The Mackintosh Bride

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?”