The Mackintosh Bride. Debra Brown Lee

in its aromatic warmth. She sank into the deliciously hot water and closed her eyes.

      Oh, ’twas heavenly. Two days hard travel and a night in the rough had taken its toll on her. Edwina stooped and began to lather her hair with soap. The scent of heather and rosemary permeated her senses. She succumbed to the old woman’s practiced ministrations and let her head go heavy in her hands.

      But relaxation did not come. A score of unanswered questions whirled in her mind, and she knew she could not rest until some of them were answered. She decided to start with something innocuous. “What position have you in the household, Edwina?”

      “I am—I was—maid and kinswoman to Lady Ellen Mackintosh.”

      “Iain’s mother.”

      “Aye.”

      “You said was. Do you no longer serve her?”

      “Nay. She’s dead. Now dunk.” Edwina pushed firmly on her head.

      Alena held her breath and slipped below the surface to rinse the soap from her hair. She came up sputtering. Edwina scooted around to the side of the tub and began to scrub her arms.

      “I’m sorry. When did it happen?”

      “At Beltane.”

      Barely a month ago. No wonder Iain seemed so irritable. She would remember to treat him more kindly.

      She was curious about what had happened after the Mackintoshes fled their own lands. “Lady Mackintosh—she lived here with Iain?”

      “Aye, and the other two lads, as well. We came to Braedûn Lodge right after the—” Edwina met her questioning gaze with a hard look. “Lady Ellen was born here,” she said flatly.

      “Oh, I see.”

      Edwina scooted to end of the tub and started on her legs.

      She decided to be bold. “And what of Findhorn Castle?”

      “Held by the Grants these eleven years. Not a one lives there, but Grant soldiers surround the demesne, foulin’ the lands and waters with their filth. May they be damned to hell.”

      Edwina was scrubbing the skin off her! Alena tucked her legs under her. “Och, sorry, my lady,” Edwina said, and continued with a more gentle hand. “I forgot myself, thinkin’ on those vermin.”

      Vermin. So this is how it was. She’d been right to conceal her identity, after all.

      “And how stands Iain?” She knew the answer, but voiced her question all the same. “Grant is his enemy?”

      “That’s puttin’ it mildly. Reynold Grant killed his father. ’Twas a nasty piece o’ work, that.”

      She had shared Iain’s anguish that chill, gray morning so very long ago. “Aye, it was,” she whispered.

      “Eh?”

      “Oh, I—” She’d best change the subject. “I understand this is the home of Iain’s uncle. Alistair, I think he said his name was.”

      “Aye, Alistair Davidson is laird here. And a finer man ye’ll ne’er meet.” Edwina held out a large towel.

      Alena stepped from the tub and into it. “I didn’t see him when we arrived.”

      “Nay. He and Lady Margaret are away on business. They’re no’ expected back for a fortnight.”

      Edwina completed her vigorous rubbing, and Alena stepped from the towel, her skin pink and glowing in the firelight. Hetty held out a clean shift and helped it over her head.

      The girl indicated a small stool by the hearth. “Come sit by the fire, Lady, and I’ll comb out your hair.”

      Edwina hurried toward the door. “Supper’s in an hour. I’ll send up a gown for ye to wear.”

      “My thanks, Edwina.” Alena turned to smile at her, but the old woman had already gone.

      Hetty seemed intent on staying, despite Alena’s protests that she needed no help with her hair. Finally she relented, and sat on the stool as instructed. Hetty’s gentle strokes coupled with the warmth of the fire made her sleepy.

      She was exhausted, if truth be told, and a menagerie of random thoughts jumbled their way through her mind. She fought the weariness and sat tall, willing her eyes stay open.

      Hetty began to hum an old lullaby. For some reason Alena was reminded of Will, the gentle warrior whom Iain Mackintosh called friend. “Hetty,” she said. The comb stopped in midstroke. “Do you have a sweetheart?” The comb pulled, and Alena cried out.

      “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