The Mackintosh Bride

“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.