The Mackintosh Bride. Debra Lee Brown
turned abruptly toward his brother Conall who leaned casually against the fence. Iain grabbed him by the collar and near dragged him toward the house. “Hamish! Will! To me. Now!” he bellowed.
The small crowd that had gathered burst into a cacophony of laughter and general chatter. Words of praise—and chastisement—were shouted in her direction. Aye, she supposed it was stupid of her. Both she and the boy could have been hurt.
Duncan, along with the other man who had helped him with the stallion, appeared at her side and led her to a bench by the water trough. She was more shook up than she’d first realized. She collapsed on the wooden seat.
“There, there, lass. Ye did a fine job.” Duncan rested a hand paternally on her shoulder.
“The boy,” she said. “Is he all right?”
“Conall? Dinna worry yourself about him. More than likely he’s wishin’ he was back under the black’s hooves.”
She frowned, and the other man laughed. “Aye,” he said. “Iain’s givin’ him a thrashin’ he’ll no’ soon forget.”
“He wouldn’t hurt him?” She’d never seen Iain so angry, yet she suspected a goodly portion of his wrath was reserved for her.
“Weel,” Duncan said, fingering his beard, “Conall may no’ sit much for the next day or two. But nay, lass, he wouldna truly hurt him.”
“Aye,” the younger man said. “He loves that boy like a son.”
“When their da was killed,” Duncan said, “’twas Iain who raised the lad, and the other, as well.”
“Gilchrist, you mean.”
“Aye. They’re both fine, braw laddies. Thanks to Iain.”
The younger man knelt beside her. “Are ye all right? Can I draw ye some water from the well?”
“My thanks, but nay.” His concern touched her. She pressed her hand lightly on his arm. “I’m well.”
“More afeared o’ the laird than that stallion, I’ll wager.” Duncan’s voice was primed with amusement.
“Aye, you have that right.”
“Och, dinna worry, lass. He’ll come ’round. He’s a stubborn one, and as much as I love him he can be dumb as a stone sometimes.” Duncan shot her a meaningful look, but she had no idea what he was trying to tell her.
More than anything, she wanted to ask him how it was he knew her surname, but she preferred to wait until they were alone. She turned to the younger man. “My name is Alena.”
“Aye, so I’ve heard. I’m called Gavin.”
“Gavin,” she repeated.
“My son.” Duncan beamed a smile and slapped the young man on the back.
Before she could comment on the resemblance, Hamish appeared, towering over them, a huge grin on his face. “Lady,” he said, “I’m to escort ye back to the house.”
Iain’s instructions, no doubt. No matter. She was starved and had had enough excitement for one morning. Her conversation with Duncan would have to wait. It seemed whatever he knew about her, he had kept it to himself.
Or had he?
She recalled Iain’s bloodred face.
She rose and accepted the warrior’s arm. “Lead the way, Hamish. I’m so famished I could devour a horse.”
He grinned down at her, blue eyes flashing mirth. “I thought ye just had.”
Alena spent the afternoon exploring the Davidson stronghold and meeting the clanfolk who lived there. The incident with the stallion had spread like wildfire, and those she met eyed her with no small amount of suspicion.
Hamish never left her side—not for one moment. Iain’s orders. She hadn’t seen him since that morning and caught herself more than once wondering where he was and what he was doing.
Beyond the stable lay the archery butts and a large training ground where the clan’s warriors honed their battle skills. These were Iain’s own additions to the Davidson demesne, Hamish told her. The place was a bustle of activity that afternoon, and Hamish barred her entrance from the area.
He was probably there.
Just as well. After witnessing Iain’s rage that morning, Alena wasn’t sure she was ready for a chance meeting just yet. Besides, she had no desire to cut short her afternoon excursion.
In every place they walked, from the kitchens at the main lodge to the farrier’s to the brew house, she spied odd stashes of weapons: broadswords, longbows with sheaves of arrows, double-headed axes, and dirks of every variety. Braedûn Lodge looked more like an armory than an estate. When she questioned Hamish about the weapons he just shrugged and said “’twas Iain’s doing.”
She recalled the arms Iain bore while hunting—two swords, a longbow, two dirks that she could see, and probably others that lay hidden on his person.
What did it all mean?
She knew not, but had a bad feeling about it. After exhausting Hamish with a bevy of questions he didn’t answer, and when the sun dipped low in the sky, she returned to her chamber to ready herself for supper.
Hetty’s attempt to coax her into donning a more lavish gown failed. The borrowed pale green wool suited her fine. ’Twas simple and reasonably comfortable, though tight about the bodice. She resisted Hetty’s bid to coif her hair, and wore it loose about her, as always, a wild tumble of honey-gold cascading to her hips.
Raucous chatter rose from the great hall as she descended the staircase to join her hosts. Or jailers. She wasn’t sure which to call them. Alena stopped near the bottom step and searched the crowd for familiar faces.
There were eight or ten tables filled with people, many of whom she had met that afternoon. Most were attired in the Davidson plaid. What few Mackintosh clansmen there were stood out among the rest.
The table closest to the hearth was raised on a dais, so the men seated there were visible to everyone in the room. Iain sat at the head, flanked by Conall on his left and another young man dressed in Mackintosh colors on his right. Hamish and Will sat farther down with a number of other warriors who sported the Davidson tartan.
Hamish smiled broadly at her while Will bore his usual, puppy-dog expression. Only Iain scowled, and when Alena met his gaze she lifted her chin in provocation. Perhaps ’twas the gown that irritated him.
The young warrior seated to Iain’s right stood and extended his hand. “Lady Alena,” he called out, “will ye join us?”
He was nearly as tall as Iain, but not as well-muscled. He had Iain’s strong features and the same stormy eyes, but the resemblance ended there. Iain was dark, with wild chestnut hair, and a brooding sort of expression. This man was blond, like her, and wore a dazzling, almost dangerous smile. He looked as if he could charm a lass right out of her shift. She was mildly shocked at her own bold appraisal of him. He could only be one man—Iain’s brother, Gilchrist.
She made her way to the dais, took the young warrior’s proffered hand, and a moment later found herself seated between him and Iain. A half dozen men offered their drinking horns. Not sure how to respond, she looked to Iain. Their eyes locked, but a sour expression ruled his face. He snatched his own goblet from the table and placed it in front of her.
“Thank you,” she said, and lifted the ale cup to her lips.
The blond warrior turned to her and said, “I am Gilchrist, second son of Colum Mackintosh.”
So, she’d been right. Hetty’s description of him was accurate. “I am happy to meet you, Gilchrist,” she said.
Across the table young Conall sat, transfixed, staring openly at her. His boyish good looks reminded her of the young Iain. A rush of tenderness overwhelmed