Loe raamatut: «The Mackintosh Bride»

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?”