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“I dinna know,” he said quietly.
She remembered the dagger that lay among the dead leaves between them. ’Twas heavy and seemed almost a sword next to her delicate child’s frame. Iain watched her with interest as she feathered a tress of hair from her head. She drew the blade of the dagger across it and the lock fell away in her hand. He tensed as she plucked a chestnut hank from his thick mane and freed it with the blade.
Working quickly she fashioned a circlet of their hair, chestnut and gold, braided with a strip of Mackintosh tartan she cut from the end of his plaid. She placed the circlet into Iain’s hand and he studied it, rubbing the newly forged braid between his fingers.
“What is it?”
“A lovers’ knot.” Her cheeks warmed from the blush she knew he could see. “My mother made one for my father to keep with him whenever they were apart. She’s French, you know.”
Nay, he didn’t know. In fact, he knew nothing about her family. She’d never told him anything about herself, not even her true name. ’Twas a game they played—one that had vexed him terribly. On each occasion they met, she’d pretend to be someone different. Her gaze strayed to the blood on his plaid, and she knew the time for games was long past.
His hand closed over the circlet. He gripped it for a moment before tucking it carefully into his sporran. Then he grasped the jeweled dagger and thrust it into the loamy earth between them. “It willna be long,” he said. “I will return. For you and for this.” He nodded at the dagger.
For her. He’d return for her! “Do you swear?” She searched his face, willing him to answer.
“Aye, I swear.” He stood abruptly and looked down at her, blue eyes dark as midnight. “The Grants will pay. I willna rest until my father is avenged. Until every last one of them is dead.”
“All of them?”
Before he could answer, the sound of hoofbeats broke the stillness of the forest. A tree branch snapped not far from where they stood.
“Listen—horses!” She scrambled to her feet.
Iain spun and narrowed his eyes toward the sound, straining to see through the mist. Voices carried over the gurgling of the brook. “They’re coming.”
Jesu, she must not be found here! “I must go.” She backed away from the sound of the approaching riders, then turned to run.
“Wait!” Iain yanked the dagger from the ground, hacked a piece of plaid from off his shoulder and wrapped the jeweled weapon inside it. “Here. Take it. Hide it. I will return.”
She clutched the bundle tight to her chest as if it would stop the pounding of her heart. She stood for a moment looking up at him, memorizing his face, his eyes, the gentle strength of his countenance.
And then she was gone.
“Girl! Your true name!” Iain called after her. “I dinna know it.” But ’twas too late. The mist enfolded her like a cold, white shroud.
He turned to meet the approaching riders.
Chapter One
Eleven years later
Reynold Grant studied the parchment that held the 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. “They are brave men and true to my father’s memory.”
“You are laird now,” Hamish said. “They are loyal to ye.”
“Aye, I’m laird.” And ye all know why. His father was dead—murdered—and he’d done naught to stop it. Iain clenched his teeth, his mouth dry and bitter. He snatched the kidskin bladder hanging from his saddle, tilted his head back, and took a long draught.
“What will ye do?” Will asked.
“I’ll claim what’s mine, and strike down those who stole it from me. I should have done it long ago.”
He’d burned to do it, in fact. For years that’s all he’d thought about. But his mother’s clan was small, and Alistair Davidson a prudent man. He’d barely let Iain out of his sight whilst he was growing up. And once he’d grown, Iain realized he bore the weight of not only a man’s responsibilities, but a laird’s. Nay, he could not have risked so many lives on a fool’s mission.
“How do ye plan to take them?” Hamish asked. “Grant commands a sizable army.”
Iain had spent years considering that very point, obsessed with the strategies and tactics of war, honing his battle skills and those of his remaining clansmen to a sharp-edged perfection.
At any time John Grant could have hunted him down and murdered what remained of his people. But he hadn’t. That fact, coupled with Grant’s sheer numbers, had been enough to quell Iain’s bloodlust—for a time.
But things were different now. John Grant was dead, murdered some say, though no one knew who did it. His nephew, Reynold, was laird now. Iain spat. Aye, everything was different.
“We canna do it alone,” he said. “That much I know.”
“All the Mackintosh would follow ye into battle.” Will’s face shone with a loyalty that tore at Iain’s gut.
He smiled bitterly. “So they would. But I willna bring death and destruction to what’s left of my clan.” Few of his father’s warriors had escaped Reynold Grant’s retribution for his cousin Henry’s murder. The best of them had been slain, and their blood lay heavy on Iain’s own hands. “Nay,” he said, “we will come at him with ten score or none.”
Hamish looked hard at him, blue eyes fixed in question.
“Aye.” Iain nodded, holding his friend’s gaze. “I mean to raise the Chattan.”
“Clan Chattan—the alliance!” Will’s eyes widened.
“Davidson is for us.” Hamish absently twisted the hairs of his beard between thick fingers, weighing their options, Iain suspected. “Your uncle is laird. They will follow him.”
“Aye, if he agrees.”
“But what of Macgillivray and MacBain?” Will asked.
“Leave them to me.”
Iain grew weary of their conversation. The morning’s white sky dissolved into the pale blue of afternoon. He stretched and repositioned his longbow over his shoulder.
“’Tis a fine day for hunting.”
She was master now, and squeezed her thighs together gently across his back to make the point. The gelding responded at once, trotting forward, graceful and compliant. Alena Todd was pleased. Of the new Arabians, the chestnut had been the most headstrong. Now he was hers.
The Clan Grant stable produced the finest horses in Scotland, swift and powerful, with unparalleled endurance. Her father would be pleased with this one. Would that he could have broken the mount himself.
