Debra Brown - The Mackintosh Bride

“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.