Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Page shrieked in outrage, and then gasped as the air was driven from her lungs. Without preamble, he mounted behind her, holding her fast with an arm, and then lifted her up to scoot forward, pinioning her to his lap with the inescapable strength in his arm. Jesu, but the man must be made of stone, unyielding as he was!

  “You will sorely regret this!” Page swore. “I will see to it with every waking breath I take!” How dare the brute treat her as though she were nothing more than chattel to be absconded with at will! How dare he keep her from her father! She couldn’t bear it! All her life she’d waited for this moment, prayed for it, only to lose it by a sordid twist of fate. “I will plague you every day of your miserable life!” she vowed.

  “I have no doubt of that,” he said tightly, and spurred his mount. “I’m merely a man, lass. Keep wiggling that backside so insistently, and I’ll be sorely tempted, I assure you!”

  Page gasped in outrage.

  “Gather your belongings!” he commanded his men. “We leave at once!”

  To Page’s consternation, it took them little time at all to gather their possessions—barbarians that they were, they traveled with little more than the breacans they wore belted about their bodies. They were off within minutes.

  Page refused to allow herself to feel defeat.

  For all of her twenty years she had fended for herself. If it was the last thing she did, she was going to find her way home. In the meantime, she fully intended to keep her word. The MacKinnon, indeed, was going to be a miserable man!

  Spring came late to the northern reaches.

  Biding her time, observing the differences in the landscape as they traveled northward, Page tried not to think of the risk her father had taken on her behalf. What would King Henry do to him when he discovered that her father had given up the boy for her? And then had promptly lost her, as well?

  Why hadn’t he sent men to see to her return?

  How could he have trusted the word of a Scotsman?

  Curse the MacKinnon! The ignoble wretch!

  The trees now were less abundant with foliage. A few were lush with new green growth; some sprouted new leaves that reminded Page of green feathers. Some trees were as yet bare, still to be touched by God’s masterful hand and miraculous paint.

  She had always loved the land.

  A wildling, her father had called her. It didn’t matter; it had never disturbed her in the least that he’d thought her so, for she’d always felt more as though she were Nature’s child than his. In truth, it was the only time she ever felt truly whole—when she was at one with God’s earth. That was the reason she’d stolen away from the castle all those many nights. It gave her soul great peace.

  But it was also the reason she was in this damnable predicament.

  Page frowned as she thought of the man seated so intimately at her back. She’d managed to shut him out of her thoughts for most of the morning. Only when he so arrogantly drew her back against him did she deign to acknowledge him, elbowing him and shrugging free to sit forward once more. The more distance she was able to place between them, the more at ease she felt.

  Now, again, he drew her back against him and she wrenched forward, turning to glare at him. “Do you mind overmuch?” she asked, exasperated. “Force me to ride well nigh in your lap, if you will, but you cannot force me to abide your touch!”

  “Suit yourself, vixen.” She felt his sigh more than heard it. “God’s teeth, but you’re a sour- mouthed wench, if e’er I knew one.”

  “Truly?” she asked sweetly, mocking him. “I do wonder why that is.”

  “‘Tis likely you were born that way,” he answered uncharitably.

  Page felt like turning and slapping his arrogant face. “Nay, but you’re a mean brute!” she returned. “You must realize my father will come after us,” she apprised him. “He does not like to be thwarted, I assure you!”

  For an instant he didn’t respond, and Page could almost feel his tension mounting at her back. “Will he?” he answered, after a moment. She thought he might have been contemplating the possibility. Good. She hoped he was considering the repercussions of his actions, and fearing for his life. Neither her father nor King Henry would stand for his perfidy.

  “Sit back, lass,” he commanded, though not unkindly, and drew her against him once more, this time pinning her against his chest.

  Page struggled against his unwelcome embrace, to no avail. “Arrrghhh!”

  “You’ll end up lame riding in that unlimber position. Rest yourself. I willna bite.”

  “I don’t believe you!” Page said through clenched teeth, sinking her nails into the arm that held her like plaster to his massive frame. “Sweet Jesu, but you’re a brute!” she accused him when he would not budge. Neither did he seem to be affected by the pressure she was inflicting upon his arm. Rather he sat there in stony silence, and it was as though he felt nothing at all. With a disgruntled sigh, she relented and released his arm, allowing herself to slacken against him, though she could not, by any means, rest.

  “That’s it,” he said, bending to whisper his approval into her ear.

  Page tried to ignore the shudder that swept down her spine at the solicitous tone of his voice.

  “You havena spoken all the morn,” he said low, and his voice was like warm silk against her face, soft and soothing. She reminded herself that he was a faithless Scotsman, not some overly attentive beau who cared for her well-being. “I dinna mean to aggrieve you, lass.”

  And still her heart hammered. “Did you not?” she asked, hiding her confusion behind anger.

  His chest expanded with another sigh. He released it, and it blew across the pate of her head. The feel of it gave her gooseflesh. He didn’t answer.

  Page wasn’t about to let him lapse into silence so easily now. He’d provoked her well enough. “What, prithee, did you mean to do? And what would you have me do? Laugh hysterically because I’ve been abducted by a barbarian Scotsman? Converse with you over the wonders of Christendom? I hardly think so!”

  His chuckle surprised her. Low and rich, it rumbled against her back. “You’re a saucy wee wench, for certain.”

  Page bristled. “I’m no wee wench—and aye, so I’ve been told! Do not think I mean to apologize for it, either!”

  “Temper, temper,” he reproved, clucking his tongue at her. “Tell me, then, lass... what wonders might we converse over were ye amenable to conversing?”

  “Hah!” Page exclaimed. “With you? I should think I would never be amenable—and cease, if you will, to call me lass! It...” Confused her. “Disturbs me,” she said petulantly.

  He chuckled again, flustering her all the more, and then bent closer to whisper in her ear. “Verra well, lass, then tell me what ye would have me call you instead.”

  Her nerves were near to shattering. “Naught!” She shrugged away, moving as far forward as was physically possible. Only then did she realize he hadn’t been holding her any longer. How long now since he’d released her? How could she not have noticed? Sweet Jesu, had she lain against him contentedly all this time? “I would have you call me naught!” she spat. “God’s truth, I would have you cease to speak to me at all!”

  “Rest, then, and I willna trouble ye any further, lass.”

  “Sweet Jesu! I’ve no wish to rest!”

  “Then you do wish to converse?”

  Page thought she could hear a smile in his voice. She jerked her head about to catch his smug expression and said, “I do not!”

  “Och, lass, make up your mind,” he said, and Page clenched her teeth and tried to convince herself not to slap the arrogant smile from his face.

  “I asked you not to—”

  “I know, wench. Ye dinna wish for me to call you ‘lass, but you havena said what then I should call—”

  “My name is none of your concern!” she assured.

  He smiled then, flashing perfect white teeth. “Verra well, lass. If you will, then.”

  “Mary!” she
lied, trying not to note the boyish dimple that had appeared, as well. “My name is Mary!” She turned around, averting her gaze, more than a little rattled by his too easy manner.

  Wasn’t her abductor supposed to be cruel with his words rather than winning? Why should he care over her comforts, or her preferences, for that matter? “Are you pleased now?” she asked him. “You can bloody well call me Mary!”

  Chapter Seven

  Of all the names she might have spouted, Mairi was the last one he expected. He’d been unprepared for the sound of it upon her lips.

  Bloody hell, nothing else she might have said could have spurred him into silence more swiftly. He’d been determined to melt the icy walls surrounding her, win her over to his people. The last thing they needed was a bitter wench to burden them. They’d already had one of those to contend with.

  Mairi.

  Even these six years later, they were all still reeling with the legacy she’d left them.

  What would he tell Malcom on the day his son should ask of his mother’s death?

  He didn’t know. But Iain wasn’t certain he could ever speak of it, for the memory of that morning tormented him more than anything in his life. He could scarce think of that high window without suffering a sweat and his knees turning as soft as boiled meal.

  His wife had loathed him so much.

  Even Malcom hadn’t been enough to keep her.

  Sweat beaded upon his forehead. He closed his eyes, warding away the image of her standing before the high window. The vision passed before his eyes in a flash of white-hot pain.

  Mairi.

  He wasn’t certain he could call the lass by that name. He couldn’t even bear to think of her as such. The very thought of the name wrenched at his gut.

  He opened his eyes and sought out his son, focusing upon the future, not the past. The sight of Malcom, his soft golden hair shining under the sun, laughing and talking with his cousin, comforted Iain at once. He allowed the issue of her name to pass for now, and lapsed into silence along with her, more than aware of the glances he was receiving from his men.

  They were trying to understand, he knew. He’d shocked the hell out of them with his lies about her father’s intentions, but it couldn’t be helped. At the first opportunity he would explain... what? His brows drew together into a frown. God’s teeth, but what would he explain? He wasn’t even certain he understood it himself. That he’d been driven to the lie? That he couldn’t bear to hurt her? That something about the beautiful, contentious, troublesome wench sitting so stiffly before him brought out a fierce protectiveness in him... something apart from the lust she aroused in him?

  Christ, but he found himself wondering if, in truth, she’d been championing his son last eve rather than herself. He thought it might have been both, for behind her bluster, Iain feared she masked a lifetime of her father’s scorn. A lifetime of trying to please the unpleasable. He sensed in her the same hunger, the same hopes and the same fears that he’d once harbored himself for Mairi’s favor.

  All for naught.

  He could scarce bear to be the one to deal the lass another blow.

  She roused in him so many inexplicable emotions, such irrational yearnings. Like the one he felt now to undo the plait in her hair and comb through the soft strands with his fingers until they were silk in his callused hands. He wanted to see the play of sunlight upon her hair—somehow knew it would be splendid. In the noonday light, her brown color turned the shade of fire-lit henna.

  And, God, her scent... sunshine and verdure... the freshness of mountain mist on a day when the heather was in high bloom. Like a wolf scenting his mate, it was all he could do not to bury his face into the crook of her neck and breathe the essence of her into his lungs.

  Christ, but he needed to think of other things—needed to get her away from him, somehow. His eyes lifted, scanning the cavalcade for his son once more. He needed to speak with Malcom, needed to hold his son, and yet here he sat, playing nursemaid to a fork-tongued wench instead. He frowned at the thought of her riding with someone else, anyone else, and cursed himself for being an unreasonable arse.

  Why should he care whether she affected another man the way she affected him? She wasn’t his woman, after all—nor did he desire her to be.

  Bedamned, he could be wounded by a wit so cutting as hers!

  But he didn’t wholly trust his men not to tell her the truth.

  Nay, he resolved, until he could speak to them privately, and until he had the opportunity to think of what he would say to them—to her—she would continue to ride with him. Malcom would be well enough riding with Lagan for the time being. It was enough, for now, to know he was safe.

  They continued on in silence, and when the lass seemed to waver a little before him, Iain drew her back against him once more, smiling over her indomitable will.

  Stubborn wench.

  This time she didn’t resist him. She went slack against him and blew a spent breath. Iain smiled, for he knew that somehow she’d managed to fall asleep sitting straight in the saddle. She hadn’t slept well the night before, and he was surprised she’d lasted so long. He allowed her to nap well into the afternoon, all the while trying not to think about how good it felt to hold the woman in his arms, how right it felt to protect her.

  It had been so long.

  So bloody long.

  “Wake up, lass!”

  Page awoke to an insistent whisper.

  “Mary!”

  A strange woman’s name, but whispered in her ear... and she recalled groggily that she’d given the name instead of her own. Her eyes flew open and she peered up into eyes that were the color of the Scots’ uisgebeatha, their renowned water of life. Her father had favored it well. They were the color of sunlit amber, and they were staring down at her intently.

  Frowning.

  “Mary?” he said, his brow lifting a little, and it seemed somehow a question.

  Page sat at once, shaking off her slumber, and snapped a curt “I’m fine.” She shrugged free of his unwelcome support, and edged forward until he released her. She noticed, then, that they were the last to remain mounted. It was dusk and the rest of the band was already busy making camp for the night. Jesu! It seemed she’d only just closed her eyes. Certainly she’d not meant to sleep. “Where are we?” she asked, turning to look at him, a little disoriented.

  He was still scowling at her, watching her keenly. “‘Tis where we’ll stop for the night,” he said only, with narrowed eyes. “Does it suit you... Mary?”

  Page thought it seemed he took offense to the name she’d given him, though, for the life of her, she couldn’t comprehend why. She thought about the name a moment, and in her drowsy state couldn’t account for his reaction. “‘Tis a perfectly suitable name,” she assured him. One, even, that she might have liked for herself. Her brows knit as she contemplated the source of his displeasure.

  “Aye,” he agreed, though he was still frowning, and he said nothing more as he dismounted and seized her from the saddle, without even bothering to ask her whether she needed his assistance.

  She would have liked to send him flying to perdition.

  But she was too exhausted to fight at the moment, and so she merely sat upon a rotting log to watch the lot of them settle in for the evening. It wasn’t long before the one called Lagan sauntered toward them, young Malcom tripping at his heels. With a rush and a squeal, the boy flung himself upon his father’s back.

  Page cringed in anticipation of the MacKinnon’s reaction.

  Bellowing in surprise, the MacKinnon swung an arm about to catch his son by the waist and drag him around before him. He knelt and hugged the boy fiercely, laughing uproariously as he then ruffled his fine hair.

  Page sat, gaping in wonder at the sight of the two of them together.

  The boy who would speak naught for so long stood chattering with his father in their incomprehensible tongue, and although Page understood next to nothing of their discourse, she understoo
d the essence of it all. Some part of her sighed with relief that his father did not rebuff him. The greater part of her quailed under an onslaught of emotions: envy, sorrow, a yearning so deep, it made her heart feel like a vast, echoing cavern— and then shame that she would begrudge the boy his father’s affection.

  Nay, but she was elated for Malcom. She wouldn’t wish her misery upon any child, not even her enemy’s, and still, inexplicably, it pained her to see the affection between them.

  Watching them, it was more than evident that the MacKinnon valued his son. One need only spy the two together to know it was true. The MacKinnon’s smile was stunning in its brilliance, and his golden eyes flashed with joy as he listened to his son gibber on—pleading, it seemed.

  What might it feel like to be the recipient of such undivided attention? Such undeniable affection?

  Page sighed with longing, her heart swelling with tenderness for a father who would love his child so openly.

  The MacKinnon peered up at Lagan, offered a clip directive, and Lagan nodded, placing a hand to the MacKinnon’s shoulder in assurance. Whatever he said must have pleased Malcom immensely, for the boy threw his arms about his father’s neck once again and squealed with glee.

  The MacKinnon’s gaze met her own over the boy’s shoulder, and Page’s heart tumbled within her breast.

  She averted her gaze at once, uncomfortable with the emotions in peril of being revealed there.

  Even once Lagan and Malcom left them, Page didn’t dare acknowledge the man who stood before her, watching her still.

  And yet, neither could she keep her curiosity quelled. “What is it you said to please him so?” she asked, sounding uninterested, though her very question belied the fact.

  He didn’t bother to answer until she lifted her face to his. “Malcom?”

  Page nodded, mesmerized by the golden hue of his eyes. In the dusky light, burnished by the waning sun, they seemed almost translucent, angelic even. He was beautiful, in truth—a man she could only have dreamt of loving, for no man who looked as he did could ever want her in return.