“Don’t touch me!

I’m not one of your whores.”

She fought the tears welling in her eyes. What a little fool she was! Why should she care with whom he lay?

Oh, but she did care.

And then he laughed. A hearty laugh the likes of which she’d never heard from him. She whirled on him, her face blazing. He shook his head and his laughter died. “My whores? Think ye I went, as well? To Inverness to rut with that chattel?”

“Didn’t you?”

“Nay.” His smile faded.

Her head pounded and her thoughts whirled in confusion. “But…I thought—”

“Nay, lass.” He reached for her. She did not resist as he pulled her into his arms.

She looked up at him and his expression softened. Warmth radiated from his body. Her hands moved instinctively to his chest.

His voice was a whisper. “What I desire lies not in Inverness…!”

The Mackintosh Bride

Harlequin Historical #576

Praise for Debra Lee Brown’s debut title

“In THE VIRGIN SPRING we are gifted with a remarkable story. The fast pace, filled with treachery, mystery and passion left me breathless. I am convinced this is the beginning of Ms. Brown’s climb as a bestselling author.…”

—Rendezvous

“Debra Lee Brown pens an enjoyable tale of intrigue and adventure.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

“THE VIRGIN SPRING should be read by all lovers of Scottish romances.”

—Affaire de Coeur

#575 SHOTGUN GROOMS

Susan Mallery & Maureen Child

#577 THE GUNSLINGER’S BRIDE

Cheryl St.John

#578 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

Jacqueline Navin

The Mackintosh Bride

Debra Lee Brown

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Available from Harlequin Historicals and

DEBRA LEE BROWN

The Virgin Spring #506

Ice Maiden #549

The Mackintosh Bride #576

To Sherri Browning,

Barbara Simmons and Michelle Collier-Johns

With love and heartfelt thanks

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Prologue

The Highlands of Scotland, 1192

The girl tethered her pony in the forest and made her way on foot to the hidden copse. Shrouded in dawn’s mist it seemed a sinister place, so changed from the afternoons she and Iain had lazed by the brook and basked in the sunlight streaming through the trees.

She moved cautiously over fallen branches and dried leaves, concealing her approach. A feeling of dread washed over her as she crouched low and parted the gorse bushes that stood like sentinels at the entrance to the thicket.

Jesu, he was here! He was safe!

Iain lay sprawled at the water’s edge, bedraggled and still as death, his plaid wrapped carelessly around him. Infused with fear and relief, she crept forward and knelt beside him. His face, so gentle in sleep, was streaked with dirt and blood breached by small rivulets of still-damp tears.

The horrors of the night before came crashing in on her. Her heart went out to him and her own eyes welled. Fighting tears, she focused on the image engraved on his silver clan brooch: a cat reared up on hind legs, teeth and claws bared at the ready.

’Twas like him—fearless and brave—yet unlike him in its hard demeanor. Iain was different, tender, unlike any boy she’d known. On impulse she grazed a hand across his brow.

“Mackintosh! To arms!” He sprang into a crouch, nearly knocking her over. When his wild eyes found hers, he relaxed.

“A-are you hurt?” She reached for his bloodstained plaid.

“Nay!” He pulled away. “Ye shouldna be here, girl.” His reprimand stung, more so as he wouldn’t meet her gaze. He slumped back to the ground like one of her rag dolls.

She longed to comfort him, but knew not how. “I came as soon as I heard.”

He stared into the mist, his face twisted with pain. “My father is dead—murdered—by the Grants. I couldna save him. I—I wanted to, but I couldna.” His tears ran fresh and he fisted his hands at his sides, his knuckles white with tension.

Risking another rebuke, she placed her small hand on his large one. Surprisingly, he allowed it. He opened his palm to hers and at last met her gaze. She reveled in this show of trust, this small acceptance of her love, though she thought her heart would break from the torment she read in his eyes.

“Iain,” she said, measuring her next words. “Your father slew Grant’s son, Henry. Many witnessed the deed.”

“Nay!” He shot to his knees and pulled her toward him. “’Tis a lie. ’Tis some foul treachery. John Grant was my da’s friend. He would never harm his son. Never!” For a moment he gripped her shoulders so tightly she feared he would crush her.

She breathed at last and worked to quell her emotions. Time was short. The light grew white and flat around them. Soon she’d be missed from the stable. ’Twas dangerous, her being here with him. If someone should find them together—

Iain fidgeted and something winked a brilliant green from under the plaid bunched at his waist. Fascination overpowered her anxiety. “What is that?” She pointed at the object.

He fumbled in the folds of his plaid and, to her astonishment, withdrew from his belt a magnificent jeweled dagger.

“Jesu,” she breathed, marveling at the weapon’s hilt. ’Twas crafted of silver and gold, a dozen precious gems embedded in its intricate design. The hairs on her nape prickled as she recognized dried blood crusting on the wicked-looking blade. “Where on earth did you get it?”

Iain laid the dagger at her feet. “Ye must hide it for me until I can return.”

“Return? But, where are you going?”

“I dinna know. Away. We must leave Findhorn Castle. ’Twill no’ be safe to stay. There are too few of us left to defend it.”

“Nay—you cannot!” She grasped the front of his mud-streaked shirt. “What of your clan, the alliance?”

Why just yesterday he’d told her of his father’s dream of peace, to align four Highland clans: his own—Mackintosh, his mother’s people—Davidson, and Macgillivray and MacBain. Clan Chattan, he’d called it. Clan of the Cats.

Her clan was not among them. ’Twould never be. Not now.

“There will be no alliance. Clan Chattan is no more.” He took her hands in his, projecting a quiet strength that was almost frightening. The arrogant boy she’d known was gone. “I am The Mackintosh now. I must protect my mother and my brothers.”

“Who would dare harm them?”

“Grant.” He all but spat the word.

“Nay, he would not! The laird is a kind man. He—” Iain’s eyes narrowed and she swallowed her words.

“Aye, well…Perhaps not him, but others in his household.”

She knew of whom he spoke and shuddered at the thought. Last night in the stable yard she’d seen the bloodstained weapons and ruined livery, the frothing mounts, their eyes wild in the aftermath of some hideous carnage.

Without warning, a chill wind blasted through the copse. Hundreds of crisped leaves rained down on them in a shower of gold and cinnabar from the larch limbs above their heads. Absently, Iain plucked one from her tangled hair.

The mist was lifting. She pulled the edges of her cloak together and looked skyward, gauging the time by the rapidly growing whiteness of the morning sky. “When shall you leave?”

“Soon.” He looked away and he, too, seemed to measure what time they had left. “Today.”

“Nay!”

For months they’d met, once each sennight, here at their secret place. No one knew of their trysts, neither his clan nor hers. Why, her father would tan her hide did he know how far she rode from home. And yet, more than once she’d had the strangest feeling they weren’t alone here. Even now.

“When shall I see you again?”

“I dinna know,” he said quietly.

She remembered the dagger that lay among the dead leaves between them. ’Twas heavy and seemed almost a sword next to her delicate child’s frame. Iain watched her with interest as she feathered a tress of hair from her head. She drew the blade of the dagger across it and the lock fell away in her hand. He tensed as she plucked a chestnut hank from his thick mane and freed it with the blade.

Working quickly she fashioned a circlet of their hair, chestnut and gold, braided with a strip of Mackintosh tartan she cut from the end of his plaid. She placed the circlet into Iain’s hand and he studied it, rubbing the newly forged braid between his fingers.

“What is it?”

“A lovers’ knot.” Her cheeks warmed from the blush she knew he could see. “My mother made one for my father to keep with him whenever they were apart. She’s French, you know.”

Nay, he didn’t know. In fact, he knew nothing about her family. She’d never told him anything about herself, not even her true name. ’Twas a game they played—one that had vexed him terribly. On each occasion they met, she’d pretend to be someone different. Her gaze strayed to the blood on his plaid, and she knew the time for games was long past.

His hand closed over the circlet. He gripped it for a moment before tucking it carefully into his sporran. Then he grasped the jeweled dagger and thrust it into the loamy earth between them. “It willna be long,” he said. “I will return. For you and for this.” He nodded at the dagger.

For her. He’d return for her! “Do you swear?” She searched his face, willing him to answer.

“Aye, I swear.” He stood abruptly and looked down at her, blue eyes dark as midnight. “The Grants will pay. I willna rest until my father is avenged. Until every last one of them is dead.”

“All of them?”

Before he could answer, the sound of hoofbeats broke the stillness of the forest. A tree branch snapped not far from where they stood.

“Listen—horses!” She scrambled to her feet.

Iain spun and narrowed his eyes toward the sound, straining to see through the mist. Voices carried over the gurgling of the brook. “They’re coming.”

Jesu, she must not be found here! “I must go.” She backed away from the sound of the approaching riders, then turned to run.

“Wait!” Iain yanked the dagger from the ground, hacked a piece of plaid from off his shoulder and wrapped the jeweled weapon inside it. “Here. Take it. Hide it. I will return.”

She clutched the bundle tight to her chest as if it would stop the pounding of her heart. She stood for a moment looking up at him, memorizing his face, his eyes, the gentle strength of his countenance.

And then she was gone.

“Girl! Your true name!” Iain called after her. “I dinna know it.” But ’twas too late. The mist enfolded her like a cold, white shroud.

He turned to meet the approaching riders.

Chapter One

Eleven years later

Reynold Grant studied the parchment that held the key to his future….

I, Beatrix d’Angoulême, firstborn of Comte Renaud d’Angoulême, emissary of Philip II of France, do on my deathbed acknowledge my natural daughter, Alena, as sole heir of my fortune and estates, in accordance with the laws of this realm.

’Twas dated May 1184, signed and witnessed, the gold-and-purple seal of Angoulême affixed at the bottom.

A smile bloomed on Reynold’s face. He tucked the parchment back into its hiding place amongst his dead uncle’s things and paced the rush-strewn floor. Aye, ’twas a brilliant idea. Position and power for the taking. And who better to seize it than himself?

His cousin Henry was eleven years dead, and his uncle, John Grant, fresh in the ground. Who was there left to stop him?

The grim, wide-eyed face of a boy flashed briefly in his mind. That boy would be a man now, and Reynold knew he’d come for vengeance, for what once had been his.

A knock sounded at the door. Reynold snapped to attention as his kinsman, Perkins, entered the chamber.

“You sent for me, Laird?”

Laird. Aye, the title suited him, as he always knew it would. He moved to the writing table by the window. “I wish ye to deliver a message.”

Leaning over the desk, he hastily penned a note. He signed the missive with a flourish, folded the parchment in half, and handed it to the waiting Perkins.

“To whom shall I deliver it?”

He studied Perkins’s dark, wiry form. The man was weak and greedy. He liked that about him. “Alena Todd,” he said. “The stablemaster’s daughter.”

“Ah…” Perkins’s dark eyes shone. “Pretty.” He tucked the parchment into the folds of his plaid. “But surely you wish the note delivered into the hands of her father.”

“That cripple? Nay, I do not.” He shot Perkins a pointed look. “The message is for her. See to it at once.”

“But…She reads?”

“Aye, she does. One of my uncle’s insane notions.”

Perkins frowned. “I see. ’Twill be delivered right away, Laird.” He moved toward the door, then stopped. “Oh, I nearly forgot. The sentries report Mackintosh warriors in the forest, a day’s ride from here.”

“How many?”

“Three. Four perhaps.”

“Hmph. Did they recognize any of them?”

“Nay, they did not.”

Reynold waved a hand, dismissing him. “All right, off with you. I want that note delivered now.”

Perkins nodded and slipped from the chamber.

“Mackintosh, eh?” Reynold strode to the window and looked out on what was now his demesne. “’Tis time I finished that business.”

He couldn’t keep his mind on the hunt.

Iain Mackintosh leaned against the rotted stump and unstrung his longbow. The morning mist had disappeared, divided by shafts of sunlight. He unfurled his plaid, still damp from a night in the heather, and pulled it ’round his shoulders against the chill air.

For the second time that day he caught himself absently fingering the circlet of hair he carried with him always. The strip of plaid securing the braid was frayed and worn, but his memory of the girl was not.

When he’d been old enough, he’d returned to their secret copse. ’Twas dangerous as hell. The Grants held the lands for a half day’s ride on all sides of it. Covertly he’d searched village after village, stared into the faces of countless lasses, but he never found her. Christ, ’twas impossible! He didn’t even know her name, let alone her clan.

A whistle pierced the silence of the forest, jarring him from his thoughts. He vaulted onto his waiting horse and guided the roan stallion toward the sound. A few minutes later he caught sight of his kinsmen leisurely making their way toward him. Neither rider had game to show for the morning’s effort.

“Hamish, ye missed the shot then?” he called out.

“Aye, dammit all to hell. ’Twas a beauty, too.”

The last Iain had seen of them that morning, Hamish and Will had been hot on the trail of a red stag.

“Two days out from Braedûn Lodge and we’ve nothing to show for it,” Will said.

“Ye’d best go back with something, Will.” Iain shot his friend a mischievous look. “Ye wouldna wish to disappoint a certain lass.”

Hamish spurred his mount forward, even with Iain’s roan. “Lass? What lass?”

Will blushed scarlet, the tips of his ears pink as a bairn’s.

Iain grinned. “A particular lady’s maid.”

“Edwina?” Hamish boomed. “She’s as old as the Craigh Mur standing stones. Will, I didna know—”

“Not Edwina, ye fool!” Will’s voice cracked. “’Tis… ’tis Hetty,” he said, as if he’d just realized it himself.

“Ah…Hetty.” Hamish’s eyes lit up. He winked at Iain and continued his taunting. “She’s a bonny one.”

Will jerked his mount to a halt. “Aye, she is, but I dinna want ye noticing.”

Iain and Hamish dissolved into laughter. After a moment Will’s frown melted into a grin, and the three of them continued south through the larch wood forest.

“And what about you, Iain?” Hamish said. “What of all the lovely lassies your uncle Alistair’s paraded past ye?”

Iain had never told Hamish about the girl. About his promise. He’d never told anyone. “I’ve no time for such foolery.”

“Aye, perhaps not. But ye’ve been a bear of late. ’Tis time we made another trip to Inverness.”

Iain recalled their last visit, made some months ago. Drinking and wenching, and then more drinking. His most vivid memory of the trip was the two-day headache that plagued him afterward. ’Twas the last thing he needed. Nay, his restlessness was driven by something far deeper than the lack of a woman in his bed.

’Twas time.

His mother had passed, God rest her soul, and his younger brothers were old enough to make their own way should he fall in battle. Aye, ’twas time to reclaim what was his and to bring the cur responsible for his father’s murder, his clan’s ruin, to justice under his sword.

The memory of that night burned fresh in his mind. All evidence had pointed to his father’s guilt, but Iain would never believe it. Never.

He had to have that dagger! Strangely enough, ’twas not the jeweled weapon that haunted his dreams, but the vision of a dirty-faced sprite in leather breeches, a few stray leaves clinging to her wild tumble of hair.

The roan stallion jerked and Iain snapped to attention. Pushing the dark memories from his mind, he glanced quickly about him, instinctively checking the position of his weapons. All was well. He soothed the beast with a few gentle words, then looked back at his kinsmen.

“Hamish, what d’ye hear from Findhorn?” It had been years since Iain had looked upon his ancestral home. Few were left there now, living in the crofts outside the curtain wall. The keep, he’d heard, had fallen into disrepair, the lands overgrown and wild.

Hamish’s brows shot up. “No’ much is changed. Grant soldiers patrol the woods there still.”

“But the clansmen who remain have no’ been idle.” Will nudged his mount forward, even with the roan.

“Aye.” Hamish nodded. “They are loyal to The Mackintosh and stand ready to support ye.”

Iain shrugged. “They are brave men and true to my father’s memory.”

“You are laird now,” Hamish said. “They are loyal to ye.”

“Aye, I’m laird.” And ye all know why. His father was dead—murdered—and he’d done naught to stop it. Iain clenched his teeth, his mouth dry and bitter. He snatched the kidskin bladder hanging from his saddle, tilted his head back, and took a long draught.

“What will ye do?” Will asked.

“I’ll claim what’s mine, and strike down those who stole it from me. I should have done it long ago.”

He’d burned to do it, in fact. For years that’s all he’d thought about. But his mother’s clan was small, and Alistair Davidson a prudent man. He’d barely let Iain out of his sight whilst he was growing up. And once he’d grown, Iain realized he bore the weight of not only a man’s responsibilities, but a laird’s. Nay, he could not have risked so many lives on a fool’s mission.

“How do ye plan to take them?” Hamish asked. “Grant commands a sizable army.”

Iain had spent years considering that very point, obsessed with the strategies and tactics of war, honing his battle skills and those of his remaining clansmen to a sharp-edged perfection.

At any time John Grant could have hunted him down and murdered what remained of his people. But he hadn’t. That fact, coupled with Grant’s sheer numbers, had been enough to quell Iain’s bloodlust—for a time.

But things were different now. John Grant was dead, murdered some say, though no one knew who did it. His nephew, Reynold, was laird now. Iain spat. Aye, everything was different.

“We canna do it alone,” he said. “That much I know.”

“All the Mackintosh would follow ye into battle.” Will’s face shone with a loyalty that tore at Iain’s gut.

He smiled bitterly. “So they would. But I willna bring death and destruction to what’s left of my clan.” Few of his father’s warriors had escaped Reynold Grant’s retribution for his cousin Henry’s murder. The best of them had been slain, and their blood lay heavy on Iain’s own hands. “Nay,” he said, “we will come at him with ten score or none.”

Hamish looked hard at him, blue eyes fixed in question.

“Aye.” Iain nodded, holding his friend’s gaze. “I mean to raise the Chattan.”

“Clan Chattan—the alliance!” Will’s eyes widened.

“Davidson is for us.” Hamish absently twisted the hairs of his beard between thick fingers, weighing their options, Iain suspected. “Your uncle is laird. They will follow him.”

“Aye, if he agrees.”

“But what of Macgillivray and MacBain?” Will asked.

“Leave them to me.”

Iain grew weary of their conversation. The morning’s white sky dissolved into the pale blue of afternoon. He stretched and repositioned his longbow over his shoulder.

“’Tis a fine day for hunting.”

She was master now, and squeezed her thighs together gently across his back to make the point. The gelding responded at once, trotting forward, graceful and compliant. Alena Todd was pleased. Of the new Arabians, the chestnut had been the most headstrong. Now he was hers.

The Clan Grant stable produced the finest horses in Scotland, swift and powerful, with unparalleled endurance. Her father would be pleased with this one. Would that he could have broken the mount himself.

The accident seemed a lifetime ago. Alena was twelve when Robert Todd was thrown from a stallion, permanently injuring his spine. He could still walk, but would never again sit a horse without great pain. Afterward, she’d moved easily into the roles her father could no longer perform: breaking new mounts to saddle, transforming them from wild, headstrong creatures into warhorses fit to bear the clan’s warriors.

She urged the chestnut around the stable yard, leaning slightly forward to maintain her balance. She, herself, never used a saddle, preferring the subtle communication achieved bareback between rider and mount.

“Alena!” The stable lad’s voice startled her. She slowed the gelding as Martin jogged across the enclosure waving a folded note. “Perkins said ’tis for you.”

“For me?” She wiped her hands on her worn leather breeches, and Martin handed her the parchment. “What ever could it—” She opened it, and the question died on her lips.

A half hour later, after enough fanfare to last her a lifetime, Alena urged the gelding up the hill toward Glenmore Castle’s keep.

The training stable was built away from the keep, a half league down the wooded hillside where there was more space and better grazing. She was glad for the distance. It afforded her more freedom than if she’d lived among the rest of her clan. Stable lads ferried mounts between the Todds’ stable and the small castle stable that housed the laird’s steeds.

The laird.

Alena shuddered. She’d seen Reynold Grant at the old laird’s burial just days ago, though his uncle’s untimely death seemed not to grieve him overmuch.

Reynold was his nephew by marriage, so the story went. When Reynold’s father died, his mother abandoned him to marry again for the wealth she’d always craved. Her English husband had no use for her unwanted son, so John Grant took Reynold in and raised him as his own. Though ’twas common knowledge Reynold and Henry never got along.

Without warning she felt the darkness again, like a black veil shrouding her heart. The night of the murders burned bright in her memory, even now, so many years later.

Aye, she remembered it all…John Grant returning to the keep, the body of his son, Henry, tied like baggage across his mount. Later that night, Reynold—he was but twenty then—had thundered into the stable yard with forty warriors demanding fresh horses. They’d reeked with the stench of blood, and a cold fear had seized her. A fear she still bore.

Mostly, though, she remembered him—the boy, Iain Mackintosh—his face, his promise, vivid still in her memory.

I will return.

She’d ridden often to their secret copse those first years after the slaughter, but had seen no sign of Iain nor any of his clan. He’d broken his vow.

After a while she’d just stopped going, and as she grew into a woman her father had tried everything to make her a suitable match. She’d have none of it, of course. Any one of the men he’d selected would have made her a fine husband, yet…

Oh, ’twas ridiculous! He was never coming back. The years she’d spent dreaming of Iain Mackintosh were years wasted. They’d been children, for pity’s sake. Still, she was not yet ready to wed. Her parents needed her, her father especially. He could never run the stable on his own. Perhaps in another year, or two, or—

Oh, hang it all! Now was not the time for such thoughts. She must keep her mind on the task at hand. She urged the gelding faster.

This summons to the castle was puzzling, indeed. Why had Reynold asked for her? Surely he would speak with her father should the matter concern the stable. Robert Todd had wanted to accompany her, but the note said she should come alone.

’Twas safe enough. She knew the wood better than any clansman, and had traveled unescorted since she was old enough to ride. A mischievous smile bloomed on her lips as she recalled the afternoons she’d spent with Iain at the copse.

’Twas warm for so early in the summer. The scent of heather and pine permeated her senses. Her mother had insisted she wear a special gown, an heirloom, really: a pale yellow silk that Madeleine Todd had brought with her from France years ago, when she was just Alena’s age.

She’d wanted to wear her riding boots, but her mother wouldn’t hear of it. Instead she’d donned a pair of soft kidskin slippers that complemented the gown. At her waist, as always, she wore the small dirk her father had given her.

The castle was in sight. Time to switch to…what had her father called it? A position befitting a lady. She maneuvered around and smoothed her skirts, covering her bare legs. “Sidesaddle, indeed.” What a ridiculous way to sit a horse. 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 round face with a slightly pointed chin. Her gown was ripped across the shoulder and the fabric gaped, exposing the swell of one creamy breast. Iain let his gaze linger there for a moment. She was spattered with mud, and a trail of bloody fingerprints snaked over her from neck to waist.

As she emerged from her daze she stiffened at the sight of him towering above her on the roan. Their eyes locked. She snatched a bloodied dirk from her belt and brandished it before her.

Iain had never seen a more beautiful woman in his life.

The thunder of hoofbeats wrenched him from his stupor. Horsemen were descending the ravine, sunlight glinting off their livery. Clan Grant livery.

The woman glanced back at them. He saw recognition, then fear, grow on her face. She scrambled to her feet and backed toward her horse, a white-knuckled grip on the dirk.

The warriors saw them and slowed their descent. Iain counted ten, maybe twelve. Too many. His decision made, he slung his longbow over his shoulder and offered the woman his hand. “Come on, lass, they’re nearly upon us.”

She studied him for a moment, glanced back at the riders, then sheathed her dirk and started toward him. Three quick steps and she stopped. “My horse!” she cried and turned back toward the injured beast. “I must help him.”

Christ! He quickly restrung his bow, nocked an arrow, and loosed it into the gelding’s breast. The horse shuddered once, then lay still.

The woman whirled on him. “You killed—”

In one swift motion he leaned from his mount and swept her into his lap. He spurred the roan up the hill, away from the approaching riders, and wondered what in bloody hell he’d gotten himself into.

Chapter Two

So much for hunting.

Iain reined his lathered stallion to a walk. They’d outridden the warriors, but on his life he knew not how. The terrain had been rugged and steep, and his steed already spent when the chase had begun.

The woman had swooned—from shock and exhaustion, no doubt—but not before she’d driven the roan to break-neck speed. Iain had never seen anything like it. As they’d topped the ridge above the ravine she’d leaned far forward in the saddle, her hands resting lightly on the stallion’s neck. ’Twas almost as if she’d whispered something to the beast. The steed had responded immediately, had flown past larch and laurel, dodging stumps and boulders, leaving the Grants far behind.

Securing one arm ’round her waist, he draped the woman’s legs over his thigh. Her head lolled back, spilling flaxen tresses across his plaid. Wisps of the fine hair grazed his bare leg like a thousand silken fingers. Her full lips were parted. “Holy God,” he breathed, and fought the overwhelming urge to kiss her.

Feelings stirred inside him that he couldn’t explain: fierce protectiveness, awe, desire. He pushed them from his mind. Who had time for such foolishness?

He guided the roan toward a small creek and dismounted carefully, the woman in his arms. He laid her gently down onto a bed of wild grasses near the water’s edge. They would be safe here, for a while at least.

God’s truth, she was lovely. He hadn’t spent much time with women. He’d been far too busy working toward the day he’d clear his father’s name. That day was coming, and soon.

With a strip of cloth cut from his plaid, he washed the blood and caked mud from her face and neck, hesitating a moment before moving to her shoulders. He swallowed hard as he watched the rise and fall of her breasts with each slow, steady intake of breath.

A few stray leaves clung to her hair. As he plucked them from their golden nest he had the strangest feeling he knew her. Nay, ’twas impossible. He was certain he’d never seen her before. Hers was not a face a man would soon forget.

Examining the fine silk of her gown, he wondered about her family, to which clan she belonged. She was a lady, surely. Her mount had lacked distinctive markings or livery. In fact, the gelding had neither saddle nor stirrups. She’d ridden bareback and outrun the Grant. Now that was impressive.

On impulse he clasped one of her hands in his and ran his thumb lightly over her palm. ’Twas rough and callused, surprisingly so. A lady, surely, but with the hands of a servant? No matter. He’d solve the mystery soon enough.

“Wake up, lass,” he whispered, and rubbed her cool hands between his.

She felt like ice.

Aye, except for her hands. They were warm. Oh, what a terrible dream. She drew a breath and opened her eyes. “Jesu!”

A huge warrior knelt above her, a dark shape against the setting sun. “Nay!” She wrenched her hands free of his grip and thrashed at him with her fists.

“Easy, lass, easy.” The warrior grabbed her wrists to still her struggle. “You’re safe, you’re safe now. No harm will come to ye.”

She stiffened in his grasp, then relaxed, letting her head fall back onto the soft pillow of heather. Oh, God, ’twas all true then!

The warrior held her hands in his, stroking the backs of them with his thumbs. Against all reason, she was not afraid of him. In truth, she felt strangely comforted by his presence. She felt…

Safe.

With a start, she remembered her pursuers. She bolted upright and scanned their surroundings for signs of the riders. “Where are they? What—”

“Shh…Dinna fash.” The warrior coaxed her into lying back down. “We’re well away from the soldiers and they willna follow us here.”

He revealed a square of damp cloth, hesitated for a moment as if to gauge her response, then pressed it to her brow. She lay still and let him do it.

His face intrigued her. ’Twas thoughtful yet strong, with finely chiseled features, and framed by a mane of deep brown hair. One thin braid strayed from his temple, and he absently pushed it back from his face. His expression was intent, and his eyes—those eyes—from where did she know them?

Jesu! He was sponging the rise of her breasts with the cloth. She sat up and batted his hand away.

“You’re hurt,” he said. “The blood. Let me—”

“Nay!” She pulled the edges of her tattered gown together, covering her half-exposed breast. A flash of heat rose in her face, and she knew her cheeks blazed crimson. “’Tis…not my blood.”

With revulsion she recalled Reynold Grant’s hands on her. Their brief meeting had gone from bad to worse once his intentions were made clear. Why in God’s name did he wish to wed her? ’Twas unfathomable. She was nothing, no one. He was laird and could have any woman he wanted.

He wanted her.

And used her parents’ vulnerability to ensure her compliance. Did she not wed him on Midsummer’s Day, he’d turn them out. Without the clan’s protection, with no way to make a living, they’d perish.

Jesu, what had she done?

When she’d refused Reynold, he came at her and she’d panicked. In her struggle to get away she’d done something stupid. She’d cut him. On the face. Her dirk was in her hand before she’d even known what she was doing. ’Twas raw instinct, self-defense. Any maid would have done the same to preserve her virtue. She’d fled the keep and bolted into the forest on the waiting gelding. She didn’t think, she just rode, faster and faster until—

The warrior’s intense gaze pulled her back to the moment. He sat back on his heels, allowing her some space. “Have they…did they…harm ye, lass?”

His eyes beamed concern, and her heart fluttered. “Nay, I’m well. Truly.” She pulled the gown tighter across her breasts, crossing her arms in front of her.

He leaned forward and offered her the damp cloth. “There’s no need to fear me. I willna harm ye.”

She accepted the square of plaid and wiped it across the curve of her neck, remembering with a shudder the soldiers who’d pursued her.

The warrior retrieved a leather bladder from the saddle of his horse and offered it to her. “Here, drink this. ’Twill calm ye.”

Eager to slake her thirst, she took a long draught from the waterskin and nearly choked. “Wha—what is it?” she sputtered, and started to cough.

The warrior laughed. “A wee libation my brother concocted.”

“’Tis terrible.” She tried to catch her breath as the drink burned a path of liquid fire down her throat.

“Aye, ’tis.” He chuckled. “But it’s kept me warm on many a night in the rough.”

She cleared her throat and felt a pleasant heat spread throughout her chest. She relaxed a little and handed the skin back to him.

He sat beside her, cross-legged, and she noticed for the first time his powerful physique: broad shoulders and long, muscular legs. Her mind drifted. She imagined the well-muscled chest and arms that lay hidden beneath his plaid and rough woolen shirt. He caught her staring, and her cheeks flushed hot. Quickly she looked away.

“So,” he said. “What did ye do to incite a dozen Grants to run ye to ground like a rabbit?”

Her gaze flew to his, and she caught his half smile. “I did nothing! And I was not run to ground like a rabbit. I was doing just…fine.”

“Aye, and I’m the king o’ Scotland.” His blue eyes flashed amusement. “Another moment and The Grant would ha’ been on ye.”

“If my horse hadn’t faltered, I’d have outridden them easily.”

The warrior put a hand to his chin and stroked a twoday growth of stubble. “Your horse? Ye are a Grant, then.”

“Nay! I am not.” The question unnerved her and instinct compelled her to shield the truth from him. For now, at least. “Were I Grant, think you I’d flee my own kinsmen?”

“Oh, so ye were running away.”

“Aye—nay!” He was twisting her words. She felt herself panicking. “I didn’t say that.”

The warrior leaned closer, his face inches from hers. ’Twas as if he stared right into her soul. “So, what were ye doing, then?”

“I was—I was—Wait! Who are you?”

The moment the words left her lips she knew.

He wore a common hunting plaid of muted browns and greens. As the last rays of the sun glinted off his clan brooch she recognized the emblem: a wild cat, reared up on hind legs, teeth and claws bared at the ready.

The warrior did not give his name. No matter. His face, those eyes—She would know him anywhere. He was Iain Mackintosh, her childhood love.

Chapter Three

Nothing in her girlish dreams had prepared her for this chance reunion.

She scrambled to her feet, shrugging off his attempt to help her. Her heart fluttered and she felt strangely light-headed. She told herself ’twas the drink and not the reappearance of Iain Mackintosh that caused her head to spin.

She took a step toward the roan stallion, her thoughts racing. Perhaps if she was quick—

Iain’s hand gripped her elbow, and she froze. “What’s your name, lass?”

“’Tis, um…” She knew she was a poor liar. Perhaps part of the truth would suffice. “A-Alena. My name is Alena.”

“Alena? ’Tis no’ a Scots name. Ye have the speech of a Scot, though ’tis strange.” She could see his mind working. “There’s something else about ye seems familiar.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She turned away and absently stroked the stallion’s neck. “Nay, I know you not.” She could feel his eyes on her, and a chill of excitement shivered up her spine.

“Your surname—to which clan do ye belong?”

Clan? Oh no! She needed time to think. About Reynold, her parents, about him. ’Twas by sheer luck Iain had found her in the wood. She must not forget that. ’Twas not as if he’d come looking for her. Why, he might kill her, or ransom her, if he knew she was a Grant. Nay, she must think of a plan. She turned and put on her boldest face. “I—I am Alena. That is enough for you to know.”

He stood stock-still, a carefully controlled anger simmering in his eyes. ’Twas apparent no one dared speak to him so, or hadn’t for long years. She recalled their childhood sparring.

His voice was deadly calm. “When I question ye, woman, ye will answer me. With the truth.” He seemed to grow larger before her eyes. “Now, tell me your surname.”

“I will not.” She must not. She pursed her lips and riveted her gaze to his, the challenge set.

For a moment she thought he might strike her. Instead he loomed, motionless, fists clenched at his sides, and glared at her. She held her ground and glared back.

“Suit yourself, then. I’ll leave ye as I found ye.” He brushed past her and vaulted onto his horse.

In eleven years he hadn’t changed a bit. He was still the most arrogant, maddening boy—well, man—she’d ever known. He nudged the roan toward the forest road. Jesu, did he truly mean to leave her?

She glanced skyward. The sun had set and the first stars peeked out at her from a flawless cerulean sky. ’Twould be deathly cold in no time. No mount, no weapons save her dirk, and her clothing reduced to rags. She looked a beggar and, she had to admit, she’d behaved badly. She regretted her impertinence. After all, he was only trying to help her.

As if he’d read her mind, he turned the steed. By the set of his jaw and the steely look in his eyes she knew his intention.

“Oh, n-nay, w-wait—”

Ignoring her protest, he leaned from his mount and swept her off her feet into his lap. One muscled forearm closed like a steel trap around her waist. His breath teased her hair.

Surrender seemed her only choice. For now. She sank back into the warmth of his chest and wondered what on earth she was going to do.

They rode in silence for what seemed hours. Alena tried several times, without success, to position herself astride the horse. Each time Iain held her fast across his lap.

At last he slowed the stallion to a walk and stopped in a clearing on the far side of a wooded ridge. The moon was little more than a sliver. Below them in its eerie light she spied the milk-white surface of a long loch.

Never had she been so far afield.

Iain guided the roan toward the water. The smell of wood smoke grew sharp as they approached the shore. They snaked along the bank until they reached an enormous standing stone positioned at the water’s edge. ’Twas a marker of some kind. Here he turned his mount back into the wood. A campfire flickered in a clearing just ahead.

What was this place?

Two warriors stood just inside the firelight, their features outlined in its warm glow. One of them called out as they approached the clearing. “The hunter returns at la—Saint Columba, will ye look at that!”

The men approached them, mouths agape, their gazes riveted to her. The bigger one—Jesu, they were both huge!—recovered his tongue first. “A bonny prize, man, but she doesna look much like a red stag.”

Iain shifted beneath her in the saddle. “She weighs as much as one. Here, take her.”

Before she could dismount, Iain lifted her off his lap and dumped her into the waiting arms of the huge warrior. As he set her down she felt her knees buckle. Hours of sidesaddle riding pinned across Iain’s thighs had lulled her limbs to sleep.

The second warrior rushed to support her, his puppyish face brimming concern. Alena smiled at him, and he beamed. She regained her balance and shot Iain a look of pure murder.

Iain scowled down at her, his eyes flashing blue-gray steel in the firelight. “Hmph.” He dismounted, tangled a foot in the stirrup and nearly crashed to the ground. A litany of curses rattled under his breath.

The big warrior’s bushy red brows shot up and he exploded into laughter. “Well, ’tis plain whose arrow struck whom.” Iain’s glare silenced him, but mirth still danced in his eyes.

“I found her in the forest.” Iain tethered his steed and turned toward his kinsmen. “Her mount was lame.”

“You killed him!” she said.”

It had to be done. There was—”

“He was a valuable gelding. I could have sav—”

“Silence!”

A chill shot through her. Iain Mackintosh was not a boy anymore. She’d do well to remember that. Her situation here was precarious at best.

Ignoring her, Iain turned toward his burly, red-haired kinsman. “Grant soldiers, a dozen or so. Chasin’ her.”

Surprise registered on the faces of both warriors. They exchanged glances, then studied her with renewed interest, their eyes drawn to her torn and bloodied gown. Her cheeks flamed. She pulled the ragged edges of her bodice together, but did not look away.

“Are ye hurt, lady?” the gentle one asked her.

“Nay,” she replied, “just…cold.”

The two men stepped toward her, each fumbling to unwrap his plaid. With a sharp look Iain stayed their hands. The one with the gentle eyes and puppyish face shrugged, then coaxed her to the fire. Iain watched them, but did not follow.

She held her hands out to the crackling blaze and fought off the chill of the night. Her mind raced, but one thing was clear—Iain was a Mackintosh, and she was a Grant.

“Enemies,” she breathed.

“Eh?” The young warrior eyed her, his brows furrowed in question.

“Oh, ’tis nothing. I was just…”

A leg of venison lay spitted across the fire. Her mouth watered at the delicious smell of the roasting meat. Her stomach growled again, loud enough for the warrior who sat beside her to hear. He cut a portion from off the spit and divided it between them. She thanked him for his kindness and set upon the juicy slab as if it were her first meal in months.

They ate in silence and, once finished, she turned her attention to him. She was amused by his blush and tentative return of her glance. He was as tall as Iain, but slighter, with thoughtful brown eyes and a calm demeanor.

She smiled. “My name is Alena.”

“’Tis an honor, Lady Alena. I’m called Will.”

The name suited him. She was about to tell him she was not a lady, only a stablemaster’s daughter, but thought better of revealing any more about herself than necessary.

She gestured toward the burly warrior standing with Iain at the edge of the firelight. “And your friend?”

“That’s Hamish.”

“Hamish.” His most striking feature, other than his enormous size, was his wild mass of fire-bright hair. He had a thick red beard and hands the size of small hams. She remembered the mirth in his clear blue eyes and his bellowing laugh when Iain nearly tumbled from his horse. She liked him, this giant of a man.

“And the other?” She nodded at Iain.

“Oh. Iain, ye mean?”

She was right! She would have bet her life on it. She had, in fact. A tiny smile bloomed on her lips.

“He didna tell you his name?”

“Nay.” She arched a brow in question. “Iain…?”

“Mackintosh. The Mackintosh. Our laird.”

“Laird?” This did not surprise her. “You speak so…frankly to him. He allows it?”

“Oh, aye. The three of us ha’ been friends since boyhood, since the old laird, Iain’s da, ever since he was—”

“Will!”

Both of them froze. She looked up to see Iain scowling at them from the opposite side of the fire. Her mind had been on Will’s explanation and she hadn’t heard Iain approach.

“We’ll rest here tonight.” Iain’s eyes drifted to the spit over the fire and his expression softened. “What’s for supper? Venison?”

“Aye,” Hamish replied as he came up behind him. He rested one huge paw on his laird’s shoulder. “Some of us were no’ as lucky in the hunt as others.” The warrior winked at her, and she suppressed a smile.

Iain grumbled something under his breath and shrugged off his kinsman’s hand. They both sat down to eat. Iain seemed at ease here at the loch, much more so than when they’d been riding.

She realized they must be miles from Clan Grant land. They’d ridden steadily upward through the larch wood, farther into the Highlands, and away from Glenmore Castle. How would she ever get back? Her parents would be worried sick.

Midsummer’s Day.

Reynold’s words throbbed in her head like a drumbeat. Nay, she would not think on it. Not now. Not yet.

Suddenly chilled, she stretched her arms toward the fire. Her shredded bodice gaped, and she moved quickly to cover herself. Across the campfire Iain watched her as he feasted on what remained of the venison leg.

“Lady Alena,” Will whispered. “I’ve a sewing needle and a bit o’ thread. Comes in handy all too often in the rough. Would ye like to borrow it? For your gown, I mean?”

“Aye.” She smiled at him. “My thanks.”

Will dipped into his sporran and pulled out a square of cloth pierced by a needle trailing a goodly amount of thread. “This should do.” He handed it to her.

To her surprise, Iain stood and unpinned the clan brooch that held his plaid in place over his shoulder. He unfurled a long length of the hunting tartan and cut it away with his dirk, then tucked the rest into his belt. “Here, lass,” he said, and tossed it over the campfire into her lap. “Ye can wear this whilst ye do your sewing.”

The gesture touched her. She was reminded of him as a boy, how one minute he seemed not to care about her and the next, well…

She held his gaze for a moment, then thanked him and rose, turning toward the cover of the forest. Before she could take a step, he said, “No’ that way. Go down by the loch. ’Tis…safer.”

She read something in his eyes, a stoic sort of honor she remembered well. She knew then that he meant to protect her, even though he knew not who she was.

At the water’s edge she dropped Iain’s plaid and wrestled with the laces of her gown. The garment was bloodstained, mud-caked, and ripped in a dozen places. But ’twas her mother’s gift to her, and she would salvage it somehow.

She worked the laces free and pulled the fine silk over her head. Draping the gown carefully over the standing stone marking the clearing twenty yards away, she turned toward the water and drew a heady breath of night air.

A stiff breeze penetrated the thin fabric of her shift. Feelings of relief and freedom washed over her. She was safe here, with Iain, as long as he didn’t discover her identity. She must think of a plan, but not tonight.

Exhaustion consumed her and she wavered slightly on her feet. Best get this over with quickly. She tore a strip of cloth from the hem of her shift and dipped it into the frigid water. ’Twas the briefest, coldest sponge bath of her life. She grabbed Iain’s plaid and wrapped it around her. ’Twas warm from his body and held the strong male scent of him.

She felt herself drifting and succumbed to the dreamy exhaustion. Sinking to the ground, she drew her knees up close to her chest and rested her back against the ancient standing stone marking the path back to their camp. She pulled Iain’s plaid tight and nestled her cheek against its warm folds. Just for a moment she would rest her eyes.

Visions flashed bright against the midnight backdrop of her eyelids: white-blond hair against a bloodred field, ice-blue eyes cold as death. She shuddered at the brink of sleep, then let go the awareness of her surroundings and drifted deeper.

In her mind’s eye she saw the boy, his wild hair and tear-streaked face, the jeweled dagger clutched to his heart. The image faded, and in its place crouched a silver cat, sleek and muscular. And finally the man, the warrior, his indigo eyes burning into the very depths of her soul.

She sighed as a gentle hand cupped her cheek. She was lifted free of her burdens and carried home, warm and safe in his arms.

Through slitted eyes Alena perceived the gray dawn. Heat radiated from behind her, and she backed against the solid warmth. A comforting weight, hot as a firebrand, moved over the curve of her waist and came to rest just below her breast.

She felt…wonderful.

Her eyes flew open. The campfire directly in front of her was reduced to smoldering ash, and the bundled forms of two sleepers lay flanking it. A shock of red hair poked out from one of the plaids. Of course! Hamish and Will.

And Iain!

Alena lifted the plaid and saw Iain’s bare arm draped over her. She felt the heat of his body at her back, the thin fabric of her shift the only barrier between her skin and his. He snored lightly, his hot breath ruffling her hair. Taking care not to wake him, she wriggled out from beneath his heavy arm and scrambled to her feet.

On a nearby rock she spied her gown, folded neatly and covered with a square of plaid to protect it from the morning dew. She shook out the pale yellow silk and saw it had been mended with dozens of small, straight stitches, and had been carefully cleaned of the mud and blood that had covered it the night before. She glanced at the sleeping pile of plaid that was Will and smiled.

Wasting no time, she pulled the gown over her head and laced it as best she could. Her hair was a tangle of curls in the mist. She leaned forward, letting her thick mane hang nearly to the ground, and combed it through with her fingers.

A minute later she gasped as two large boots came into view through the honey-wheat curtain. She whipped her head back and found herself face-to-face with Iain. Her eyes widened.

He stood before her with hands on hips, studying her, it seemed, with no small amount of curiosity. She tipped her chin and met his gaze, determined to not let him intimidate her.

“They’re green,” he said plainly. “I hadna thought so last night.”

“What are green?”

“Your eyes.” He stared at her for a moment then turned back toward the fire ring.

Gooseflesh rose on her skin, but not from fear.

She excused herself and returned to the loch to gain some privacy for her morning ablutions. The sun rose over the treetops in the east and cast thin fingers of light across the mist blanketing the water.

Alena gazed at the ancient standing stone and tried to recall exactly when and how she’d ended up half naked, rolled in a plaid with Iain Mackintosh.

The foursome burst out of the larch wood into the open terrain: a rugged and rocky carpet of green sprayed with clumps of late spring wildflowers. The air was fresh and full of the scent of the Highland heather blanketing the hillsides in amethyst waves. ’Twas lovely, and reminded her of the days she and Iain had spent together when he was twelve and she eight.

So very long ago, she reminded herself.

They rested awhile by a small brook, taking a meal of oakcakes and cheese. Their horses grazed nearby, contented, nibbling at the sweet, wild grasses.

Alena walked over and studied the roan, running her hands down each leg and along the stallion’s well-muscled flanks. He was a fine warhorse, and well cared for. English Shire bred with native Clydesdale, she suspected. She examined the other two mounts and found them to be the same. Not as powerful, perhaps, as Iain’s steed, but excellent warhorses all the same. Whoever had bred and cared for them knew what they were doing.

Standing back, she looked them over again, hands on hips, and nodded her approval. Iain’s eyes bored into her back. She straightened her spine and faced him.

“If our mounts meet with your approval, Lady, we’ll be on our way.” He mounted and offered her his hand.

Waking that morning in his arms had unnerved her. The way their bodies fit together, the way she’d felt in his embrace…Nay, they weren’t children anymore.

She ignored Iain’s proffered hand and moved toward Will who was strapping a cloth bag of provisions onto his black gelding. “May I ride with you this afternoon, Will?”

“O’—o’ course, Lady. I’d be most—” The words died in his throat as Iain urged the roan toward them and scooped Alena into his lap.

Jesu, not again! She kicked and struggled, but he held her fast. “Must you do that?”

He spurred the stallion up the hill as she wrestled to position herself astride the horse. Her gown was twisted and rucked to her knees, exposing her ankles and calves to his view. She quickly smoothed the thin silk to cover herself.

Each time she tried to lean forward, away from him, Iain roughly pulled her back against his chest. By God, she refused to be held in his lap like a bairn! “I am perfectly capable of sitting a horse without assistance, thank you.”

“Ye might fall off,” he replied evenly.

She bristled at his comment. “I’m the best rider, man or woman, of my clan.”

“Oh, aye? And what clan is that?”

“That’s not your business.” She pulled forward again, out of his grip.

His thick forearm closed around her, just under her breasts, and jerked her firmly back against his chest. “Oh, but it is my business, lass. And dinna fool yourself. I’ll find out who ye are.” His voice was chillingly calm. The skin on her nape prickled.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Home. And there I intend to keep ye until I know what your connection is to Grant.”

Her heart fluttered and her mouth went dry. Jesu, what was she going to do? And where, exactly, was home?

A while later they topped a bald ridge, and she marveled at the view. The larch forest lay far below them. Beyond it was a great glen. In the distance a thin line snaked silver down the valley: the river Spey, its meandering path leading north toward Glenmore Castle—and Reynold Grant.

At least now she knew where she was.

Her eyes glassed as she remembered the events of the previous day. It seemed a lifetime ago she had fled. Her parents would be frantic by now. Somehow she must get word to them she was safe. Now that she’d had time to think about it, she realized her father would have never sought a match for her with their new laird. Nay, this was Reynold’s doing alone. But why?

She wiped at her eyes, pushed the thoughts from her mind, and focused instead on the beauty of the Highlands and the man who held her close to his beating heart. There would be time to sort it all out. Midsummer’s Day was weeks away.

Iain released his grip on her and struggled with something behind her. The stallion fidgeted beneath them as a whoosh of oatmeal cloth cut across her peripheral vision. She turned in the saddle to see Iain, bare-chested, jamming his woolen shirt into a leather bag that hung from the horse’s livery.

“It’s bluidy hot,” he said, and pulled her back against him, spurring the roan upward and south along the ridge line.

It dawned on her that he was leading them farther away from both Mackintosh and Grant land. Where on earth were they going?

Will and Hamish lagged behind after stopping to transfer a good-size stag—Will’s prize from yesterday’s hunt—from Hamish’s horse to Will’s.

The afternoon grew warm, and she lifted her face to the sun. Already her skin was bronzed from weeks working outdoors with her father’s new mounts. A light spray of freckles barely noticeable in the winter months appeared across her nose each summer, much to her mother’s vexation. She smiled at the thought.

Growing up a lady’s maid at the French court, Madeleine Todd had definite ideas of how a lady should dress and how she should behave. Alena had shunned most of her mother’s well-meaning attempts to transform her into such a creature, preferring instead the freedom of loose clothing and a simple coiffure for her work at the stable.

Reaching behind to her nape, she gathered her mass of thick hair and pulled it free. She’d been sitting on it. Iain pulled her back against his chest and their bare skin connected. Immediately she realized her mistake. She’d forgotten the dipping neckline at the back of her gown.

He was pure heat and the chestnut curls of his chest hair were slightly damp, sending a wave of sensation through her like nothing she’d ever experienced. She was conscious of his muscular thighs pressed up against her buttocks, gently undulating with the motion of the stallion beneath them. The thin cloth of her garments and the light wool of his plaid did little to shield her from the inferno of his body.

There was something she must know, and now seemed as good a time as any to ask him. “Iain?”

He grunted in response. ”Last night, at the loch. I—I don’t remember…”

“Oh,” he said, seeming to know what she meant. “I found ye asleep by the water and carried ye back to the fire.”

She recalled her dream, and a pleasant shiver coursed through her. “But…when I woke up, I was—you were…”

“Aye, well, ye didna expect I’d take the chance of ye stealin’ off in the night, did you?”

Nay, she did not. ’Twas clear he wasn’t about to let her go anywhere. For now, at least.

A few hours later they passed into another small forest, less densely wooded than the lands to the northeast. The stallion fell into a well-worn path and increased his speed. Of his own accord he broke into a gallop. Iain did nothing to slow his pace. They flew past pine and laurel and up over a broad, green hillside, the steed pushing harder as they gained the top.

“Jesu!” She sucked in a breath.

A great lodge of timber and stone loomed before them, its chimneys billowing a smoky welcome to the weary travelers. ’Twas big as a castle, twenty rooms at least, positioned at the top of a hill and surrounded by a thick rock wall. She could see the tops of cottages and other buildings peeking out above the stones.

“What is this place?”

“Braedûn Lodge,” Iain said. “Home of my uncle, Alistair Davidson, and my aunt Margaret.”

Of course! Iain had often spoken of his mother when they were children. Ellen. Yes, that was her name. Ellen Davidson Mackintosh. She must have fled here with her sons when Iain’s father was killed and the Grants laid claim to Findhorn Castle.

Iain directed the stallion into the great courtyard. Kinsmen shouted words of welcome to the three warriors as they approached. She noticed the bronze clan badges they wore in their bonnets, and the Davidson plaid, different from the Mackintosh colors Iain and his kinsmen sported.

Their smiles and greetings turned to wide-mouthed looks of surprise as they noticed her perched atop the roan, Iain’s arm wrapped possessively ’round her waist.

The spectators made way for the stallion who seemed to know exactly where he was going. She spotted a large stable and training yard ahead, set just off from the lodge. Iain’s steed made for the gate.

As the riders passed the main entrance to the lodge, she spied a young woman standing on the steps leading up to the great door. Dressed simply and clutching a basket of wildflowers to her breast, she was a tiny thing with delicate features and dark hair. Alena guessed her to be sixteen or so, the plumpness of childhood still noticeable in her peaches-and-cream face.

Will guided his mount to the steps and stopped. The girl beamed a smile at him, radiant as summer sunshine. His face flushed scarlet as he returned her gaze. With a nod of his head he indicated the red stag strapped to the back of his horse. Its broad rack of antlers was impressive, even to Alena. The girl voiced her approval, and Will puffed up in the saddle, nearly bursting with pride.

Hamish and Iain were still chuckling when their mounts halted just inside the stable yard. Two lads sprang forward and the warriors dropped their reins.

An older man with silver hair, dressed in a Mackintosh plaid and leather riding boots, stood waiting for them to dismount. His bright eyes were riveted to hers. Strange. She almost felt she knew him. ’Twas silly. She’d never seen him or this place before.

Iain began to lift her from the saddle. Sweet Jesu, not again! She struggled out of his grip. “Will you please un-hand me! I’ve dismounted hundreds of horses under my own power.”

He threw up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right! As ye wish, vixen.”

She caught that last word, mumbled under his breath, and shot him a look that could freeze water.

He threw a leg over the back of the roan and dropped to the ground. He glared up at her for a moment with those stormy eyes, then turned to the silver-haired man and softened his expression. “Duncan.”

“Laird.” The man smiled warmly. “Welcome home.”

Iain clapped his kinsman on the back and strode toward the horse trough butted up against the stable where Hamish was already washing the road dust from his burly arms.

Alena was still mounted. The old man, Duncan, approached her, offering a strong, leathery arm. He had a kind face that was weathered with years of work in the sun. She smiled and leaned against him for support as she slid from the stallion’s back.

Their gazes locked. He grinned, and a strange premonition washed over her.

“So, Alena Todd, what brings ye to Braedûn Lodge?”

Chapter Four

There was no reasoning with the man.

Alena paced the wooden floor of the richly furnished bed chamber and fought to control her anger. Before she’d had a chance to recover from Duncan’s startling recognition of her, she’d been whisked off to the main house and installed in a room abovestairs.

She’d protested the choice of accommodation, but Iain would have none of it. It made much more sense for her to sleep in the stable, she’d argued. He’d laughed and told her he wanted her where he could keep an eye on her.

What was she, a prisoner?

The room was beautiful. She ran a hand over the brightly colored stitches of a hanging tapestry. A fire blazed in the hearth and a large wooden tub sat before it, presumably for her bath. ’Twas a luxury afforded to few, and she had to admit ’twas preferable to a frigid dunk in the stable yard water trough. Even now, Hetty, the young woman she’d seen on the steps talking to Will, was in the kitchen seeing to the hot water.

A large window looked out over the stable yard where Duncan inspected the hooves of the mounts they had just ridden in on. Two stable lads, and another man who looked a younger version of Duncan, wiped down the lathered coats of the three horses. Duncan stood back and barked instructions. ’Twas as she’d suspected. Duncan was the stablemaster.

How on earth did he know her name?

The door to her chamber opened, forcing her thoughts to the task at hand. Hetty directed two men with steaming buckets toward the tub. Behind them marched an old woman, a Mackintosh plaid draped over her hunched shoulders. She stood with hands on hips, eyeing the men as they poured the water into the vessel, making sure, it seemed, they didn’t spill a drop.

When they’d finished, the men left the chamber and Hetty unrolled the heavy deerskin window covering to keep out the breeze and ensure their privacy.

She supposed she should be friendly, though the old woman did not seem overly warm. She risked a smile. “My name is Alena.”

“Aye, Lady, so I’ve been told. I’m Edwina. Now strip off and get into this tub before the water goes cold.” She opened a leather pouch and emptied it into the steaming water. A burst of fragrance filled the air.

Hetty slipped behind her and, with expert fingers, released her laces. “’Tis a lovely gown, Lady.”

All this formality made her uncomfortable. “Please, won’t you both call me Alena.”

Edwina arched a brow. Hetty pulled the bedraggled gown over Alena’s head. The old woman inspected it with more than casual interest. “It’s a wreck,” she decreed. “What were ye doin’ in it, sloppin’ pigs?”

She recalled with revulsion Reynold Grant’s hands splayed across the fine yellow silk. “Something like that.”

“Weel, ye’ll need some new clothes. This is past savin’.” Edwina tossed the gown to the floor.

“Oh, nay!” she cried as she struggled out of her shift. “It’s very dear to me.”

Hetty retrieved it from the floor. “I’ll make it right for ye, Lady.”

“My thanks, Hetty.”

Edwina led her to the steaming tub. Alena stepped into it and was instantly bathed in its aromatic warmth. She sank into the deliciously hot water and closed her eyes.

Oh, ’twas heavenly. Two days hard travel and a night in the rough had taken its toll on her. Edwina stooped and began to lather her hair with soap. The scent of heather and rosemary permeated her senses. She succumbed to the old woman’s practiced ministrations and let her head go heavy in her hands.

But relaxation did not come. A score of unanswered questions whirled in her mind, and she knew she could not rest until some of them were answered. She decided to start with something innocuous. “What position have you in the household, Edwina?”

“I am—I was—maid and kinswoman to Lady Ellen Mackintosh.”

“Iain’s mother.”

“Aye.”

“You said was. Do you no longer serve her?”

“Nay. She’s dead. Now dunk.” Edwina pushed firmly on her head.

Alena held her breath and slipped below the surface to rinse the soap from her hair. She came up sputtering. Edwina scooted around to the side of the tub and began to scrub her arms.

“I’m sorry. When did it happen?”

“At Beltane.”

Barely a month ago. No wonder Iain seemed so irritable. She would remember to treat him more kindly.

She was curious about what had happened after the Mackintoshes fled their own lands. “Lady Mackintosh—she lived here with Iain?”

“Aye, and the other two lads, as well. We came to Braedûn Lodge right after the—” Edwina met her questioning gaze with a hard look. “Lady Ellen was born here,” she said flatly.

“Oh, I see.”

Edwina scooted to end of the tub and started on her legs.

She decided to be bold. “And what of Findhorn Castle?”

“Held by the Grants these eleven years. Not a one lives there, but Grant soldiers surround the demesne, foulin’ the lands and waters with their filth. May they be damned to hell.”

Edwina was scrubbing the skin off her! Alena tucked her legs under her. “Och, sorry, my lady,” Edwina said, and continued with a more gentle hand. “I forgot myself, thinkin’ on those vermin.”

Vermin. So this is how it was. She’d been right to conceal her identity, after all.

“And how stands Iain?” She knew the answer, but voiced her question all the same. “Grant is his enemy?”

“That’s puttin’ it mildly. Reynold Grant killed his father. ’Twas a nasty piece o’ work, that.”

She had shared Iain’s anguish that chill, gray morning so very long ago. “Aye, it was,” she whispered.

“Eh?”

“Oh, I—” She’d best change the subject. “I understand this is the home of Iain’s uncle. Alistair, I think he said his name was.”

“Aye, Alistair Davidson is laird here. And a finer man ye’ll ne’er meet.” Edwina held out a large towel.

Alena stepped from the tub and into it. “I didn’t see him when we arrived.”

“Nay. He and Lady Margaret are away on business. They’re no’ expected back for a fortnight.”

Edwina completed her vigorous rubbing, and Alena stepped from the towel, her skin pink and glowing in the firelight. Hetty held out a clean shift and helped it over her head.

The girl indicated a small stool by the hearth. “Come sit by the fire, Lady, and I’ll comb out your hair.”

Edwina hurried toward the door. “Supper’s in an hour. I’ll send up a gown for ye to wear.”

“My thanks, Edwina.” Alena turned to smile at her, but the old woman had already gone.

Hetty seemed intent on staying, despite Alena’s protests that she needed no help with her hair. Finally she relented, and sat on the stool as instructed. Hetty’s gentle strokes coupled with the warmth of the fire made her sleepy.

She was exhausted, if truth be told, and a menagerie of random thoughts jumbled their way through her mind. She fought the weariness and sat tall, willing her eyes stay open.

Hetty began to hum an old lullaby. For some reason Alena was reminded of Will, the gentle warrior whom Iain Mackintosh called friend. “Hetty,” she said. The comb stopped in midstroke. “Do you have a sweetheart?” The comb pulled, and Alena cried out.

“Och, sorry.” Hetty resumed the long, gentle strokes. “Not a sweetheart, exactly. But there is a lad I fancy.”

“It’s Will, isn’t it?”

The comb pulled again. “How did ye know, Lady?”

“I saw the way he looked at you on the steps when we arrived.” She felt Hetty’s fingers tremble as the girl drew the comb through her hair.

“Really? D’ye think he took much notice of me?”

“Oh, I’d say he did. Will’s a fine man.”

Hetty stared into the fire with huge, liquid eyes, oblivious to all else. “He’s a Mackintosh warrior—one of the laird’s closest kinsmen.” She sighed and turned her eyes on Alena. “D’ye think there’s any hope for me, Lady?”

Alena smiled to herself, the image of a besotted Will fresh in her memory. “Oh, I think there’s more than hope.”

Hetty placed the brush on a chest near the bed. “I’ll leave ye, now, to get some rest before supper.”

As soon as the door closed, Alena dragged herself to the bed and collapsed into the soft pile of furs. She was exhausted, but didn’t think she could sleep.

Edwina’s words troubled her. Grant soldiers surround the demesne…May they be damned to hell.

Alena hadn’t known about the soldiers at Findhorn. Over the years she had questioned her father about the Mackintoshes, but Robert Todd had given her only vague answers that held little information.

It must be terrible for Iain—his home overrun by her kinsmen. To her knowledge he’d done nothing to reclaim it. Was it any wonder? Reynold’s army numbered near a thousand men. From what she knew, few Mackintosh warriors remained. She’d seen only a handful of Iain’s clan here at Braedûn Lodge. Perhaps there were others in the north.

It dawned on her that Iain would be signing his own death warrant should he challenge Reynold Grant. Her stomach tightened, and she buried her face in the soft furs.

There was no use denying it. She loved him still. The truth of it raced hot through her veins.

She recalled Iain’s first words to her that morning. They’re green. Your eyes. He had seen her, held her, in her shift. The memory of his arm around her waist and his breath, hot on the back of her neck, lit tiny sparks at her very core.

She 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 the distance between them and stood glaring down at her, hands fisted at his sides. She forced herself to not move. He was so close she could feel his breath on her face.

Before she could say anything, he turned abruptly toward his brother Conall who leaned casually against the fence. Iain grabbed him by the collar and near dragged him toward the house. “Hamish! Will! To me. Now!” he bellowed.

The small crowd that had gathered burst into a cacophony of laughter and general chatter. Words of praise—and chastisement—were shouted in her direction. Aye, she supposed it was stupid of her. Both she and the boy could have been hurt.

Duncan, along with the other man who had helped him with the stallion, appeared at her side and led her to a bench by the water trough. She was more shook up than she’d first realized. She collapsed on the wooden seat.

“There, there, lass. Ye did a fine job.” Duncan rested a hand paternally on her shoulder.

“The boy,” she said. “Is he all right?”

“Conall? Dinna worry yourself about him. More than likely he’s wishin’ he was back under the black’s hooves.”

She frowned, and the other man laughed. “Aye,” he said. “Iain’s givin’ him a thrashin’ he’ll no’ soon forget.”

“He wouldn’t hurt him?” She’d never seen Iain so angry, yet she suspected a goodly portion of his wrath was reserved for her.

“Weel,” Duncan said, fingering his beard, “Conall may no’ sit much for the next day or two. But nay, lass, he wouldna truly hurt him.”

“Aye,” the younger man said. “He loves that boy like a son.”

“When their da was killed,” Duncan said, “’twas Iain who raised the lad, and the other, as well.”

“Gilchrist, you mean.”

“Aye. They’re both fine, braw laddies. Thanks to Iain.”

The younger man knelt beside her. “Are ye all right? Can I draw ye some water from the well?”

“My thanks, but nay.” His concern touched her. She pressed her hand lightly on his arm. “I’m well.”

“More afeared o’ the laird than that stallion, I’ll wager.” Duncan’s voice was primed with amusement.

“Aye, you have that right.”

“Och, dinna worry, lass. He’ll come ’round. He’s a stubborn one, and as much as I love him he can be dumb as a stone sometimes.” Duncan shot her a meaningful look, but she had no idea what he was trying to tell her.

More than anything, she wanted to ask him how it was he knew her surname, but she preferred to wait until they were alone. She turned to the younger man. “My name is Alena.”

“Aye, so I’ve heard. I’m called Gavin.”

“Gavin,” she repeated.

“My son.” Duncan beamed a smile and slapped the young man on the back.

Before she could comment on the resemblance, Hamish appeared, towering over them, a huge grin on his face. “Lady,” he said, “I’m to escort ye back to the house.”

Iain’s instructions, no doubt. No matter. She was starved and had had enough excitement for one morning. Her conversation with Duncan would have to wait. It seemed whatever he knew about her, he had kept it to himself.

Or had he?

She recalled Iain’s bloodred face.

She rose and accepted the warrior’s arm. “Lead the way, Hamish. I’m so famished I could devour a horse.”

He grinned down at her, blue eyes flashing mirth. “I thought ye just had.”

Alena spent the afternoon exploring the Davidson stronghold and meeting the clanfolk who lived there. The incident with the stallion had spread like wildfire, and those she met eyed her with no small amount of suspicion.

Hamish never left her side—not for one moment. Iain’s orders. She hadn’t seen him since that morning and caught herself more than once wondering where he was and what he was doing.

Beyond the stable lay the archery butts and a large training ground where the clan’s warriors honed their battle skills. These were Iain’s own additions to the Davidson demesne, Hamish told her. The place was a bustle of activity that afternoon, and Hamish barred her entrance from the area.

He was probably there.

Just as well. After witnessing Iain’s rage that morning, Alena wasn’t sure she was ready for a chance meeting just yet. Besides, she had no desire to cut short her afternoon excursion.

In every place they walked, from the kitchens at the main lodge to the farrier’s to the brew house, she spied odd stashes of weapons: broadswords, longbows with sheaves of arrows, double-headed axes, and dirks of every variety. Braedûn Lodge looked more like an armory than an estate. When she questioned Hamish about the weapons he just shrugged and said “’twas Iain’s doing.”

She recalled the arms Iain bore while hunting—two swords, a longbow, two dirks that she could see, and probably others that lay hidden on his person.

What did it all mean?

She knew not, but had a bad feeling about it. After exhausting Hamish with a bevy of questions he didn’t answer, and when the sun dipped low in the sky, she returned to her chamber to ready herself for supper.

Hetty’s attempt to coax her into donning a more lavish gown failed. The borrowed pale green wool suited her fine. ’Twas simple and reasonably comfortable, though tight about the bodice. She resisted Hetty’s bid to coif her hair, and wore it loose about her, as always, a wild tumble of honey-gold cascading to her hips.

Raucous chatter rose from the great hall as she descended the staircase to join her hosts. Or jailers. She wasn’t sure which to call them. Alena stopped near the bottom step and searched the crowd for familiar faces.

There were eight or ten tables filled with people, many of whom she had met that afternoon. Most were attired in the Davidson plaid. What few Mackintosh clansmen there were stood out among the rest.

The table closest to the hearth was raised on a dais, so the men seated there were visible to everyone in the room. Iain sat at the head, flanked by Conall on his left and another young man dressed in Mackintosh colors on his right. Hamish and Will sat farther down with a number of other warriors who sported the Davidson tartan.

Hamish smiled broadly at her while Will bore his usual, puppy-dog expression. Only Iain scowled, and when Alena met his gaze she lifted her chin in provocation. Perhaps ’twas the gown that irritated him.

The young warrior seated to Iain’s right stood and extended his hand. “Lady Alena,” he called out, “will ye join us?”

He was nearly as tall as Iain, but not as well-muscled. He had Iain’s strong features and the same stormy eyes, but the resemblance ended there. Iain was dark, with wild chestnut hair, and a brooding sort of expression. This man was blond, like her, and wore a dazzling, almost dangerous smile. He looked as if he could charm a lass right out of her shift. She was mildly shocked at her own bold appraisal of him. He could only be one man—Iain’s brother, Gilchrist.

She made her way to the dais, took the young warrior’s proffered hand, and a moment later found herself seated between him and Iain. A half dozen men offered their drinking horns. Not sure how to respond, she looked to Iain. Their eyes locked, but a sour expression ruled his face. He snatched his own goblet from the table and placed it in front of her.

“Thank you,” she said, and lifted the ale cup to her lips.

The blond warrior turned to her and said, “I am Gilchrist, second son of Colum Mackintosh.”

So, she’d been right. Hetty’s description of him was accurate. “I am happy to meet you, Gilchrist,” she said.

Across the table young Conall sat, transfixed, staring openly at her. His boyish good looks reminded her of the young Iain. A rush of tenderness overwhelmed her. She smiled at the lad and he nearly fell off the bench. Iain shot him a disgusted smirk.

“What’s the matter, Conall, laddie, have ye ne’er seen a lady before?” Gilchrist said.

“Never one so fair, truth be told.”

Iain snorted and muttered something under his breath Alena could not make out.

Gilchrist slid closer along the bench. “Nor have I.” To her astonishment, he covered her hand, which rested lightly on the table, with his own.

Aye, Hetty was doubly right. This one was a rogue.

“Enough!” Iain smashed his fist onto the table, causing trenchers and goblets to jump. Like lightning, Gilchrist removed his hand from hers.

Delight shivered up her spine at Iain’s overwrought response to his brother’s harmless flirtation. She fought to maintain a serious expression, but felt the corners of her mouth edge upward. She dared not look at Iain, and turned instead toward the other end of the table.

Hamish rubbed a beefy paw over his face, trying without success to squelch his laughter. The other warriors at the table, Mackintosh and Davidson alike, seemed vastly amused by the little scene.

’Twas time to break the ice.

She turned and caught Iain staring at her. He instantly dropped his eyes and feigned a healthy interest in the trencher of venison that rested before him.

“Iain, I—”

“All save a few call me Laird—but I shall allow ye to call me Iain, if ye wish.” He speared a hunk of meat with his dirk and raised it to his mouth.

Good God, he was arrogant. Mayhap the insufferable boy she remembered lived still inside the man.

“And you may call me Alena,” she shot back.

He halted his attack on the venison in midbite and looked at her with a kind of surprise. He started to speak but then changed his mind, his mouth opening and closing a few times—much like a trout.

Now was clearly not a good time to provoke him. They ate in silence for a while, then she thought to try again at conversation. “Your uncle is laird here?”

“Aye,” Iain said. “He is The Davidson.”

“Yet you sit at the head of his table.”

“In his absence I am responsible for his clan and his lands.”

This surprised her. “Has he no son—or daughter,” she couldn’t help adding, “to lead in his stead?”

Iain looked directly at her. “Nay. Alistair and Margaret have no issue. When Gilchrist is of age, he will be laird here.”

“But he is a Mackintosh. Surely the Davidsons will protest.”

Iain smiled—more to himself than to her, as if remembering something. “Gilchrist is a Davidson and a Mackintosh. He was raised here and is well loved by my mother’s clan. Nay, they will accept him. They already do.”

He nodded toward Gilchrist who was engaged in telling some bawdy joke to the Davidson clansmen at the other end of the table.

“I see what you mean. And what of you, Iain Mackintosh? Where lies your future?”

For the second time in as many days his eyes reached into her soul. “Elsewhere,” he breathed.

Jesu, but the man had a power over her she could not explain. In truth, he always had. She wet her lips as he held her in a gaze so intense, so personal, she felt both the strength and the will to break away slip from her.

The sounds of the diners faded from her perception as he leaned in close. His face hovered inches from hers. She tilted her chin toward him, her lips parting of their own accord in some dreamlike expectation.

A deafening hurrah shattered her momentary enchantment and she turned to see half a dozen clansmen on their feet, horns and goblets raised. They were toasting her, she realized, and quickly collected herself.

Her heart was still thrumming in her chest when Iain stood and let go her hand. Why, she hadn’t even realized he’d been holding it!

From the other end of the room, Duncan related in a loud and very drunken voice how she had tamed the wild stallion and saved Conall from certain death. The old stablemaster embellished the facts to the point Alena was embarrassed. But the warriors echoed Duncan’s pleasure, and she accepted their praise with as much grace as she could muster.

She glanced at Conall, who was fair beaming, and then at Hamish and Will, who lifted their ale cups to her. The room settled back into its normal state of chaos and she turned her attention to Iain, who promptly took his seat.

He fidgeted in his chair and would not look at her. Finally he said, “I didna thank ye, Lady, for saving my brother today.”

She felt a tightening in her chest. Never once when they were children had he thanked her for anything. “’Twas nothing, Laird, I assure you. I am well skilled with horses.”

“So ’twould seem. But ye must promise me you’ll ne’er take such a fool’s chance again.”

“Truly, Iain, there was no danger to me.”

His eyes clouded and she watched him swallow hard. He grasped her hand and squeezed it tight. Her heart was in her throat and, had she willed it, she couldn’t have spoken a word at that moment to save her life.

“Ye…ye could have been killed.” He squeezed her hand tighter, and she thought surely she would swoon from the tenderness in his eyes.

He did care. He did!

The realization was a bolt of white heat that shook her to the mettle. Her expression, she feared, betrayed her raw emotion, her desire, her love. All that she felt for him.

“Iain, I…” She leaned closer, then felt his hand slip away.

He drew back abruptly. His eyes, which only a moment ago brimmed with tenderness, grew cold. He fisted his hands and pressed them, white-knuckled, into the table.

A well-practiced scowl, the one she was beginning to think he reserved solely for her, etched his face. “Ye will no’ go near that stallion again, d’ye understand? ’Tis a valuable animal.”

It took a full second for his words to sink in.

“D’ye hear me, woman?”

Her anger rose faster than the galloping chestnut who’d thrown her into Iain Mackintosh’s cursed path. “A valuable animal? Is that all you care—”

“Enough! I’ll hear no more on it.”

The hall went deadly quiet. All eyes were on the laird. Iain stood, shoved back his chair hard enough to send it sprawling, and stormed from the hall.

She sat there wondering what on earth had just happened. His disposition was more changeable than the weather! One minute he was concerned for her safety, and the next…

Her head spinning, she turned to Gilchrist and shot him a questioning look.

A stupefying grin bloomed on the young warrior’s face. “I’ll be damned. He’s in love.”

Chapter Five

’Twas time to find out just how much he knew.

At dawn Alena splashed some water on her face, quickly dressed, and went to the stable in search of Duncan. She found him repairing a bridle in one of the connecting buildings that housed the Davidson livery.

“Good morrow, Duncan,” she said brightly.

The old man looked up and smiled. “Ah, Alena, lass. Ye’re about early. Did ye sleep well?”

“Aye, I did. And you?” she asked mischievously, recalling his drunken state the previous evening.

“Weel, it’s no’ the lack o’ sleep, but the bluidy headache the next day that can do an old man in.”

She laughed at that, then turned her thoughts to more serious matters. “You are stablemaster here, Duncan?”

“I am,” he said, his eyes on his work.

He’d worn the Mackintosh plaid the day they’d arrived at Braedûn, but today he was dressed in leather breeches and a russet shirt. She studied the clan badge pinned to his bonnet: a cat reared up on hind legs. “But you are a Mackintosh.”

Duncan looked up from his work. “Aye, that, too.” He stared at her for a few moments, then said, “I came here with Lady Ellen and the lads—after Iain’s da was killed.”

“So you’ve known Iain since he was a boy.”

Duncan sheathed his dirk and tossed the bridle over a post. He gestured to a stool next to the one on which he was perched. “Sit here, lass.”

She obeyed and Duncan settled in, resting his leathered forearms on his thighs. “Ye see, Colum Mackintosh and I grew up together. My own da was stablemaster to his da. And when Colum and Ellen had those boys, weel, they were like my own sons.”

“I see.”

“And after…the trouble, the Davidsons took us in. I’ve been stablemaster here since. And I watch over the laddies,” he added, smiling.

’Twas now or never. She leaned forward and met his gaze. “Duncan, when we arrived, what made you call me by that name? Alena…Todd?”

He chuckled. “Are ye tellin’ me, lass, that ye are no’ Alena Todd, Rob and Maddy’s daughter?”

She nearly fell off the stool.”

You know my father? And my—”

“Aye, that I do. Rob and I raised trouble together before ye were e’en a twinklin’ in his eye.” Duncan laughed. His bright blue eyes seemed focused on things far away.

He continued in a soothing voice, as if he were telling a bedtime story to a child too anxious to sleep. “Back before ye were born, when the old lairds, the Mackintosh and the Grant, were allies, yer da and I traveled together in search o’ breedin’ stock. Och, we was green as sticks, but what a time we had. England, Spain, France…”

“France was where he met my mother!”

“Aye, and a bonnier lass there ne’er was—until now.” He looked her over with a sort of paternal approval.

“Oh,” she said, and felt her cheeks warm. “I’m afraid I was not blessed with my mother’s fair looks. She is small and delicate, and I’m…well, I’m—” She shrugged her shoulders.

“Ye are like a sorrel filly in high summer. A beauty, ye are, and many a man’s took notice.” A mischievous grin creased his wrinkled face. “Some more than others, I’d say.”

She felt her blush deepen, then remembered why she’d come. “But, Duncan, how did you know it was me? We’ve never met.”

“Och, I used to see ye in the forest playin’ with the lad.”

Her eyes widened. “It was you! I knew someone was watching us.”

“Aye, I was there.” He grinned, but then his expression sobered. “D’ye think The Mackintosh would ha’ let his son run wild about the wood wi’ nary a soul to protect him?”

“Nay, I expect he wouldn’t have.” She’d never really considered that.

“And you. Do ye think yer da ne’er missed the fact ye were gone long hours from the Grant stable?”

“I did wonder how it was he never found out. I always thought ’twas because I was so clever.”

“Clever?” Duncan laughed.

“But how did you recognize me? I was but a child when last I met Iain at the copse.”

“Och, lass, who else could ye ha’ been? There was only the one lassie who could vex Iain so.”

She opened her mouth in wonder at this admission.

“One look at the both o’ ye perched atop that stallion like a pair o’ snarlin’ wildcats, and I knew ye. And that wild mop o’ gold atop yer head was another clue.” He took her hand in both of his and squeezed it. “Aye,” he said, warmth and affection shining from his eyes. “I knew ye, girl.”

Alena wiped at her eyes, then stood and looked out a small window at the rising sun, a fireball in the east. Somewhere under its roving eye Glenmore Castle slept, and in it the man who would mold her future to his will.

“You won’t tell Iain—about who I am?”

“He doesna know?” Duncan sat up straight.

“Nay.”

The old man stroked his white-silver beard and looked hard at her. “Ye would keep the truth from him?”

“I…I plan to tell him, but not just yet,” she lied.

“All know of how he saved ye from the Grant. And he’s mad as a hornet that ye willna make plain what ye were about.”

Alena knew this all too well. She recalled Iain’s barely controlled anger at her refusal to explain her circumstances.

“Can ye tell me, lass?”

She paced the straw-strewn floor and wouldn’t meet the stablemaster’s eyes. “Nay. Nay, I cannot.”

They were silent for a moment and Alena heard the warbling of a lark and the comforting clatter of the waking estate.

“Weel,” Duncan said, drawing out the word. “I willna press ye—but I willna lie to the laird, neither. If he asks me, I’ll tell him what I know.”

“Oh, please—let me tell him. In my own way.”

“And what of yer parents? They canna know ye’re here?”

“Nay, they do not.” Guilt and fear knotted her stomach. “They must be worried sick.” She knelt before Duncan. “I must get word to them. Can you help me?”

The old man stroked his beard again, his eyes far away. “Weel,” he began, and Alena knew he’d hatched a plan. “There’s a travelin’ priest makes the Highland circuit amongst all the old Chattan clans. He’s no’ due here for more than a fortnight yet, but he’ll pass through Davidson land on the forest road—tomorrow, methinks—headed north past Glenmore to Inverness.”

“Father Ambrose! I know him!”

“Aye, he’s the one.”

“Can he be trusted?” she asked.

“Och, lassie, he’s a priest.” Duncan stood abruptly and Alena heard his bones creak. She rose and followed him to the door. “I’ll send Gavin out on the morrow to meet him. Ambrose will get word to yer da that ye’re safe and here with us.”

Relief washed over her. Each night she prayed that they were safe, as well. “Thank you, Duncan.”

They walked out into the stable yard and were bathed in sunlight. Alena shook off a chill and raised her face to its warmth.

“And now, lassie, perhaps ye can do something for me?”

“Aye, anything.”

“Ye’ve a talent with horses— ’tis plain to see. Rob taught ye well. We’ve a new group of Percherons to break before high summer.” Duncan indicated the enclosure that lay at the end of the stable yard farthest from the lodge.

A small herd of horses grazed in the wild grass that grew, untrammeled, at the edges of the corral.

“Gavin’s a good lad—does the work o’ two men, but we could use another pair o’ skilled hands.” The stable-master looked at her, gauging her ability, it seemed. “Are ye game, lass?”

“Oh, aye. I’d be pleased to help.” And relieved to have something to occupy her hands whilst she considered her next move.

“Weel, then, ye willna be much use to me in that.” He nodded at her attire, the too tight woolen gown. He then pointed at the stable lads newly arrived from their beds to work, still rubbing the sleep out of their eyes. “See if young Jamie or Fergus has a pair o’ breeches that will accommodate ye.”

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