Iain spun and raced through the woods, batting at limbs and leaping over low shrubbery to find Broc doubled over and spewing out his guts.
“Wolves!” Broc declared with a strangled gasp.
Iain followed his gaze to where Kerwyn and Dougal were dragging the body out from under bracken and brush, their faces ashen as they heaved out their friend by his arms. At the sight of them, Broc doubled over to retch yet again. Were Iain not suddenly so sick at heart himself, he might have been amused by the sight of the strapping young lad doubled over before him. Easily the tallest of them all, Broc, for all his bluster, bore a woman’s heart, along with his much too bonny face.
“Looks like something made a feast of him during the night,” Dougal said grimly.
“And buried him for another meal,” Kerwyn added, his jaw clenching.
“Och,” Dougal said, shaking his head and grimacing, “but ye canna even tell ‘tis Ranald, save for the breacan he wears.”
Iain walked to where they had dropped the body, and stood looking down upon the lifeless carcass at their feet. Both Kerwyn and Dougal averted their gazes, unable to peer down into the mangled face and body of their kinsman.
“What’ll we do?” Kerwyn asked. “What’ll we tell his minnie?”
“The truth,” Iain answered, his gaze fixing upon the wooden shaft that protruded from Ranald’s chest. He bent to examine the broken arrow, running a finger over the jagged end. “Whatever that may be. Wolves may have feasted here,” he declared, “but be damned if someone else didn’t get to him first.” The wolves’ attack had been so ravenous, they’d obviously broken the arrow in their frenzy. Iain considered the broken arrow another moment, something about it niggling at him, until Lagan, Kermichil, and Kerr broke into the copse where they had gathered.
Eyeing Broc with lifted brows, Kermichil then turned his gaze to the body, his lips twisting into a grimace. “Christ!” he exclaimed.
With a keening cry of grief, Lagan came to his knees at Ranald’s side. “Stupid bastard!” he lamented, letting out another low, tortured moan. “Stupid, stupid bastard!”
Iain placed a hand to his cousin’s shoulder and squeezed, comforting him, urging him to his feet. “There’s naught we can do for him now, Lagan,” he said. Lagan came to his feet, nodding, battling grief—a grief that was reflected in each and every man’s eyes, though none spoke it openly. Each had understood the risks they would face in coming to this place.
Iain removed his breacan and tossed it at Dougal, his heart heavy with the task ahead. “Wrap him,” he commanded, his voice hoarse. “He deserves a proper burial.” His jaw clenched. “We’ll be takin’ him home to see that he gets it.”
“Nay! Use mine,” Lagan offered, his voice breaking and his eyes suspiciously aglaze. He removed his breacan and tossed it at Dougal. Dou- gal tossed Iain’s back to him. Iain clutched it within his fist, nodding his assent when Dougal looked at him for approval.
Dougal nodded, and averted his face, scarce able to meet Lagan’s eyes—all knew that the two had shared a friendship that bordered on the familial. In truth, Lagan and Ranald were more family than even Iain and Lagan were. Though he didn’t begrudge it, the knowledge aggrieved Iain, for he was alone in so many ways.
He had his clan, aye. And he’d had his father, and he had Malcom, too, but never a sister to tease, nor a brother to spar with. As a boy, he had, in truth, envied their friendship. As a man, he’d held it in high regard. As chieftain, he mourned the death of his kinsman.
Without a word they set to the task of wrapping Ranald’s bloody body within the unsullied red, black, and white folds of the MacKinnon colors.
Page was determined to make the boy realize how much his silence in her father’s house had plagued her. Until now, he’d quietly listened to her rebuke, his brows knit, his little face growing more and more markedly resentful. She didn’t allow it to dissuade her. After all, she’d spent weeks trying to ease his fears and befriend him—and all the while he’d understood every word she’d spoken to him. Somehow, it wounded her still that he would simply distrust her out of hand. She’d tried so hard. “Why did you not speak to make me aware you understood me, Malcom? I wouldn’t have hurt you.”
He merely shrugged, though his expression was one of irritation.
“Did I not stand in defense of you against my father?” Page asked him, making herself more comfortable upon the ground beside him. She lifted her knees, hugging them to her breast, and peered up to see what Angus and the rest were doing. She found them all pacing still, and her brows knit, for she hadn’t as yet discovered what it was that had them so agitated.
She’d half expected they would be off and away as soon as they’d gathered their belongings together this morn, but here they sat still, waiting—though for what, she had no notion.
“Malcom... why did you not trust me?” she persisted, glancing down at the small pile of dirt he had raked into a heap between them. Reaching out, she swept her palm over the ground, helping him to arrange the soil. “I understand why you might have been afeared of my father. Your father explained. But...”
He glanced up at her then, the indignation in his eyes robbing her of words. “Because you said awful things about my da,” he answered grudgingly. “You lied to me and said he was bad!”
Page blinked, too taken aback to reply for an instant.
“You tried to make me not like him!” he accused her. “And my da is guid! Ye dunno my da!”
Jesu, but it hadn’t occurred to her that she might have offended him. It hadn’t occurred to her because she’d been more than prepared to believe the worst of his father.
Her face heated. She didn’t know what to say in her defense. “I... I’m sorry,” she offered. “I suppose that I did, but I—” But she didn’t get the chance to explain, for they returned then, the MacKinnon and his men, like grim specters marching from the woods, their faces leaden and their eyes ablaze.
Page’s gaze focused upon the MacKinnon in their lead. His gaze met hers, and for an instant, for the space of a heartbeat, Page felt the incredible urge to flee. Her heart thudded within her breast, and although she knew instinctively that the anger within the depths of his amber gaze was not meant for her, it made her tremble, nonetheless. She tried to look away, but couldn’t, and in the blink of an eye, his gaze passed to his son. The rigidness in his incredible frame seemed to ease at once.
It was only after she was freed from the MacKinnon’s piercing gaze that she spied the man-sized bundle borne upon the shoulders of his men.
Page knew instinctively that it would be one of their own, for she noted, too, that the body was wrapped within the MacKinnon colors. Yet who it might be, she couldn’t begin to conceive. Her gaze raced from man to man as she tried to recall an absent face, but her mind drew a blank. These were not her people, and she knew them not at all.
She stood at once, watching in horror as they bore the body to their mounts. Both she and Malcom stared as they hitched the unwieldy bundle to a horse. Only when they were finished did she find herself able to peer down at Malcom.
His gaze lifted to hers, and in his glistening eyes she saw that he knew without being told.
“Ranald,” he said, blinking away a lone tear.
Chapter Fourteen
They rode without speaking, their mood somber and their faces grim.
Page felt as though she were part of a funeral procession—a brooding stranger amongst grieving kin.
Ranald’s body had been strapped to the back of Lagan’s mount, and though they’d taken great care to wrap him tightly, the length of his body made it impossible for the blanket to cover him completely. A leaden foot peeked out, waving at her with every jouncing movement of the horse’s stride.
The sight of it turned Page’s stomach. Had she chanced to eat anything this morn, she might have lost the contents of her belly. As it was, she was in danger of no such thing, because she hadn’t eaten anything at all. They’d begun the search almost
at once upon waking, and after the discovery of the body they hadn’t seemed inclined to take the time to fill their stomachs. Page could scarce blame them for their lack of appetite. Though her own belly churned in protest, she doubted she could have kept anything down for long.
She’d never seen a dead body before—in truth, hadn’t as yet, for they hadn’t unveiled him. But she knew he was there. Even had she been able to pretend the bundle was no more than hefty baggage, the waving foot remained a grim reminder.
Though she tried to ignore the body, and the foot, it was nigh impossible—particularly as they’d allowed her the use of poor Ranald’s mount. Like dogs herding sheep, they kept her girdled between them, making any sudden flight for freedom she might undertake all but impossible.
Nevertheless, when the time was right, she fully intended to try.
Jesu, but she couldn’t believe their arrogance in giving her a mount—not that she wasn’t grateful, mind you. She was more than pleased not to have to ride with the MacKinnon again. His presence disturbed her. But she doubted they’d simply have handed her the reins had she been a man. Did they believe just because she was a woman she would not possess the wherewithal to attempt an escape? Well! She loathed to disappoint, but she would escape them, the very instant an opportunity presented itself.
For her sake, she hoped it came sooner rather than later.
Having had so little sleep the previous two nights, she struggled to keep alert. Every moment carried them farther from Aldergh, she knew, and lessened her chances for escape. Out of sheer desperation, she had taken to tearing snippets from her undershift and dropping them furtively upon the ground to mark their path.
Ridiculous as it might seem, she had to do something. She couldn’t simply sit here upon poor Ranald’s horse and ride into oblivion. As of yet, no one had noticed, and she praised God for that small stroke of good fortune.
By late afternoon she began to worry that she wasn’t going to be afforded the opportunity to use the snippets to find her way back. It was becoming more and more difficult to tear at her shift without gaining notice, as the hem had long since whittled to her knees. When the sun began to fade at last, she resisted the urge to peer back to see how visible the tiny scraps were. She couldn’t afford to have them suspect her.
While the MacKinnon hadn’t spared her more than a glance in the hours they’d been traveling, the old man Angus and the one they called Broc kept her, without fail, within their sights.
Angus, for his part, seemed disinclined to forgive her for her surly temper of the previous eve. The old man frowned at her every time he chanced to peer her way. Well, she didn’t care. She didn’t need the old fool to like her. Forsooth! But she’d lived a lifetime without his favor. Why should she care that some old goose she’d only just met, and wouldn’t know long—her enemy at that—disapproved of her? She certainly did not!
Broc, on the other hand... She couldn’t quite figure him out. Hours ago, she could have sworn he’d spied her tearing her shift and casting the fragment upon the ground, and yet he’d said nothing at all. He’d kept his silence, casting her dubious glances now and again, but naught more.
Mayhap he’d not spied her, she wondered, nibbling the inside of her lip.
Well, she’d soon enough have her answer, because it was time to tear another. She didn’t wish the scraps planted too far apart—nor too close, lest she run out of shift to rend. Though judging by the position of the sun, she thought they might be stopping soon for the night. Running out of material didn’t seem to be her greatest concern—locating the scraps in the dark would be. And yet there was no help for it.
Each time she dropped a scrap, Page tried her best to note the surrounding landscape. She only hoped she would be able to recognize the way come nightfall. In her favor, the moon would be almost full again tonight. Its light should help to guide her—if she found a way to escape, she reminded herself. She wasn’t free as yet.
Mayhap she could talk the MacKinnon into leaving her unfettered.
Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, Page gathered her bliaut into her fist, raising her skirt. She glanced about, as nonchalantly as possible, to be certain no one was watching. No one was, and she quickly ripped another fragment from her shift, then released her skirts, letting the hem fall once more. Clutching the scrap within her fist, she tried to gather the nerve once more to drop it.
She made the mistake of peering about then, for she met the MacKinnon’s gaze, and her heart leapt into her throat.
He was watching her over his shoulder...
Had he spied her?
Jesu! But nay... she didn’t think so, for his face was a mask without expression. He held her gaze imprisoned for an eternity, holding her as surely as though in physical bonds, but his expression remained unreadable.
Page’s heart began to pound as she gripped the cloth within her fist.
Drop it, she told herself. He wouldn’t see it, for his gaze was riveted upon her face. With the flurry of movement about them, the rise and fall of so many hooves, there was no way he would spy it.
She couldn’t do it. His gaze held her riveted and paralyzed, while her heart beat like thunder in her ears.
And then he suddenly released her, glancing away, back toward his son. Page felt the withdrawal acutely, and to her shock, found she didn’t want him to go back to ignoring her.
She stared at his back, feeling bereft in a way she didn’t quite comprehend.
He’d ridden the entire day with his son, the two of them talking, laughing, sharing in a way that made Page ache deep down. God’s truth, she didn’t wish to feel this... this... envy. It was deep and black and ugly, but she could scarce help herself. Seeing the MacKinnon smooth the back of his son’s hair with his open palm, the gesture such a loving one, filled her heart with grief like she’d never known. It left her with an emptiness she’d only suspected was there before now.
The undiscovered void.
All her life she’d filled it with indifference and resentment, and in the space of a day these people, the MacKinnon and his son, had revealed it.
Watching the way that he squeezed the boy’s shoulder, the way that he leaned forward to almost embrace him, as though he didn’t wish to embarrass the child, or himself before his men, but couldn’t quite help himself, made her eyes sting with tears.
She’d never known the feel of a hand upon her shoulder, or the tender brush of a palm upon her face...
Her eyes closed and she remembered against her will... the gentle way he’d held her face... the whisper-soft way he’d spoken to her... It made her quiver still... made her yearn for that moment once more.
How piteous, she thought, that she would be reduced to such a shameful longing.
Like some Jezebel who cared not a whit who her lover was, nor even whether she knew his name, only that he was there when the lights were doused, she craved her enemy’s touch.
Even knowing it was contemptible.
Even knowing he had betrayed her father.
Even knowing her father wanted her back.
Long after he’d turned away, Page clutched the cloth within her hand, unaware that she did so.
She was startled from her thoughts by an unfamiliar voice, and turned to find that Broc had somehow maneuvered his way alongside her. He sat his mount beside her, staring as though awaiting a response.
To what? What had he said? Jesu! And where had he come from so quickly? She’d not heard, nor spied his approach. Her heart hammered guiltily as she recalled the cloth in her hand. She tried to conceal the evidence within the folds of her skirt.
Broc glanced about, and then turned narrowed eyes upon her. The spite in his expression gave lie to the sweetness of his youthful face. “I said... ’twill take more than a siren’s voice and a pretty song to woo the rest o’ us, wench.”
For an instant Page didn’t understand what it was that he was speaking of, and then it occurred to her that he must be referring to the lullai bye
she’d sung to Malcom the night before. She stiffened in the saddle, offended by the conclusions he’d drawn. “I was trying to woo no one!” she assured him. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
“Guid, then,” he said, leering at her, “because ‘tis no one ye wooed.”
Page resisted the urge to throw the scrap she held into his face. God only knew, she wanted to throw something at him, but the cloth wouldn’t hurt him, she knew—would likely make him laugh with glee, and then she would be left to explain its existence.
“I dinna ken why the laird doesna simply leave ye,” he said nastily, “nor why he seems compelled to save ye from your bastard da—but I’ve no such compunction. ‘Tis your fault poor Ranald is strapped t’ the back o’ Lagan’s mount. Your fault, and no other, d’ ye hear me, wench?”
For an instant Page was too stunned by his accusation to do any more than stare up at the fair-haired giant. Sweet Mary, but these Scots were each one taller than the other! And their tempers, one more surly than the next!
How dare he place the blame for Ranald’s death at her feet!
Refusing to cow to his charge, Page narrowed her eyes at him. “How dare you accuse me, sir! I have absolutely no idea what poor Ranald wandered into, but whatever it was, was of his own doing—not mine! I assure you!”
He scratched idly behind his head.
“So ye say.”
He couldn’t possibly think her responsible. Could he? Her breath snagged at the sudden hope that spiraled to life within her. Unless... If her father had come after her... “My father?” she asked, and couldn’t conceal the note of hope in her voice.
“Nay,” the behemoth answered, with unmistakable disgust, and then surprised her by adding, “No such luck, wench. But he willna be rid o’ ye so easily—I swear by the stone!”
“So easily?” Page blinked in confusion. “But... I don’t understand...” Her brows collided. “What is it you are trying to tell me?”
He glowered at her. “Never mind, wench,” he said, shaking his head, as though he thought she was too obtuse to understand, and didn’t care to waste more words. He leaned closer to speak in a whisper. “I didna come to speak o’ your whoreson da,” he revealed, reaching back and scratching at his scalp. “But to tell ye to drop the bluidy piece o’ cloth, already.”
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