Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Emotions he couldn’t quite disentangle, so jumbled were they together in this twisted mass that was his heart.

  And yet he knew they were significant, for never in his life had he felt such a buoyant sense of bonding. Christ, but if he could remain with her together... the way they were this instant... for the rest of their lives.. . Iain thought he might.

  And so when the knock sounded upon the door, he was loath to respond. He lay there, muttering silent curses and willing the intruder to go away. The summons came once more, and he growled in disgust. Drawing the sheets up to cover Page from greedy eyes, he lifted himself from the bed as quietly as he was able, leaving, her to sleep while he answered the door.

  “Broc,” he said, frowning as he opened the door to find the youth standing there. Naked though he was, he stood barring the view within.

  “Laird!” Broc began, looking suddenly sheepish. “Pardon, but och! Seems ‘tis my duty today to be the bearer of bad tidings.”

  Iain peered back over his shoulder at the sleeping form within his bed, and sighed. “What now?” he asked, returning his attention to a red- faced Broc.

  “Well,” Broc began. “’Tis Glenna...”

  “What about her?” Iain snapped.

  “Well,” he began again, fidgeting under Iain’s impatient stare. “She didna see to the evenin’ meal... We went to find oot why... but she willna come oot o’ her croft.”

  Iain’s face screwed. “Guid God, mon!” It wasn’t like Glenna, but she was certainly entitled to a moment’s peace. He needed only see how weary Page was to know that Glenna was like to be the same. “Ye’re grown men,” he admonished. “Dinna ye think she—”

  “She’s weepin’,” Broc interjected before Iain could reprimand him further.

  “Weepin’?”

  Broc nodded. “Loudly. Ye can hear her clearly from outside the door. She says she doesna wish to talk to anybody, and willna open the door.”

  “Where is Lagan?”

  Broc shrugged. “We’ve looked everywhere, but it doesna really matter as she says she doesna wish to see him either.”

  Iain was certain his surprise was manifest in his face. “She willna see her son?”

  Broc shook his head. “It isna her way, I know..”

  Iain’s brow furrowed. “Nay,” he agreed, deliberating over the facts. And it truly was not. Glenna had never been one to indulge in tempers. Not in all the years he’d known her. “Go on, then. I’ll be there anon.”

  “Aye,” Broc said, and turned to go.

  “But do not tell her I am coming,” Iain charged him.

  The last thing he wished was for his stalwart aunt to prepare herself to face him—to put away her sorrows and her worries. If there was aught plaguing her, he would know it. After all that she’d been there for him, it was the least he could do for her.

  He only wondered why it was that she would not see her son. When he thought on it, Lagan had been acting strange of late, as well, although Iain attributed the fact to his quarrel with auld mon MacLean, and then to Ranald’s death. And yet his cousin had been conspicuously absent at Ranald’s wake—neither had he offered to carry his longtime friend on the voyage home.

  Had Iain not been so preoccupied with finding the traitor in their midst, he might have taken notice sooner. But something was amiss between them, and he would set it to rights at once.

  Better late than not at all.

  Time was his enemy now.

  His final chance had presented itself, and he knew he must hie to take advantage.

  Nightfall would come soon enough, and knowing Malcom would never disobey his da by wandering out to the Lover’s Bluff alone after twilight, he’d been forced to lie to the lad, telling him Iain awaited him upon the cliff top. The little whelp had gone without question.

  But Malcom wouldn’t remain there long once he discovered his father was not there, and once the light began to fade he would come scurrying back as fast as his wee legs could take him.

  Aye, he would need plan carefully now... in order for all to go as it should.

  He hadn’t intended to do a bluidy thing this eve, but he’d been watching... and waiting.

  ’Twas a good thing, too, for Broc had, at long last, managed to draw Iain away from his Sassenach whore.

  The tale he would tell was clear in his mind: As this was the first time Iain had left her completely unattended, she would naturally choose it to make her escape. And certainly she would wish to take the boy with her to appease her father.

  Such a shame she’d not realized how abruptly the bluffs ended.

  And of course, it would be much too dark for her to realize until she and Malcom had already plummeted over the cliff to the rocks below.

  Such a bluidy rotten shame...

  Of course, he knew the reality would scarce be so simple. He was fully aware he’d need use some... persuasion... to get the wench o’er the cliff.

  Malcom would be another matter entirely. The brat would give him little enough trouble. He would simply lift him up by his stout little-boy arms and toss him o’er the ledge.

  The very thought made him smile—not that he particularly cared to hear the lad’s screams, o’ course, or to hear him suffer and plead—but he was goddamned tired of looking at his bratty li’l face.

  Och! And only imagine what a misfortune it would become... were Iain to find their bodies broken together upon the rocks below... the woman he loved—once more—and his beloved son...

  Certainly it would be conceivable that he might find himself unable to cope. That was his hope. After all... what man wouldn’t find it unbearable to lose two women—both having flown to escape him—and then his only son?

  In the end, wouldn’t it seem perfectly comprehensible that the three would tragically meet the same fate?

  Such poetic justice!

  Damn, but if Iain didn’t think of ending it so himself, Lagan would surely find a way to prescribe it.

  And with that thought he quickened his pace, feeling a rush of excitement o’er the confrontation at hand. He had no notion how long Iain would be gone from his chamber, or to where he had gone—nor did he intend to linger for anyone to spy him stealing up the tower steps. He climbed them swiftly, his footsteps lithe and full of purpose. The light within the tower had faded with the gloaming, and though he noted the absence of lit torches, he didn’t take the time to consider why Glenna would be so slow to light them tonight.

  Whatever the reason, it worked to his favor.

  At long last, the waiting was over, and Lagan would finally see justice done—for the father he’d never known, the mother he’d never claimed, and the brother who had never even once looked into his eyes and spied the truth between them!

  Page was uncertain what it was that woke her—some sound, something—but she opened her eyes to a room filled with the gray shades of twilight. Sated from the afternoon’s exertions, she stretched lazily, and turned, only to find a scream caught in her throat. Startled, she lurched up in the bed, jerking up the sheets to conceal herself.

  The shadow came forward, revealing himself. “I wasna certain whether to wake ye, or nay.”

  “What are you doing here?” Page demanded of him.

  “‘Tis the lad,” Lagan told her. “Malcom. I wouldna trouble ye, lass, were he no’ so distressed.”

  “Malcom?” Her brow furrowed with worry. Whatever ill will she felt for Lagan, she set aside for Malcom’s sake. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  Lagan was silent a moment, his expression grave, and Page’s heart began to hammer with fear. “What is it?” Her gaze swept the room. “Where is Iain?”

  “Well, you see...” Lagan knelt beside the bed, peering quickly at the door as he did so. And then his gaze returned to Page, and it seemed fraught with worry. “I canna tell his da... ‘Tis his da he’s afeared for.”

  Page’s brows knit. “I do not understand.”

  “Ye see...” He glanced up at the window and then back.
In the fading light his face was ashen with despair. “He overheard his da shouting at ye, lass... an’ he’s afeared ‘tis happened again.”

  “What has happened again?” Page asked, following his gaze to the window once more. Her brows lifted in comprehension, and her gaze returned to Lagan. “Surely he cannot think his da would—”

  “Och, lass, but he does!”

  “Nay!” Page exclaimed in dismay. “However could he think such a thing!”

  Lagan’s mouth twisted into a grimace. He peered down at the floor between them. “Secrets have their way o’ revealin’ themselves,” he told her.

  Something about the tone of his voice sent a quiver racing down her spine. “Aye,” she agreed, and clutched the covers more firmly to her breast.

  “If he could but see ye... then he would know he fears for naught. Will ye come?”

  “Of course,” Page assured him. “Where is he?”

  “He ran oot upon the bluff.”

  Her gaze returned to the window. The rosy sky was fast turning to violet-gray shadows.

  “I’ll go,” Page agreed. “Only give me a moment to dress.”

  “Certainly,” he said, and stood. But he didn’t leave, nor did he turn away.

  He stared a long instant at the sheet she had clutched to her bosom, and her face burned under his scrutiny. “Alone, please,” she urged him.

  “Ye dinna mind Iain watching, do ye, though?” he snapped at her, and then seemed to snake himself free of his anger. “Verra well, I’ll be just beyond the door—come quickly,” he urged. “The hour grows late, and I wouldna have Malcom come to any harm.”

  “Nor I,” Page assured him, shuddering at the sharp sway of his mood. She waited until he’d left her, closing the door in his wake, and then she scrambled out of the bed to dress.

  It was evident Lagan did not like her—less did he seem to relish finding her in Iain’s bed. But then it was a mutual disgust, for neither did she care for him. Though it mattered not at all, for only Malcom mattered at this moment. She would have done anything for Iain’s son, and bearing Lagan’s company seemed a small enough price to repay Iain for all he’d done for her.

  It was certainly the least she could do in return.

  Upon entering the small croft, Iain found the room dark with descending shadows, no candles lit at all.

  Glenna sat hunched over a table, weeping disconsolately into her hands. It wrenched at his gut to see the woman who had raised him feeling so aggrieved. She was still a bonny lass, though time and toil had carved their marks upon her face, and he never once looked upon her without wondering if his own mother’s face had been so fair.

  “Glenna,” he called out softly.

  Startled, she lifted her tear-streaked face at once, and then quickly swiped the telltale wetness from her cheeks. “What is it, Iain, love?” she asked. “What’s happened?”

  It was so like her to put aside her own cares for those of the kinsmen she loved. It had never mattered to Glenna whether she herself was sick, or tired, or simply downcast, if she was needed by any of her kin, she was always there. He’d not quite spoken true when he’d told Page that here all fended for themselves, for Glenna looked diligently after them all. Malcom particularly. Ever eager, she performed her duties with nary a complaint.

  The night Malcom had been born, she’d been sick with her lungs, yet she’d stayed all the night long with Mairi, brushing the hair from Mairi’s face, dampening her lips when she’d thirsted. Och, but she’d always found room in her heart for a little boy who’d craved his mother’s skirts as desperately as a leper for human touch—so hungry for notice and human compassion that he would cherish the passing smile from a stranger’s lips. His own need for her affection had been great. Malcom’s too. And she had loved them both as she had her own.

  Christ, but he’d envied Lagan.

  Iain would have given all just to know his mother’s voice, while Lagan had never treated his own with a modicum of respect—not even as a child had he allowed her to succor him. He had shunned her motherly touch, as though ashamed of the woman whose hands had mopped his brow and whose breasts had suckled him as a babe.

  “In truth,” he told his aunt, as he came into the room, closing the door behind him, “I came to see to you.”

  “Naught is wrong,” she answered much too quickly, shaking her head, stubbornly denying him the truth.

  “So I see,” Iain replied.

  She suddenly burst once more into tears, concealing her face within her hands. “Oh, Iain!”

  Iain went to her at once. Kneeling beside her, he placed an arm about her sturdy shoulders. “Glenna,” he whispered. “Naught could be so bad as all that! Tell me what’s happened. I shall help to make it right.”

  “Nay!” she wailed unhappily. “Ye canna!” She turned and thrust herself into his arms. “’Tis done! Och, but naught will bring back the years!”

  Confusion clouded his thoughts, robbed him of response. He couldn’t begin to comprehend what it was she was speaking of, for she was speaking in riddles. “What is it that canna be undone?” he persisted. For the first time in his life, it seemed his wise aunt was making about as much sense as a tenet-spouting prelate. He patted her back, consoling her. “Tell me, Glenna,” he urged her. “Let me help you. What is it?”

  “Lagan!” she cried, weeping all the more earnestly against his shoulder, soaking his breacan. “He was here and we fought!”

  “O’er what?” Iain asked. “Whatever it is, it canna possibly be so terrible that we canna mend it together. Is that no’ what you always told me, Glenna?”

  He felt her nod against his shoulder.

  “What has he done?”

  “Naught,” she cried softly, rising to her feet and wiping her face with her sleeve. “Naught as yet,” she clarified. “But I dunno what he’s going to do. He’s so angry, Iain... and he loathes ye!” she disclosed.

  Iain’s brows lifted in stunned surprise. He rocked backward upon his heels. “Me?”

  Her expression was filled with sorrow. “Aye, Iain, but he does!”

  “I dinna understand.”

  “Oh, Iain,” she whispered brokenly. “Iain, my love...” She shook her head and placed a hand upon his shoulder. Her next words left him dumb. “Lagan isna your cousin, ye see... he isna me son.”

  “Nay?” he asked, reeling from the weight of her words. “Surely you jest?”

  She shook her head. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks.

  His mind grasped her words, and his heart believed her, for he knew well enough that she would never speak but in truth. “But who then? Who is he?”

  She reached out to touch his jaw, cradle his chin. “Your brother,” she whispered.

  The blow of her words to his mind was not near as staggering as that to his heart. “Impossible!” he exclaimed at once, his face screwing with disbelief.

  “Nay, but ‘tis true,” she countered, her brows lifting. “Och, but, Iain, dinna ye see?”

  This moment he saw nothing. Nothing was clear.

  Nor could he think to speak.

  “’Twas no’ your birth that took your dear mother’s life,” she told him, “but Lagan’s, instead, love.” She nodded sadly, her eyes pooling once more with tears. “Lagan is my sister’s son,” she avowed, her hand trembling upon his face. “God forgive me, Iain, but I swear it on my soul! He is your brother, in truth.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The gathering darkness obscured his vision, but Lagan scarce slowed his pace, even when the silhouette of a small child darted out before them.

  “Lagan!” Malcom cried. “I couldna find him! I couldna! I looked but I couldna!”

  “Hush, Malcom!” Lagan commanded him, reining in much too recklessly before the frantic child.

  It was obvious to Page that he was afeared, and she suddenly didn’t feel any more at ease than he sounded. Her heart leapt as the horse snorted and kicked in protest, nearly striking Malcom’s little shoulder, and she held he
r breath until the animal came to a full halt—held her tongue as well, for she didn’t wholly trust Lagan. She would have risked anything for Malcom’s sake, but she was beginning to sense that something was very wrong.

  Lagan dismounted quickly, and Page’s sense of unease only intensified as she watched him immediately lift his crossbow from its carrier. But she scarce had time to consider his actions, for he made them clear enough at once.

  “I dinna believe in wastin’ time,” he said, and aimed the weapon at Malcom. “Get yourself on the horse, Malcom,” he commanded the child.

  The answering look upon Malcom’s face twisted Page’s heart. In the dusky twilight, his face seemed to turn ashen before her eyes. His innocent green eyes widened in grown-up comprehension and then slanted sadly like those of an old man. “Lagan!” he cried woefully. His little-boy eyes welled with tears.

  Page started to dismount at once, to go to him, but Lagan turned to her and commanded, “Stay!”

  She froze when he turned the weapon upon her—a momentary lapse, for God’s truth, she was no fearless warrior! It took her an instant to recover herself, and then she was heartily grateful the weapon was no longer trained upon Malcom.

  Bolstering her courage, she straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “What is it you hope to gain from this?” she asked him contemptuously. “What could possibly be worth harming your own cousin? Jesu, he’s naught but a child!”

  “Cousin?” he asked her, his words fraught with bitterness. “Nay, he is my nephew! But I wasna given a choice o’er what he should call me. Well, I dinna want him now! He can go to the devil, where I’m gain’ to send his da, as well!”

  “I... I do not understand,” Page said.

  “I dinna have the time to explain it to ye!” He turned the weapon upon Malcom once more, dismissing her. “Get yourself on the horse, brat.”

  With the canopy of darkness descended almost fully now, Malcom stood deeper within shadow, unmoving. Though she could no longer see his face clearly, she felt her heart wrench for the grief she knew he must be feeling. She knew he must be terrified. Knew he must feel confused.