Debra Brown - The Mackintosh Bride

She stiffened in his grasp, then relaxed, letting her head fall back onto the soft pillow of heather. Oh, God, ’twas all true then!

The warrior held her hands in his, stroking the backs of them with his thumbs. Against all reason, she was not afraid of him. In truth, she felt strangely comforted by his presence. She felt…

Safe.

With a start, she remembered her pursuers. She bolted upright and scanned their surroundings for signs of the riders. “Where are they? What—”

“Shh…Dinna fash.” The warrior coaxed her into lying back down. “We’re well away from the soldiers and they willna follow us here.”

He revealed a square of damp cloth, hesitated for a moment as if to gauge her response, then pressed it to her brow. She lay still and let him do it.

His face intrigued her. ’Twas thoughtful yet strong, with finely chiseled features, and framed by a mane of deep brown hair. One thin braid strayed from his temple, and he absently pushed it back from his face. His expression was intent, and his eyes—those eyes—from where did she know them?

Jesu! He was sponging the rise of her breasts with the cloth. She sat up and batted his hand away.

“You’re hurt,” he said. “The blood. Let me—”

“Nay!” She pulled the edges of her tattered gown together, covering her half-exposed breast. A flash of heat rose in her face, and she knew her cheeks blazed crimson. “’Tis…not my blood.”

With revulsion she recalled Reynold Grant’s hands on her. Their brief meeting had gone from bad to worse once his intentions were made clear. Why in God’s name did he wish to wed her? ’Twas unfathomable. She was nothing, no one. He was laird and could have any woman he wanted.

He wanted her.

And used her parents’ vulnerability to ensure her compliance. Did she not wed him on Midsummer’s Day, he’d turn them out. Without the clan’s protection, with no way to make a living, they’d perish.

Jesu, what had she done?

When she’d refused Reynold, he came at her and she’d panicked. In her struggle to get away she’d done something stupid. She’d cut him. On the face. Her dirk was in her hand before she’d even known what she was doing. ’Twas raw instinct, self-defense. Any maid would have done the same to preserve her virtue. She’d fled the keep and bolted into the forest on the waiting gelding. She didn’t think, she just rode, faster and faster until—

The warrior’s intense gaze pulled her back to the moment. He sat back on his heels, allowing her some space. “Have they…did they…harm ye, lass?”

His eyes beamed concern, and her heart fluttered. “Nay, I’m well. Truly.” She pulled the gown tighter across her breasts, crossing her arms in front of her.

He leaned forward and offered her the damp cloth. “There’s no need to fear me. I willna harm ye.”

She accepted the square of plaid and wiped it across the curve of her neck, remembering with a shudder the soldiers who’d pursued her.

The warrior retrieved a leather bladder from the saddle of his horse and offered it to her. “Here, drink this. ’Twill calm ye.”

Eager to slake her thirst, she took a long draught from the waterskin and nearly choked. “Wha—what is it?” she sputtered, and started to cough.

The warrior laughed. “A wee libation my brother concocted.”

“’Tis terrible.” She tried to catch her breath as the drink burned a path of liquid fire down her throat.

“Aye, ’tis.” He chuckled. “But it’s kept me warm on many a night in the rough.”

She cleared her throat and felt a pleasant heat spread throughout her chest. She relaxed a little and handed the skin back to him.

He sat beside her, cross-legged, and she noticed for the first time his powerful physique: broad shoulders and long, muscular legs. Her mind drifted. She imagined the well-muscled chest and arms that lay hidden beneath his plaid and rough woolen shirt. He caught her staring, and her cheeks flushed hot. Quickly she looked away.

“So,” he said. “What did ye do to incite a dozen Grants to run ye to ground like a rabbit?”

Her gaze flew to his, and she caught his half smile. “I did nothing! And I was not run to ground like a rabbit. I was doing just…fine.”

“Aye, and I’m the king o’ Scotland.” His blue eyes flashed amusement. “Another moment and The Grant would ha’ been on ye.”

“If my horse hadn’t faltered, I’d have outridden them easily.”

The warrior put a hand to his chin and stroked a twoday growth of stubble. “Your horse? Ye are a Grant, then.”

“Nay! I am not.” The question unnerved her and instinct compelled her to shield the truth from him. For now, at least. “Were I Grant, think you I’d flee my own kinsmen?”

“Oh, so ye were running away.”

“Aye—nay!” He was twisting her words. She felt herself panicking. “I didn’t say that.”

The warrior leaned closer, his face inches from hers. ’Twas as if he stared right into her soul. “So, what were ye doing, then?”

“I was—I was—Wait! Who are you?”

The moment the words left her lips she knew.

He wore a common hunting plaid of muted browns and greens. As the last rays of the sun glinted off his clan brooch she recognized the emblem: a wild cat, reared up on hind legs, teeth and claws bared at the ready.

The warrior did not give his name. No matter. His face, those eyes—She would know him anywhere. He was Iain Mackintosh, her childhood love.

Nothing in her girlish dreams had prepared her for this chance reunion.

She scrambled to her feet, shrugging off his attempt to help her. Her heart fluttered and she felt strangely light-headed. She told herself ’twas the drink and not the reappearance of Iain Mackintosh that caused her head to spin.

She took a step toward the roan stallion, her thoughts racing. Perhaps if she was quick—

Iain’s hand gripped her elbow, and she froze. “What’s your name, lass?”

“’Tis, um…” She knew she was a poor liar. Perhaps part of the truth would suffice. “A-Alena. My name is Alena.”

“Alena? ’Tis no’ a Scots name. Ye have the speech of a Scot, though ’tis strange.” She could see his mind working. “There’s something else about ye seems familiar.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She turned away and absently stroked the stallion’s neck. “Nay, I know you not.” She could feel his eyes on her, and a chill of excitement shivered up her spine.

“Your surname—to which clan do ye belong?”

Clan? Oh no! She needed time to think. About Reynold, her parents, about him. ’Twas by sheer luck Iain had found her in the wood. She must not forget that. ’Twas not as if he’d come looking for her. Why, he might kill her, or ransom her, if he knew she was a Grant. Nay, she must think of a plan. She turned and put on her boldest face. “I—I am Alena. That is enough for you to know.”

He stood stock-still, a carefully controlled anger simmering in his eyes. ’Twas apparent no one dared speak to him so, or hadn’t for long years. She recalled their childhood sparring.

His voice was deadly calm. “When I question ye, woman, ye will answer me. With the truth.” He seemed to grow larger before her eyes. “Now, tell me your surname.”

“I will not.” She must not. She pursed her lips and riveted her gaze to his, the challenge set.

For a moment she thought he might strike her. Instead he loomed, motionless, fists clenched at his sides, and glared at her. She held her ground and glared back.

“Suit yourself, then. I’ll leave ye as I found ye.” He brushed past her and vaulted onto his horse.

In eleven years he hadn’t changed a bit. He was still the most arrogant, maddening boy—well, man—she’d ever known. He nudged the roan toward the forest road. Jesu, did he truly mean to leave her?