Debra Brown - The Mackintosh Bride

“Don’t touch me!

I’m not one of your whores.”

She fought the tears welling in her eyes. What a little fool she was! Why should she care with whom he lay?

Oh, but she did care.

And then he laughed. A hearty laugh the likes of which she’d never heard from him. She whirled on him, her face blazing. He shook his head and his laughter died. “My whores? Think ye I went, as well? To Inverness to rut with that chattel?”

“Didn’t you?”

“Nay.” His smile faded.

Her head pounded and her thoughts whirled in confusion. “But…I thought—”

“Nay, lass.” He reached for her. She did not resist as he pulled her into his arms.

She looked up at him and his expression softened. Warmth radiated from his body. Her hands moved instinctively to his chest.

His voice was a whisper. “What I desire lies not in Inverness…!”

The Mackintosh Bride

Harlequin Historical #576

Praise for Debra Lee Brown’s debut title

“In THE VIRGIN SPRING we are gifted with a remarkable story. The fast pace, filled with treachery, mystery and passion left me breathless. I am convinced this is the beginning of Ms. Brown’s climb as a bestselling author.…”

—Rendezvous

“Debra Lee Brown pens an enjoyable tale of intrigue and adventure.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

“THE VIRGIN SPRING should be read by all lovers of Scottish romances.”

—Affaire de Coeur

#575 SHOTGUN GROOMS

Susan Mallery & Maureen Child

#577 THE GUNSLINGER’S BRIDE

Cheryl St.John

#578 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

Jacqueline Navin

The Mackintosh Bride

Debra Lee Brown

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Available from Harlequin Historicals and

DEBRA LEE BROWN

The Virgin Spring #506

Ice Maiden #549

The Mackintosh Bride #576

To Sherri Browning,

Barbara Simmons and Michelle Collier-Johns

With love and heartfelt thanks

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

The Highlands of Scotland, 1192

The girl tethered her pony in the forest and made her way on foot to the hidden copse. Shrouded in dawn’s mist it seemed a sinister place, so changed from the afternoons she and Iain had lazed by the brook and basked in the sunlight streaming through the trees.

She moved cautiously over fallen branches and dried leaves, concealing her approach. A feeling of dread washed over her as she crouched low and parted the gorse bushes that stood like sentinels at the entrance to the thicket.

Jesu, he was here! He was safe!

Iain lay sprawled at the water’s edge, bedraggled and still as death, his plaid wrapped carelessly around him. Infused with fear and relief, she crept forward and knelt beside him. His face, so gentle in sleep, was streaked with dirt and blood breached by small rivulets of still-damp tears.

The horrors of the night before came crashing in on her. Her heart went out to him and her own eyes welled. Fighting tears, she focused on the image engraved on his silver clan brooch: a cat reared up on hind legs, teeth and claws bared at the ready.

’Twas like him—fearless and brave—yet unlike him in its hard demeanor. Iain was different, tender, unlike any boy she’d known. On impulse she grazed a hand across his brow.

“Mackintosh! To arms!” He sprang into a crouch, nearly knocking her over. When his wild eyes found hers, he relaxed.

“A-are you hurt?” She reached for his bloodstained plaid.

“Nay!” He pulled away. “Ye shouldna be here, girl.” His reprimand stung, more so as he wouldn’t meet her gaze. He slumped back to the ground like one of her rag dolls.

She longed to comfort him, but knew not how. “I came as soon as I heard.”

He stared into the mist, his face twisted with pain. “My father is dead—murdered—by the Grants. I couldna save him. I—I wanted to, but I couldna.” His tears ran fresh and he fisted his hands at his sides, his knuckles white with tension.

Risking another rebuke, she placed her small hand on his large one. Surprisingly, he allowed it. He opened his palm to hers and at last met her gaze. She reveled in this show of trust, this small acceptance of her love, though she thought her heart would break from the torment she read in his eyes.

“Iain,” she said, measuring her next words. “Your father slew Grant’s son, Henry. Many witnessed the deed.”

“Nay!” He shot to his knees and pulled her toward him. “’Tis a lie. ’Tis some foul treachery. John Grant was my da’s friend. He would never harm his son. Never!” For a moment he gripped her shoulders so tightly she feared he would crush her.

She breathed at last and worked to quell her emotions. Time was short. The light grew white and flat around them. Soon she’d be missed from the stable. ’Twas dangerous, her being here with him. If someone should find them together—

Iain fidgeted and something winked a brilliant green from under the plaid bunched at his waist. Fascination overpowered her anxiety. “What is that?” She pointed at the object.

He fumbled in the folds of his plaid and, to her astonishment, withdrew from his belt a magnificent jeweled dagger.

“Jesu,” she breathed, marveling at the weapon’s hilt. ’Twas crafted of silver and gold, a dozen precious gems embedded in its intricate design. The hairs on her nape prickled as she recognized dried blood crusting on the wicked-looking blade. “Where on earth did you get it?”

Iain laid the dagger at her feet. “Ye must hide it for me until I can return.”

“Return? But, where are you going?”

“I dinna know. Away. We must leave Findhorn Castle. ’Twill no’ be safe to stay. There are too few of us left to defend it.”

“Nay—you cannot!” She grasped the front of his mud-streaked shirt. “What of your clan, the alliance?”

Why just yesterday he’d told her of his father’s dream of peace, to align four Highland clans: his own—Mackintosh, his mother’s people—Davidson, and Macgillivray and MacBain. Clan Chattan, he’d called it. Clan of the Cats.

Her clan was not among them. ’Twould never be. Not now.

“There will be no alliance. Clan Chattan is no more.” He took her hands in his, projecting a quiet strength that was almost frightening. The arrogant boy she’d known was gone. “I am The Mackintosh now. I must protect my mother and my brothers.”

“Who would dare harm them?”

“Grant.” He all but spat the word.

“Nay, he would not! The laird is a kind man. He—” Iain’s eyes narrowed and she swallowed her words.

“Aye, well…Perhaps not him, but others in his household.”

She knew of whom he spoke and shuddered at the thought. Last night in the stable yard she’d seen the bloodstained weapons and ruined livery, the frothing mounts, their eyes wild in the aftermath of some hideous carnage.

Without warning, a chill wind blasted through the copse. Hundreds of crisped leaves rained down on them in a shower of gold and cinnabar from the larch limbs above their heads. Absently, Iain plucked one from her tangled hair.

The mist was lifting. She pulled the edges of her cloak together and looked skyward, gauging the time by the rapidly growing whiteness of the morning sky. “When shall you leave?”

“Soon.” He looked away and he, too, seemed to measure what time they had left. “Today.”