Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  The grim reminder of his business with FitzSimon’s daughter turned his glimmer of good humor once more to rage. His jaw turned taut, and he asked her pointedly, “Have you no tongue, wench?”

  Like the legendary phoenix rising up from its ashes, she stood to face him, her hands clenching at her sides.

  “Have you no breeding?” she returned scathingly. “Scot!” She hurled the epithet at him with an imperious lift of her brows, and despite his anger, it was all Iain could do not to laugh outright at the unexpected insolence. “What concern is it of yours where I should bathe?”

  Iain was incredulous at her brazenness, her foolhardiness. Were he any other man... Christ! Could she truly not know her folly? His gaze raked her from her wet, plaited head, down her long graceful limbs, wholly exposed by her wet gown, and on to her bare toes before returning to her face, carefully avoiding those delightfully tempting breasts, as he added, “You’ve an insolent tongue, wench. Need I remind—”

  “Aye, well you shall have no tongue at all when my father hears of this!” she returned boldly.

  Although she had to overcome the urge to take a wary step backward, Page held her ground and drew herself up to her full height. For an instant he seemed bemused by her reply, and then he arched a brow.

  Challenging her?

  “Truly?” he asked, and his smile turned cold.

  Page shuddered at the bold way he appraised her once more. No man had ever dared look at her so—with such undisguised lust. It sent a jolt of alarm racing through her. And to her dismay, the tiniest thrill

  Another quiver shook her.

  Mayhap she’d lost her wits when she’d collided with his monolith of a friend?

  She cast a glance at the others and found them all staring, mouths agape. Page hoped their idiocy wasn’t contagious. They were half-wits! Every last one of them!

  “Catching glowworms perchance?” she asked.

  A ridiculous sight, the lot of them; their brows drew together in unison and they cast surprised glances at each other, then snapped their mouths shut.

  “Bones o’ the bluidy saints, wench! ‘Tis no wonder your da lets you aboot in the middle o’ the night,” the leader said. “He’s like to be hopin’ ye’ll lose your way home in the dark.”

  Page’s heart wrenched at the barb. It stung like the rude crack of a palm across her face. She swallowed her pride and blinked away angry tears, determined not to betray her emotions to these heartless barbarians. He couldn’t possibly know how near to the mark he’d struck, or how much the truth hurt.

  Nor would he care, she was certain.

  Her eyes burned. “My father shall have you all beheaded for this insult to me!” she swore, and couldn’t help but note that his gaze roamed her body once more—this time more slowly and with a turn of his lips that both infuriated and appalled her.

  Confused her.

  Another frisson raced down her spine.

  Forsooth, but the man had a mouth more exquisite than any man had a right to own! She blinked.

  What the devil was wrong with her? How could she stand here contemplating lips, when her very life might well be at stake? Her honor at the very least!

  Why, then, didn’t she feel more afeared?

  By all accounts she should be. Everything about the man bespoke danger—everything from his barbarously unclad legs to his fierce expression proclaimed him a savage Scot. If she’d thought his brutish friend tall, this one was immense, towering above them all.

  And yet... something about him seemed harmless … vaguely familiar, too.

  Page narrowed her gaze, studying the shadowed contours of his face. She couldn’t know him. Could she?

  It was dark. Mayhap her mind was deceiving her. Then again, mayhap she was completely addle-pated from the injury to her head. Certainly she was mad to even wonder whether those lips were so beautiful in the bold light of day.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her breasts, feeling wholly exposed to him suddenly, despite the shift she wore and the veil of darkness surrounding them.

  He said naught, merely stood, staring, with that infuriating turn of his lips, and Page asserted, “Have you no tongue, Scot?”

  For the space of an instant he seemed taken aback by the question, stunned even, and then he surprised her with the rich timbre of his laughter.

  His men didn’t seem quite so amused. And bless the saints, Page didn’t know why he should be either. Her father would have slapped her face by now. Never would she have been so brazen with him!

  “‘Tis the MacKinnon you’re speaking to,” growled one of his lickspittles. “Ye’ll be watchin’ your tongue, wench, lest you lose it!”

  “MacKinnon!”

  Startled, Page took a step backward—less in response to his warning than her shock. Her fear was at once forgotten in her indignation.

  ’Twas not simply any savage Scot who stood before her, but the savage Scot!

  It was his child her father had granted safe harbor to as a favor to David of Scotland. The boy was to become a ward of the English court. Page had spent enough time with the youngster to know he’d been ill used. How dare this beast deal with his son so cruelly that his own king should be forced to intervene to safeguard him! Poor wretched child! ’Twas no wonder the cur seemed so familiar! Father and son shared the same look—albeit one morphed by age.

  This face was hard and ruthless, despite the laughter that softened those exquisite lips. And ruthless was precisely what he was! Rumor had it, even, that he’d murdered his poor young wife after she’d borne him a son. “Blackguard!” she spat. “How dare you show your face here!”

  He arched a brow at her. “I came for my son, wench. Did you think I would not?”

  Came for his son, indeed!

  Page was so infuriated that she thought she would box his ears. She couldn’t care less about the consequences, so angry was she.

  “Aye, well, you’ll be leaving without him!” she returned. “My father will never release him to you!” Whatever else he might be, her father was no imbecile. Mayhap he held no tenderness for the boy, but he would never dare risk Henry’s wrath by returning the wretched child to his vile father. “Jesu, have you not done enough to harm him already?”

  The MacKinnon stiffened at her accusation.

  Good! Let him feel guilt! If he had a heart within that overgrown chest! “Aye, disabuse yourself of the notion he’ll be returning to Scotia with you, for your son is to be protected by King Henry himself!” she persisted, when his eyes betrayed alarm. “Tomorrow he will be out of your hands and safe from you evermore!”

  The muscles in his jaw clenched, and he seemed momentarily unable to speak.

  Page hoped he was feeling regret. Jesu, but the poor boy had come to them beaten and mute, fearful of even meeting her gaze. No matter that she’d tried to draw him out, he kept his silence still. “What have you done to that poor child that he fears even to speak? You should be deeply ashamed of yourself, sir!”

  He found his tongue suddenly, and Page winced at the thunder in his tone.

  “What d’ ye mean Malcom willna speak?” He advanced upon her, his look darkening, his arms falling away to his sides, fists clenching.

  Page stumbled backward at his murderous expression, the obvious threat in his stance. “Y-you sh-should know,” she stammered. She took another prudent step backward.

  He continued to advance upon her, demanding, “What have you done to my son?”

  Page gasped and took another leap backward, her hand flying to her breast. “Me? You! What have you done to him!” What gall that he should cast the blame for his son’s affliction at her own feet! “He came to us just so!”

  “What in God’s bloody name have you done to my son!” he persisted.

  The MacKinnon towered over her, glaring down fiercely, and Page thought she might never catch another breath. Her heart vaulted into her throat, strangling her.

  He was too close!

  S
he winced, noting his distressed expression, and was no longer quite certain the tales told of him were all true—leastways not those accusing him of misusing his son, for he seemed ready to rent her to shreds at the very notion that his son might be harmed.

  The rest of the tales were quite easy to believe, for the man standing before her appeared more than capable of ripping the heart from any man—or a woman—with little effort.

  God’s truth, now she was afeared!

  Her heart thrashed madly against her ribs until she thought the strain would kill her.

  He spat a mouthful of indecipherable oaths, and commanded his men, “Take her! Bind her to the stoutest tree you can find! I mean to be certain she remains come morning light!”

  They seized her by the arms.

  “Nay! My father will flay you alive, MacKinnon!”

  She shrieked in outrage when he dared to turn his back upon her and walk away, leaving her at the mercy of his men.

  “Brute! Oaf! He’ll gouge out your eyes!”

  He stopped abruptly and turned to assess her once more, this time without the slightest pretense at civility.

  “He values you, then?”

  Did he challenge her? Page thought her heart would burst with misery at his question. For a moment she couldn’t speak to answer. “Of course he values me!” She felt the burn of tears in her eyes, but refused to shed them. Tears were for the feeble, and she was anything but. Aye, her father had taught her well. She lifted her chin, daring him to refute her. “I am his daughter, am I not?”

  He didn’t respond.

  Sweet Jesu! Did he know? Could he possibly know? Was he laughing at her behind those turbulent blue eyes?

  Rotten knave! She knew he must be.

  “Good,” he said, and continued to scrutinize her with narrowed eyes. “You say King Henry comes on the morrow to take my son? Where does he plan to take him?”

  Page straightened to her full height, her lips curving with a smugness she ‘didn’t quite feel. “Aye, he comes, blackguard! And when he does, he’ll—”

  “What?”

  Her heart twisted. What, indeed, would he do? Naught, she determined, for she knew Henry not at all and she doubted he would trouble himself for her benefit if her father did not value her. And her father did not. She swallowed the knot that rose in her throat and tried to wrench free of her captors. To no avail.

  “Where does he think to take my son, wench?”

  “My father will tear out your bloody hearts and I will stand by and watch and laugh!”

  Unaffected, he advanced upon her, demanding, “Where?”

  Page loathed herself for cowing to him in that instant. “I-I don’t know!”

  His gaze scrutinized her through the night shadows. Recognizing the lie?

  “For truth?”

  Her voice sounded much too feeble to her own ears. “Aye.”

  “No matter,” he yielded. “Henry will never set eyes upon my boy. Silence her now, Lagan! I dinna wish to hear another bluidy word come out o’ her Sassenach mouth!”

  Chapter Three

  Never in the whole of his life had Iain met a wench so troublesome—or so impertinent! He was mightily glad to know her father would deal with him come morning, because he couldn’t wait to be rid of her!

  The sooner the better.

  And yet, much as he wished to summon FitzSimon from his bed at this hour, to ransom Malcom this very instant, if the wench spoke true, and King Henry arrived on the morrow, then that was one more advantage he could press if the need arose.

  He’d never been one to waste opportunity. ’Twas said that, forsaking comfort, and in favor of celerity, the English king oft rode with a minimum retinue. Iain was counting on it. He had nigh forty men at his command—more than most traveled with at best—more than enough to give FitzSimon pause.

  Tomorrow would have to be soon enough.

  In the meantime, he was going to have to keep the mouthy wench bound and gagged, lest she drive his men to murder.

  Or him to worse.

  Of all the impudent, foolhardy... plucky females.

  She’d actually defended his son! Against him! The notion was ludicrous, and yet...

  She’d said Malcom would not speak.

  Iain tried to consider the news rationally—for Malcom’s sake. ’Twould serve no purpose at all to be losin’ his wits now when he needed them most.

  The fact that FitzSimon’s shrewish daughter thought him responsible for Malcom’s ills led him to believe that she, in truth, had had no part in his affliction.

  Else she protected her da...

  Though after the manner in which she spoke of him, Iain doubted she thought he needed protecting. She made her bastard da out to be some venerable champion! To hear her speak, she bore little fear of Iain’s reprisal against him. On the contrary, she expected her da to flay him alive. He shook his head with wonder over the callowness of her words.

  ’Twas like to be the simple fact that Malcom was frightened that kept his tongue stilled. His son liked to think of himself as a man, but he was yet a child, with a child’s heart.

  Christ, but when he discovered the traitor...

  His jaw clenched.

  It had to have been someone from within their clan, for the bastard had left no witnesses, nor evidence, to betray himself. He’d simply come, like the proverbial thief in the night, stolen Malcom, and then had fled, leaving no one the wiser.

  She had defended his son.

  Iain shook his head in wonder. He didn’t know whether to kiss her soundly for her unbiased defense of Malcom, or to strangle her where she stood.

  God’s teeth, she was a sharp-tongued wench with a mouth the likes o’ which he’d never known a woman to possess in his lifetime. He grinned then, despite himself, because he couldn’t believe she’d been so barefaced.

  Catching glowworms, indeed.

  He chuckled. The looks upon his men’s faces had been worth a king’s ransom.

  Aye, he was going to have to remain close to the wench, he resolved—but first things first. Right now he intended to retrieve her garments from the riverbank where she’d likely left them—he had to believe she had worn more clothes than those she bore upon her back just now. The last thing he needed was a bloody distraction.

  God’s teeth! He couldn’t think straight while staring at those luscious breasts of hers. And damnation! Who could help but stare when she stood all but naked before him!

  Which brought him to wonder yet again... what sort of man allowed his only daughter to roam the countryside free and naked as Eve?

  Och, but there were daughters who were governable, and daughters who were not, he reasoned.

  Had she been his wayward daughter, Iain might have locked her safely within a tower until the day she pledged her vows!

  Impertinent, sour-mouthed wench!

  While the rotten lot of them lay snoring upon their backs, Page sat, shivering with her back against a tree, arms twisted and bound behind her and a sour-tasting rag wedged within her mouth.

  Loathsome Scots!

  Not that she could have slept anyway, for she was much too miserable with worry and regret. Forsooth, she should never have come out alone. Why couldn’t she be content to simply sit within the solar and sew like other ladies?

  Why couldn’t she be what her father wished of her?

  Then again, she reflected somewhat bitterly, the answer to that question might better be known if only she knew what her father wished of her.

  The truth was that Page couldn’t please him—never had been able to please him. And what was worse, she wasn’t certain she wished to try anymore.

  She might not have to after tonight.

  The thought sent a shudder through her.

  What would they do to her once they discovered her father didn’t want her? The truth was that her father would no more give up the boy than he would spit in the king’s eye—not for her, he wouldn’t.

  Well, she told herself, she di
dn’t care.

  She truly didn’t.

  But her eyes stung with hot, angry tears.

  Well, she’d soon enough discover what they would do … if she didn’t manage an escape … so she set her wiles to that end. Trying not to deliberate on the dire possibilities should she fail, she regarded her captors.

  To her dismay, the original four had not come alone as she’d first suspected. Worse, she couldn’t precisely make out how many there were, for their limbs and bodies merged together in the darkness—like cadavers huddled together in a common grave.

  There were a lot of them, she surmised.

  They’d dragged her shrieking like a fishwife into their camp, and the lascivious looks she’d gotten from the lot of them had made her resolve never to look at a man full in the face again.

  Overweening boors!

  The MacKinnon in particular!

  She shuddered, remembering the way he’d looked at her, the knowing look in his eyes.

  Unreasonably, she found herself wondering what color his eyes were. Blue? Green? She hadn’t been able to make them out in the darkness, but she was certain they wouldn’t be so common as hers. Alas, but there was naught ordinary about the infuriating man.

  He had yet to return.

  Not that she cared one whit whether she ever saw his too comely face again, she assured herself, but—well, damnation, mayhap she did, and frowned at the admission, her brow furrowing as she contemplated that fact. ’Twas only natural, she reasoned, that she wouldn’t wish to be left alone with these men of his. She didn’t trust them.

  But had she anymore cause to trust the MacKinnon? a little voice nagged.

  It wasn’t precisely that she trusted him. Just that she didn’t mistrust him quite so much—although why she should feel even thus toward him, she couldn’t begin to comprehend. He was likely no better than the rest.

  Soon after she’d been bound to the tree, he and the one called Lagan had departed camp. She imagined they were scouting Aldergh's defenses as a precaution.