His Forgotten Highland Bride (Clan MacPherson #2)

Chapter One

Scottish Highlands

No word, English or Gaelic, could adequately describe the amount of trouble Brenna Innes was in. Nudging her black warhorse faster, she prayed it wasn’t as late as she thought. But even the gray sky could not hide the muted glow of the sun hanging much too low to the western horizon.

This day, of all days, her absence would be noticed, for the man she’d be marrying on the morrow had most certainly already arrived. Had she slept soundly the night before, she might not have dozed off by the loch for what now seemed to be a large part of the day.

She slowed only slightly as she took the gate that stood open for her.

Pulling her horse to a stop, Brenna realized it was far worse than she’d expected.

The bailey was filled with her parents and their guests staring at her.

There’d be no opportunity to sneak in the side door by the kitchens to get to her room to wash and change.

With the sudden absence of wind rushing past her ears, she was struck with deadly silence, interrupted only by her sister’s gasp, followed by her mother’s whispered, “Good God in heaven,” in direct opposition to the handsome, blond man who cursed, “What the devil?”

Brenna was sure he wasn’t speaking of her horse, Brimstone, when questioning the devil.

He was indeed referring to her. What a horrible impression she’d made on her intended.

Her booted feet made a soft thud on the bricks as she slid down unassisted and handed the reins to her colossal stallion off to a gaping groom.

Most of her unruly brown hair had liberated itself from the messy plait she’d had it in.

Running a nervous hand over it, she was jabbed in the thumb by a stick she quickly tossed aside.

Giving up on straightening her hair, she slid her damp palms over the buttery leather of her braes.

Because, of course, she hadn’t been riding in a gown.

It was so much more humiliating to be seen for the first time by one’s betrothed while wearing men’s clothing.

Her father, the laird of the Innes clan, would no doubt think this was some stubborn attempt to avoid the marriage he’d hastily arranged for her, but in truth, she was eager for the match. Or, instead, she was eager to leave Innes House.

She’d hoped for the chance to cast aside her former reputation of being the wild, younger daughter of the Innes laird and start anew somewhere no one knew her.

Now, it would seem she’d ruined her chance at appearing anything but a hellion in front of her groom.

Brenna’s sister, Hannah, was the picture of perfection with her silky, russet waves and green eyes.

She chuckled endearingly as she rushed forth and snatched a leaf from Brenna’s tunic.

“Wherever have you been, sister?” she asked loud enough for everyone to hear. “Did a rival clan capture ye? Mayhap pirates?” Hannah’s jest earned a chuckle from the guests. The petite woman could win over any crowd, even one suffering utter shock from Brenna’s chaotic entrance.

If they were already put off by this small example of Brenna’s recklessness, she worried there was no hope of them ever accepting her—not if they ever found out about her current title as fastest rider or how often she was found running.

Brenna disliked anything that happened slowly.

She had no patience to sit and read, and her embroidery was nothing but a mess of thread.

She needed to be moving. Except that was not the way of proper ladies. At least, that was what Hannah told her repeatedly.

Brenna wondered if her sister would even care if pirates had taken her. Somehow, such a situation would be twisted to be Brenna’s fault for allowing herself to be kidnapped.

Everything was Brenna’s fault. She wished she could cast off such an accusation as unfair, but it was best not to lie to oneself, so she owned the truth.

She was a right mess most days and a menace other days.

Things always seemed to get worse when she attempted decorum, as if a curse had been placed on her as a babe.

Oh, how she wished to believe in such things because then, at least, there would be an excuse.

And unlike with most things, this situation was completely Brenna’s fault.

Her mother, always the proper lady of the keep, clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “My daughter has just arrived. Shall we venture inside for refreshments while Brenna makes herself presentable?”

Presentable. She would be a happy soul if she could go the rest of her life without hearing that word.

In all of Brenna’s ten and nine years, she couldn’t remember when anyone had used that word to describe her.

Instead, it was a state she was constantly unable to achieve.

She looked over to the man she assumed was her bridegroom.

Two men were standing in formal plaids with brooches.

Brenna knew it was the laird of the Grants, and his grandson, her intended.

The three men behind them looked like retainers, so she was sure she was looking into her future husband’s sharp, brown eyes.

They’d be married to each other by this time tomorrow.

Swallowing loudly, she realized she’d not caught his name.

She only remembered her father referring to him as “the Grant heir” while her mother called him “a dear soul.” At the time, Brenna had assumed he suffered from some impairment.

But now she realized she was most likely the man’s impairment.

No matter. She was sure he wouldn’t know her name, either.

“Lady Brenna.” Her future husband offered a nod of respect in her direction. His lips were pulled up on one side in what she could only describe as a smirk.

Did he find her a person to be smirked at?

Did he think her amusing? Her fingers clenched as she refrained from reaching for her dirk and drawing his blood.

That behavior wouldn’t help her cause; neither would stabbing her intended.

It wouldn’t be deemed presentable by her mother.

Instead, she gazed at the lovely man. His golden, blond locks curled elegantly down to his shoulders, catching the day’s remaining sunlight and reflecting it in a high shine.

His warm, brown eyes took her in from her scuffed boots up to the messy nest of hair and possibly more twigs.

His stare, thorough as it was, gave no hint as to what he was thinking. When he’d finished his perusal, he looked back to her mother. Hannah, still at Brenna’s side, nudged her.

“What?” Brenna asked.

Her sister curtseyed and pulled Brenna along with her.

Ah, yes. He must think her a barbarian with no manners.

Brenna dropped lower than her sister. Everything between them was a competition, and she’d not be outdone.

If there was any advantage to wearing men’s clothing, it was to dip the lowest courtesy in all the lands.

She wished she’d been able to smirk at herself for such a foolish thought.

“Henry,” Hannah whispered as they rose. Bless her for helping Brenna through this devastating display. Hannah was unlikely to help her with anything, but perhaps Brenna was such an embarrassment that she’d even turned Hannah sweet.

“It is very nice to meet you, Henry.”

That deafening silence returned, and she heard her sister’s soft laughter behind her in the echo of nothingness. Desperation caused Brenna to drop her defenses.

“I say, who is Henry?” the old laird asked.

“I believe I am,” her groom said, turning to her parents. “Is the girl daft?” And then, back to his grandfather, he said, “We wouldn’t be the first clan tricked into an alliance with a deficient daughter. We should go.”

As Brenna stood close to them, ready to beg he not run off, she heard the older man’s whispered response.

“Ronan, you know why we must move forward with the match. Think of Ewan.”

Her intended, Ronan—not Henry—frowned at his grandsire and then narrowed his gaze on her again.

“Perhaps we may all retire to our chambers to wash and prepare for the last meal,” the elderly laird suggested.

Ronan gestured she should follow him into the keep. When he did the same to her sister, Hannah snaked her arm through Ronan’s and was now being properly escorted inside like a queen. Why hadn’t Brenna thought of this?

The only thing keeping Brenna from shoving Hannah away from her intended was the knowledge Hannah was also betrothed.

An elaborate ceremony was being planned for the nuptials between the eldest daughter of Laird Innes and the Laird of the MacIntosh clan in the most important alliance to grace the Highlands in centuries.

Meanwhile, Brenna’s offer was made only a few days ago, and she’d be handfasted in the morning without even the benefit of a new dress, for there had been no time.

Looking over her shoulder, Brenna saw her sister flirting with her intended.

Hannah managed to earn a few low rumbles of laughter from his broad chest. Brenna straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.

What she should have been doing was watching where she was walking. Her boot found an uneven brick, and she sprawled on her stomach. How was she so adept seated on a beast with four hooves yet unable to master her feet?

A curse left Brenna’s lips. She’d thought it had been whispered, but her mother’s whimper proved it’d been louder than she’d thought.

Hannah snickered behind her as Ronan came forward to offer a hand she didn’t need.

She was capable of getting up on her own.

Another benefit of wearing breeches…covering her arse when she fell.

Frowning at the man, he hastily pulled back his hand as she brushed her scraped hands on her legs. This first meeting could have been better. But what had she expected?

If this man wanted a biddable wife who spent her days sitting in the solar sewing and reading, he would be disappointed and likely frustrated with her.