Kitabı oku: «The Mackintosh Bride», sayfa 2
He chuckled softly, as if in response to some private joke. “Nay, lass. How would ye like to live here, at the keep…with me?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” An awful premonition welled inside her. She tried to draw her hand away, but he held it fast.
“How old are you, Alena?” Reynold pulled her close. “Ten and nine, sir. Almost twenty.” Why on earth would her age interest him? Why had he sent for her?
“Ten and nine. Far past marriageable age, and yet ye are not wed.” He arched his brows and smiled down at her. “Why?”
So that was it.
Her cheeks flushed hot. She yanked her hand away and looked him in the eyes. “I do not desire marriage, Laird. I wish to remain at the stable. There is much work to—”
“Not desire marriage? Surely your father doesna support this view.”
Her suspicions were confirmed. Her father had put him up to this. “Nay, Laird, he does not.”
“Nor do I. In truth, I’ve summoned ye here to tell ye that ye will be wed, and soon.”
She did back away then, incredulous. “Wed? To whom?”
A smile broke across his ghost-white face. “To me. On Midsummer’s Day.”
Iain guided his mount down a steep, wooded ravine. He wasn’t familiar with this part of the forest and moved cautiously, scanning the trees for any sign of movement.
Hamish and Will had continued south when Iain veered east tracking a red stag, the biggest he’d ever seen. He’d strayed onto Grant land at some point, but no matter. He’d soon have his game and be gone.
His kinsmen would wait for him at Loch Drurie, hours away from where he was now. He studied the afternoon sky, judging the light. There was time enough, but where was his prey?
The ravine was choked with gorse and whortleberry, making the footing difficult for his horse. Stands of larch and laurel rose up to touch the sky. It reminded him much of the copse, their secret place. His and the girl’s. Sunlight pierced the emerald canopy, transforming the wood into a fairy forest of shadow and light.
He moved silently, directing the roan toward a stream near the bottom of the slope. Breathing in the cool, earthy scent of the forest, he scanned the surrounding foliage.
There! He saw it!
The red stag, drenched in sunlight and frozen against a backdrop of green. Fifty yards upwind, at most seventy-five. Few archers could make such a shot, but in his mind’s eye Iain could already feel the weight of the stag on his back as he lifted it onto his horse. Aye, this one was his.
The stallion, trained to the hunt, stood motionless as Iain strung his longbow. He dipped into the grease pot that hung at his waist and ran his fingers lightly along the bowstring, his eyes never leaving his prey.
The stag stepped forward and dropped its head, raking the ground with a hoof, then shook its great body sending a spray of water droplets flying from its coat.
’Twas now or never. Crossing himself, Iain offered up a wordless prayer to his patron saint. With a practiced hand he drew an arrow into the bow and sighted down the shaft to his prey.
This was the moment above all others that thrilled him. The years of training, preparation, the foregone pleasures—all proved worthwhile in that brief moment before he loosed the arrow toward its mark. A Mackintosh never missed.
Then it happened.
The stag’s head shot up, ears pricked. A second before he heard the commotion, Iain sensed what the stag already knew—Riders!
“Saint Sebastian to bluidy hell!”
The stag bounded into the cover of the forest. Iain forced his mount sideways into the shadow of a larch, checked the placement of his other weapons, and leveled his bow at the sound.
A chestnut gelding crashed through the trees on the opposite side of the ravine, its rider a blur of yellow and gold driving the horse toward the stream at the bottom. At the last possible second the chestnut vaulted itself over the churning waters. The horse landed badly, flinging its rider to the ground.
Iain scanned the ridge line in all directions but saw no others. He guided his steed cautiously down the slope, arrow still nocked in his bow. The roar of the stream was deafening.
The chestnut writhed on the ground in pain. Its rider lay sprawled, facedown, a few yards in front of the horse. Good God, ’twas a woman! As Iain approached, she pushed herself to her knees and looked up, stunned from the fall.
His breath caught.
Her hair was a tumble of light—wheat and flaxen and gold—framing a round face with a slightly pointed chin. Her gown was ripped across the shoulder and the fabric gaped, exposing the swell of one creamy breast. Iain let his gaze linger there for a moment. She was spattered with mud, and a trail of bloody fingerprints snaked over her from neck to waist.
As she emerged from her daze she stiffened at the sight of him towering above her on the roan. Their eyes locked. She snatched a bloodied dirk from her belt and brandished it before her.
Iain had never seen a more beautiful woman in his life.
The thunder of hoofbeats wrenched him from his stupor. Horsemen were descending the ravine, sunlight glinting off their livery. Clan Grant livery.
The woman glanced back at them. He saw recognition, then fear, grow on her face. She scrambled to her feet and backed toward her horse, a white-knuckled grip on the dirk.
The warriors saw them and slowed their descent. Iain counted ten, maybe twelve. Too many. His decision made, he slung his longbow over his shoulder and offered the woman his hand. “Come on, lass, they’re nearly upon us.”
She studied him for a moment, glanced back at the riders, then sheathed her dirk and started toward him. Three quick steps and she stopped. “My horse!” she cried and turned back toward the injured beast. “I must help him.”
Christ! He quickly restrung his bow, nocked an arrow, and loosed it into the gelding’s breast. The horse shuddered once, then lay still.
The woman whirled on him. “You killed—”
In one swift motion he leaned from his mount and swept her into his lap. He spurred the roan up the hill, away from the approaching riders, and wondered what in bloody hell he’d gotten himself into.
Chapter Two
So much for hunting.
Iain reined his lathered stallion to a walk. They’d outridden the warriors, but on his life he knew not how. The terrain had been rugged and steep, and his steed already spent when the chase had begun.
The woman had swooned—from shock and exhaustion, no doubt—but not before she’d driven the roan to break-neck speed. Iain had never seen anything like it. As they’d topped the ridge above the ravine she’d leaned far forward in the saddle, her hands resting lightly on the stallion’s neck. ’Twas almost as if she’d whispered something to the beast. The steed had responded immediately, had flown past larch and laurel, dodging stumps and boulders, leaving the Grants far behind.
Securing one arm ’round her waist, he draped the woman’s legs over his thigh. Her head lolled back, spilling flaxen tresses across his plaid. Wisps of the fine hair grazed his bare leg like a thousand silken fingers. Her full lips were parted. “Holy God,” he breathed, and fought the overwhelming urge to kiss her.
Feelings stirred inside him that he couldn’t explain: fierce protectiveness, awe, desire. He pushed them from his mind. Who had time for such foolishness?
He guided the roan toward a small creek and dismounted carefully, the woman in his arms. He laid her gently down onto a bed of wild grasses near the water’s edge. They would be safe here, for a while at least.
God’s truth, she was lovely. He hadn’t spent much time with women. He’d been far too busy working toward the day he’d clear his father’s name. That day was coming, and soon.
With a strip of cloth cut from his plaid, he washed the blood and caked mud from her face and neck, hesitating a moment before moving to her shoulders. He swallowed hard as he watched the rise and fall of her breasts with each slow, steady intake of breath.
A few stray leaves clung to her hair. As he plucked them from their golden nest he had the strangest feeling he knew her. Nay, ’twas impossible. He was certain he’d never seen her before. Hers was not a face a man would soon forget.
Examining the fine silk of her gown, he wondered about her family, to which clan she belonged. She was a lady, surely. Her mount had lacked distinctive markings or livery. In fact, the gelding had neither saddle nor stirrups. She’d ridden bareback and outrun the Grant. Now that was impressive.
On impulse he clasped one of her hands in his and ran his thumb lightly over her palm. ’Twas rough and callused, surprisingly so. A lady, surely, but with the hands of a servant? No matter. He’d solve the mystery soon enough.
“Wake up, lass,” he whispered, and rubbed her cool hands between his.
She felt like ice.
Aye, except for her hands. They were warm. Oh, what a terrible dream. She drew a breath and opened her eyes. “Jesu!”
A huge warrior knelt above her, a dark shape against the setting sun. “Nay!” She wrenched her hands free of his grip and thrashed at him with her fists.
“Easy, lass, easy.” The warrior grabbed her wrists to still her struggle. “You’re safe, you’re safe now. No harm will come to ye.”
She stiffened in his grasp, then relaxed, letting her head fall back onto the soft pillow of heather. Oh, God, ’twas all true then!
The warrior held her hands in his, stroking the backs of them with his thumbs. Against all reason, she was not afraid of him. In truth, she felt strangely comforted by his presence. She felt…
Safe.
With a start, she remembered her pursuers. She bolted upright and scanned their surroundings for signs of the riders. “Where are they? What—”
“Shh…Dinna fash.” The warrior coaxed her into lying back down. “We’re well away from the soldiers and they willna follow us here.”
He revealed a square of damp cloth, hesitated for a moment as if to gauge her response, then pressed it to her brow. She lay still and let him do it.
His face intrigued her. ’Twas thoughtful yet strong, with finely chiseled features, and framed by a mane of deep brown hair. One thin braid strayed from his temple, and he absently pushed it back from his face. His expression was intent, and his eyes—those eyes—from where did she know them?
Jesu! He was sponging the rise of her breasts with the cloth. She sat up and batted his hand away.
“You’re hurt,” he said. “The blood. Let me—”
“Nay!” She pulled the edges of her tattered gown together, covering her half-exposed breast. A flash of heat rose in her face, and she knew her cheeks blazed crimson. “’Tis…not my blood.”
With revulsion she recalled Reynold Grant’s hands on her. Their brief meeting had gone from bad to worse once his intentions were made clear. Why in God’s name did he wish to wed her? ’Twas unfathomable. She was nothing, no one. He was laird and could have any woman he wanted.
He wanted her.
And used her parents’ vulnerability to ensure her compliance. Did she not wed him on Midsummer’s Day, he’d turn them out. Without the clan’s protection, with no way to make a living, they’d perish.
Jesu, what had she done?
When she’d refused Reynold, he came at her and she’d panicked. In her struggle to get away she’d done something stupid. She’d cut him. On the face. Her dirk was in her hand before she’d even known what she was doing. ’Twas raw instinct, self-defense. Any maid would have done the same to preserve her virtue. She’d fled the keep and bolted into the forest on the waiting gelding. She didn’t think, she just rode, faster and faster until—
The warrior’s intense gaze pulled her back to the moment. He sat back on his heels, allowing her some space. “Have they…did they…harm ye, lass?”
His eyes beamed concern, and her heart fluttered. “Nay, I’m well. Truly.” She pulled the gown tighter across her breasts, crossing her arms in front of her.
He leaned forward and offered her the damp cloth. “There’s no need to fear me. I willna harm ye.”
She accepted the square of plaid and wiped it across the curve of her neck, remembering with a shudder the soldiers who’d pursued her.
The warrior retrieved a leather bladder from the saddle of his horse and offered it to her. “Here, drink this. ’Twill calm ye.”
Eager 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. “Hmph.” He dismounted, tangled a foot in the stirrup and nearly crashed to the ground. A litany of curses rattled under his breath.
The big warrior’s bushy red brows shot up and he exploded into laughter. “Well, ’tis plain whose arrow struck whom.” Iain’s glare silenced him, but mirth still danced in his eyes.
“I found her in the forest.” Iain tethered his steed and turned toward his kinsmen. “Her mount was lame.”
“You killed him!” she said.”
It had to be done. There was—”
“He was a valuable gelding. I could have sav—”
“Silence!”
A chill shot through her. Iain Mackintosh was not a boy anymore. She’d do well to remember that. Her situation here was precarious at best.
Ignoring her, Iain turned toward his burly, red-haired kinsman. “Grant soldiers, a dozen or so. Chasin’ her.”
Surprise registered on the faces of both warriors. They exchanged glances, then studied her with renewed interest, their eyes drawn to her torn and bloodied gown. Her cheeks flamed. She pulled the ragged edges of her bodice together, but did not look away.
“Are ye hurt, lady?” the gentle one asked her.
“Nay,” she replied, “just…cold.”
The two men stepped toward her, each fumbling to unwrap his plaid. With a sharp look Iain stayed their hands. The one with the gentle eyes and puppyish face shrugged, then coaxed her to the fire. Iain watched them, but did not follow.
She held her hands out to the crackling blaze and fought off the chill of the night. Her mind raced, but one thing was clear—Iain was a Mackintosh, and she was a Grant.
“Enemies,” she breathed.
“Eh?” The young warrior eyed her, his brows furrowed in question.
“Oh, ’tis nothing. I was just…”
A leg of venison lay spitted across the fire. Her mouth watered at the delicious smell of the roasting meat. Her stomach growled again, loud enough for the warrior who sat beside her to hear. He cut a portion from off the spit and divided it between them. She thanked him for his kindness and set upon the juicy slab as if it were her first meal in months.
They ate in silence and, once finished, she turned her attention to him. She was amused by his blush and tentative return of her glance. He was as tall as Iain, but slighter, with thoughtful brown eyes and a calm demeanor.
She smiled. “My name is Alena.”
“’Tis an honor, Lady Alena. I’m called Will.”
The name suited him. She was about to tell him she was not a lady, only a stablemaster’s daughter, but thought better of revealing any more about herself than necessary.
She gestured toward the burly warrior standing with Iain at the edge of the firelight. “And your friend?”
“That’s Hamish.”
“Hamish.” His most striking feature, other than his enormous size, was his wild mass of fire-bright hair. He had a thick red beard and hands the size of small hams. She remembered the mirth in his clear blue eyes and his bellowing laugh when Iain nearly tumbled from his horse. She liked him, this giant of a man.
“And the other?” She nodded at Iain.
“Oh. Iain, ye mean?”
She was right! She would have bet her life on it. She had, in fact. A tiny smile bloomed on her lips.
“He didna tell you his name?”
“Nay.” She arched a brow in question. “Iain…?”
“Mackintosh. The Mackintosh. Our laird.”
“Laird?” This did not surprise her. “You speak so…frankly to him. He allows it?”
“Oh, aye. The three of us ha’ been friends since boyhood, since the old laird, Iain’s da, ever since he was—”
“Will!”
Both of them froze. She looked up to see Iain scowling at them from the opposite side of the fire. Her mind had been on Will’s explanation and she hadn’t heard Iain approach.
“We’ll rest here tonight.” Iain’s eyes drifted to the spit over the fire and his expression softened. “What’s for supper? Venison?”
“Aye,” Hamish replied as he came up behind him. He rested one huge paw on his laird’s shoulder. “Some of us were no’ as lucky in the hunt as others.” The warrior winked at her, and she suppressed a smile.
Iain grumbled something under his breath and shrugged off his kinsman’s hand. They both sat down to eat. Iain seemed at ease here at the loch, much more so than when they’d been riding.
She realized they must be miles from Clan Grant land. They’d ridden steadily upward through the larch wood, farther into the Highlands, and away from Glenmore Castle. How would she ever get back? Her parents would be worried sick.
Midsummer’s Day.
Reynold’s words throbbed in her head like a drumbeat. Nay, she would not think on it. Not now. Not yet.
Suddenly chilled, she stretched her arms toward the fire. Her shredded bodice gaped, and she moved quickly to cover herself. Across the campfire Iain watched her as he feasted on what remained of the venison leg.
“Lady Alena,” Will whispered. “I’ve a sewing needle and a bit o’ thread. Comes in handy all too often in the rough. Would ye like to borrow it? For your gown, I mean?”
“Aye.” She smiled at him. “My thanks.”
Will dipped into his sporran and pulled out a square of cloth pierced by a needle trailing a goodly amount of thread. “This should do.” He handed it to her.
To her surprise, Iain stood and unpinned the clan brooch that held his plaid in place over his shoulder. He unfurled a long length of the hunting tartan and cut it away with his dirk, then tucked the rest into his belt. “Here, lass,” he said, and tossed it over the campfire into her lap. “Ye can wear this whilst ye do your sewing.”
The gesture touched her. She was reminded of him as a boy, how one minute he seemed not to care about her and the next, well…
She held his gaze for a moment, then thanked him and rose, turning toward the cover of the forest. Before she could take a step, he said, “No’ that way. Go down by the loch. ’Tis…safer.”
She read something in his eyes, a stoic sort of honor she remembered well. She knew then that he meant to protect her, even though he knew not who she was.
At the water’s edge she dropped Iain’s plaid and wrestled with the laces of her gown. The garment was bloodstained, mud-caked, and ripped in a dozen places. But ’twas her mother’s gift to her, and she would salvage it somehow.
She worked the laces free and pulled the fine silk over her head. Draping the gown carefully over the standing stone marking the clearing twenty yards away, she turned toward the water and drew a heady breath of night air.
A stiff breeze penetrated the thin fabric of her shift. Feelings of relief and freedom washed over her. She was safe here, with Iain, as long as he didn’t discover her identity. She must think of a plan, but not tonight.
Exhaustion consumed her and she wavered slightly on her feet. Best get this over with quickly. She tore a strip of cloth from the hem of her shift and dipped it into the frigid water. ’Twas the briefest, coldest sponge bath of her life. She grabbed Iain’s plaid and wrapped it around her. ’Twas warm from his body and held the strong male scent of him.
She felt herself drifting and succumbed to the dreamy exhaustion. Sinking to the ground, she drew her knees up close to her chest and rested her back against the ancient standing stone marking the path back to their camp. She pulled Iain’s plaid tight and nestled her cheek against its warm folds. Just for a moment she would rest her eyes.
Visions flashed bright against the midnight backdrop of her eyelids: white-blond hair against a bloodred field, ice-blue eyes cold as death. She shuddered at the brink of sleep, then let go the awareness of her surroundings and drifted deeper.
In her mind’s eye she saw the boy, his wild hair and tear-streaked face, the jeweled dagger clutched to his heart. The image faded, and in its place crouched a silver cat, sleek and muscular. And finally the man, the warrior, his indigo eyes burning into the very depths of her soul.
She sighed as a gentle hand cupped her cheek. She was lifted free of her burdens and carried home, warm and safe in his arms.
Through slitted eyes Alena perceived the gray dawn. Heat radiated from behind her, and she backed against the solid warmth. A comforting weight, hot as a firebrand, moved over the curve of her waist and came to rest just below her breast.
She felt…wonderful.
Her eyes flew open. The campfire directly in front of her was reduced to smoldering ash, and the bundled forms of two sleepers lay flanking it. A shock of red hair poked out from one of the plaids. Of course! Hamish and Will.
And Iain!
Alena lifted the plaid and saw Iain’s bare arm draped over her. She felt the heat of his body at her back, the thin fabric of her shift the only barrier between her skin and his. He snored lightly, his hot breath ruffling her hair. Taking care not to wake him, she wriggled out from beneath his heavy arm and scrambled to her feet.
On a nearby rock she spied her gown, folded neatly and covered with a square of plaid to protect it from the morning dew. She shook out the pale yellow silk and saw it had been mended with dozens of small, straight stitches, and had been carefully cleaned of the mud and blood that had covered it the night before. She glanced at the sleeping pile of plaid that was Will and smiled.
Wasting no time, she pulled the gown over her head and laced it as best she could. Her hair was a tangle of curls in the mist. She leaned forward, letting her thick mane hang nearly to the ground, and combed it through with her fingers.
A minute later she gasped as two large boots came into view through the honey-wheat curtain. She whipped her head back and found herself face-to-face with Iain. Her eyes widened.
He stood before her with hands on hips, studying her, it seemed, with no small amount of curiosity. She tipped her chin and met his gaze, determined to not let him intimidate her.
“They’re green,” he said plainly. “I hadna thought so last night.”
“What are green?”
“Your eyes.” He stared at her for a moment then turned back toward the fire ring.
Gooseflesh rose on her skin, but not from fear.
She excused herself and returned to the loch to gain some privacy for her morning ablutions. The sun rose over the treetops in the east and cast thin fingers of light across the mist blanketing the water.
