The Mackintosh Bride. Debra Brown Lee

      “Are ye hurt, lady?” the gentle one asked her.

      “Nay,” she replied, “just…cold.”

      The two men stepped toward her, each fumbling to unwrap his plaid. With a sharp look Iain stayed their hands. The one with the gentle eyes and puppyish face shrugged, then coaxed her to the fire. Iain watched them, but did not follow.

      She held her hands out to the crackling blaze and fought off the chill of the night. Her mind raced, but one thing was clear—Iain was a Mackintosh, and she was a Grant.

      “Enemies,” she breathed.

      “Eh?” The young warrior eyed her, his brows furrowed in question.

      “Oh, ’tis nothing. I was just…”

      A leg of venison lay spitted across the fire. Her mouth watered at the delicious smell of the roasting meat. Her stomach growled again, loud enough for the warrior who sat beside her to hear. He cut a portion from off the spit and divided it between them. She thanked him for his kindness and set upon the juicy slab as if it were her first meal in months.

      They ate in silence and, once finished, she turned her attention to him. She was amused by his blush and tentative return of her glance. He was as tall as Iain, but slighter, with thoughtful brown eyes and a calm demeanor.

      She smiled. “My name is Alena.”

      “’Tis an honor, Lady Alena. I’m called Will.”

      The name suited him. She was about to tell him she was not a lady, only a stablemaster’s daughter, but thought better of revealing any more about herself than necessary.

      She gestured toward the burly warrior standing with Iain at the edge of the firelight. “And your friend?”

      “That’s Hamish.”

      “Hamish.” His most striking feature, other than his enormous size, was his wild mass of fire-bright hair. He had a thick red beard and hands the size of small hams. She remembered the mirth in his clear blue eyes and his bellowing laugh when Iain nearly tumbled from his horse. She liked him, this giant of a man.

      “And the other?” She nodded at Iain.

      “Oh. Iain, ye mean?”

      She was right! She would have bet her life on it. She had, in fact. A tiny smile bloomed on her lips.

      “He didna tell you his name?”

      “Nay.” She arched a brow in question. “Iain…?”

      “Mackintosh. The Mackintosh. Our laird.”

      “Laird?” This did not surprise her. “You speak so…frankly to him. He allows it?”

      “Oh, aye. The three of us ha’ been friends since boyhood, since the old laird, Iain’s da, ever since he was—”

      “Will!”

      Both of them froze. She looked up to see Iain scowling at them from the opposite side of the fire. Her mind had been on Will’s explanation and she hadn’t heard Iain approach.

      “We’ll rest here tonight.” Iain’s eyes drifted to the spit over the fire and his expression softened. “What’s for supper? Venison?”

      “Aye,” Hamish replied as he came up behind him. He rested one huge paw on his laird’s shoulder. “Some of us were no’ as lucky in the hunt as others.” The warrior winked at her, and she suppressed a smile.

      Iain grumbled something under his breath and shrugged off his kinsman’s hand. They both sat down to eat. Iain seemed at ease here at the loch, much more so than when they’d been riding.

      She realized they must be miles from Clan Grant land. They’d ridden steadily upward through the larch wood, farther into the Highlands, and away from Glenmore Castle. How would she ever get back? Her parents would be worried sick.

      Midsummer’s Day.

      Reynold’s words throbbed in her head like a drumbeat. Nay, she would not think on it. Not now. Not yet.

      Suddenly chilled, she stretched her arms toward the fire. Her shredded bodice gaped, and she moved quickly to cover herself. Across the campfire Iain watched her as he feasted on what remained of the venison leg.

      “Lady Alena,” Will whispered. “I’ve a sewing needle and a bit o’ thread. Comes in handy all too often in the rough. Would ye like to borrow it? For your gown, I mean?”

      “Aye.” She smiled at him. “My thanks.”

      Will dipped into his sporran and pulled out a square of cloth pierced by a needle trailing a goodly amount of thread. “This should do.” He handed it to her.

      To her surprise, Iain stood and unpinned the clan brooch that held his plaid in place over his shoulder. He unfurled a long length of the hunting tartan and cut it away with his dirk, then tucked the rest into his belt. “Here, lass,” he said, and tossed it over the campfire into her lap. “Ye can wear this whilst ye do your sewing.”

      The gesture touched her. She was reminded of him as a boy, how one minute he seemed not to care about her and the next, well…

      She held his gaze for a moment, then thanked him and rose, turning toward the cover of the forest. Before she could take a step, he said, “No’ that way. Go down by the loch. ’Tis…safer.”

      She read something in his eyes, a stoic sort of honor she remembered well. She knew then that he meant to protect her, even though he knew not who she was.

      At the water’s edge she dropped Iain’s plaid and wrestled with the laces of her gown. The garment was bloodstained, mud-caked, and ripped in a dozen places. But ’twas her mother’s gift to her, and she would salvage it somehow.

      She worked the laces free and pulled the fine silk over her head. Draping the gown carefully over the standing stone marking the clearing twenty yards away, she turned toward the water and drew a heady breath of night air.

      A stiff breeze penetrated the thin fabric of her shift. Feelings of relief and freedom washed over her. She was safe here, with Iain, as long as he didn’t discover her identity. She must think of a plan, but not tonight.

      Exhaustion consumed her and she wavered slightly on her feet. Best get this over with quickly. She tore a strip of cloth from the hem of her shift and dipped it into the frigid water. ’Twas the briefest, coldest sponge bath of her life. She grabbed Iain’s plaid and wrapped it around her. ’Twas warm from his body and held the strong male scent of him.

      She felt herself drifting and succumbed to the dreamy exhaustion. Sinking to the ground, she drew her knees up close to her chest and rested her back against the ancient standing stone marking the path back to their camp. She pulled Iain’s plaid tight and nestled her cheek against its warm folds. Just for a moment she would rest her eyes.

      Visions flashed bright against the midnight backdrop of her eyelids: white-blond hair against a bloodred field, ice-blue eyes cold as death. She shuddered at the brink of sleep, then let go the awareness of her surroundings and drifted deeper.

      In her mind’s eye she saw the boy, his wild hair and tear-streaked face, the jeweled dagger clutched to his heart. The image faded, and in its place crouched a silver cat, sleek and muscular. And finally the man, the warrior, his indigo eyes burning into the very depths of her soul.

      She sighed as a gentle hand cupped her cheek. She was lifted free of her burdens and carried home, warm and safe in his arms.

      Through slitted eyes Alena perceived the gray dawn. Heat radiated from behind her, and she backed against the solid warmth. A comforting weight, hot as a firebrand, moved over the curve of her waist and came to rest just below her breast.

      She felt…wonderful.

      Her eyes flew open. The campfire directly in front of her was reduced to smoldering ash, and the bundled forms of two sleepers lay flanking it. A shock of red