He squatted upon his haunches, and reached out to take into his callused hand the disheveled plait of her hair. “Aye, lass,” he whispered. His fingers skimmed the length of the braid. “Ye are bonny. Christ, but ye’ve eyes so dark a mon could lose himself in them. And hair...” He came forward, falling upon one knee, reaching out with his other hand to tug free the ribbon that kept her plait bound. He nudged his thumb into the weave of her hair, working the soft strands loose with his fingers. “‘Tis lovely,” he murmured as he stroked the unbound locks. “Fine silk against flesh that’s ne’er felt the like.”
For an instant she seemed unable to respond, hanging on his every word like a woman starved, and then she blinked, as though regaining her senses, and wrenched her head back, tugging the lock free from his hand.
She “glared up at him. ’Twill take more than pretty words to move me, Scot!” she swore. She lifted a brow in challenge. “If you mean to woo me, you might better begin by unbinding my wrists! They hurt!”
Iain considered her request, thinking it a well founded grievance. And yet... he didn’t intend to stay awake all night guarding the troublesome wench. Her chin lifted and she held his gaze, her eyes burning with indignation and ire.
“I’m no animal to be kept fettered!” she persisted.
“Nay,” Iain agreed, “you are not, lass.” He sighed. “Verra well.” He leaned forward and reached about her, stretching his body across hers as he groped blindly around the tree for the ropes at her wrists.
It was a mistake, he realized. He should have gone around her. Certainly it would have been the sensible thing to do.
As it was, he found himself embracing her, his chin resting upon her shoulder and his lips too near the warmth of her neck. Her gasp was almost inaudible. He felt it more than heard it, and then she went wholly still beneath him.
Iain, too, froze, utterly aware of the woman within his arms.
Christ, but it had been much too long since he’d been this close to any female... He could feel the peaks of her breasts rise with her breath, teasing his chest and his physical reaction was immediate. It was all he could do not to lean into her, inhale the essence of her—that glorious scent that was purely female and wholly intoxicating.
He had to remind himself who she was—who he was—that they were not alone.
And still he couldn’t help himself; he lowered his body in an effort to reach the bindings and leaned into her. Trying for a lighthearted tone, he asked, “You’re no’ busy planning your escape, are ye, lass?”
She said nothing, and he persisted, though he hadn’t the least notion why he should care. “Promise me you’ll no’ try to escape.” His hands arrested at her back, awaiting her response.
For an instant longer, she said nothing, and then she asked, “If I cannot promise? Will you still release me?”
So she was a woman of her word, was she?
Iain smiled.
He didn’t know why he felt driven to protect her, but he knew with a certainty that he’d not let her go. “Nay, lass,” he whispered against her hair, nudging it away from his face with his chin. A few strands stuck to his lips, and he tasted them, closing his eyes as he imagined the silky curtain unbound and cascading into his face as she rode him. The scent of her taunted him, aroused him to the point of pain. The image made him shudder. God, but she was an innocent not to know how she could affect a man... how she affected him. “I’ll not,” he murmured, clearing his throat. “I’ll not release you if you cannot promise.”
Though he knew it was impossible, she seemed to shrink away from him, into the ground beneath him. “In such case,” she answered, somewhat breathlessly, and more than a little flippantly, “I promise not to try!”
He smiled at her cunning. “You promise not to try?” he repeated, disbelieving her audacity.
“I believe ‘tis what I said, Scot!”
He couldn’t see her face, but imagined her saucy expression, and chuckled. He nudged aside her hair with his lips, and whispered against her ear, “Swear you’ll not escape.”
She made some keening sound as he brushed her neck with his mouth and wrenched herself away. “Very well, Scot! I’ll not steal away! Untie me now!”
He chuckled.
“Get yourself off me!” she demanded. “I cannot bear for you to touch me!”
Iain smiled, for her quiver gave lie to her avowal. She was affected by him no less than he was by her. He’d wager his eyeteeth over it.
Still she sounded quite desperate, and he didn’t wish to upset her any more than she was already. “You’ll keep your word?” he persisted.
He imagined that she rolled her eyes, and his smile deepened, as she said more than a little acerbically, “To the man who broke faith with my father? Certainly! Now get off!”
He chuckled at her quick wit. “Ye’ve a point,” he ceded, and began at once to untie the bindings at her wrists. “Never mind, I believe I know the perfect solution.”
“You do?”
He couldn’t help but grin, for she sounded so ill at ease with the prospect. “Somethin’ that should please the both o’ us,” he revealed mischievously. God only knew, he was certainly looking forward to it himself.
Page stiffened at his assurance.
Something that would please them both?
She certainly didn’t think so.
She tried not to panic as she considered every conceivable solution—tried not to consider them at all. Sweet Jesu, but it was all she could do not to think of the man poised so intimately above her!
Nay, he wasn’t lying, precisely, on top of her, but he might as well have been. Though he shielded her from his weight, she could feel every inch of his body as though it were melded to her own. And Jesu, never in her life had she been more acutely aware of her own body—the places it brushed against his, the wicked, wonderful sensations that made her feel so very much a woman.
A lump rose in her throat.
He’d said she was bonny.
Could he truly have meant it?
The possibility made her tremble with... something she shouldn’t be feeling for her enemy. Her brows drew together.
How could she possibly allow herself to be distracted so easily? Aye, ’twas his intent to distract her, of a certainty, but did she have to be so blessed accommodating? Nay, he couldn’t possibly have meant it, she convinced herself.
She knew what she looked like—had seen her reflection oft enough to know that she was no enchanting faerie creature, able to steal a man’s heart and soul with a single glance. She was rather unremarkable. Her hair was not the spun gold of the troubadour’s favor, it was dirt colored; her face not fair and unblemished, but darkened by the sun and freckled across her nose. Her eyes were not the lucid blue of a summer sky, or the green of a new leaf in spring, just common brown.
Page felt her heart squeeze at the cruelty of his glib words, and then berated herself for her foolishness. What more could she have expected from a devious, faithless, oath-breaking Scot?
She bucked beneath him.
He groaned. “I’d not do that if I were you,” he advised.
“What is taking you so bloody long?” she demanded. “Have you not even the God-given sense to untie a simple knot?”
“Och, wench, but I’m trying! I didna tie this accursed thing—and bluidy hell, ‘tis no simple knot!” He muttered an unintelligible oath beneath his breath.
Feeling a little desperate, Page lifted her knee, jabbing him in the thigh. “You’ll need do more than try!” she hissed.
He made some strangled sound and fell atop her just as the binds were undone at last. Page twisted beneath him, eager to be free. With hardly an effort and before she could stop him, he had her pinned, her arms spread at her sides and clasped to the ground.
“That wasna verra nice!” he told her, his jaw set firm, and his eyes burning with fury.
“I did not mean to be nice!” Page told him angrily, her eyes stinging with tears she refused to s
hed. Her nerves were near to shattering—God help her, but she could not bear another moment of his presence! His eyes continued to bore into her,
demanding—what?
“How could you expect me to be?” she asked him. “You’ve abducted me from my home, kept me bound to a tree like an animal—and you think I should tender thanks? Please!” she appealed. “Can you not just set me free?” She couldn’t help herself; tears welled. They spilled from her eyes, down the side of her face, onto the ground. She felt the wetness upon her neck, and blinked. Could he not see how very much it meant to her to return to her father? “You have your son,” she beseeched him. Another tear slipped past her guard, and she shook her head, losing composure entirely. “I could find my way still,” she pleaded. “Let me go... please?”
He shook his head, lowering his eyes. “I canna, lass,” he said softly, regretfully. He met her gaze once more, and she spied the determination in his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I canna.”
“You mean you will not!” Page snarled at him.
He nodded once. “If you will, then, aye, I willna.”
She swallowed her pride. “But my father,” she entreated, her voice breaking. “He—”
“Your father is a bastard!” he said impassionedly, though the blaze in his eyes had extinguished somewhat.
“He bargained with you in good faith!”
His jaw clenched, and he averted his gaze. For an instant he said nothing, and then he turned to face her once more, resolute. “Your father conspired wi’ David to take my son.”
Page shook her head. “Nay!” she argued. “He did not! Your King conspired with Henry! My father simply provided your son safe harbor at David’s urging and King Henry’s command! Naught more!”
He seemed to be considering, and Page sensed his hesitation and added hastily, “He told my father you abused the boy. That he was so ill treated, he would not speak for fear of chastening!”
Still he seemed to be considering, but he said nothing; instead he seemed to be waiting for her to continue.
Page swallowed, afraid to hope, her heart racing. “So you see,” she urged him desperately, “he thought he was helping your son. Let me go. You have your son, now let me go!”
“Nay, lass.”
In the space of an instant, her hopes were dashed. And so easily. “You are vile!” she spat, and twisted away from him. “Get off me!”
He complied at once, but didn’t go far. He sat beside her, leaning an arm upon his lifted knee, his face screwed with some emotion she couldn’t quite decipher. She hoped he was suddenly conscience-stricken over his faithlessness, but knew better than to hope for such a human emotion from a wretch such as he.
Page sat, too, glaring at him. “I swore I would make your life miserable, and I will! I’ll not go willingly!”
“But you will go,” he avowed.
It was getting dark now, shadows descending. Page felt them seep into her heart. The numbness in her wrists was fading now, and her hands and fingers were beginning to hurt. She massaged them, embracing the pain. It was a welcome distraction.
He reached out suddenly and grasped her wrist, not injuriously. Page started to jerk away, but he held her fast.
“I’m going to bind your wrist to mine,” he explained.
Page opened her mouth to object, but he stopped her with a curt gesture.
“’Tis the only way I’ll allow ye to remain unfettered.”
“Unfettered!” Page contended, incredulous. She tried to jerk her arm free, but his grip was unyielding. “What do you call binding my wrist to yours?”
“A safety measure,” he relented.
Page glared at him.
“The choice is yours, lass...”
She let her arm go slack in his grasp, and snorted inelegantly. “What a choice! Bind me, then.”
He did at once, binding her right hand to his left hand, securing the bonds, and then with his other hand, he removed the scarlet and black checkered blanket from his shoulders. He muttered an oath as he floundered over its removal, and then he glanced at her as though asking for her assistance.
Page screwed her face at him and drew back a little, thinking him mad. “You cannot possibly think I would help?”
His lips curved into a crooked grin. “I dinna suppose you would, at that.” He eyed her discerningly, and resolved to use both hands. He drew off his breacan and spread it between them, lifting himself up to draw half of the blanket beneath himself. Page considered a moment, and then did the same, knowing she’d only spite herself if she resisted. He offered her a little lopsided grin for her effort, but she refused to acknowledge it. She didn’t wait for him to lie down, but did so at once herself, taking up as much of the blanket as she dared, and a little bit more.
To her surprise, he didn’t complain when there was only a sliver of blanket left for him. He simply lay upon his apportioned share, half on the blanket, half off.
So he meant to be chivalrous, did he?
Well, she fully intended to be anything but courtly!
“Iain,” Lagan said, appearing above them. His face twisted into a frown as he stared down at them. “How verra cozy,” he remarked with a curve to his lips. Page averted her gaze, wholly uncomfortable with the glare he cast her.
“What is it, Lagan?”
“Ranald,” Lagan said, and his look softened to one of concern. He spoke to the MacKinnon in his own tongue.
“Go and look for him, then,” Iain answered so that she understood. “But dinna fret overmuch... Remember ‘tis Ranald the scavenger we’re speaking of. He’ll be back on his own... as always.”
“Aye,” Lagan agreed. “You’re like to be right. He’ll come back when it suits him... He always does. G’nite, then, Iain.”
“G’nite,” Iain replied. “Get yourself some rest, Lagan.”
“Aye,” Lagan said, turning from them, his lips curving into a leer. “You too, Iain.”
He walked away, leaving them alone once more—as alone as they might be with a horde of barbarians surrounding them.
Without the sun to warm them, the northern spring night was wintry, but peaceful. Page lay there, staring past the budding leaves on the treetops, until the leaves were no more than shadows against the night sky. She stared up at the frosty points of light, trying not to notice the rising chill. Curious, that... last eve, on her way to her swim, she’d gazed up at those very same stars... they had seemed more like brilliant winking fires then... promising the gentle warmth of a summer night’s breeze.
She shivered and curled upon the blanket as she heard little Malcom come and make his bed on the other side of his father. The two of them whispered together in their tongue, and the MacKinnon chuckled. Envy pricked at her, but she ignored it, wholly shamed by the uncharacteristic reaction.
Sweet Jesu, what was wrong with her that she would begrudge a child his father’s affections?
He was what was wrong with her, Page assured herself, bristling.
He’d come into her life and had made her feel again—all these accursed emotions she’d tucked so neatly away!
Well, by God, she was going to have the last word tonight—or rather the last song—and she hoped she kept them awake all night long! She hoped they would be so blessed weary come first light that they would need put twigs in their eyes to keep them open!
She waited patiently until the darkness descended more fully, until it seemed everyone had settled for the night, and then she began to sing at the top of her lungs.
Chapter Ten
Iain had only begun to doze.
He came full awake with a start, his eyes crossing at the resounding shrillness of her voice. Bloody hell, but he should have known her compliance was too good to be true! He frowned as Malcom’s little body jerked awake.
One by one, his men came awake, as well—some with a snort of surprise, others with mumbled “Huhs?” and still others with muttered curses.
And still she sang on, some English ballad about so
me man whose truest love had spurned him.
“Softly the west wind blows; gaily the warm sun goes; The earth her bosom showeth, and with all sweetness floweth. I see it with mine eyes, I hear it with mine ears, But in my heart of sighs, yet am I full of tears. Alone with thought I sit, and blench, remembering it; Sometimes I lift my head, I neither see nor hear...”
And so she continued, her song blaring, her melody true, but grating in its untimeliness and its volume. Iain waited impatiently, teeth clenched until he thought they might shatter. He stared into the darkness, while his men continued to grumble complaints, refusing to allow himself to be baited. He knew what she was trying to do, and God’s teeth, it was working! But he’d be damned if he’d let her know it!
She’d grow tired soon enough and quit, he assured himself, and was rewarded when at the end of the verse, she suddenly quieted.
Sighing with vexed relief, Iain closed his eyes, only to snap them open when she began the verse over again.
This time louder.
Muttering silent curses, he said nothing, keeping reign upon his temper. Neither did his men speak but to themselves, until she began the verse yet a third time.
“Och, now, Iain!” Angus complained loudly. “Canna ye make her leave the lays until the morrow!”
His complaint was reinforced by a number of groans and muttered curses as the lass sang louder still. Iain closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, praying to God to give him strength.
“Bluidy willful English!” muttered Lagan.
He’d taken the words right out of Iain’s mouth.
When Malcom lifted his little head and peered at her through the shadows, he decided enough was enough. Before his son could voice his own complaint, Iain inhaled a bellow—and strangled on his words as an enormous bug flew down his throat, silencing him.
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