Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  FitzSimon’s face became a mask of guarded fury. “How is it you learned of Henry’s approach?” he asked, stalling shrewdly. He turned to speak harshly to one of the men, and the man hastened away.

  Iain settled once more within the saddle, recognizing the first sign of concession. His smile hardened. “You have your daughter to thank for that,” he yielded. And then advised, “Ad dinna be thinking to send a man to warn the king’s army. I’ve anticipated that, as well. He willna make it oot the postern without an arrow through his skull.”

  FitzSimon lost his composure all at once, stamping his foot and carrying on furiously, shouting obscenities. Iain was taken aback by the callow display. “God damn that worthless bitch!” he spat, and then stood, facing down Iain in silence.

  Iain sensed his victory in that instant, and demanded, “Send down the boy, FitzSimon, and I’ll leave be your king in one piece!”

  “How can I be certain you speak the truth, MacKinnon? Show me your proof.”

  “What proof can I offer, save Henry’s head, FitzSimon? Nay, I’m afraid you’ll have to trust me on this one.”

  “Trust you?” FitzSimon scoffed. “Only a fool would trust a bloody Scotsman! Even were I to return the boy, what assurance have I that you will not fall upon Henry still?”

  “Only my word,” Iain countered. “Send down my son and I pledge you my word that I’ll no’ harm your thieving king. All I wish is Malcom’s return, naught more. Gi’ him to me, FitzSimon, and I’ll take my men and go at once.”

  FitzSimon yielded to another outburst of temper, cursing the Scots, cursing the fates, cursing David of Scotland for placing him in such an untenable position by calling upon his favor. He conferred with his men and then turned to address Iain. “Very well, I’ll send down the boy. Take the witless bugger and be gone!” He turned at once, not bothering to await Iain’s response, and spoke to one of his men, then vanished from the ramparts. Though it seemed an eternity, it wasn’t long before the portcullis was raised. Iain’s heart hammered fiercely as he dismounted and began to walk toward the opening gates.

  “Wait, laird!” Dougal called out. “It could be a ruse!”

  Iain couldn’t have stopped himself had he tried.

  He didn’t spot Malcom at first, hidden as he was behind the guard who preceded him, but when his little head peeked about the guard’s massive frame, Iain thought his heart would burst with joy and relief. Malcom squealed and began to run toward him, and Iain lost all restraint in that instant and began to run as well. His son leapt up into his arms with a joyous cry, and Iain embraced him unashamedly. “Whelp!” he said hoarsely, and buried his face against his son’s stout little shoulder. “Malcom, Malcom!”

  “I knew you would come, da! I knew you would come!” Malcom snuggled against him. “I didna cry,” he declared proudly. “I didna tell them anythin’! I swear, I didna!”

  Iain laughed softly. “So I’ve heard, whelp. So you didna!”

  He was vaguely aware of the gates being closed against them, and then the portcullis being lowered as Malcom clung to him. “I knew you’d come,” Malcom said again, and began to weep a child’s tears. Iain braced the boy’s head against his shoulder, comforting him, restraining his own raging emotions. “I’m goin’ to take you home, son,” he swore, his voice breaking.

  “How very moving,” FitzSimon declared from the ramparts above, his tone full of rancor. “Now take your bastard and go, MacKinnon!”

  Iain hung his head back, peering up into the ramparts to meet FitzSimon’s gaze. “Aye,” he agreed. “You’ve kept your end o’ the bargain, FitzSimon, and now I’ll keep mine. Your daughter will be returned to you within the hour.”

  “Nay!” FitzSimon shook his head vehemently. “Keep the bloody bitch!”

  Iain was struck entirely dumb. Surely he didn’t mean that... He was but angry...

  “If you return her to me,” FitzSimon swore,

  “I’ll rip out her traitorous tongue for her betrayal!”

  Iain held his son in stunned disbelief. “I have no need of the lass,” he returned. “Surely you cannot mean...”

  “Keep her, or kill her!” FitzSimon declared. “I care not which—only get her the hell out of my sight!” And then he withdrew, ending the discourse, once and for all, leaving Iain and his men to stare after him in shock.

  Chapter Five

  The men seemed unsettled as they rode from the castle.

  Iain knew they were both excited and relieved about Malcom’s return, but they must have sensed his mood, for they remained reserved, waiting their turn to welcome Malcom back into the fold.

  Iain was confused.

  It didn’t matter that the hostage awaiting them wasn’t one of their own clan members, he anticipated her pain and sorrow just the same, and found himself angered on her behalf. Uncharacteristically, his son clung to his back, accepting the men’s good-natured ribbing and their welcome pats with subdued good cheer. Iain was scarce aware of the men’s comings and goings. Try as he might, he couldn’t forget the lass’s prideful boasts.

  She’d seemed so very certain.

  Or had she?

  Of course he values me... I am his daughter, am I not?

  She hadn’t appeared so certain, then, and he had wondered...

  Have you changed your mind... decided you cannot part with me, after all...

  Christ, but she wasn’t his concern.

  Surely her father would not carry out his threat if he returned her.

  She was his daughter, after all, his flesh and blood. He was but angry. And determining so, he reached back to seize Malcom about the waist. He brought his son around to sit before him, inspecting him. His men drifted away, affording them privacy. Malcom giggled softly and latched on to him again, seeming afeared to release him lest he vanish from sight. Iain’s heart squeezed within his chest.

  “I’ve missed you, whelp,” he said affectionately, tousling Malcom’s fine golden hair. He had to restrain himself from beginning an interrogation then and there. More than aught, he wished to discover the name of the traitor, to ask how he’d been treated, to assure him it would never happen again, but now was not the time, he knew. All that mattered at the moment was that Malcom was safe—damned if he’d allow anything to part them ever again. Nay, he would question Malcom later, when his son felt himself secure once more... when FitzSimon’s daughter was no longer his bloody concern.

  It had been years since Page had chewed her nails, but she sat gnawing them now, watching the one called Ranald pace the ground before her. To the contrary, Ranald seemed not to notice her at all, and she might have tried to steal away already, save that when she dared to move from her spot by the tree, he turned to growl at her like a mongrel dog protecting his bone.

  God’s truth, Page had never kicked a dog before—never even been inclined to—rather had smuggled them within her room, instead, to feed them scraps she’d purloined from the table, but she certainly felt like kicking Ranald right now. Like his laird, he was an overbearing brute!

  She wondered whether the MacKinnon had met with her father as yet—worried what her father would say.

  Most of all she dreaded facing him.

  The MacKinnon, that was, not her father.

  She had a suspicion she might never set eyes upon her father again.

  But that wasn’t what troubled her most.

  Unreasonably, the desperation she felt to escape stemmed less from the fact that she longed to go home, and more from the fact that she was wholly and justly humiliated over having to face the MacKinnon. She’d spoken pridefully, and threatened fallaciously, and as soon as he spoke with her father he would know it for what it was.

  Why did she care what he thought of her?

  Would he laugh in her face? Mock her? Pity her?

  She didn’t think she could bear it—anything would be better than his pity. Her eyes stung at the merest notion.

  Confusing, arrogant Scot!

  Why had he shown her a
ny consideration?

  It would have been so much easier had he shown her cruelty, instead. Jesu! That, she might have dealt with! She might have gritted her teeth and borne it. But pity was another matter entirely.

  Why did he have to go and call her lass as though he cared?

  His tone when he had addressed her made her feel... she wasn’t certain how it made her feel. She only knew that the thrill she experienced when he spoke the endearment—it certainly sounded an endearment—didn’t begin to eclipse the despair.

  Somehow, in the space of a single night, he’d managed to rip open every wound she’d healed throughout the years.

  Both she and Ranald heard the approaching hooves at the same time.

  Ranald quit his pacing to face his clan as they emerged through the trees into the little copse. Page’s heart vaulted into her throat. Hot tears, though she tried to suppress them, burned at her eyes. She didn’t dare stand—felt, instead, like burrowing a den deep in the ground and hiding within it for the rest of her given days. She shouldn’t care, and told herself she didn’t care, but she knew very well it was a bloody lie. Somehow, she cared very much what the MacKinnon thought of her.

  The one called Lagan emerged first, waving his hand and speaking his Scots tongue fervidly, and Page had no inkling what he was saying. In truth, she couldn’t particularly tell whether he was furious or gleeful, for his expressions were mixed. A few men straggled into the copse behind him; they, too, spoke excitedly.

  And then came the MacKinnon, and Page understood at once.

  Her emotions rose to choke her, and her tears began to course down her cheeks. She couldn’t stop them, for the MacKinnon’s son rode before him.

  Her father had dealt with them!

  He wanted her back!

  Her stomach surged and she was so relieved, she thought she might be sick. Swiping the wetness from her cheeks, Page rose to her feet to face the MacKinnon, emotional laughter bubbling up from the depths of her.

  Her father wanted her back!

  She felt invulnerable with that knowledge, warmed like never before, exhilarated, as if she were soaring to the heights of Heaven with her joy.

  Until the MacKinnon’s gaze turned upon her.

  The look he cast her sent a frisson racing down her spine. His stance was rigid in the saddle, the muscle in his jaw ticked, and his amber-gold eyes pierced her as surely as a Welshman’s arrow. God help her, she couldn’t have torn her gaze away had she tried.

  She’d been weeping.

  Inexplicable anger mounted within Iain.

  Damn, but she wasn’t his concern.

  The best he could do was release her and be along his merry way.

  So why did he feel like pivoting his mount about, calling her father down, and running his blade through the bastard’s black heart?

  The moment she’d spied Malcom sitting before him, her eyes lit with joy. Not a trace of avenging pride. And relief, he spied relief there, as well. His heart squeezed painfully, for it occurred to him, then, just what it was she thought. She assumed her father had bargained for her return.

  Worthless bastard. He should have bargained for her return!

  He didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth.

  How could he tell her that her whoreson father had given her the greatest insult? That he couldn’t have cared one whit what was done to her now—and that he certainly hadn’t wished her return? Christ, that he’d sworn, even, to rip out her tongue? What manner of father was that?

  Nay, he couldn’t do it; he couldn’t bring himself to break her heart.

  How could her father?

  Her hopeful expression was Iain’s undoing. Or mayhap ’twas simply the memory of how she’d spoken so heroically of the father who plainly didn’t care for her.

  It turned his stomach, made him feel things he had no cause to feel.

  She came forward, looking more fragile than Iain recalled, and it was all he could do to wipe the disgust from his face. With mere words he thought he might break her in twain. He pictured her lying, weeping at his feet, her spirit broken, and the image both anguished and angered him.

  Nay, he couldn’t tell her.

  “You...” She choked on her words. “You will take me home now?” Her eyes were bright and full of hope, her voice soft and anticipative. “You’ll take me home?”

  Iain’s heart squeezed harder. He wanted in that instant to draw her into his arms, to soothe her, kiss her fears away, smooth the worries from her brow. He wanted to shake her violently and tell her that her father was a poor example of a father and that she didn’t need him.

  God’s truth, FitzSimon’s daughter was the last thing he needed in his life. She was a troublesome wench who was like to turn the rest of his hair gray before his years, but he found himself compelled to save her feelings despite the fact.

  Unfortunately, he knew only one way to do so.

  Not truly understanding why he was driven to, he said, “Nay, wench. I’ll not.”

  Her brows drew together in confusion, and she straightened. “What do you mean, you will not?”

  His jaw clenched, and he said, “Just what I said, wench. I’ll not be returning you to your damnable father!” His voice lacked the heat of anger, though she didn’t seem to notice in her rising temper, and Iain thought she looked stronger armed with fury.

  Her eyes were wide with a mixture of shock and outrage. “But he returned your son!” she pointed out.

  Iain placed his hand upon Malcom’s back. “That he did,” he agreed, and glanced about at his men, meeting their gazes, one after another. Their astonishment was more than evident in their countenances, but he apprised them silently not to gainsay him. Though in truth, Iain didn’t think they would have been capable, even had they wished to. Auld Angus’s jaw had slackened near to his belly, and if Iain had not been so bloody angry, he might have found the contrary old bugger’s expression comical. His gaze returned to FitzSimon’s daughter.

  She was becoming infuriated now, and he welcomed it, knowing she would need her rage to sustain her.

  “But my father kept his end of the bargain!” she screeched at him. Iain merely nodded, but his jaw worked. “You would renege upon your word, sir?”

  “Apparently so,” he lied without compunction.

  “But, Papa,” Malcom whispered, peering up in surprise. Iain shushed him with a downward glance and a pat upon the back.

  “How dare you!” she railed. “Why? Why would you do this?”

  “Verra simple,” Iain told her, meeting her gaze. “An eye for an eye, lass. Your da conspired in the takin’ o’ my son. ‘Tis only meet I should return the favor in kind.”

  “You are a madman!”

  Iain thought perhaps it was so. “That I may be, lass,” he agreed with a frown. “Nonetheless, you’ll be coming along wi’ us.”

  “But my father!” she exclaimed.

  “Your father,” he declared, “can go to bluidy Hell!”

  Chapter Six

  “He’ll hunt you down!” Page swore.

  She couldn’t believe it!

  She was torn between disbelief that her father would risk the king’s wrath to have her back and sheer joy that he’d done so—and she was furious with the man before her, for daring to break his pact with her father when for the first time in her life it seemed her father valued her, wanted her—and this miscreant would dare rob her of that joy!

  Not if she could help it, by God!

  She glanced about and found his men all staring at their laird, their expressions as shocked as her own must seem. Their stupor gave her the opening she needed. She didn’t care how many of his men surrounded her. She had absolutely no intentions of going with them peacefully! Somehow or another, she was returning to her father and they’d have to kill her to stop her!

  Without giving them warning of her intent, or time to consider her response, she turned, found an opening behind her, and made a frantic dash into the forest.

  She
heard the MacKinnon’s curse behind her.

  Page didn’t dare slow her step, even as the sounds of pursuit began in earnest, nor did she look back to see that they were following. She ran with all her might, slipping through the woods with the ease of one who knew them intimately.

  And then suddenly her hem snagged upon a gnarled tree root. She muttered an oath, trying to jerk it free, and those precious lost seconds were to her misfortune. Within the instant, she was surrounded by scowling Scotsmen. And then once again she was confronted by the MacKinnon, his son no longer in the saddle before him.

  He dismounted, his expression black as he came toward her. Page thought he might strike her, so purposeful was his stride, but he didn’t. She didn’t cower as he reached out, though he merely seized her hem and jerked it free, then stood staring at her furiously. “You’re going to make me sorely regret this!”

  Page smiled fiercely. “I surely will!” she vowed, drawing herself up to her full height. Again it struck her how tall the man was, for she reached only to his chin, and she was not, by any means, diminutive. In truth, her father had always thought her much too long limbed for a woman.

  “I should bluidy well let you go!” he swore, his jaw working angrily.

  Page’s brows lifted, for he truly seemed to be considering the prospect. “You should?”

  “Aye,” he said, “and count myself bluidy fortunate that you’re gone, but I won’t!”

  He wished to let her go? But he wouldn’t? Page didn’t understand. “Nay?”

  “Nay!”

  Her heart hammered wildly over the faint suspicion that reared. “Why not?”

  “Because my da raised himself a rattlebrained arse!” he swore “That’s why!” And if his pronouncement hadn’t been shocking enough, he lifted her up suddenly, as though she were no more than a sack of grain, and bore back her to his mount, flinging her unceremoniously over his saddle.