Kitabı oku: «The Mackintosh Bride», sayfa 3
Alena gazed at the ancient standing stone and tried to recall exactly when and how she’d ended up half naked, rolled in a plaid with Iain Mackintosh.
The foursome burst out of the larch wood into the open terrain: a rugged and rocky carpet of green sprayed with clumps of late spring wildflowers. The air was fresh and full of the scent of the Highland heather blanketing the hillsides in amethyst waves. ’Twas lovely, and reminded her of the days she and Iain had spent together when he was twelve and she eight.
So very long ago, she reminded herself.
They rested awhile by a small brook, taking a meal of oakcakes and cheese. Their horses grazed nearby, contented, nibbling at the sweet, wild grasses.
Alena walked over and studied the roan, running her hands down each leg and along the stallion’s well-muscled flanks. He was a fine warhorse, and well cared for. English Shire bred with native Clydesdale, she suspected. She examined the other two mounts and found them to be the same. Not as powerful, perhaps, as Iain’s steed, but excellent warhorses all the same. Whoever had bred and cared for them knew what they were doing.
Standing back, she looked them over again, hands on hips, and nodded her approval. Iain’s eyes bored into her back. She straightened her spine and faced him.
“If our mounts meet with your approval, Lady, we’ll be on our way.” He mounted and offered her his hand.
Waking that morning in his arms had unnerved her. The way their bodies fit together, the way she’d felt in his embrace…Nay, they weren’t children anymore.
She ignored Iain’s proffered hand and moved toward Will who was strapping a cloth bag of provisions onto his black gelding. “May I ride with you this afternoon, Will?”
“O’—o’ course, Lady. I’d be most—” The words died in his throat as Iain urged the roan toward them and scooped Alena into his lap.
Jesu, not again! She kicked and struggled, but he held her fast. “Must you do that?”
He spurred the stallion up the hill as she wrestled to position herself astride the horse. Her gown was twisted and rucked to her knees, exposing her ankles and calves to his view. She quickly smoothed the thin silk to cover herself.
Each time she tried to lean forward, away from him, Iain roughly pulled her back against his chest. By God, she refused to be held in his lap like a bairn! “I am perfectly capable of sitting a horse without assistance, thank you.”
“Ye might fall off,” he replied evenly.
She bristled at his comment. “I’m the best rider, man or woman, of my clan.”
“Oh, aye? And what clan is that?”
“That’s not your business.” She pulled forward again, out of his grip.
His thick forearm closed around her, just under her breasts, and jerked her firmly back against his chest. “Oh, but it is my business, lass. And dinna fool yourself. I’ll find out who ye are.” His voice was chillingly calm. The skin on her nape prickled.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Home. And there I intend to keep ye until I know what your connection is to Grant.”
Her heart fluttered and her mouth went dry. Jesu, what was she going to do? And where, exactly, was home?
A while later they topped a bald ridge, and she marveled at the view. The larch forest lay far below them. Beyond it was a great glen. In the distance a thin line snaked silver down the valley: the river Spey, its meandering path leading north toward Glenmore Castle—and Reynold Grant.
At least now she knew where she was.
Her eyes glassed as she remembered the events of the previous day. It seemed a lifetime ago she had fled. Her parents would be frantic by now. Somehow she must get word to them she was safe. Now that she’d had time to think about it, she realized her father would have never sought a match for her with their new laird. Nay, this was Reynold’s doing alone. But why?
She wiped at her eyes, pushed the thoughts from her mind, and focused instead on the beauty of the Highlands and the man who held her close to his beating heart. There would be time to sort it all out. Midsummer’s Day was weeks away.
Iain released his grip on her and struggled with something behind her. The stallion fidgeted beneath them as a whoosh of oatmeal cloth cut across her peripheral vision. She turned in the saddle to see Iain, bare-chested, jamming his woolen shirt into a leather bag that hung from the horse’s livery.
“It’s bluidy hot,” he said, and pulled her back against him, spurring the roan upward and south along the ridge line.
It dawned on her that he was leading them farther away from both Mackintosh and Grant land. Where on earth were they going?
Will and Hamish lagged behind after stopping to transfer a good-size stag—Will’s prize from yesterday’s hunt—from Hamish’s horse to Will’s.
The afternoon grew warm, and she lifted her face to the sun. Already her skin was bronzed from weeks working outdoors with her father’s new mounts. A light spray of freckles barely noticeable in the winter months appeared across her nose each summer, much to her mother’s vexation. She smiled at the thought.
Growing up a lady’s maid at the French court, Madeleine Todd had definite ideas of how a lady should dress and how she should behave. Alena had shunned most of her mother’s well-meaning attempts to transform her into such a creature, preferring instead the freedom of loose clothing and a simple coiffure for her work at the stable.
Reaching behind to her nape, she gathered her mass of thick hair and pulled it free. She’d been sitting on it. Iain pulled her back against his chest and their bare skin connected. Immediately she realized her mistake. She’d forgotten the dipping neckline at the back of her gown.
He was pure heat and the chestnut curls of his chest hair were slightly damp, sending a wave of sensation through her like nothing she’d ever experienced. She was conscious of his muscular thighs pressed up against her buttocks, gently undulating with the motion of the stallion beneath them. The thin cloth of her garments and the light wool of his plaid did little to shield her from the inferno of his body.
There was something she must know, and now seemed as good a time as any to ask him. “Iain?”
He grunted in response. ”Last night, at the loch. I—I don’t remember…”
“Oh,” he said, seeming to know what she meant. “I found ye asleep by the water and carried ye back to the fire.”
She recalled her dream, and a pleasant shiver coursed through her. “But…when I woke up, I was—you were…”
“Aye, well, ye didna expect I’d take the chance of ye stealin’ off in the night, did you?”
Nay, she did not. ’Twas clear he wasn’t about to let her go anywhere. For now, at least.
A few hours later they passed into another small forest, less densely wooded than the lands to the northeast. The stallion fell into a well-worn path and increased his speed. Of his own accord he broke into a gallop. Iain did nothing to slow his pace. They flew past pine and laurel and up over a broad, green hillside, the steed pushing harder as they gained the top.
“Jesu!” She sucked in a breath.
A great lodge of timber and stone loomed before them, its chimneys billowing a smoky welcome to the weary travelers. ’Twas big as a castle, twenty rooms at least, positioned at the top of a hill and surrounded by a thick rock wall. She could see the tops of cottages and other buildings peeking out above the stones.
“What is this place?”
“Braedûn Lodge,” Iain said. “Home of my uncle, Alistair Davidson, and my aunt Margaret.”
Of course! Iain had often spoken of his mother when they were children. Ellen. Yes, that was her name. Ellen Davidson Mackintosh. She must have fled here with her sons when Iain’s father was killed and the Grants laid claim to Findhorn Castle.
Iain directed the stallion into the great courtyard. Kinsmen shouted words of welcome to the three warriors as they approached. She noticed the bronze clan badges they wore in their bonnets, and the Davidson plaid, different from the Mackintosh colors Iain and his kinsmen sported.
Their smiles and greetings turned to wide-mouthed looks of surprise as they noticed her perched atop the roan, Iain’s arm wrapped possessively ’round her waist.
The spectators made way for the stallion who seemed to know exactly where he was going. She spotted a large stable and training yard ahead, set just off from the lodge. Iain’s steed made for the gate.
As the riders passed the main entrance to the lodge, she spied a young woman standing on the steps leading up to the great door. Dressed simply and clutching a basket of wildflowers to her breast, she was a tiny thing with delicate features and dark hair. Alena guessed her to be sixteen or so, the plumpness of childhood still noticeable in her peaches-and-cream face.
Will guided his mount to the steps and stopped. The girl beamed a smile at him, radiant as summer sunshine. His face flushed scarlet as he returned her gaze. With a nod of his head he indicated the red stag strapped to the back of his horse. Its broad rack of antlers was impressive, even to Alena. The girl voiced her approval, and Will puffed up in the saddle, nearly bursting with pride.
Hamish and Iain were still chuckling when their mounts halted just inside the stable yard. Two lads sprang forward and the warriors dropped their reins.
An older man with silver hair, dressed in a Mackintosh plaid and leather riding boots, stood waiting for them to dismount. His bright eyes were riveted to hers. Strange. She almost felt she knew him. ’Twas silly. She’d never seen him or this place before.
Iain began to lift her from the saddle. Sweet Jesu, not again! She struggled out of his grip. “Will you please un-hand me! I’ve dismounted hundreds of horses under my own power.”
He threw up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right! As ye wish, vixen.”
She caught that last word, mumbled under his breath, and shot him a look that could freeze water.
He threw a leg over the back of the roan and dropped to the ground. He glared up at her for a moment with those stormy eyes, then turned to the silver-haired man and softened his expression. “Duncan.”
“Laird.” The man smiled warmly. “Welcome home.”
Iain clapped his kinsman on the back and strode toward the horse trough butted up against the stable where Hamish was already washing the road dust from his burly arms.
Alena was still mounted. The old man, Duncan, approached her, offering a strong, leathery arm. He had a kind face that was weathered with years of work in the sun. She smiled and leaned against him for support as she slid from the stallion’s back.
Their gazes locked. He grinned, and a strange premonition washed over her.
“So, Alena Todd, what brings ye to Braedûn Lodge?”
Chapter Four
There was no reasoning with the man.
Alena paced the wooden floor of the richly furnished bed chamber and fought to control her anger. Before she’d had a chance to recover from Duncan’s startling recognition of her, she’d been whisked off to the main house and installed in a room abovestairs.
She’d protested the choice of accommodation, but Iain would have none of it. It made much more sense for her to sleep in the stable, she’d argued. He’d laughed and told her he wanted her where he could keep an eye on her.
What was she, a prisoner?
The room was beautiful. She ran a hand over the brightly colored stitches of a hanging tapestry. A fire blazed in the hearth and a large wooden tub sat before it, presumably for her bath. ’Twas a luxury afforded to few, and she had to admit ’twas preferable to a frigid dunk in the stable yard water trough. Even now, Hetty, the young woman she’d seen on the steps talking to Will, was in the kitchen seeing to the hot water.
A large window looked out over the stable yard where Duncan inspected the hooves of the mounts they had just ridden in on. Two stable lads, and another man who looked a younger version of Duncan, wiped down the lathered coats of the three horses. Duncan stood back and barked instructions. ’Twas as she’d suspected. Duncan was the stablemaster.
How on earth did he know her name?
The door to her chamber opened, forcing her thoughts to the task at hand. Hetty directed two men with steaming buckets toward the tub. Behind them marched an old woman, a Mackintosh plaid draped over her hunched shoulders. She stood with hands on hips, eyeing the men as they poured the water into the vessel, making sure, it seemed, they didn’t spill a drop.
When they’d finished, the men left the chamber and Hetty unrolled the heavy deerskin window covering to keep out the breeze and ensure their privacy.
She supposed she should be friendly, though the old woman did not seem overly warm. She risked a smile. “My name is Alena.”
“Aye, Lady, so I’ve been told. I’m Edwina. Now strip off and get into this tub before the water goes cold.” She opened a leather pouch and emptied it into the steaming water. A burst of fragrance filled the air.
Hetty slipped behind her and, with expert fingers, released her laces. “’Tis a lovely gown, Lady.”
All this formality made her uncomfortable. “Please, won’t you both call me Alena.”
Edwina arched a brow. Hetty pulled the bedraggled gown over Alena’s head. The old woman inspected it with more than casual interest. “It’s a wreck,” she decreed. “What were ye doin’ in it, sloppin’ pigs?”
She recalled with revulsion Reynold Grant’s hands splayed across the fine yellow silk. “Something like that.”
“Weel, ye’ll need some new clothes. This is past savin’.” Edwina tossed the gown to the floor.
“Oh, nay!” she cried as she struggled out of her shift. “It’s very dear to me.”
Hetty retrieved it from the floor. “I’ll make it right for ye, Lady.”
“My thanks, Hetty.”
Edwina led her to the steaming tub. Alena stepped into it and was instantly bathed in its aromatic warmth. She sank into the deliciously hot water and closed her eyes.
Oh, ’twas heavenly. Two days hard travel and a night in the rough had taken its toll on her. Edwina stooped and began to lather her hair with soap. The scent of heather and rosemary permeated her senses. She succumbed to the old woman’s practiced ministrations and let her head go heavy in her hands.
But relaxation did not come. A score of unanswered questions whirled in her mind, and she knew she could not rest until some of them were answered. She decided to start with something innocuous. “What position have you in the household, Edwina?”
“I am—I was—maid and kinswoman to Lady Ellen Mackintosh.”
“Iain’s mother.”
“Aye.”
“You said was. Do you no longer serve her?”
“Nay. She’s dead. Now dunk.” Edwina pushed firmly on her head.
Alena held her breath and slipped below the surface to rinse the soap from her hair. She came up sputtering. Edwina scooted around to the side of the tub and began to scrub her arms.
“I’m sorry. When did it happen?”
“At Beltane.”
Barely a month ago. No wonder Iain seemed so irritable. She would remember to treat him more kindly.
She was curious about what had happened after the Mackintoshes fled their own lands. “Lady Mackintosh—she lived here with Iain?”
“Aye, and the other two lads, as well. We came to Braedûn Lodge right after the—” Edwina met her questioning gaze with a hard look. “Lady Ellen was born here,” she said flatly.
“Oh, I see.”
Edwina scooted to end of the tub and started on her legs.
She decided to be bold. “And what of Findhorn Castle?”
“Held by the Grants these eleven years. Not a one lives there, but Grant soldiers surround the demesne, foulin’ the lands and waters with their filth. May they be damned to hell.”
Edwina was scrubbing the skin off her! Alena tucked her legs under her. “Och, sorry, my lady,” Edwina said, and continued with a more gentle hand. “I forgot myself, thinkin’ on those vermin.”
Vermin. So this is how it was. She’d been right to conceal her identity, after all.
“And how stands Iain?” She knew the answer, but voiced her question all the same. “Grant is his enemy?”
“That’s puttin’ it mildly. Reynold Grant killed his father. ’Twas a nasty piece o’ work, that.”
She had shared Iain’s anguish that chill, gray morning so very long ago. “Aye, it was,” she whispered.
“Eh?”
“Oh, I—” She’d best change the subject. “I understand this is the home of Iain’s uncle. Alistair, I think he said his name was.”
“Aye, Alistair Davidson is laird here. And a finer man ye’ll ne’er meet.” Edwina held out a large towel.
Alena stepped from the tub and into it. “I didn’t see him when we arrived.”
“Nay. He and Lady Margaret are away on business. They’re no’ expected back for a fortnight.”
Edwina completed her vigorous rubbing, and Alena stepped from the towel, her skin pink and glowing in the firelight. Hetty held out a clean shift and helped it over her head.
The girl indicated a small stool by the hearth. “Come sit by the fire, Lady, and I’ll comb out your hair.”
Edwina hurried toward the door. “Supper’s in an hour. I’ll send up a gown for ye to wear.”
“My thanks, Edwina.” Alena turned to smile at her, but the old woman had already gone.
Hetty seemed intent on staying, despite Alena’s protests that she needed no help with her hair. Finally she relented, and sat on the stool as instructed. Hetty’s gentle strokes coupled with the warmth of the fire made her sleepy.
She was exhausted, if truth be told, and a menagerie of random thoughts jumbled their way through her mind. She fought the weariness and sat tall, willing her eyes stay open.
Hetty began to hum an old lullaby. For some reason Alena was reminded of Will, the gentle warrior whom Iain Mackintosh called friend. “Hetty,” she said. The comb stopped in midstroke. “Do you have a sweetheart?” The comb pulled, and Alena cried out.
“Och, sorry.” Hetty resumed the long, gentle strokes. “Not a sweetheart, exactly. But there is a lad I fancy.”
“It’s Will, isn’t it?”
The comb pulled again. “How did ye know, Lady?”
“I saw the way he looked at you on the steps when we arrived.” She felt Hetty’s fingers tremble as the girl drew the comb through her hair.
“Really? D’ye think he took much notice of me?”
“Oh, I’d say he did. Will’s a fine man.”
Hetty stared into the fire with huge, liquid eyes, oblivious to all else. “He’s a Mackintosh warrior—one of the laird’s closest kinsmen.” She sighed and turned her eyes on Alena. “D’ye think there’s any hope for me, Lady?”
Alena smiled to herself, the image of a besotted Will fresh in her memory. “Oh, I think there’s more than hope.”
Hetty placed the brush on a chest near the bed. “I’ll leave ye, now, to get some rest before supper.”
As soon as the door closed, Alena dragged herself to the bed and collapsed into the soft pile of furs. She was exhausted, but didn’t think she could sleep.
Edwina’s words troubled her. Grant soldiers surround the demesne…May they be damned to hell.
Alena hadn’t known about the soldiers at Findhorn. Over the years she had questioned her father about the Mackintoshes, but Robert Todd had given her only vague answers that held little information.
It must be terrible for Iain—his home overrun by her kinsmen. To her knowledge he’d done nothing to reclaim it. Was it any wonder? Reynold’s army numbered near a thousand men. From what she knew, few Mackintosh warriors remained. She’d seen only a handful of Iain’s clan here at Braedûn Lodge. Perhaps there were others in the north.
It dawned on her that Iain would be signing his own death warrant should he challenge Reynold Grant. Her stomach tightened, and she buried her face in the soft furs.
There was no use denying it. She loved him still. The truth of it raced hot through her veins.
She recalled Iain’s first words to her that morning. They’re green. Your eyes. He had seen her, held her, in her shift. The memory of his arm around her waist and his breath, hot on the back of her neck, lit tiny sparks at her very core.
She should tell him the truth.
About her, about Grant’s threat to her family, and the wedding he planned that she could see no way out of. Oh, she longed to tell him. But ’twould only force him into the thick of her troubles. What would he do, then? Perhaps nothing. Why would he?
He’d broken his vow. He’d never returned.
Her insides twisted tighter. She meant naught to him. A childhood playmate, no more. He might not even remember her. After all, she had never once given him her true name.
Oh, but how he’d looked at her yesterday when he sponged the dirt and blood from her skin, his eyes full of tenderness and concern.
What if he did care?
Nay, she would not tell him. She would not risk his life on her behalf. For truth, what could he do? She must deal with Reynold Grant on her own. Tomorrow she would think on it.
Her mind drifted, and she burrowed deeper into the warmth of the furs.
Music. Nay, birds. Larks. Alena’s eyelids fluttered, and she squinted against the sunlight breaching the window.
Hetty tied off the rolled deerskin drape. “Did ye sleep well, Lady?”
Judging by the intensity of the daylight, Alena knew ’twas well past dawn. “What’s the time?” she said, and pulled herself from the bed.
“Ye’ve missed breakfast, but I saved ye some ale and a bit of cheese.” Hetty nodded her head in the direction of the hearth, where a small tray sat atop a table.
“My thanks.”
“Ye were sleepin’ so soundly last night, like a babe. Edwina said not to wake ye. Iain—the laird, I mean—kept askin’ to see ye, but Edwina wouldna allow it.”
“Did he?” The butterflies in her stomach gave way to knots when it occurred to her that Iain might have found her out—who she was, and why she was running.
“Aye, he did, and he wasna happy when Edwina stood and blocked the door and wouldna let him enter.”
So, the old woman was kinder than first impressions would have led her to believe. “Please tell Edwina I thank her for preserving my…privacy.”
Hetty smiled, then opened a trunk at the foot of the bed and retrieved a gown of pale green wool. She laid it on the bed and turned to help Alena into it.
This was really all too much. She was not used to having someone dress and undress her. “Hetty, I really don’t need you to fawn over me. I can dress myself.”
The girl looked as if she’d been wounded. “Ye are not pleased with me, Lady?” Her doe eyes glassed.
“Oh, Hetty.” She clasped the girl’s hands in hers. “I’m very pleased with you. It’s just that…well, I’m not used to so much attention.”
Hetty’s face brightened. “Oh, ’tis no trouble. I like doin’ for ye. Edwina says I must take good care of ye or Iain—I mean the laird—will be angry.”
“Will he?” A smile tugged at her mouth.
“Oh, aye. Ye should have seen him last eve, worried about ye like a mam frettin’ over a bairn.”
She felt herself flush and pulled the gown over her head to hide the evidence from Hetty.
“’Tis lovely on you.”
Alena shrugged off the compliment. She’d never thought much about such things. Most of her days were spent in breeks and leather boots. “Whose gown is it?”
“It belonged to Lady Ellen, when she was young.”
“Iain’s mother? Do you think I should be wearing her clothes? Wouldn’t Iain be angry?”
Hetty snatched the hairbrush from the table and pulled it through Alena’s hair. “Oh, nay. Edwina says the laird would find it charming.”
Charming? A question that had burned in her mind since her arrival, could no longer go unasked. “Wouldn’t it be better if Lady Ellen’s clothes were given to Iain’s wife?” She held her breath and waited for Hetty’s answer.
“Oh, nay, he’s not married. He doesna even keep a mistress.”
Her heart skipped a beat.
“Now, that Gilchrist—he’s another story, if ye take my meaning.” Hetty shot her a knowing look.
“Who is Gilchrist?”
“Gilchrist Mackintosh, Iain’s younger brother. And a handsomer lad ye’ve ne’er seen. Except for my Will, of course.”
Both of them jumped as a crash of timber sounded from the stable yard. All at once men were shouting over the angry snorts and distressed cries of a horse. Alena moved quickly to the window and looked out.
A black stallion rampaged through the yard, rearing in anger against a training tether pulled tight around his neck. Duncan, and a man who looked a younger version of him, were trying, without success, to calm the distressed beast.
She was shocked to see a lad of fourteen or fifteen lurking dangerously close to the rearing steed. Duncan waved him off but the lad would not give ground.
“Who is that boy, Hetty?”
“Saints preserve us! That’s Conall Mackintosh, the laird’s youngest brother.”
The stallion reared again, and the boy inched closer. Without another thought Alena shot from the room, barefoot, raced down the staircase and burst outside. The black reared again. The boy ducked under the steed’s hooves and tried to grab the bridle.
“Conall!” The voice was Iain’s, but he was nowhere in sight. “Move away, lad!”
The boy ignored his brother’s command. The stallion bucked as Duncan jerked on the tether. A crowd gathered around them, frightening the beast into greater frenzy. Conall moved in and reached for the bridle.
She knew the steed would rear.
“Boy, you’re too close!” She shot forward and grabbed him. Conall stumbled backward, and they both tripped to the ground. For one heart-stopping moment she thought she’d been too late. The stallion crashed to earth, his powerful hooves landing inches from the boy’s head.
There was no time. She could see in the stallion’s eyes that he would rear again. She scrambled to her feet, unsheathed her dirk and cut the training tether. He was free. In a smooth motion that was second nature to her, she grasped the steed’s mane and pulled herself onto his bare back. A split second later he lurched ahead.
There was only the one thing she did well, and this was it.
Without benefit of tether or bridle, she guided the black in a wide circuit around the stable yard. The tensed muscles of his neck relaxed as she stroked his sweat-drenched coat and whispered words of comfort into his ear. In seconds he’d calmed to her voice and touch.
Duncan scooped Conall from the dirt and bore him safely out of the way. She glanced briefly at the old man and shrugged.
“Weel, I’ll be damned,” he said, and stroked his silvered beard.
This was not how she’d intended to start her day.
She slowed the stallion to a walk. ’Twas then she noticed Iain standing alone at the stable yard gate, the crowd parted around him. She had the distinct impression he was not happy with her actions.
His face flamed red as an autumn apple. His eyes were live coals. Even at ten paces she could see the tendons tightening in his neck.
Jesu, what would he have had her do? Stand by helpless? She met his gaze, and what she read there unnerved her far more than had the incident with the stallion. She was barely aware of Duncan helping her down from the horse and leading him away.
In three steps Iain covered the distance between them and stood glaring down at her, hands fisted at his sides. She forced herself to not move. He was so close she could feel his breath on her face.
Before she could say anything, he 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.”
