The Mackintosh Bride. Debra Lee Brown
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should tell him the truth.
About her, about Grant’s threat to her family, and the wedding he planned that she could see no way out of. Oh, she longed to tell him. But ’twould only force him into the thick of her troubles. What would he do, then? Perhaps nothing. Why would he?
He’d broken his vow. He’d never returned.
Her insides twisted tighter. She meant naught to him. A childhood playmate, no more. He might not even remember her. After all, she had never once given him her true name.
Oh, but how he’d looked at her yesterday when he sponged the dirt and blood from her skin, his eyes full of tenderness and concern.
What if he did care?
Nay, she would not tell him. She would not risk his life on her behalf. For truth, what could he do? She must deal with Reynold Grant on her own. Tomorrow she would think on it.
Her mind drifted, and she burrowed deeper into the warmth of the furs.
Music. Nay, birds. Larks. Alena’s eyelids fluttered, and she squinted against the sunlight breaching the window.
Hetty tied off the rolled deerskin drape. “Did ye sleep well, Lady?”
Judging by the intensity of the daylight, Alena knew ’twas well past dawn. “What’s the time?” she said, and pulled herself from the bed.
“Ye’ve missed breakfast, but I saved ye some ale and a bit of cheese.” Hetty nodded her head in the direction of the hearth, where a small tray sat atop a table.
“My thanks.”
“Ye were sleepin’ so soundly last night, like a babe. Edwina said not to wake ye. Iain—the laird, I mean—kept askin’ to see ye, but Edwina wouldna allow it.”
“Did he?” The butterflies in her stomach gave way to knots when it occurred to her that Iain might have found her out—who she was, and why she was running.
“Aye, he did, and he wasna happy when Edwina stood and blocked the door and wouldna let him enter.”
So, the old woman was kinder than first impressions would have led her to believe. “Please tell Edwina I thank her for preserving my…privacy.”
Hetty smiled, then opened a trunk at the foot of the bed and retrieved a gown of pale green wool. She laid it on the bed and turned to help Alena into it.
This was really all too much. She was not used to having someone dress and undress her. “Hetty, I really don’t need you to fawn over me. I can dress myself.”
The girl looked as if she’d been wounded. “Ye are not pleased with me, Lady?” Her doe eyes glassed.
“Oh, Hetty.” She clasped the girl’s hands in hers. “I’m very pleased with you. It’s just that…well, I’m not used to so much attention.”
Hetty’s face brightened. “Oh, ’tis no trouble. I like doin’ for ye. Edwina says I must take good care of ye or Iain—I mean the laird—will be angry.”
“Will he?” A smile tugged at her mouth.
“Oh, aye. Ye should have seen him last eve, worried about ye like a mam frettin’ over a bairn.”
She felt herself flush and pulled the gown over her head to hide the evidence from Hetty.
“’Tis lovely on you.”
Alena shrugged off the compliment. She’d never thought much about such things. Most of her days were spent in breeks and leather boots. “Whose gown is it?”
“It belonged to Lady Ellen, when she was young.”
“Iain’s mother? Do you think I should be wearing her clothes? Wouldn’t Iain be angry?”
Hetty snatched the hairbrush from the table and pulled it through Alena’s hair. “Oh, nay. Edwina says the laird would find it charming.”
Charming? A question that had burned in her mind since her arrival, could no longer go unasked. “Wouldn’t it be better if Lady Ellen’s clothes were given to Iain’s wife?” She held her breath and waited for Hetty’s answer.
“Oh, nay, he’s not married. He doesna even keep a mistress.”
Her heart skipped a beat.
“Now, that Gilchrist—he’s another story, if ye take my meaning.” Hetty shot her a knowing look.
“Who is Gilchrist?”
“Gilchrist Mackintosh, Iain’s younger brother. And a handsomer lad ye’ve ne’er seen. Except for my Will, of course.”
Both of them jumped as a crash of timber sounded from the stable yard. All at once men were shouting over the angry snorts and distressed cries of a horse. Alena moved quickly to the window and looked out.
A black stallion rampaged through the yard, rearing in anger against a training tether pulled tight around his neck. Duncan, and a man who looked a younger version of him, were trying, without success, to calm the distressed beast.
She was shocked to see a lad of fourteen or fifteen lurking dangerously close to the rearing steed. Duncan waved him off but the lad would not give ground.
“Who is that boy, Hetty?”
“Saints preserve us! That’s Conall Mackintosh, the laird’s youngest brother.”
The stallion reared again, and the boy inched closer. Without another thought Alena shot from the room, barefoot, raced down the staircase and burst outside. The black reared again. The boy ducked under the steed’s hooves and tried to grab the bridle.
“Conall!” The voice was Iain’s, but he was nowhere in sight. “Move away, lad!”
The boy ignored his brother’s command. The stallion bucked as Duncan jerked on the tether. A crowd gathered around them, frightening the beast into greater frenzy. Conall moved in and reached for the bridle.
She knew the steed would rear.
“Boy, you’re too close!” She shot forward and grabbed him. Conall stumbled backward, and they both tripped to the ground. For one heart-stopping moment she thought she’d been too late. The stallion crashed to earth, his powerful hooves landing inches from the boy’s head.
There was no time. She could see in the stallion’s eyes that he would rear again. She scrambled to her feet, unsheathed her dirk and cut the training tether. He was free. In a smooth motion that was second nature to her, she grasped the steed’s mane and pulled herself onto his bare back. A split second later he lurched ahead.
There was only the one thing she did well, and this was it.
Without benefit of tether or bridle, she guided the black in a wide circuit around the stable yard. The tensed muscles of his neck relaxed as she stroked his sweat-drenched coat and whispered words of comfort into his ear. In seconds he’d calmed to her voice and touch.
Duncan scooped Conall from the dirt and bore him safely out of the way. She glanced briefly at the old man and shrugged.
“Weel, I’ll be damned,” he said, and stroked his silvered beard.
This was not how she’d intended to start her day.
She slowed the stallion to a walk. ’Twas then she noticed Iain standing alone at the stable yard gate, the crowd parted around him. She had the distinct impression he was not happy with her actions.
His face flamed red as an autumn apple. His eyes were live coals. Even at ten paces she could see the tendons tightening in his neck.
Jesu, what would he have had her do? Stand by helpless? She met his gaze, and what she read there unnerved her far more than had the incident with the stallion. She was barely aware of Duncan helping her down from the horse and leading him away.
In three steps Iain covered