“Don’t touch me!
I’m not one of your whores.”
She fought the tears welling in her eyes. What a little fool she was! Why should she care with whom he lay?
Oh, but she did care.
And then he laughed. A hearty laugh the likes of which she’d never heard from him. She whirled on him, her face blazing. He shook his head and his laughter died. “My whores? Think ye I went, as well? To Inverness to rut with that chattel?”
“Didn’t you?”
“Nay.” His smile faded.
Her head pounded and her thoughts whirled in confusion. “But…I thought—”
“Nay, lass.” He reached for her. She did not resist as he pulled her into his arms.
She looked up at him and his expression softened. Warmth radiated from his body. Her hands moved instinctively to his chest.
His voice was a whisper. “What I desire lies not in Inverness…!”
The Mackintosh Bride
Harlequin Historical #576
Praise for Debra Lee Brown’s debut title
“In THE VIRGIN SPRING we are gifted with a remarkable story. The fast pace, filled with treachery, mystery and passion left me breathless. I am convinced this is the beginning of Ms. Brown’s climb as a bestselling author.…”
—Rendezvous
“Debra Lee Brown pens an enjoyable tale of intrigue and adventure.”
—Romantic Times Magazine
“THE VIRGIN SPRING should be read by all lovers of Scottish romances.”
—Affaire de Coeur
#575 SHOTGUN GROOMS
Susan Mallery & Maureen Child
#577 THE GUNSLINGER’S BRIDE
Cheryl St.John
#578 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY
Jacqueline Navin
The Mackintosh Bride
Debra Lee Brown
Available from Harlequin Historicals and
DEBRA LEE BROWN
The Virgin Spring #506
Ice Maiden #549
The Mackintosh Bride #576
To Sherri Browning,
Barbara Simmons and Michelle Collier-Johns
With love and heartfelt thanks
Contents
Prologue
The Highlands of Scotland, 1192
The girl tethered her pony in the forest and made her way on foot to the hidden copse. Shrouded in dawn’s mist it seemed a sinister place, so changed from the afternoons she and Iain had lazed by the brook and basked in the sunlight streaming through the trees.
She moved cautiously over fallen branches and dried leaves, concealing her approach. A feeling of dread washed over her as she crouched low and parted the gorse bushes that stood like sentinels at the entrance to the thicket.
Jesu, he was here! He was safe!
Iain lay sprawled at the water’s edge, bedraggled and still as death, his plaid wrapped carelessly around him. Infused with fear and relief, she crept forward and knelt beside him. His face, so gentle in sleep, was streaked with dirt and blood breached by small rivulets of still-damp tears.
The horrors of the night before came crashing in on her. Her heart went out to him and her own eyes welled. Fighting tears, she focused on the image engraved on his silver clan brooch: a cat reared up on hind legs, teeth and claws bared at the ready.
’Twas like him—fearless and brave—yet unlike him in its hard demeanor. Iain was different, tender, unlike any boy she’d known. On impulse she grazed a hand across his brow.
“Mackintosh! To arms!” He sprang into a crouch, nearly knocking her over. When his wild eyes found hers, he relaxed.
“A-are you hurt?” She reached for his bloodstained plaid.
“Nay!” He pulled away. “Ye shouldna be here, girl.” His reprimand stung, more so as he wouldn’t meet her gaze. He slumped back to the ground like one of her rag dolls.
She longed to comfort him, but knew not how. “I came as soon as I heard.”
He stared into the mist, his face twisted with pain. “My father is dead—murdered—by the Grants. I couldna save him. I—I wanted to, but I couldna.” His tears ran fresh and he fisted his hands at his sides, his knuckles white with tension.
Risking