Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Certainly the warmth that sidled through her this morn had naught to do with his bawdy promise! Her cheeks burned at the mere memory of where her hand had been.

  He’d said that he wanted her—for what, she had no need to guess by the fullness of his loins. God have mercy upon her soul, for some part of her had been ready to cast herself into his arms, for merely the promise of affection, when she should have recoiled at the insinuation.

  Was she so hungry for affection that she was willing to seek it, even at the risk of her own ruination?

  It seemed so.

  She sighed then, and sat, nettled by the turn of her thoughts, for she knew what a futile gesture it would be. She wasn’t part of this family. She wasn’t part of any family. Offering her body as a sacrifice for his pleasure wasn’t going to change anything at all.

  And her father wanted her back, she reminded herself, hope surging again. At any cost, she must find a way to return to her father.

  Leaning back against a tree, she hugged her knees to her breast, watching the MacKinnon huddle together with his men. They spoke urgently in their own tongue, and she wondered what it was they discussed. She didn’t ponder it long, however, for she spied Malcom then, standing next to a tree, with his back to her, rocking from foot to foot.

  Poor wretched child, she thought. He seemed sad somehow this morn, his shoulders drooping, his head down, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking of his mother after last night. Page couldn’t forget the wistful way he’d spoken of her. There’d been no complaint in his voice, merely truth, and yet the sadness with which he’d spoken of the mother he’d never known had wrenched at Page’s heart. She knew firsthand how difficult it could be to grow up without a mother—or a father, but that was another story entirely.

  Her mother hadn’t wanted her, had ensconced herself within a nunnery after her birth—shamed by the sight of her, her father had said. Page sighed. To this day she suffered guilt over it. ’Twas no wonder her father scorned her so, for ’twas said that he’d loved her mother more than life itself.

  And Page had driven her away.

  What had she done? Wailed too much? Had she been too demanding? She must have been a difficult child—certainly her father had said so often enough.

  And still it plagued her.

  What might she have done differently?

  Her brows drew together at the self-defeating vein of thought. What was done was done, she knew, and she couldn’t alter the course of her life now. Her mother was dead—had perished in the nunnery long ago of some fever of the lungs.

  The best she could do now was make peace with her father, and the sooner she returned to Aldergh, the sooner she could begin.

  A fresh wash of anger flooded her.

  Stealing a glance at the one to whom it was directed, she wondered if the tales were true, that he’d murdered his wife. Somehow, she didn’t think so. For as little as she knew of the man, he didn’t strike her as a murderer of innocent women. But then... Her brows drew together. Mayhap his wife had not been innocent.

  In any case, ’twas certain the MacKinnon had had plenty of opportunity to harm Page already if he’d so wished, and yet he had not so much as lifted a finger against her in anger.

  Although he may have wished to last night.

  Page couldn’t suppress a vengeful smile at the thought of her rebelliousness. Sweet Mary, but she would have given much to have spied the MacKinnon’s face when she’d first screamed her song into his ear—and then his glower when he couldn’t get her to stop. Unable to keep herself from it, she indulged in a private giggle, and then bit her lip to sober herself.

  He was a dangerous man, she knew.

  So why didn’t she feel herself more afeared?

  She frowned at that, and then contemplated his reaction to her defiance. Though she had feared his reaction beforehand, she couldn’t help but think his frustration rather humorous this morning—curious too, for a man such as the MacKinnon, whose legendary prowess upon the field of battle preceded him. As did his cruel reputation. There weren’t many in the northlands—nay, in all of England—who had not heard the tale of his poor wife’s demise. ’Twas said that he’d tossed her out from the tower window the very morning of his son’s birth, that he’d had no more use for her. She’d borne him his son, and that was all he’d required from her.

  ’Twas also said that his influence in the Highlands rivaled that of King David—that in truth, the Highlanders looked to the MacKinnon for their leadership, and that it sat sorely with David of Scotland.

  Perhaps that was why David had stolen Malcom and had awarded the boy to the English court—to control the father?

  Pondering the thought, Page rose and determined to lift little Malcom’s spirits—he’d allowed her to soothe him last eve; mayhap he would again. Later in the day, she would be gone from their presence, she hoped, but for now, mayhap she could make a difference in the little boy’s mood. Mayhap she could make him see that he could and would endure. She certainly had!

  As she neared the boy, she realized he was singing to himself, and her heart twisted painfully as a vague memory came back to her, a dizzying whirlwind vision of herself lying within a golden field of grain, staring up as great tufts of white puffy clouds floated across a pale blue sky. She was singing herself a lullaby.

  “Hush ye, my bairnie, my bonny wee laddie,” he sang, in his lilting Scots brogue, bringing Page back. “When ye’re a man, ye shall follow your daddy...”

  Page smiled at his song, and the way that he swayed to the time.

  “Lift me a coo, and a goat and a wether,” he continued, and just then Page reached him, and put her hand upon his back, letting him know that she was there with comfort if he would only accept it. He stopped singing abruptly, and peered up at her over his shoulder, his little face screwing into a frown.

  Page noticed he was holding something beneath his tunic, though she was unable to see it for the bulk of his breacan. She thought he might be hiding something from her, and wondered what it might possibly be. Her father had said they were a thieving lot, the Scots. Frowning, she reached back to seize the end of her plait and brought it about to be certain she still owned the only valuable thing she had to her name—the braided gold cord she’d pilfered from her father’s cloak and now used to bind her hair. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that it was still there, adorning her gnarled tresses, like a strand of gold in a bird’s nest. Again she frowned, and cast another glance at the MacKinnon, assuring herself that she didn’t care whether he found her wanting.

  She returned her attention to Malcom, her curiosity piqued. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  He was still peering up at her, his little brows drawn together in an adorable little frown. He seemed to be considering how best to answer, and then yielded, “Paintin’.”

  Page’s brows lifted. “Painting?” she asked with some surprise. “Oh, I see.” The rascal, he was too shy to show his artwork. She smiled, and knelt at his back, hoping to coax him into bringing the art piece out from under his tunic. His gaze followed her down, and his little face remained screwed in a wary frown. “Might I see your painting?” she asked softly, coaxing him as she would a shy pup. “I very, very much like to paint myself,” she told him truthfully, and then waited patiently for him to decide.

  “Weel,” he said, twisting his little lips as he considered. “I suppose ye can,” he yielded, and started to fiddle with the something beneath his tunic. Page smiled in triumph, and then to her horror, watched as he began to pee upon the ground. “See,” he said, with some pride, lifting a finger to point at the wet dirt before him. It was then Page noticed that part of the ground was damp already.

  “There’s horns,” he pointed out delightedly, “and there’s eyes. I’m doin’ a nose just now.” And then he groaned in complaint, when his stream ended abruptly, “but I ne’er can finish ‘cause I always run out!” He turned to her then, wrinkling his forehead in childish disgus
t.

  Page knelt there behind him in openmouthed shock, her face flaming. She didn’t know what to say.

  “’Tis... quite... lovely,” she stammered, and then screeched in fright when the MacKinnon came and placed a hand upon her shoulder. She shrugged free of his touch, leaping to her feet.

  Malcom peered up at his father, his smile suddenly beatific once more. “Halloo, Da!” he said, beaming. “I was showin’ Page my goat!”

  “Were ye now?” the MacKinnon asked, frowning, and then he turned to look at her, his scowl deepening.

  Page took a defensive step backward. “I... I... I didn’t realize!” she said at once, stammering over her words. She shook her head in horror. “I... I would never have interrupted—I-I never imagined!”

  The MacKinnon peered over his son’s shoulder at the ground before his son’s feet, his brows drawn together.

  Malcom shrugged. “She asked to see my goat, da, but it wasna finished,” his son explained, eyeing Page as though she’d suddenly gone daft.

  The MacKinnon’s stern face broke into a grin then. He turned to Page and said, looking much as though he would break into hoots and howls of laughter, “He’s a boy, lass, what can I say?”

  Malcom was still staring up at his father, frowning. “But, da,” he complained, “I didna get to finish again!” And then he turned to Page and declared, “Sometimes me and my da match to see who can piss the farthest.”

  The MacKinnon was quick to place a hand to his son’s lips, shushing him. “Malcom!”

  Forsooth! Page didn’t think her face could grow any hotter than it was already.

  “Me da always wins,” Malcom’s little voice announced, undeterred, his words muffled through his father’s fingers. It was obvious he was very proud of his father’s accomplishment. He tugged his father’s hands away from his face and boasted, “On ‘count of he’s bigger, ye see. Right, da?” he asked, peering up at his father for witness.

  Page lowered her gaze, blinking.

  “Taller, lass, taller!” the MacKinnon proclaimed, reaching out and lifting her face to his. “Because I’m taller,” he explained quickly.

  It was only then Page realized where she’d been staring, and her eyes widened in comprehension. She felt like swooning! Her face burned hot with embarrassment, and her only comfort was that the MacKinnon’s blush was nigh as deep as her own must be. His cheeks were high with color.

  She turned abruptly, feeling like a peagoose, and walked away, wishing to God she’d never woken up this morn at all. Jesu, but she didn’t think she’d ever be able to face him again—father or son!

  The MacKinnon came after her, and then his footsteps halted abruptly. “Page!” he barked, his voice like a clap of thunder.

  Page froze, blinking at the sharpness of his voice.

  And then she realized what it was he’d said, and her knees went weak beneath her.

  Mother of Christ!

  He knew.

  Her mind raced, trying to discern how he could possibly, and then she realized belatedly that Malcom had used her name yet again. Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed the world away. Lord help her, but she’d never felt more like crawling into a hole and remaining there the whole of her life. Now, in truth, she couldn’t bear to face him.

  What would she say?

  How could she explain?

  Her heart raced painfully.

  Iain could scarce believe it, though the proof was there before him. She’d frozen in her step when he’d called her by name, and she stood there still, looking like a beautiful carving of stone in her utter stillness.

  He’d heard Malcom speak the word last eve, but had assumed his son had misnamed the verse a page. He’d thought nothing more of it. Until Malcom had spoken it again.

  Iain had been momentarily distracted over his son’s artwork, but no more.

  He had to know the truth.

  And sweet Christ, but he did. He could tell by the way she stood, so stiffly, refusing to face him. She knew precisely what it was he wished to know, and she gave him his answer with her silence.

  As he watched her tilt her head back and peer into the sky, as though in supplication, Iain shook with a rage so potent, it was manifest. He could taste it bitterly. He could feel it—from the fury that burned him, to the heart that squeezed him. He could smell it, and the stench was putrid. If FitzSimon, the bastard, stood before him this instant, Iain thought he might tear out his bloody heart and shove it down his throat—provided he had a heart at all! God damn the ill-begotten whoreson!

  What sort of man went so far as not to name his own daughter? Page was no name at all, but a mere role to be played!

  How could a man—how could anybody— have so little concern over a human being? His own flesh and blood?

  His jaw clenched so tightly that he thought he could taste his own blood.

  He muttered an oath beneath his breath, and swore that if ever again he faced the man who called himself her father, he would strangle the fool with his bare hands.

  Uncertain what else to do, Iain merely stared at her back—she’d been unable to turn and face him as yet—and he saw that she quaked, as well.

  God’s teeth, nothing he had done to her, nothing he had said, had caused such a reaction in her, and he swore another bitter oath as he turned abruptly, unable to face her as yet, unable to force her to face him.

  Turning, he nearly plowed into Lagan in his blind rage.

  “’Tis Ranald,” Lagan announced. “Iain... he hasna returned.”

  Iain muttered an oath. “Gather a search party,” he commanded Lagan. “Damn, but I’m gain’ to strangle the wandering whoreson when we find him!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  They combed the woodlands more furiously now, hacking away at the flowering vines and foliage in their paths.

  Lagan and Ranald had been companions since childhood, and Iain could tell his cousin was growing more distressed with every inch of ground they covered in search of his friend.

  Iain hadn’t been overly concerned the night before, only because he’d thought Ranald needed time to calm himself—that perhaps his disappearance had been a gesture of defiance. He was well aware the men had been displeased with his decision to bring Page along with them.

  Och, but if he thought he despised the name she gave him before, he loathed this one all the more. Nay, but ’twas no name at all!

  As the party continued to search, Iain considered others that might better suit her—and decided that every last one of them suited her better than Page. The very thought of her father’s insult made his ire rise tenfold. He hacked at a thick vine with the flat of his sword, cutting it in twain with the blunt force of his blow.

  Christ and bedamned! Where was Ranald?

  Angry as he may have been, Iain knew Ranald would never have deserted them. His brow furrowed. Most assuredly not without his mount.

  His thoughts skittered back to Page, and he shook his head in disgust. Damn, but how could any man allow—nay, demand!—that his own flesh and blood be borne away by the enemy? Iain clenched his teeth at the unpalatable thought. Try as he might, he couldn’t comprehend the workings of FitzSimon’s mind. Even had Mairi been unfaithful and borne him another man’s bairn, Iain knew he would have loved that child as if it were his own. It was never the bairn’s fault, was it? He couldn’t comprehend such blatant lack of regard in a father who shared the same blood with his daughter.

  Surely ’twas an abomination before God’s eyes? Though ‘God might reap his own justice, Iain found he wished to show the whoreson a more earthly sort of hell—and he damned well would if he ever set eyes upon the man again.

  “Begin searching the brush!” he commanded. A sense of unease lifted the hairs of his nape. Until now, they’d been scouring the ground for some evidence of struggle—some clue to Ranald’s disappearance—tracks through the soft earth of the forest, leaves disturbed. There was nothing.

  “He canna have gone far withoot his mount,” he re
minded his men, thinking aloud, and still his brooding thoughts returned to Page.

  Maggie was a good sounding Scots name.

  Anger surged through him once more.

  At his wits’ end with the search, he cursed and hacked off the crown of a bush, then bellowed for Dougal. “Take Broc and Kerwyn,” Iain directed the lad. “Search to the right; circle about. Lagan,” he commanded, turning to address his dour-faced cousin. “Take Kerr and Kermichil and sweep to the left.”

  Lagan nodded and did as he was directed without question. Iain took the remaining two men with him. The greater number of his forces, he’d assigned to remain with Page and Malcom. The last thing he intended was to lose his son again to FitzSimon.

  As far as Iain was aware, they’d not been followed, but he didn’t intend to take unnecessary risks where Malcom was concerned—for all he knew, FitzSimon had pursued them, but at a discreet distance, with the intent of luring them away upon this fruitless search, so that he might in the meantime reclaim Malcom.

  While Iain was certain the bastard was unwilling to stir himself for his daughter’s sake, Malcom was another matter entirely. Doubtless FitzSimon would be facing Henry’s wrath over losing his ward. In truth, ’twas why Iain had forsaken the old road, opting for the shorter, more arduous route across the border and into the Highlands—just in case the fool thought to follow. Aye, for there was a reason Scotia had resisted outlanders so well and so long; the land was their ally.

  Nor did he wish for Page to have access to the old road to facilitate her escape. Though why he should care whether she fled them, he didn’t know. He only knew that he could scarce stomach the thought of her facing her father and the despicable truth—that he didn’t want her.

  The look he’d spied upon her face when, with Malcom in tow, he’d returned from dealing with her father haunted him still.

  It was Broc who discovered the body, not long after their divergence. The lad’s hue and cry seemed more a woman’s squawk in its unrestrained hysteria.