“Iain,” she said, measuring her next words. “Your father slew Grant’s son, Henry. Many witnessed the deed.”
“Nay!” He shot to his knees and pulled her toward him. “’Tis a lie. ’Tis some foul treachery. John Grant was my da’s friend. He would never harm his son. Never!” For a moment he gripped her shoulders so tightly she feared he would crush her.
She breathed at last and worked to quell her emotions. Time was short. The light grew white and flat around them. Soon she’d be missed from the stable. ’Twas dangerous, her being here with him. If someone should find them together—
Iain fidgeted and something winked a brilliant green from under the plaid bunched at his waist. Fascination overpowered her anxiety. “What is that?” She pointed at the object.
He fumbled in the folds of his plaid and, to her astonishment, withdrew from his belt a magnificent jeweled dagger.
“Jesu,” she breathed, marveling at the weapon’s hilt. ’Twas crafted of silver and gold, a dozen precious gems embedded in its intricate design. The hairs on her nape prickled as she recognized dried blood crusting on the wicked-looking blade. “Where on earth did you get it?”
Iain laid the dagger at her feet. “Ye must hide it for me until I can return.”
“Return? But, where are you going?”
“I dinna know. Away. We must leave Findhorn Castle. ’Twill no’ be safe to stay. There are too few of us left to defend it.”
“Nay—you cannot!” She grasped the front of his mud-streaked shirt. “What of your clan, the alliance?”
Why just yesterday he’d told her of his father’s dream of peace, to align four Highland clans: his own—Mackintosh, his mother’s people—Davidson, and Macgillivray and MacBain. Clan Chattan, he’d called it. Clan of the Cats.
Her clan was not among them. ’Twould never be. Not now.
“There will be no alliance. Clan Chattan is no more.” He took her hands in his, projecting a quiet strength that was almost frightening. The arrogant boy she’d known was gone. “I am The Mackintosh now. I must protect my mother and my brothers.”
“Who would dare harm them?”
“Grant.” He all but spat the word.
“Nay, he would not! The laird is a kind man. He—” Iain’s eyes narrowed and she swallowed her words.
“Aye, well…Perhaps not him, but others in his household.”
She knew of whom he spoke and shuddered at the thought. Last night in the stable yard she’d seen the bloodstained weapons and ruined livery, the frothing mounts, their eyes wild in the aftermath of some hideous carnage.
Without warning, a chill wind blasted through the copse. Hundreds of crisped leaves rained down on them in a shower of gold and cinnabar from the larch limbs above their heads. Absently, Iain plucked one from her tangled hair.
The mist was lifting. She pulled the edges of her cloak together and looked skyward, gauging the time by the rapidly growing whiteness of the morning sky. “When shall you leave?”
“Soon.” He looked away and he, too, seemed to measure what time they had left. “Today.”
“Nay!”
For months they’d met, once each sennight, here at their secret place. No one knew of their trysts, neither his clan nor hers. Why, her father would tan her hide did he know how far she rode from home. And yet, more than once she’d had the strangest feeling they weren’t alone here. Even now.
“When shall I see you again?”
“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,