopped dead in his tracks, regarding her with what seemed mild amusement bordering on contempt. “Ask it, then. I haven’t all day.”
She held his gaze and drew a breath. “Why me?”
The question clearly surprised him. He handed his weapon to Perkins, and as he approached her she could see in his eyes he was ready to bare the truth. “Dinna be so modest. Surely ye know by now. The secret is out.”
’Twas as she’d suspected! The dagger was her trump card, and she must use it smartly. She decided to toy with him a moment longer. “The secret about what I have?”
Reynold frowned. “What ye have? Nay, lass, the secret about what ye are.”
What I am? What on earth did he mean? “What am I?”
He smiled at her confusion. “Why, Angoulême, my sweet. A highborn daughter of France.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Angoulême?” Alena searched the grim faces of her parents, or rather, the man and woman she’d always thought of as her parents.
Robert Todd glanced out the cottage window at the sentries sent to ensure her return to the keep at sunset. With a tug he pulled the drapery closed. “Aye. Alena of Angoulême, daughter of Beatrix. You be she, lass.”
She shook her head, not wanting to believe it. “But I am your daughter.”
“Nay, ma petite,” Madeleine Todd said. “Your father—I mean, Robert—is right.”
Even if it were true, what did it mean? She knew little of politics—of anything, really, outside her clan. Her gaze strayed to the pallet in the corner by the hearth. A deep purple gown trimmed in gold lay strewn across it. Reynold’s gift to her.
“It matters not,” she said. “You know why I’ve returned.” She nodded at the gown.
“No, you cannot!” Madeleine’s soft eyes glassed with tears. “He’s a terrible man.”
“I must,” she said, and looked from her mother’s anguished face to her father’s grim expression. “’Tis the only way to keep you safe.”
“We are safe enough,” Robert said. “Ye willna do this thing.”
She reached across the table and grasped his weathered hand. “You do not understand, Father. I must wed Reynold. If I do not—” she struggled to keep her voice steady “—he will cast you out from Clan Grant. You and mother. And…there are other reasons I must be his bride.”
A sharp, fleeting image of
Iain flashed in her mind, tugged at her heart, and she prayed for strength.
Her father began to shake. He let go her hand and fisted his own into tight, white-knuckled fists. “Throw us out? Robert Todd, stablemaster here for forty years, and friend to his uncle for longer than that. And he would cast us out?” Alena nodded. “And that was his threat to ye, lass?” Her father’s eyes blazed in quiet fury. “That’s what made ye return?”
“Aye. And though ’tis possible we could leave this place and be welcomed elsewhere…” She thought of Iain and of the kindness afforded her by the Davidsons and the Mackintoshes. “There are now other reasons which compel me to see this marriage take place.” She rose from the table.
Her mother’s eyes widened, almost in desperation. She watched her father as he reached across the table and grasped his wife’s hand. They exchanged solemn glances, brown eyes locked, then turned their gazes on her.
She had the strangest feeling some silent decision had passed between them. ’Twas not the first time she’d seen them so. A chill of premonition tingled its way up her spine.
Robert Todd’s voice resonated low and urgent. “Ye need no’ wed him, lass. Aye, a daughter of Angoulême ye be. But ye are also another’s daughter.”
“My father’s daughter, you mean.”
He nodded.
She had not dared ask earlier. The revelation of her mother’s true identity had been more than enough to comprehend in one sitting. And now, studying their grave faces, she didn’t want to know. “Wh-who is he?”
Robert hesitated. “Your father was…John Grant.”
The room spun. She reached for the edge of the table to steady herself. “The old laird? How can this be?”
Robert Todd’s face seemed to have aged years in the past few moments. “Sit down, lass. ’Tis time ye knew the whole of it.”
Madeleine rose from the bench and helped her back to her seat, then stepped quickly to the hearth. Alena watched in fascination as she counted the hearthstones from the bottom up, her hand coming to rest on the sixth stone. With a grunt she pulled it free.
The Mackintosh Bride Page 19
