Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “Anyway, ye’ve only the one night to endure,” he assured her. “Tomorrow ye’ll be safe again wi’ your da.”

  She wanted to slap his arrogant face—wanted to sink her teeth into his flesh! What gall! “Get off!” she cried, and tried to free her hands. She muttered a fierce oath when they refused to come free from their bindings.

  “Och, wench, does your father know ye’ve such a rude tongue?” he asked her.

  “‘Tis none of your bloody concern! Beast! Rest yourself comfortable, why do you not!” She fought the urge to scream, knowing that the last thing she needed now was to wake his men.

  “Dinna mind if I do,” he murmured.

  He had the nerve to close his eyes, dismissing her once and for all, and Page wished she could box his ears. She tried to move her legs, but he held her pinned irrevocably with his weight. She ceased her struggles only to summon every blasphemy she’d ever heard uttered. “Oaf!” she hissed. “Swine! Knave! Scot!”

  His lips curved into a smile.

  Her brows collided. She tried to think of worse. “Beast! Demon! Black-hearted dev—”

  “Ye’re to be well commended on your mastery of the language,” he said only.

  “And you shall never get your son back!” she swore in anger.

  His expression sobered at once, although he still didn’t open his eyes. “For your sake, lass, ye’d better be hopin’ I do.”

  Page felt hopelessness seep into her very soul. She didn’t know what to say. There was nothing left to say! She hadn’t lied. The MacKinnon wouldn’t get his son back. Her father wouldn’t deal with him, and she was doomed. Doomed!

  “If I thought ye would answer me true,” he said after a long moment, “I would ask ye how my son fares.” His eyes remained closed, but Page could see that his jaw remained taut. Worry was etched upon his features.

  Curse him! For no matter that she might despise him, she found she couldn’t bring herself to deny him the answer he sought. This one thing she could never withhold from an anxious father.

  She sighed irascibly. “And if I were inclined to answer, I would say he fares well enough. He’s not been abused, if ‘tis what you fear—not by us! He simply will not speak, is all.”

  She could see the strain ease somewhat from his face, and found herself envious of his son, that he would have a father who fretted for him so. But then... fathers always valued their sons, did they not?

  Her heart twisted painfully.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, and didn’t deign to speak to her again.

  Page averted her face, trying to ignore the stranger lying so intimately in her lap.

  It was a futile gesture. Never in her life had she been more aware of another human being.

  Safe again with her father, indeed!

  The image was laughable. Security was something more than simply being free from harm. She knew that instinctively... and yet... she’d never truly known the feeling at all. Security was an alien concept, for it spoke to her of warmth and caring... a welcoming embrace... things she’d never known. She snorted and refused to look down upon him again until he was snoring beneath her. Fast asleep, and so easily! She ought to spit on him for truth. That would surely show him! She ought to drool all over him, too!

  She writhed beneath him, trying to dislodge him from her limbs, to no avail. His weight, as he’d intended, made it impossible. Wretched, insufferable man!

  She ought to scream in his ear—but that, she counseled herself, would only serve to wake the rest of his lechers, as well. Nor did she wish him to follow through with his threat and send Lagan to guard her instead. That one, she trusted the least of all.

  And that brought her to another thought entirely... how pitiable it was that the one man who, by rights, should have been the most cruel was the one man who had been the most gentle.

  It made too little sense.

  Close upon the heels of that conclusion came her most nonsensical yet. It occurred to her, as she gazed down at her abductor’s too comely profile, that she still hadn’t yet determined the color of his eyes.

  What would he do when her father refused to deal with him?

  A frisson passed down her spine; fear?

  She refused to acknowledge it.

  Her last coherent thought before she dozed was not unlike that of a stray pup’s, she reflected somewhat lamentably... for it occurred to her to wonder, then, if the MacKinnon would think to keep her.

  God forgive her, but the foolish notion kindled just the tiniest spark of... something... Something so absurdly unreasonable, she refused to give it name.

  Chapter Four

  Though Iain forced his body to rest, his mind worked ceaselessly through the night.

  In his half-sensate state, he was wholly aware of where he lay. He could hear the lassie’s even, steady breathing when she dozed at last, and her fitful slumber when her dreams disturbed her.

  He understood what those soft cries bespoke, for his own nights were too oft plagued by demons—worse since Malcom’s abduction.

  She was afeared, he realized, and guilt pricked at him. Though she had too much pride to cower before him while awake, in her dreams she could scarce keep herself from it.

  Despite that she was his enemy’s flesh and blood, Iain could only admire her. She’d masked her fear well, had stood up to him like the fiercest of she-wolves. In defense of his son, even! He only wished he didn’t have to resort to such measures that would cause her such distress, but it couldn’t be helped.

  He would do anything to ensure Malcom’s return.

  He was full awake come first light, but loath to move lest he wake her. For the longest interval, he lay, listening to the easy rhythm of her breathing, and savoring the delicate scent of the woman upon whom he was so intimately nestled. He smiled, remembering the indignant tone of her voice when he’d dared insinuate himself upon her person.

  He hadn’t intended to be so bold—had only meant to sleep beside, not atop her—but the beguiling scent and sight of her had appealed to his baser instincts. And then, as he knelt over her, bantering words with her, listening to her stubbornly insist that she could fend for herself, that she didn’t need his aid, and watching her stroke the blood back into her aching wrists, a strange tenderness had stolen over him. She wasn’t so strong as she appeared, he sensed, and he fully intended to hasten the negotiations and see her safely returned to her father.

  In truth, had she been any other woman, in any other circumstance, he might have liked to know her better.

  His nostrils flared as he drew the essence of her into his lungs. His body reacted to her siren’s perfume like a man famished and scenting Heaven’s manna.

  He opened his eyes and peered up into her face, trying to ignore the insistent burn of his loins.

  She slept still, her head lolled forward. Touched by the faint morning light, her features were soft and delicate, hardened only by the memory of her stubborn temper. His lips curved slightly at the image of her standing before him, fists clenched at her sides.

  Her father would pluck out his eyes, would he?

  Vixen.

  Her hair was the color of burnt umber. Tightly braided at her back, it was of undeterminable length, but the curls that fell loose about her face were long enough to sweep his forehead. The feel of it upon his flesh hardened him fully, and he had to restrain himself from drawing a lock into his mouth to savor. He reached out, instead, testing a soft curl between his fingertips.

  Her lashes were long and sooty, he noted, darker than they might have been for one whose skin was so fair.

  And her lips... they were her best feature, he decided, full and luscious... made to suckle.

  His gaze shifted to her breasts. Rising and falling with her slumber, they were her next best attribute, he resolved. High and round and full, they were made to nourish a man’s bairn... to whet a man’s appetite... to be suckled and loved.

  Bloody hell.

  Iain snapped his eyes shut, cons
training his thoughts, and shuddered. Lifting his head, he rolled free of her at once, telling himself that he had no need to be preoccupied with some wench’s bosom—or her mouth!

  Not now.

  Certainly not hers!

  Careful not to wake her, he knelt beside her, bracing his body against her so that she might lean into him, and then he reached behind the tree to unbind her wrists. Once liberated, she slumped sideways. He caught her, and eased her down upon the ground to inspect her wrists for damage. He frowned as he examined them. Though he’d taken care not to bind them too tightly, they were chafed nevertheless. They must have pained her, and yet she’d spoken nary a word in protest. Gently he began to massage her wrists and hands, her fingers, and was surprised to find them coarse to the touch, not soft as he’d imagined. His brows furrowed as he turned them, considering their callused condition.

  His gaze returned to her face to find her awake and watching, the strangest look nestled deep within her soulful eyes... eyes so deep a brown, they recalled him to some cool, dark cavern. They drew him just as surely as his childhood sanctuary had—the great stone cairn that had lured him despite his father’s admonitions and curses—with the promise of secrets to unfold.

  What secrets had she to be discovered?

  She jerked her hand free and scrambled to sit, scooting away. “Haven’t you a bargain to put forth?” she asked him, her voice throaty from slumber. She lifted a brow. “Or have you changed your mind already, and decided you cannot part with me, after all?”

  “Troublesome wench,” Iain said without much heat. He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You just dinna quit, do ye, lass? What do you think? That I’d risk my son for the comfort of some wench’s lap? I dinna think so.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course not,” she answered, hugging herself, and eyeing him disdainfully. “I forget myself, but he’s your son.” And then she asked with narrowed eyes, “I wonder, would you do the same for a daughter?”

  Iain merely stared at her, his sense of unease sharpening. “Of a certainty, lass,” he answered after a moment’s deliberation, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “I’d do the same for any one o’ my clan. Would no’ your da?”

  She lifted her chin, cocked her head, and smiled slightly. “We shall see, shall we not?” Her smile deepened when he frowned.

  She was provoking him, he realized.

  Such a contradictory creature, she was, noble born, with mettle enough to vanquish a king’s will, and yet—his gaze shifted to the hands she continued to stroke—those hands were more suited to a Highland lass than to a soft English miss. She followed his gaze, and seemed to understand his scrutiny, but she didn’t bother to explain. He didn’t bother to ask.

  She wasn’t his concern, Iain told himself.

  And with that decided, he set Broc to guard her, and anticipated Lagan’s and Ranald’s return, pacing as he waited, all the while aware of the dagger looks FitzSimon’s daughter cast at his back. He dismissed her for the time being, anxious for the bargain to be put forth.

  It wasn’t long before his cousin returned—without news of Henry’s camp. It mattered not, Iain assured himself, he wouldn’t need it. ’Twas a simple enough trade—the man’s gaddamned daughter for his son!

  So why did he have a sense of doom creeping through his bones?

  Something wasn’t right.

  He gathered the men he would ride with, leaving only Ranald to watch over FitzSimon’s daughter. The greater their numbers, he reasoned, the better it would go for them. But he couldn’t quite dispel the sense of unease slithering through him.

  Nor could he banish FitzSimon’s daughter from his thoughts.

  Even as he awaited FitzSimon’s emergence upon the battlements, her expression continued to haunt him. He kept seeing her face as he’d left her, proud but glum.

  Something plagued him... something, though he could not put a finger to it as yet.

  The bastard was taking too long.

  Although Iain remained mounted, some crazed part of him paced before the barbican gates, shouting obscenities and rattling the damnable portcullis. God, he wanted his son back! He was desperate to have Malcom back.

  And he was close—so close, and yet...

  The man had been disinclined to meet face-to-face. He would, instead, hide behind stone walls and the bows of his men.

  Nor did he appear much in a hurry to show himself.

  Not the mark of a man who held great affection for his daughter and desired her return at any cost.

  The realization lifted the hairs upon Iain’s nape, and he found himself heartily glad for the slip of the lass’s tongue. Though Lagan and Angus had scoured the area all night for the English camp, to no avail, the information might still work to his advantage—provided she’d spoken the truth and King Henry was, in fact, due.

  Finally, when FitzSimon deigned to appear, Iain thought the man arrogant and unmoved. For one whose daughter had strayed into enemy hands, he reacted with too little concern over the news. Iain braced himself for the man’s dubiety, telling himself that he might react the same without ample proof—perhaps he’d taken so long in showing himself because he’d been searching for his daughter within. With a wordless gesture, he demanded the lass’s shoe from auld Angus. Angus complied at once, spurring his mount forward to hand it over. Seizing it, Iain prepared to fling it up into the ramparts. FitzSimon’s declaration arrested his hand.

  “So you have her, and what?” The older man shrugged, bracing his hands imperiously upon his hips. “What is it you wish of me, MacKinnon?”

  It took Iain a full moment to comprehend the import of the question. Like the instant Mairi had flung herself from their chamber window, he felt helpless and momentarily unhinged. He could feel Malcom wrenched away suddenly, the possibility of his return dwindling, and the sensation was almost physical. He tempered himself, knowing his emotion would only get in the way now. There would be time enough to feel once he held Malcom within his embrace once more.

  “My son for your daughter, FitzSimon!” Iain proffered, disposing with ceremony. He flung up the shoe.

  FitzSimon didn’t bother to catch it, merely eyed it disdainfully as it fell behind the rampart wall, unclaimed at his feet. He laughed suddenly, uproariously, his belly heaving with the effort. “God’s breath, man! What need have I of that brat?” he asked, and shook his head. “I’ve sons aplenty and the means to forge myself more!” He smacked his belly in a gesture of beneficence. “Take her if it please you, MacKinnon. I shall be keeping the boy, I think. I’m not witless enough to risk Henry’s wrath over a bothersome wench—daughter of mine though she may be!”

  Iain could scarce believe his ears. Stupefied by the hard-hearted pronouncement, he apprised the man, “Refuse me, FitzSimon, and your daughter willna live to see the gloamin’!”

  FitzSimon grinned down at him. “Really? Well, then...” He turned to leave, unmoved by the threat. “Have yourself a pleasant journey home,” he concluded, and chortled once more. Speaking low to his men, he dismissed Iain, once and for all.

  Iain’s destrier pranced beneath him, snorting in protest to the tensions in his body, and he eased the pressure of his knees, giving the animal respite. The feeling of foreboding was at once resolved, as the lass’s words came back to him: I wonder, would you do the same for a daughter? she’d asked.

  Christ and bedamned, she had known.

  His gut twisted at what was revealed to him.

  His jaw clenched. God help him, he refused to concede defeat to the arrogant son of a whore. “FitzSimon!” he called out. The older man halted abruptly and pivoted to face him. “I’m afraid you’ve little choice in the matter,” Iain contended, his tone unyielding. “You’ll be sending down the boy now, or you’ll be burying a king as well!”

  FitzSimon’s hands fell from his sides, his interest piqued. “What say you, MacKinnon?”

  “At this verra moment,” Iain lied without compunction, “the rest o’ my men have He
nry’s camp surrounded, awaiting word from me.” He didn’t care how he achieved his aim, only that he did. “As God is my witness,” he swore, “deny me my flesh and blood this day, and I’ll smite your bastard king with my verra own hands!”

  FitzSimon seemed to consider the threat. “You lie, MacKinnon!” he proclaimed after a moment’s deliberation.

  It was a challenge, Iain thought, and smiled. “D’ you think so?” he asked coolly. His mount pranced restively beneath him, tossing its head and sidling backward, reflecting his own agitation. He snapped the reins. “But are you willing to risk it, FitzSimon? Shall I bring the whoreson here and slay him before your verra eyes? Will you believe it then?”

  “Bastard!” FitzSimon returned. “I think you would not! What, then, would prevent me from delivering your son to you skewered upon my lance?”

  Iain’s careful control snapped with the threat. He surged from his saddle, standing in the stirrups, his fury evident in every rigid inch of his body. “So help me, FitzSimon! I wouldst lay waste to every inch of this God-accursed land! I wouldna relent until your black heart rested in my hands! And I swear by Jacob’s Stone that I willna rest until your blood salts this land! Return my son to me this moment!”

  The older man seemed to recoil a little, but he took a step forward and said, glaring down, “Arrogant Scots bastard! What prevents me from putting an arrow through your bloody skull as we speak?” FitzSimon’s men moved into position at the threat, prepared to carry it out, but FitzSimon raised his hand, staying them. “Best you tell me now,” he demanded, “afore you tempt me too far.”

  Iain removed his helm in a defiant gesture, smiling resolutely. He was heartily glad for the lone man he’d left upon the rise in the distance.

  “Look to my back, FitzSimon,” he suggested, his expression one of utmost confidence. “Do you spy the watchman upon the hill?”

  FitzSimon shaded his eyes and peered into the horizon as bade of him. His face, when he gazed down once more, was visibly strained. He’d obviously spied the glitter of mail.

  There was no way FitzSimon could know how many men he’d brought with him, or how many lay in wait beyond the hill. He couldn’t know that Iain had brought every last man save one to the bargaining table. “You canna reach him in time to prevent my men from carrying out their orders,” Iain said. “They lie in wait, even as we speak. And still... the choice is yours. Do you care to try me, FitzSimon?”