The Mackintosh Bride

by Debra Lee Brown

  Blood pulsed hot in Iain’s veins. He ground his teeth against the sharp reply poised on his tongue.

  “Dinna let him bait ye, man,” Hamish whispered at his side. “Choose your moves with care.”

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught Alistair’s nearly imperceptible nod of assent.

  Reynold drew himself up in his saddle and with a flourish stripped his sword from its sheath. Iain tensed. “Throw down, now, Mackintosh, and we willna rape your women or murder your children.”

  Cries of outrage went up among the Chattan. Their mounts stirred, snorting and stamping the ground. Iain watched, stunned, as Reynold’s own warriors gaped at their laird.

  “A man who would make war on women and children is no’ fit to lead a clan!” Iain shouted over the din.

  Reynold laughed and didn’t notice how his own men dropped back.

  MacBain studied Reynold. Iain could see the old laird wavered, withholding judgment, waiting to see what the Grants would do next.

  “Ye seem to have had news of our little reception here,” Reynold said. “’Twas not the surprise I had hoped it would be.”

  “’Twas no surprise,” Iain said evenly.

  “Ah…then, ’twould be my bonny cousin who gave away my plans. Perkins will be dealt a harsh punishment for allowing her to escape me yet again.”

  Now Iain smiled. “Ye are too late for that, Grant. He’s already been punished. But ’twas no’ nearly as harsh as I would have liked.”

  Reynold’s grin faded. “And my cousin? Where is she?”

  “Somewhere safe, where ye willna find her.”

  “Ah, but I shall, Mackintosh, and when I do…a man could lose his soul in that honeyed hair and those bonny green eyes, eh?”

  Iain’s sword flashed silver as he jerked it from its scabbard. “Ye touch one hair of her head, ye murdering cur, and I’ll cut down every Grant from here to Inverness.”

  The Chattan warriors drew their weapons as Iain’s mount surged forward. The Grants hesitated, their eyes darting from their laird to each other, unsure of what to do.

  MacBain drew his sword and locked eyes with Iain. His kinsmen followed suit, falling into line behind their laird as he closed ranks with the Chattan. With MacBain’s support they were still outnumbered, but it didn’t matter.

  Nothing would stop him now.

  Hoofbeats thundered from across the moor. Iain pulled his mount up short, not twenty feet from Reynold, as the sea of Grant warriors parted before an oncoming army. The Chattan stilled their mounts and sat poised, weapons brandished. Even Reynold glanced back to see what was the commotion.

  Iain narrowed his eyes, and his throat constricted when he made them out. “Bluidy hell.”

  Two hundred Grant warriors, battle-ready, approached the field. They drove through Reynold’s pack like a mad dog splitting sheep. As they drew closer Iain’s heart leaped to his throat. “Alena!”

  “Good God!” Alistair cried.

  “And Will and Drake, too,” Hamish added, and drew his mount up beside Iain’s.

  As the army approached, the Chattan warriors fanned out, flanking their lairds. MacBain and Macgillivray joined Iain and Alistair at the center of the pack. The four men closed ranks, and Iain was barely aware of the lairds’ solemn exchange of glances.

  His eyes were riveted to Alena who rode atop Destiny like a queen, graceful and confident, as if she were used to leading an army of great warriors into battle. She was flanked by two Grants, their expressions grim, and was tightly surrounded by a half dozen others, Will and Drake among them.

  The big, tawny-haired man who rode to her right shot her a quick, knowing glance as they reined their mounts to a halt before Reynold.

  A cold fear gripped Iain as his gaze roamed over her, searching for signs she had been harmed. He was not afraid to die, but couldn’t bear the thought of her in Reynold’s hands.

  Alena ignored Reynold’s greeting and scanned the crowd. Iain willed her look in his direction. Finally her gaze met his and his heart soared as a radiant smile broke across her face.

  “Iain!” she cried, and kicked Destiny forward. The tawny-haired warrior reached out and grabbed the bridle.

  Iain raised his sword, but Alistair thrust a hand in front of his chest. “Nay! Wait and see what they mean to do.”

  Will caught his eye. Iain scowled back at him. By God, he’d not forgive him for allowing Alena to fall into Grant’s hands. His friend shrugged his shoulders and cast his gaze to the ground.

  Reynold tried to maneuver his mount nearer to Alena, but the Grant warriors who flanked her wouldn’t allow his approach. Iain watched with interest as Reynold’s face reddened with rage, his long, thin scar blazing crimson.

  “Owen!” Reynold shrieked. “I will deal with ye and yours later.” He turned next to the tawny-haired warrior. “Cousin, ye have come to watch your laird dispense with this minor irritation?” He glanced back at Iain and the other Chattan lairds.

  “’Tis George Grant,” Alistair whispered.

  The tawny-haired warrior remained silent.

  Reynold’s murderous glare lit on Alena, and Iain’s pulse quickened. “I see ye have brought my bride.” Lust gleamed in his eyes and it was all Iain could do to stop himself from surging forward and hacking off the bastard’s head. “Excellent.”

  To Iain’s surprise, George Grant goaded his mount forward. “Which one of you is Iain Mackintosh?”

  “I am The Mackintosh,” he shouted so all might hear.

  They sized each other up. George drew himself tall in the saddle and said, “I have brought this lady, my cousin, to you at her request.” He indicated Alena behind him.

  Iain worked to hide his astonishment but knew George and Reynold both could see it in his face.

  Reynold narrowed his eyes. “What do ye mean by this?”

  “’Tis plain enough, cousin,” George said. “This lady wishes to return something to the Mackintosh laird.”

  Iain held his breath as Alena threw back her cloak. Sunlight blazed a rainbow of colors at her waist. She withdrew the jeweled dirk from its sheath and held it aloft for all to see.

  A hush fell over the hundreds assembled there.

  Reynold’s mouth dropped open and he recoiled, startling his mount. The frightened horse sidestepped into the open between the troops. Before he could react, the circle closed ’round him, George and his warriors on one side, the Chattan on the other.

  The sight of the dagger after all these years and the unflagging bravery of the lass who bore it forced a swell of emotion to Iain’s gut. Alena’s eyes were only for him, and in her gaze he read not fear but trust, and a love so brilliant it outshone the fiery gemstones peeking between her fingers.

  His eyes clouded. With the back of his hand he wiped at the film of tears. He rode forward into the circle, his gaze now leveled on Reynold’s ashen face.

  George rode forward and nodded. “The lady says ye gave it her to safeguard for ye, some eleven years ago.”

  “I did,” Iain said.

  “And from where did ye get it?”

  “’Tis the weapon my father drew from Henry Grant’s back.”

  Hushed murmurs raced through the throng of warriors. Iain closed his eyes for a moment and recalled the hideous scene as if it had only just happened…

  He pushed his way through the knot of clansmen and flung himself down on his father’s body. Tears burned his eyes. He shook violently, his gut roiling with fear and pain. He fisted the rough fabric of his father’s plaid, soaked black with blood, and touched his forehead to his da’s. ’Twas cool and limpid, the life already gone out of him. His eyes stared unseeing, glazed with death. Iain blinked and his tears broke, bathing both their faces.

  His da was gone. Dead. Murdered.

  Something coiled inside him, then—a silent rage, dark and terrible, which seared his belly and blazed a white-hot impression on the backs of his eyelids.

  He had no weapon and searched quickly around him for somet
hing, anything, to wield. Then he saw it, out of the corner of his eye, glinting gold and silver, ruby and emerald in the torchlight. ’Twas the dirk his father had pulled from Henry Grant’s body, still firm in his death grip. Iain reached out and freed it, gently prying it from his da’s stiff fingers. He held it aloft, marveling at its hilt—a shimmering field of precious gems set in hammered silver and gold.

  The hairs on his nape prickled. He turned and looked up into the face of the young warrior, Reynold Grant, whose eyes bore into him—blue ice, startling against ghost-white skin and pale blond hair. He didn’t seem at all a man, but rather some Nordic god looming over him, huge and terrible.

  “You, boy. The dirk—give it to me,” Reynold commanded with a chilling calmness, his broadsword dripping blood.

  Iain scrambled to his feet and backed toward the last row of wine casks. “Nay, I willna.”

  “You will.”

  Reynold lunged at him but Iain moved quicker. He darted ’round the casks and raced toward the staircase. He gripped the jeweled dirk, still warm from his father’s hand, and felt suddenly powerful.

  He was The Mackintosh now. ’Twas up to him to avenge the horrors of this night.

  Warriors poured into the cellar as Iain reached the staircase. As if invisible, he darted up the stone steps, through the kitchens, and out into the night.

  George’s clear voice jolted Iain into awareness. His eyes flew open. The warrior snatched the dirk from Alena’s hands and held it high. “D’ye all know this weapon?” Cries went up from the Grants who were assembled behind him. “There were two made,” he said, “by John Grant’s order. One for his son, Henry, and the other for his nephew, Reynold.”

  The MacBain rode forward and cocked his head, studying the dirk in George’s hand. “Aye, ’tis true. I remember them now. The two lads wore them that night at Findhorn Castle.”

  Reynold gritted his teeth. “Aye, the Mackintosh laird murdered my cousin Henry with his own weapon.”

  MacBain continued to nod. “’Tis true. I saw Colum Mackintosh bent over the body, myself, that bloodied dagger in his hand.”

  “That may be so,” George said. “I wasna there, so I canna say. But I was at Henry’s burial, and though I was but a lad, plain as day I saw Henry’s jeweled dirk buried with him.”

  MacBain drew a sharp breath and the crowd quieted. Iain glanced back at Alistair and the Macgillivray laird. Their expressions were grim, their gazes fixed on Reynold’s back.

  “So, cousin,” George said, “whose dagger is this, then? There is only the one other and I dinna see it belted at your side.”

  Reynold’s eyes flashed rage and he brandished his sword in front of him. The circle of warriors drew tighter and he drove his mount first left, then right, in a useless effort to protect his back. “What lies are these? Ye would all believe this upstart?” He spat at George then sought out the faces of his own warriors. Reynold’s kinsmen wouldn’t meet his eyes, and Iain saw the panic grow on his pallid face.

  Macgillivray spurred his mount forward. “The truth of it is clear as a Highland stream, now that I see it for what it is,” he said. “Ye murdered Henry.”

  “Your cousin,” Iain said, his voice deadly calm. “So that ye might claim John Grant’s affections and all that would have rightfully gone to his son.”

  The warriors drew back, leaving Reynold alone in the circle with Iain, George, and the Chattan lairds.

  “Ye stabbed Henry in the back and laid the blame on my father,” Iain said. “And then ye slew him, and a hundred of my kinsmen.”

  For a moment the only sounds were the wind whipping across the moor and the fidgeting of the horses who, like their riders, itched for battle.

  “And ye are held accountable for more than the ruination of my clan.” Iain’s gaze burned into the now-milky-blue of Reynold’s eyes. “MacBain’s daughter was betrothed to Henry. Her young life was ruint, as well. But worst of all, ye split a great alliance—the Chattan clans my father worked his life to unite. ’Twas ruptured by one violent act of treachery, which pit clan against clan for all these years.”

  “There is more,” George said. “John Grant is dead, and ’tis no longer a mystery to me by whose hand.” He glared at Reynold.

  Iain looked to the other lairds who sat silent on their mounts, each nodding. He drew himself up in his saddle and sought out Alena’s face in the crowd. Her eyes brimmed with tears, and his heart nearly broke to see her so. He must get her out of here. Fast.

  Will moved up to flank her, and with one look and a nod of his head Iain conveyed his wishes to his friend. Will grabbed Destiny’s reins. With Drake at his side, he directed her away from the throng of warriors. George nodded at one of his kinsmen who moved quickly to accompany them.

  Alena struggled to remain, but the clansmen guided her away and up a small hill overlooking the battlefield. Iain could hear her protests and spared her one last long look before turning his attention to his enemy.

  The Chattan closed ranks, and George backed his mount into line with his own army.

  Reynold spun in circles, seeking out those few kinsmen who would support him. He viciously kicked his mount and the horse reared, nearly unseating him. The leather thong securing his hair sprang loose and a shock of white-blond hair whipped around his face in the wind, giving him the visage of a madman. “This changes nothing!” He lofted his broadsword high.

  “Oh, but it does, laddie,” MacBain said.

  Iain brandished his sword, and the screech of hardened steel cut the air as hundreds drew their weapons. Reynold screamed orders to his warriors. Those who were near the front of the crowd reluctantly rallied ’round him.

  Positioning his men on Reynold’s flank, George faced Iain, his expression grave, his eyes cool and deep as still waters. Iain’s pulse raced as he realized George’s intent. “I dinna support him,” the warrior called out. “But I am a Grant and canna stand by and let ye slay my kinsmen.”

  So this was how it would be.

  He’d gotten what he wished for, after all. The Chattan, battle-ready and assembled behind him. The Grants awaiting his attack.

  Iain wiped the sweat from his brow and tightened his grip on his father’s sword. Aye, this was his destiny. His whole life culminated here, today, on the field of Findhorn. In the shadow of his ancestral home he would seize his honor, take his revenge, reclaim what was rightfully his.

  He raised his sword and the cries of his warriors rang out across the barren landscape. He leveled his gaze at Reynold and could already taste the blood. All he need do was drive his sword into the soft earth, and four hundred Chattan warriors would spur their mounts forward into a sea of Grants.

  Iain wavered, motionless, and the cries of his men died to a low murmur. He looked from Reynold to George, their swords also raised.

  And all at once the folly of it struck him.

  He scanned the field of men: Grant, Mackintosh, Davidson, Macgillivray, MacBain. Is this what his father would have wished? Is this what he truly wanted? Another generation of carnage and bloodshed, violence and spurious pride?

  It sickened him.

  But if not this vengeance, then what? Was his whole life for naught? What did he truly wish for—not only for his clan but for himself?

  He turned his gaze to the small hillock flanking the battlefield. The gray stone of Findhorn Castle loomed up behind it, a silent power dwarfing the four who waited on the slope.

  Alena stood before Destiny, hands fisted at her sides, wheat-gold tresses whipping in the wind. The summer sun illuminated her face, and Iain saw tears run in glistening rivulets down her fair cheeks.

  He held her gaze and slowly lowered his sword.

  He was aware of Hamish leaning down to whisper in his ear. “Now what will ye do?”

  He tore his gaze from Alena and faced his enemy. Oh, he knew what needed doing, and he was far past ready. “Reynold Grant!” he called out. “My quarrel is with ye alone. ’Tis burdensome to involve these good men in ou
r disagreement.” He waved an arm at the throng on both sides of the field.

  The corner of George’s mouth twitched in what Iain could swear was a smile. The warrior lowered his sword and his army stilled behind him.

  Alistair moved to Iain’s side and shot him a wry glance. “Well done, lad.”

  Reynold narrowed his eyes and looked from Iain to George. His cousin ignored him. Reynold thrust his sword higher into the air. The few warriors who had rallied behind him dropped back, lowering their eyes. His face exploded with rage, and from twenty feet away Iain could see the cords of his neck stand out against the crimson pallor of his skin.

  Aye, far past ready.

  Iain swung his leg over the back of his mount and dropped lightly to the ground. He stripped off his shirt, strode to the center of the field, his eyes on Reynold, and drove his father’s five-foot broadsword into the soft earth between them. Fists on hips, he stood back, awaiting his enemy’s response.

  A thousand warriors turned their gazes to Reynold Grant.

  The cur dismounted and stripped himself to the waist. His eyes blazed murder, and Iain was glad. Brandishing his sword, Reynold stepped onto the field. “So be it,” he said.

  Iain smiled.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Iain!”

  Before Will or Owen could stop her, Alena scrambled down the rocky hill toward the battlefield. She snaked her way through the throng of mounted warriors and burst into the open.

  “Nay!” Iain cried. “’Tis no’ safe!” He waved her back, but she ignored him.

  She was nearly to him when George Grant slipped from his mount and caught her ’round the waist. He pulled her back from the opponents, her struggles useless against his iron grip.

  Iain nodded to George, then met her gaze briefly before returning his attention to Reynold. ’Twas madness! She begged George to stop it, but he wasn’t listening. Nearly all of the warriors dismounted, Grants and Chattan alike, and closed a tight-knit circle around the two lairds.

  A flash of red hair caught her attention. Hamish. He elbowed his way ’round the crowd. She was startled when he stopped before her, his expression grim. Towering over her he resembled more Viking than Scot. For a moment he locked eyes with George Grant, and she felt her cousin tense. ’Twas a warning. After a moment both men relaxed and turned their gazes on the combatants.