The Mackintosh Bride - Debra Lee Brown Mills & Boon Historical

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to slake her thirst, she took a long draught from the waterskin and nearly choked. “Wha—what is it?” she sputtered, and started to cough.

      The warrior laughed. “A wee libation my brother concocted.”

      “’Tis terrible.” She tried to catch her breath as the drink burned a path of liquid fire down her throat.

      “Aye, ’tis.” He chuckled. “But it’s kept me warm on many a night in the rough.”

      She cleared her throat and felt a pleasant heat spread throughout her chest. She relaxed a little and handed the skin back to him.

      He sat beside her, cross-legged, and she noticed for the first time his powerful physique: broad shoulders and long, muscular legs. Her mind drifted. She imagined the well-muscled chest and arms that lay hidden beneath his plaid and rough woolen shirt. He caught her staring, and her cheeks flushed hot. Quickly she looked away.

      “So,” he said. “What did ye do to incite a dozen Grants to run ye to ground like a rabbit?”

      Her gaze flew to his, and she caught his half smile. “I did nothing! And I was not run to ground like a rabbit. I was doing just…fine.”

      “Aye, and I’m the king o’ Scotland.” His blue eyes flashed amusement. “Another moment and The Grant would ha’ been on ye.”

      “If my horse hadn’t faltered, I’d have outridden them easily.”

      The warrior put a hand to his chin and stroked a twoday growth of stubble. “Your horse? Ye are a Grant, then.”

      “Nay! I am not.” The question unnerved her and instinct compelled her to shield the truth from him. For now, at least. “Were I Grant, think you I’d flee my own kinsmen?”

      “Oh, so ye were running away.”

      “Aye—nay!” He was twisting her words. She felt herself panicking. “I didn’t say that.”

      The warrior leaned closer, his face inches from hers. ’Twas as if he stared right into her soul. “So, what were ye doing, then?”

      “I was—I was—Wait! Who are you?”

      The moment the words left her lips she knew.

      He wore a common hunting plaid of muted browns and greens. As the last rays of the sun glinted off his clan brooch she recognized the emblem: a wild cat, reared up on hind legs, teeth and claws bared at the ready.

      The warrior did not give his name. No matter. His face, those eyes—She would know him anywhere. He was Iain Mackintosh, her childhood love.

      Chapter Three

      Nothing in her girlish dreams had prepared her for this chance reunion.

      She scrambled to her feet, shrugging off his attempt to help her. Her heart fluttered and she felt strangely light-headed. She told herself ’twas the drink and not the reappearance of Iain Mackintosh that caused her head to spin.

      She took a step toward the roan stallion, her thoughts racing. Perhaps if she was quick—

      Iain’s hand gripped her elbow, and she froze. “What’s your name, lass?”

      “’Tis, um…” She knew she was a poor liar. Perhaps part of the truth would suffice. “A-Alena. My name is Alena.”

      “Alena? ’Tis no’ a Scots name. Ye have the speech of a Scot, though ’tis strange.” She could see his mind working. “There’s something else about ye seems familiar.”

      Her heart skipped a beat. She turned away and absently stroked the stallion’s neck. “Nay, I know you not.” She could feel his eyes on her, and a chill of excitement shivered up her spine.

      “Your surname—to which clan do ye belong?”

      Clan? Oh no! She needed time to think. About Reynold, her parents, about him. ’Twas by sheer luck Iain had found her in the wood. She must not forget that. ’Twas not as if he’d come looking for her. Why, he might kill her, or ransom her, if he knew she was a Grant. Nay, she must think of a plan. She turned and put on her boldest face. “I—I am Alena. That is enough for you to know.”

      He stood stock-still, a carefully controlled anger simmering in his eyes. ’Twas apparent no one dared speak to him so, or hadn’t for long years. She recalled their childhood sparring.

      His voice was deadly calm. “When I question ye, woman, ye will answer me. With the truth.” He seemed to grow larger before her eyes. “Now, tell me your surname.”

      “I will not.” She must not. She pursed her lips and riveted her gaze to his, the challenge set.

      For a moment she thought he might strike her. Instead he loomed, motionless, fists clenched at his sides, and glared at her. She held her ground and glared back.

      “Suit yourself, then. I’ll leave ye as I found ye.” He brushed past her and vaulted onto his horse.

      In eleven years he hadn’t changed a bit. He was still the most arrogant, maddening boy—well, man—she’d ever known. He nudged the roan toward the forest road. Jesu, did he truly mean to leave her?

      She glanced skyward. The sun had set and the first stars peeked out at her from a flawless cerulean sky. ’Twould be deathly cold in no time. No mount, no weapons save her dirk, and her clothing reduced to rags. She looked a beggar and, she had to admit, she’d behaved badly. She regretted her impertinence. After all, he was only trying to help her.

      As if he’d read her mind, he turned the steed. By the set of his jaw and the steely look in his eyes she knew his intention.

      “Oh, n-nay, w-wait—”

      Ignoring her protest, he leaned from his mount and swept her off her feet into his lap. One muscled forearm closed like a steel trap around her waist. His breath teased her hair.

      Surrender seemed her only choice. For now. She sank back into the warmth of his chest and wondered what on earth she was going to do.

      They rode in silence for what seemed hours. Alena tried several times, without success, to position herself astride the horse. Each time Iain held her fast across his lap.

      At last he slowed the stallion to a walk and stopped in a clearing on the far side of a wooded ridge. The moon was little more than a sliver. Below them in its eerie light she spied the milk-white surface of a long loch.

      Never had she been so far afield.

      Iain guided the roan toward the water. The smell of wood smoke grew sharp as they approached the shore. They snaked along the bank until they reached an enormous standing stone positioned at the water’s edge. ’Twas a marker of some kind. Here he turned his mount back into the wood. A campfire flickered in a clearing just ahead.

      What was this place?

      Two warriors stood just inside the firelight, their features outlined in its warm glow. One of them called out as they approached the clearing. “The hunter returns at la—Saint Columba, will ye look at that!”

      The men approached them, mouths agape, their gazes riveted to her. The bigger one—Jesu, they were both huge!—recovered his tongue first. “A bonny prize, man, but she doesna look much like a red stag.”

      Iain shifted beneath her in the saddle. “She weighs as much as one. Here, take her.”

      Before she could dismount, Iain lifted her off his lap and dumped her into the waiting arms of the huge warrior. As he set her down she felt her knees buckle. Hours of sidesaddle riding pinned across Iain’s thighs had lulled her limbs to sleep.

      The second warrior rushed to support her, his puppyish face brimming concern. Alena smiled at him, and he beamed. She regained her balance and shot Iain a look of pure murder.

      Iain scowled down at her, his eyes flashing blue-gray steel in the firelight.

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