The Mackintosh Bride. Debra Lee Brown
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Invented for women by men, no doubt.
She made her way into the bailey and guided her mount toward the keep, exchanging greetings with her kinsmen. Near the steps she dismounted and handed the chestnut’s reins to a waiting lad.
Perkins greeted her inside. She didn’t know him well and he made her nervous. ’Twas said Reynold met him during his travels last year. His dark brows rose as he raked his eyes over her body, appraising her as she would a new horse. “The laird is expecting you. This way.” He indicated the stone steps leading to the castle’s upper levels.
A few minutes later Perkins left her alone in what appeared to be the laird’s private rooms. The chamber was rich with tapestries and ornate furniture. Rushes, woven into an intricate pattern, covered the stone floor. The day was warm, but a fire blazed in the hearth nonetheless.
A sound caught her attention. A door stood ajar at the end of the room and without a second thought she moved closer to listen. She recognized men’s voices. One of them was the laird’s, though she could not make out his words. ’Twas an argument, it seemed. Reynold’s voice grew louder, and she jumped as something—a fist, mayhap—slammed on a table. Then he roared a name that made her heart stop.
Iain Mackintosh.
He’d be a man now, a warrior. Oh, but he was always that. The half smile slid from her lips as she wondered if he’d taken some elegant lady to wife. A lady of fortune and property. His childhood boasts still burned in her ears. She pushed the thought from her mind. Whatever he was now, ’twas apparent Iain Mackintosh had angered her new laird.
She inclined her head toward the door and strained to hear more. Sharp footsteps moved rapidly across the flag-stones. In the nick of time she jumped back. The door crashed open.
Reynold Grant stood before her, cool blue eyes drinking her in. She had never been so close to him before, and that closeness sparked her fear. He was about thirty, she guessed, tall and well-muscled, with fair skin and white-blond hair tied back in a leather thong. He was an imposing figure in the Clan Grant plaid—all warrior, and chieftain. The burnished metal of the sword and dirk belted at his waist caught the light.
She didn’t like the way he openly leered at her, and avoided returning his gaze. “Laird. You sent for me.”
“Alena,” he said slowly, pronouncing each syllable as if her name were some newly minted word. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, his eyes drawing her in. “How lovely ye are. Such beauty shouldna be hidden away in the stable.” He loomed in close, and she fought the urge to step back.
“I have a matter to discuss with ye.” To her relief he dropped her hand and walked toward the window. He cast a brief look outside. “What think ye of this place?”
The question took her by surprise. “’Tis…very fine. Surely one of the greatest stone castles in Scotland.”
“Aye, ’tis true.” He approached her, and she tensed as he again took her hand. “How would ye like to live here?”
His question confused her, and she knew it showed on her face. “I do live here, Laird, in my parents’ cottage, at the training stable not a half league away.”
He chuckled softly, as if in response to some private joke. “Nay, lass. How would ye like to live here, at the keep…with me?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” An awful premonition welled inside her. She tried to draw her hand away, but he held it fast.
“How old are you, Alena?” Reynold pulled her close. “Ten and nine, sir. Almost twenty.” Why on earth would her age interest him? Why had he sent for her?
“Ten and nine. Far past marriageable age, and yet ye are not wed.” He arched his brows and smiled down at her. “Why?”
So that was it.
Her cheeks flushed hot. She yanked her hand away and looked him in the eyes. “I do not desire marriage, Laird. I wish to remain at the stable. There is much work to—”
“Not desire marriage? Surely your father doesna support this view.”
Her suspicions were confirmed. Her father had put him up to this. “Nay, Laird, he does not.”
“Nor do I. In truth, I’ve summoned ye here to tell ye that ye will be wed, and soon.”
She did back away then, incredulous. “Wed? To whom?”
A smile broke across his ghost-white face. “To me. On Midsummer’s Day.”
Iain guided his mount down a steep, wooded ravine. He wasn’t familiar with this part of the forest and moved cautiously, scanning the trees for any sign of movement.
Hamish and Will had continued south when Iain veered east tracking a red stag, the biggest he’d ever seen. He’d strayed onto Grant land at some point, but no matter. He’d soon have his game and be gone.
His kinsmen would wait for him at Loch Drurie, hours away from where he was now. He studied the afternoon sky, judging the light. There was time enough, but where was his prey?
The ravine was choked with gorse and whortleberry, making the footing difficult for his horse. Stands of larch and laurel rose up to touch the sky. It reminded him much of the copse, their secret place. His and the girl’s. Sunlight pierced the emerald canopy, transforming the wood into a fairy forest of shadow and light.
He moved silently, directing the roan toward a stream near the bottom of the slope. Breathing in the cool, earthy scent of the forest, he scanned the surrounding foliage.
There! He saw it!
The red stag, drenched in sunlight and frozen against a backdrop of green. Fifty yards upwind, at most seventy-five. Few archers could make such a shot, but in his mind’s eye Iain could already feel the weight of the stag on his back as he lifted it onto his horse. Aye, this one was his.
The stallion, trained to the hunt, stood motionless as Iain strung his longbow. He dipped into the grease pot that hung at his waist and ran his fingers lightly along the bowstring, his eyes never leaving his prey.
The stag stepped forward and dropped its head, raking the ground with a hoof, then shook its great body sending a spray of water droplets flying from its coat.
’Twas now or never. Crossing himself, Iain offered up a wordless prayer to his patron saint. With a practiced hand he drew an arrow into the bow and sighted down the shaft to his prey.
This was the moment above all others that thrilled him. The years of training, preparation, the foregone pleasures—all proved worthwhile in that brief moment before he loosed the arrow toward its mark. A Mackintosh never missed.
Then it happened.
The stag’s head shot up, ears pricked. A second before he heard the commotion, Iain sensed what the stag already knew—Riders!
“Saint Sebastian to bluidy hell!”
The stag bounded into the cover of the forest. Iain forced his mount sideways into the shadow of a larch, checked the placement of his other weapons, and leveled his bow at the sound.
A chestnut gelding crashed through the trees on the opposite side of the ravine, its rider a blur of yellow and gold driving the horse toward the stream at the bottom. At the last possible second the chestnut vaulted itself over the churning waters. The horse landed badly, flinging its rider to the ground.
Iain scanned the ridge line in all directions but saw no others. He guided his steed cautiously down the slope, arrow still nocked in his bow. The roar of the stream was deafening.
The chestnut writhed on the ground in pain. Its rider lay sprawled, facedown, a few yards in front of the horse. Good God, ’twas a woman! As Iain approached, she pushed herself to her knees and looked up, stunned from the fall.
His breath caught.
Her hair was a tumble of light—wheat and flaxen and gold—framing a