The Mackintosh Bride. Debra Lee Brown

key to his future….

      I, Beatrix d’Angoulême, firstborn of Comte Renaud d’Angoulême, emissary of Philip II of France, do on my deathbed acknowledge my natural daughter, Alena, as sole heir of my fortune and estates, in accordance with the laws of this realm.

      ’Twas dated May 1184, signed and witnessed, the gold-and-purple seal of Angoulême affixed at the bottom.

      A smile bloomed on Reynold’s face. He tucked the parchment back into its hiding place amongst his dead uncle’s things and paced the rush-strewn floor. Aye, ’twas a brilliant idea. Position and power for the taking. And who better to seize it than himself?

      His cousin Henry was eleven years dead, and his uncle, John Grant, fresh in the ground. Who was there left to stop him?

      The grim, wide-eyed face of a boy flashed briefly in his mind. That boy would be a man now, and Reynold knew he’d come for vengeance, for what once had been his.

      A knock sounded at the door. Reynold snapped to attention as his kinsman, Perkins, entered the chamber.

      “You sent for me, Laird?”

      Laird. Aye, the title suited him, as he always knew it would. He moved to the writing table by the window. “I wish ye to deliver a message.”

      Leaning over the desk, he hastily penned a note. He signed the missive with a flourish, folded the parchment in half, and handed it to the waiting Perkins.

      “To whom shall I deliver it?”

      He studied Perkins’s dark, wiry form. The man was weak and greedy. He liked that about him. “Alena Todd,” he said. “The stablemaster’s daughter.”

      “Ah…” Perkins’s dark eyes shone. “Pretty.” He tucked the parchment into the folds of his plaid. “But surely you wish the note delivered into the hands of her father.”

      “That cripple? Nay, I do not.” He shot Perkins a pointed look. “The message is for her. See to it at once.”

      “But…She reads?”

      “Aye, she does. One of my uncle’s insane notions.”

      Perkins frowned. “I see. ’Twill be delivered right away, Laird.” He moved toward the door, then stopped. “Oh, I nearly forgot. The sentries report Mackintosh warriors in the forest, a day’s ride from here.”

      “How many?”

      “Three. Four perhaps.”

      “Hmph. Did they recognize any of them?”

      “Nay, they did not.”

      Reynold waved a hand, dismissing him. “All right, off with you. I want that note delivered now.”

      Perkins nodded and slipped from the chamber.

      “Mackintosh, eh?” Reynold strode to the window and looked out on what was now his demesne. “’Tis time I finished that business.”

      He couldn’t keep his mind on the hunt.

      Iain Mackintosh leaned against the rotted stump and unstrung his longbow. The morning mist had disappeared, divided by shafts of sunlight. He unfurled his plaid, still damp from a night in the heather, and pulled it ’round his shoulders against the chill air.

      For the second time that day he caught himself absently fingering the circlet of hair he carried with him always. The strip of plaid securing the braid was frayed and worn, but his memory of the girl was not.

      When he’d been old enough, he’d returned to their secret copse. ’Twas dangerous as hell. The Grants held the lands for a half day’s ride on all sides of it. Covertly he’d searched village after village, stared into the faces of countless lasses, but he never found her. Christ, ’twas impossible! He didn’t even know her name, let alone her clan.

      A whistle pierced the silence of the forest, jarring him from his thoughts. He vaulted onto his waiting horse and guided the roan stallion toward the sound. A few minutes later he caught sight of his kinsmen leisurely making their way toward him. Neither rider had game to show for the morning’s effort.

      “Hamish, ye missed the shot then?” he called out.

      “Aye, dammit all to hell. ’Twas a beauty, too.”

      The last Iain had seen of them that morning, Hamish and Will had been hot on the trail of a red stag.

      “Two days out from Braedûn Lodge and we’ve nothing to show for it,” Will said.

      “Ye’d best go back with something, Will.” Iain shot his friend a mischievous look. “Ye wouldna wish to disappoint a certain lass.”

      Hamish spurred his mount forward, even with Iain’s roan. “Lass? What lass?”

      Will blushed scarlet, the tips of his ears pink as a bairn’s.

      Iain grinned. “A particular lady’s maid.”

      “Edwina?” Hamish boomed. “She’s as old as the Craigh Mur standing stones. Will, I didna know—”

      “Not Edwina, ye fool!” Will’s voice cracked. “’Tis… ’tis Hetty,” he said, as if he’d just realized it himself.

      “Ah…Hetty.” Hamish’s eyes lit up. He winked at Iain and continued his taunting. “She’s a bonny one.”

      Will jerked his mount to a halt. “Aye, she is, but I dinna want ye noticing.”

      Iain and Hamish dissolved into laughter. After a moment Will’s frown melted into a grin, and the three of them continued south through the larch wood forest.

      “And what about you, Iain?” Hamish said. “What of all the lovely lassies your uncle Alistair’s paraded past ye?”

      Iain had never told Hamish about the girl. About his promise. He’d never told anyone. “I’ve no time for such foolery.”

      “Aye, perhaps not. But ye’ve been a bear of late. ’Tis time we made another trip to Inverness.”

      Iain recalled their last visit, made some months ago. Drinking and wenching, and then more drinking. His most vivid memory of the trip was the two-day headache that plagued him afterward. ’Twas the last thing he needed. Nay, his restlessness was driven by something far deeper than the lack of a woman in his bed.

      ’Twas time.

      His mother had passed, God rest her soul, and his younger brothers were old enough to make their own way should he fall in battle. Aye, ’twas time to reclaim what was his and to bring the cur responsible for his father’s murder, his clan’s ruin, to justice under his sword.

      The memory of that night burned fresh in his mind. All evidence had pointed to his father’s guilt, but Iain would never believe it. Never.

      He had to have that dagger! Strangely enough, ’twas not the jeweled weapon that haunted his dreams, but the vision of a dirty-faced sprite in leather breeches, a few stray leaves clinging to her wild tumble of hair.

      The roan stallion jerked and Iain snapped to attention. Pushing the dark memories from his mind, he glanced quickly about him, instinctively checking the position of his weapons. All was well. He soothed the beast with a few gentle words, then looked back at his kinsmen.

      “Hamish, what d’ye hear from Findhorn?” It had been years since Iain had looked upon his ancestral home. Few were left there now, living in the crofts outside the curtain wall. The keep, he’d heard, had fallen into disrepair, the lands overgrown and wild.

      Hamish’s brows shot up. “No’ much is changed. Grant soldiers patrol the woods there still.”

      “But the clansmen who remain have no’ been idle.” Will nudged his mount forward, even with the roan.

      “Aye.” Hamish nodded. “They are loyal to The Mackintosh and stand ready to support ye.”

      Iain shrugged.