The Mackintosh Bride. Debra Brown Lee

lifted the plaid and saw Iain’s bare arm draped over her. She felt the heat of his body at her back, the thin fabric of her shift the only barrier between her skin and his. He snored lightly, his hot breath ruffling her hair. Taking care not to wake him, she wriggled out from beneath his heavy arm and scrambled to her feet.

      On a nearby rock she spied her gown, folded neatly and covered with a square of plaid to protect it from the morning dew. She shook out the pale yellow silk and saw it had been mended with dozens of small, straight stitches, and had been carefully cleaned of the mud and blood that had covered it the night before. She glanced at the sleeping pile of plaid that was Will and smiled.

      Wasting no time, she pulled the gown over her head and laced it as best she could. Her hair was a tangle of curls in the mist. She leaned forward, letting her thick mane hang nearly to the ground, and combed it through with her fingers.

      A minute later she gasped as two large boots came into view through the honey-wheat curtain. She whipped her head back and found herself face-to-face with Iain. Her eyes widened.

      He stood before her with hands on hips, studying her, it seemed, with no small amount of curiosity. She tipped her chin and met his gaze, determined to not let him intimidate her.

      “They’re green,” he said plainly. “I hadna thought so last night.”

      “What are green?”

      “Your eyes.” He stared at her for a moment then turned back toward the fire ring.

      Gooseflesh rose on her skin, but not from fear.

      She excused herself and returned to the loch to gain some privacy for her morning ablutions. The sun rose over the treetops in the east and cast thin fingers of light across the mist blanketing the water.

      Alena gazed at the ancient standing stone and tried to recall exactly when and how she’d ended up half naked, rolled in a plaid with Iain Mackintosh.

      The foursome burst out of the larch wood into the open terrain: a rugged and rocky carpet of green sprayed with clumps of late spring wildflowers. The air was fresh and full of the scent of the Highland heather blanketing the hillsides in amethyst waves. ’Twas lovely, and reminded her of the days she and Iain had spent together when he was twelve and she eight.

      So very long ago, she reminded herself.

      They rested awhile by a small brook, taking a meal of oakcakes and cheese. Their horses grazed nearby, contented, nibbling at the sweet, wild grasses.

      Alena walked over and studied the roan, running her hands down each leg and along the stallion’s well-muscled flanks. He was a fine warhorse, and well cared for. English Shire bred with native Clydesdale, she suspected. She examined the other two mounts and found them to be the same. Not as powerful, perhaps, as Iain’s steed, but excellent warhorses all the same. Whoever had bred and cared for them knew what they were doing.

      Standing back, she looked them over again, hands on hips, and nodded her approval. Iain’s eyes bored into her back. She straightened her spine and faced him.

      “If our mounts meet with your approval, Lady, we’ll be on our way.” He mounted and offered her his hand.

      Waking that morning in his arms had unnerved her. The way their bodies fit together, the way she’d felt in his embrace…Nay, they weren’t children anymore.

      She ignored Iain’s proffered hand and moved toward Will who was strapping a cloth bag of provisions onto his black gelding. “May I ride with you this afternoon, Will?”

      “O’—o’ course, Lady. I’d be most—” The words died in his throat as Iain urged the roan toward them and scooped Alena into his lap.

      Jesu, not again! She kicked and struggled, but he held her fast. “Must you do that?”

      He spurred the stallion up the hill as she wrestled to position herself astride the horse. Her gown was twisted and rucked to her knees, exposing her ankles and calves to his view. She quickly smoothed the thin silk to cover herself.

      Each time she tried to lean forward, away from him, Iain roughly pulled her back against his chest. By God, she refused to be held in his lap like a bairn! “I am perfectly capable of sitting a horse without assistance, thank you.”

      “Ye might fall off,” he replied evenly.

      She bristled at his comment. “I’m the best rider, man or woman, of my clan.”

      “Oh, aye? And what clan is that?”

      “That’s not your business.” She pulled forward again, out of his grip.

      His thick forearm closed around her, just under her breasts, and jerked her firmly back against his chest. “Oh, but it is my business, lass. And dinna fool yourself. I’ll find out who ye are.” His voice was chillingly calm. The skin on her nape prickled.

      “Where are you taking me?”

      “Home. And there I intend to keep ye until I know what your connection is to Grant.”

      Her heart fluttered and her mouth went dry. Jesu, what was she going to do? And where, exactly, was home?

      A while later they topped a bald ridge, and she marveled at the view. The larch forest lay far below them. Beyond it was a great glen. In the distance a thin line snaked silver down the valley: the river Spey, its meandering path leading north toward Glenmore Castle—and Reynold Grant.

      At least now she knew where she was.

      Her eyes glassed as she remembered the events of the previous day. It seemed a lifetime ago she had fled. Her parents would be frantic by now. Somehow she must get word to them she was safe. Now that she’d had time to think about it, she realized her father would have never sought a match for her with their new laird. Nay, this was Reynold’s doing alone. But why?

      She wiped at her eyes, pushed the thoughts from her mind, and focused instead on the beauty of the Highlands and the man who held her close to his beating heart. There would be time to sort it all out. Midsummer’s Day was weeks away.

      Iain released his grip on her and struggled with something behind her. The stallion fidgeted beneath them as a whoosh of oatmeal cloth cut across her peripheral vision. She turned in the saddle to see Iain, bare-chested, jamming his woolen shirt into a leather bag that hung from the horse’s livery.

      “It’s bluidy hot,” he said, and pulled her back against him, spurring the roan upward and south along the ridge line.

      It dawned on her that he was leading them farther away from both Mackintosh and Grant land. Where on earth were they going?

      Will and Hamish lagged behind after stopping to transfer a good-size stag—Will’s prize from yesterday’s hunt—from Hamish’s horse to Will’s.

      The afternoon grew warm, and she lifted her face to the sun. Already her skin was bronzed from weeks working outdoors with her father’s new mounts. A light spray of freckles barely noticeable in the winter months appeared across her nose each summer, much to her mother’s vexation. She smiled at the thought.

      Growing up a lady’s maid at the French court, Madeleine Todd had definite ideas of how a lady should dress and how she should behave. Alena had shunned most of her mother’s well-meaning attempts to transform her into such a creature, preferring instead the freedom of loose clothing and a simple coiffure for her work at the stable.

      Reaching behind to her nape, she gathered her mass of thick hair and pulled it free. She’d been sitting on it. Iain pulled her back against his chest and their bare skin connected. Immediately she realized her mistake. She’d forgotten the dipping neckline at the back of her gown.

      He was pure heat and the chestnut curls of his chest hair were slightly damp, sending a wave of sensation through her like nothing she’d ever experienced. She was conscious of his muscular thighs pressed up against her buttocks, gently undulating with the motion of the stallion beneath them. The thin cloth of her garments and the light wool of his plaid