The Mackintosh Bride. Debra Lee Brown

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 her. She smiled at the lad and he nearly fell off the bench. Iain shot him a disgusted smirk.

      “What’s the matter, Conall, laddie, have ye ne’er seen a lady before?” Gilchrist said.

      “Never one so fair, truth be told.”

      Iain snorted and muttered something under his breath Alena could not make out.

      Gilchrist slid closer along the bench. “Nor have I.” To her astonishment, he covered her hand, which rested lightly on the table, with his own.

      Aye, Hetty was doubly right. This one was a rogue.

      “Enough!” Iain smashed his fist onto the table, causing trenchers and goblets to jump. Like lightning, Gilchrist removed his hand from hers.

      Delight shivered up her spine at Iain’s overwrought response to his brother’s harmless flirtation. She fought to maintain a serious expression, but felt the corners of her mouth edge upward. She dared not look at Iain, and turned instead toward the other end of the table.

      Hamish rubbed a beefy paw over his face, trying without success to squelch his laughter. The other warriors at the table, Mackintosh and Davidson alike, seemed vastly amused by the little scene.

      ’Twas time to break the ice.

      She turned and caught Iain staring at her. He instantly dropped his eyes and feigned a healthy interest in the trencher of venison that rested before him.

      “Iain, I—”

      “All save a few call me Laird—but I shall allow ye to call me Iain, if ye wish.” He speared a hunk of meat with his dirk and raised it to his mouth.

      Good God, he was arrogant. Mayhap the insufferable boy she remembered lived still inside the man.

      “And you may call me Alena,” she shot back.

      He halted his attack on the venison in midbite and looked at her with a kind of surprise. He started to speak but then changed his mind, his mouth opening and closing a few times—much like a trout.

      Now was clearly not a good time to provoke him. They ate in silence for a while, then she thought to try again at conversation. “Your uncle is laird here?”

      “Aye,” Iain said. “He is The Davidson.”

      “Yet you sit at the head of his table.”

      “In his absence I am responsible for his clan and his lands.”

      This surprised her. “Has he no son—or daughter,” she couldn’t help adding, “to lead in his stead?”

      Iain СКАЧАТЬ