The Mackintosh Bride

“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.