Her heart stopped.
A warrior loomed before her, broadsword drawn, dressed for battle in the colors of her own clan. She stumbled to her feet. A branch snapped behind her, and again she whirled. A dozen Grant soldiers, men she did not know, lined the creek behind her, blocking her escape.
She was surrounded.
Chapter Eighteen
She was dead, and Iain, too.
In her mind’s eye she saw the graves, side by side atop the windswept ridge where first he kissed her, their pale stone markers reflecting the soft summer moonlight.
So be it. She lowered the dagger and braced herself for what would come. To her surprise, the warrior sheathed his weapon. He stepped to the side and she watched as another man ducked beneath the tangled gorse into the small thicket.
She nearly swooned when she saw his face. “Owen!”
“Lass! Good God, are ye hurt?” Owen rushed forward and clutched her shoulders as she began to sway.
“But…I thought you dead. Surely—”
“Nay. ’Tis a nasty wound, deep but not mortal.” He nodded at his left shoulder, which was tightly wrapped in clean linen.
She reached out to touch him, afraid to believe he was really there. Her gaze darted to the circle of warriors who were now sheathing their weapons. “But—”
The warrior who’d preceded Owen cleared his throat, and with a start she realized who he was.
“Jesu,” she breathed.
Owen drew her to her feet, careful to not let her go until she was steady. The man who stood before her was—
“George Grant.”
She could do naught but stand there and stare at him. She’d seen him mere months ago, yet he seemed different somehow—older, commanding in his battle dress.
He did not much resemble Reynold, except for his height. He was broader at the shoulder, more muscled, and was a younger man—about Iain’s age, she guessed. His hair was tawny and his eyes a warm blue, so different from Reynold’s icy orbs.
George stepped forward and offered her a gauntleted hand. “Cousin,” he said, and smiled.
She placed her hand in his. “You…you know, then, about me?”
“Aye, Lady, I do.”
“I told him ye are John Grant’s daughter,” Owen said. “Show him the parchment.”
She realized she still gripped the jeweled dirk in her right hand and tried to pull her left from George’s grasp.
He held her fast. “Nay, ’tis no’ necessary. I can see the resemblance. Ye have my uncle’s eyes and his coloring.” His gaze roamed over her face and waist-length hair. “And a strength about ye which confirms ye are his child.”
Her pulse calmed and she finally found her voice. “Have you come to my aid, then—cousin?”
“Perhaps,” George said. “My army waits out on the forest road.”
She felt a surge of relief and gripped his hand more firmly. “Then, you do not serve my…laird?”
“Reynold? I swore an oath of fealty when first your father died and the council made him laird. But since, Reynold has broken his oath to serve and protect our clan.” George’s expression darkened. “I have heard of his atrocities and am only sorry I didna come sooner. My land lies nearly a day away to the east. I didna know until Owen came to fetch me. I have since spoken with the council and have seen with my own eyes Reynold’s handiwork. Nay, all oaths of fealty are null and void. I willna support his deviltry.”
Her pulse quickened as she studied his tense, handsome features. Dare she trust him? She had no choice. She tightened her grip on the dagger and raised it high.
The muscle in George’s jaw twitched almost imperceptibly.
“Know you what this is?” she said.
He blinked a few times in astonishment. “Aye. I do.” He grazed his thumb over the jeweled hilt and narrowed his eyes at her. “But where did ye get it?”
She hesitated, darting a glance at the shallow grave behind her, praying her trust in these men was well placed. “From…from Iain Mackintosh. Eleven years ago.”
George’s hand flew to her arm and gripped it so tightly she winced with pain. “But—”
“It has something to do with the murders!” she blurted, struggling against his grasp. “But I know not what. Iain bade me keep it safe until he could return for it. And that I have done.”
She nodded at the hole behind her. George released his hold on her, and she exhaled in momentary relief, feeling the circulation return to her arm.
Owen knelt beside the disturbed earth and fingered the splinters of rotten wood, all that was left of the box. His gaze lit on the tattered remnants of Iain’s plaid. Alena watched his expression closely as he retrieved the cloth and placed it into George’s hands.
“The Mackintosh tartan,” George said. The material nearly disintegrated as he rubbed it between his fingers. “’Tis been in the earth a good long while.”
“Aye,” she nodded. “Eleven years.”
He placed his hand over the dagger’s hilt, his gaze fixed on hers. She begrudgingly relinquished the weapon to him, her heart now racing. He weighed it in his hand, then held it high for all his men to see. They responded with appreciative murmurs and a few, low-pitched whistles. “And what had ye thought to do with this?”
“I must see it safe into Iain’s hands. Even now, he rides for Findhorn Castle to join the Chattan clans.” She lowered her voice. “Four hundred of Reynold’s soldiers await them there.”
George narrowed his eyes and again scrutinized the jeweled weapon.
She saw no point in hiding the truth. There wasn’t time. She needed their help and she needed it now. “There’s to be war. Iain would reclaim Findhorn Castle and his lands, which Reynold has held these long years.”
George met her gaze and nodded. “I am familiar with this blood feud.”
“But he has not the manpower to wage such a war, had he all the Chattan clans at his back.”
“And the others? Davidson, MacBain, Macgillivray—they will support him?” Owen asked.
“They will be there, but not all have pledged support.” She nodded at the dagger in George’s hand. “I thought this might help his cause, somehow. Although I admit, I do not see how one dirk might compel an army to side with one man against another.”
George studied her face. “Ye have strong feelings for this Mackintosh laird.” ’Twas a statement, not a question.
“I do.”
“And ye would aid him against your own clan?”
“Nay! ’Tis not my intention.” She placed a hand on his forearm. “But I would preserve his life and those of his kinsmen. I would help him to recover what’s rightly his.” She paused, holding George’s steely gaze. “And if that means bringing down Reynold and those who have aided him in persecuting our own people—well then, so be it.”
Abruptly, George pulled away from her and paced the width of the small copse. His kinsmen widened their circle, allowing him more space. She watched as he hefted the dirk, studying it yet again. Her pulse raced and her forehead burned with a fine sheen of perspiration. Fear and desperation knotted her belly. Jesu, what could she do if he refused?
He stopped and looked at her.
She met his gaze. “Will you help me, then? Will you see me safe to Findhorn so I might deliver this weapon?”
George was silent, and for a moment she thought all was lost. He arched a brow. “Apparently, there is much of this tale I dinna know.”
To her surprise he offered her the dagger. She took it and sheathed it in the empty scabbard at her waist.
“But ye shall enlighten me, cousin, on our journey to Findhorn Castle.”
She blinked, his words not registering at first. Then a bracing relief coursed through her. “Aye. I will tell you all I know.”
He directed her toward the gorse bushes marking the way out of the copse. “I canna promise I will aid this Mackintosh laird,” he said. “But we will go to Findhorn, and then we shall see what is the right path.”
“And you will tell me the significance of this dagger?” Her hand moved to the jeweled hilt.
“I will. There is much ye need know.” George ducked under the bushes and pulled her after him. “But later,” he said, directing her to their mounts. “Now we must ride.”
Moments later they were mounted and ready.
“Ye dinna use a saddle?” George asked.
“Nay.”
His eyes raked her up and down in what she knew was not desire, but a cautious appreciation. “Fair strange for a woman, eh?” he said brightly.
“Not this woman, cousin.” She shot him a pithy glance.
He laughed, blue eyes sparkling in the growing light. “Methinks there is much about ye that is more than fair strange. I would be happy to know ye better, cousin.”
“And I you.”
They spurred their mounts forward and made for the forest road. Once there, Alena knew they would turn west toward Findhorn Castle, as she had seen Iain do many times when they were children.
The sun was full up and blazed gloriously through the lush green trees. The air was warm and close, almost cloying, so thick was it with the scent of wild herbs. Alena urged Destiny faster in her excitement to break from the claustrophobic surroundings onto the cool, windswept moors that lay between them and Findhorn.
A ridge grew up before them, and at its crest a group of warriors loomed, mounted and battle-ready.
Alena turned to George. “They are yours?”
“Aye. Two hundred of them.”
They scaled the hill and yet more warriors came into view. All natural sounds of the forest were obliterated by the thunder of hoofbeats, rocks and branches kicked up in their ascent, the creaking of leather and the shouts of warriors as they greeted each other. Never before had she seen so many warriors primed for battle. ’Twas frightening, though they were men of her own clan.
George raised a hand, halting their movements. The men fell silent and fixed their gazes upon their leader. “Take heed,” he said in a deep, commanding voice. “This lady is my cousin.” George nudged his mount to her side and placed a gauntleted hand on her shoulder. “Alena Grant, daughter of John of Glenmore Castle. Ye shall serve and protect her as ye would me.”
Alena looked out into the sea of grim-faced clansmen.
As suddenly as he had halted them, George raised his hand again and the army sprang forward. Destiny was swept along with them and fell comfortably into the pace.
Moments later, a cry went up at the front of the procession. The clash of steel on steel rang from the wood. “Alena!”
She recognized the voice, and without thinking urged Destiny forward, snaking her way through the sea of warriors toward the sound. George quickly followed, calling out for her to stop. She ignored him and pushed through the crowd. His men were so consumed with the chaos at the front of the pack, no one thought to stop her.
She broke through to the front of the line and pulled Destiny up short. Her mouth dropped open as she surveyed the two intruders surrounded by Grant’s men. Swords were drawn, bloodshed imminent.
“Will! Drake!” she cried, and drove the black forward.
George raced ahead and cut her off, positioning himself between her and the two men. “Nay!” He shot her a fierce look. His broadsword flashed silver in the morning light, and for a moment she feared he would slay them. “Who are ye?” he demanded.
Will drew himself up in the saddle, but Alena read fear in his eyes. “I am Will of Clan Mackintosh. And this is Drake, my kinsman.” He nodded at the scout. “We are charged with protecting this Lady and have come to retrieve her.”
George cocked a brow and looked them up and down with distaste. “Ye call this protection?” He nudged his mount beside hers and, with his free hand, slipped his dirk from its sheath. “I could slit her throat whilst ye sit there on your arses.”
Will’s eyes blazed fury. He set his jaw, and his grip tightened around the hilt of his sword.
“Will, no!” she cried.
The points of a dozen Grant swords flashed steel and held him at bay.
George moved toward him, shaking his head. “Relax, man. This lady is my cousin. She is now under my protection.”
Will narrowed his eyes, looking from George to her. Drake’s mouth dropped open.
“’Tis true,” she said. “This is George Grant, my cousin.”
Will studied the tawny-haired warrior. “I have heard the name.”
“Aye, as ye should,” George said, the arrogance in his voice unmistakable. “Now, get ye gone before I change my mind about killing you.”
Will returned his even glare. “Not without her.”
“Will, we ride to Findhorn Castle,” she said. “My cousin means to help us.”
“We go to find this Iain Mackintosh,” George said. “We have something that may aid his cause.”
Alena’s hand moved unconsciously to the jeweled dirk sheathed at her waist. Will’s eyes widened. He glanced at Drake, both brows raised in surprise. The scout shrugged.
“D’ye know this place?” George asked. “This Find-horn?”
“I was born there,” Will said.
“Ye shall guide us to it, then.”
Will scowled at him in silence. The air was thick and close, and perspiration beaded on both men’s brows.
“You must trust him, Will,” she said, feigning confidence.
George sheathed his broadsword, blue eyes riveted to Will’s angry glower. “He doesna have a choice, now does he?”
Will’s jaw relaxed. He settled into his saddle and reluctantly sheathed his sword. Drake followed suit, his wary eyes darting across the sea of Grant warriors.
Casting her a resigned grimace, Will turned to George. “Come, I know a shortcut.”
Chapter Nineteen
Findhorn Castle loomed solemn and gray above the barren landscape. Iain shaded his eyes against the midday sun and let his gaze wash over the rough-hewn stone of its battlements. His grandfather had built the stronghold during Malcolm’s reign, some fifty years ago. ’Twas once a bustling place full of life and laughter. Iain could barely remember those times. Mayhap they were but a dream, a child’s fancy. He looked away suddenly, loathe to see the dark shell it had become.
Now when he thought on his childhood, ’twas not this place he recollected, nor was it the faces of his parents or his young brothers he saw. ’Twas the dirty face of a sprite, wheat-gold tresses tangled with sunshine and autumn leaves. A fairy forest, green and lush, a special place that was theirs, alone.
She had given him her love, her trust—precious gifts he would now cast aside to do what must be done. For family, for clan, for honor.
Iain threw his head back and inhaled sharply. The fresh scent of summer heather was choked by the pungent odor of lathered horses and unwashed men. He scanned the field below him where near five hundred Grant warriors, half of them mounted on seasoned warhorses, prepared for battle. Somewhere down there was Reynold Grant.
’Twas time.
He spurred his stallion forward to join Alistair and Gilchrist. His uncle and his brother both wore grave expressions. “Ye dinna have to be here, uncle. ’Tis no’ your fight.”
Alistair smiled. “Ah, but it is. Your father was my sister’s husband, and while I am not a man who jumps headlong into war, ’tis far past time ye reclaim all that is yours.”
Iain placed a hand on his uncle’s shoulder. “Well, then, let’s do it.”
The Macgillivrays closed ranks with the Davidsons and the Mackintoshes, and the three clans spurred their mounts down the long grassy slope to Findhorn field. They were nearly three hundred. Not enough. Iain looked back and saw the MacBain laird and his hundred warriors, mounted but unmoving, at the top of the hill. MacBain would wait before he made up his mind whether or not to support them.
Hamish positioned himself on Iain’s left. Gilchrist flanked Alistair and rode with the Davidsons. The Grants held their ground as the three clans approached and reined their moun
ts to a halt but fifty feet away.
Alena was right. ’Twould be a bloodbath. Thank God she was safe and not here to see it. Until this moment he hadn’t considered what might happen to her should he die this day.
He surged forward, then turned and rode down the line to where his uncle and brother were positioned. He bade Hamish follow. Iain beckoned the three closer. “I would ask a favor of ye,” he said quietly, and met each man’s gaze in turn. “To keep Alena safe should I no’ survive the battle.”
The three men nodded, and Gilchrist said, “We will protect her with our lives, as you have us, brother.”
He met Gilchrist’s even gaze. Never had he loved his brother more than he did in this one moment.
A horse reared in the Grant line. Iain reached for the longbow slung across his shoulder. The Grant warriors fell back and opened a path in their midst.
One man, dressed for battle, rode toward them on a great warhorse. Iain’s gut knotted as he recognized the face.
Reynold Grant.
The laird reined his steed to a halt just beyond the front line of his men. All eyes turned to Iain. His fingers twitched as he gripped the burnished yew bow. One shot, a few seconds and it could be over.
Reynold’s gaze burned into him.
Nay, ’twould be far too easy to kill him like this. Reynold must die by the sword—Iain’s father’s sword. He threw down the longbow and cast his quiver of arrows to the ground beside it.
Reynold grinned and cocked a brow in mock surprise. “Mackintosh,” he called out, “what brings ye here?”
He leveled his gaze at him— “Ye know why I have come”—and nodded at the castle in the distance. “To claim what’s mine. And to settle an old score.”
Reynold’s gaze flit across Iain’s small army. He chuckled as if some jest had been made. “What, with this?” With a sweeping gesture he indicated the Chattan clans.
Iain battled his rage. “Aye.”
Reynold laughed in earnest, now—a high-pitched, near-mad cackle. “Ye are most amusing, Mackintosh. I see, now, why my lovely cousin was so taken with ye.”
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