The Mackintosh Bride. Debra Brown Lee

      He grunted in response. ”Last night, at the loch. I—I don’t remember…”

      “Oh,” he said, seeming to know what she meant. “I found ye asleep by the water and carried ye back to the fire.”

      She recalled her dream, and a pleasant shiver coursed through her. “But…when I woke up, I was—you were…”

      “Aye, well, ye didna expect I’d take the chance of ye stealin’ off in the night, did you?”

      Nay, she did not. ’Twas clear he wasn’t about to let her go anywhere. For now, at least.

      A few hours later they passed into another small forest, less densely wooded than the lands to the northeast. The stallion fell into a well-worn path and increased his speed. Of his own accord he broke into a gallop. Iain did nothing to slow his pace. They flew past pine and laurel and up over a broad, green hillside, the steed pushing harder as they gained the top.

      “Jesu!” She sucked in a breath.

      A great lodge of timber and stone loomed before them, its chimneys billowing a smoky welcome to the weary travelers. ’Twas big as a castle, twenty rooms at least, positioned at the top of a hill and surrounded by a thick rock wall. She could see the tops of cottages and other buildings peeking out above the stones.

      “What is this place?”

      “Braedûn Lodge,” Iain said. “Home of my uncle, Alistair Davidson, and my aunt Margaret.”

      Of course! Iain had often spoken of his mother when they were children. Ellen. Yes, that was her name. Ellen Davidson Mackintosh. She must have fled here with her sons when Iain’s father was killed and the Grants laid claim to Findhorn Castle.

      Iain directed the stallion into the great courtyard. Kinsmen shouted words of welcome to the three warriors as they approached. She noticed the bronze clan badges they wore in their bonnets, and the Davidson plaid, different from the Mackintosh colors Iain and his kinsmen sported.

      Their smiles and greetings turned to wide-mouthed looks of surprise as they noticed her perched atop the roan, Iain’s arm wrapped possessively ’round her waist.

      The spectators made way for the stallion who seemed to know exactly where he was going. She spotted a large stable and training yard ahead, set just off from the lodge. Iain’s steed made for the gate.

      As the riders passed the main entrance to the lodge, she spied a young woman standing on the steps leading up to the great door. Dressed simply and clutching a basket of wildflowers to her breast, she was a tiny thing with delicate features and dark hair. Alena guessed her to be sixteen or so, the plumpness of childhood still noticeable in her peaches-and-cream face.

      Will guided his mount to the steps and stopped. The girl beamed a smile at him, radiant as summer sunshine. His face flushed scarlet as he returned her gaze. With a nod of his head he indicated the red stag strapped to the back of his horse. Its broad rack of antlers was impressive, even to Alena. The girl voiced her approval, and Will puffed up in the saddle, nearly bursting with pride.

      Hamish and Iain were still chuckling when their mounts halted just inside the stable yard. Two lads sprang forward and the warriors dropped their reins.

      An older man with silver hair, dressed in a Mackintosh plaid and leather riding boots, stood waiting for them to dismount. His bright eyes were riveted to hers. Strange. She almost felt she knew him. ’Twas silly. She’d never seen him or this place before.

      Iain began to lift her from the saddle. Sweet Jesu, not again! She struggled out of his grip. “Will you please un-hand me! I’ve dismounted hundreds of horses under my own power.”

      He threw up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right! As ye wish, vixen.”

      She caught that last word, mumbled under his breath, and shot him a look that could freeze water.

      He threw a leg over the back of the roan and dropped to the ground. He glared up at her for a moment with those stormy eyes, then turned to the silver-haired man and softened his expression. “Duncan.”

      “Laird.” The man smiled warmly. “Welcome home.”

      Iain clapped his kinsman on the back and strode toward the horse trough butted up against the stable where Hamish was already washing the road dust from his burly arms.

      Alena was still mounted. The old man, Duncan, approached her, offering a strong, leathery arm. He had a kind face that was weathered with years of work in the sun. She smiled and leaned against him for support as she slid from the stallion’s back.

      Their gazes locked. He grinned, and a strange premonition washed over her.

      “So, Alena Todd, what brings ye to Braedûn Lodge?”

      Chapter Four

      There was no reasoning with the man.

      Alena paced the wooden floor of the richly furnished bed chamber and fought to control her anger. Before she’d had a chance to recover from Duncan’s startling recognition of her, she’d been whisked off to the main house and installed in a room abovestairs.

      She’d protested the choice of accommodation, but Iain would have none of it. It made much more sense for her to sleep in the stable, she’d argued. He’d laughed and told her he wanted her where he could keep an eye on her.

      What was she, a prisoner?

      The room was beautiful. She ran a hand over the brightly colored stitches of a hanging tapestry. A fire blazed in the hearth and a large wooden tub sat before it, presumably for her bath. ’Twas a luxury afforded to few, and she had to admit ’twas preferable to a frigid dunk in the stable yard water trough. Even now, Hetty, the young woman she’d seen on the steps talking to Will, was in the kitchen seeing to the hot water.

      A large window looked out over the stable yard where Duncan inspected the hooves of the mounts they had just ridden in on. Two stable lads, and another man who looked a younger version of Duncan, wiped down the lathered coats of the three horses. Duncan stood back and barked instructions. ’Twas as she’d suspected. Duncan was the stablemaster.

      How on earth did he know her name?

      The door to her chamber opened, forcing her thoughts to the task at hand. Hetty directed two men with steaming buckets toward the tub. Behind them marched an old woman, a Mackintosh plaid draped over her hunched shoulders. She stood with hands on hips, eyeing the men as they poured the water into the vessel, making sure, it seemed, they didn’t spill a drop.

      When they’d finished, the men left the chamber and Hetty unrolled the heavy deerskin window covering to keep out the breeze and ensure their privacy.

      She supposed she should be friendly, though the old woman did not seem overly warm. She risked a smile. “My name is Alena.”

      “Aye, Lady, so I’ve been told. I’m Edwina. Now strip off and get into this tub before the water goes cold.” She opened a leather pouch and emptied it into the steaming water. A burst of fragrance filled the air.

      Hetty slipped behind her and, with expert fingers, released her laces. “’Tis a lovely gown, Lady.”

      All this formality made her uncomfortable. “Please, won’t you both call me Alena.”

      Edwina arched a brow. Hetty pulled the bedraggled gown over Alena’s head. The old woman inspected it with more than casual interest. “It’s a wreck,” she decreed. “What were ye doin’ in it, sloppin’ pigs?”

      She recalled with revulsion Reynold Grant’s hands splayed across the fine yellow silk. “Something like that.”

      “Weel, ye’ll need some new clothes. This is past savin’.” Edwina tossed the gown to the floor.

      “Oh, nay!” she cried as she struggled out of her shift. “It’s very dear to me.”

      Hetty