Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  She knew, too, that she must divert Lagan’s attention from him, for he was like to be no more capable of responding to Lagan’s dictates than she had been all those times her father had shattered her own illusions of him. She remembered only the numbness—a cold, gray numbness that had filtered into every corner of her soul, washing the colors from her life—a numbness she’d carried within her very heart—until Iain MacKinnon had taught her to feel again.

  And here was his son.

  She’d be damned to hell before she allowed Lagan to destroy his childish dreams and trust, his innocence and his zeal for life.

  Anger filled her, a deep cleansing anger.

  “What can you possibly hope to gain from this?” she asked Lagan once more, knowing instinctively that she could not prevail against him without understanding the battle he waged—she knew his reasons, and now she would know his intent. “Surely everyone will learn what you’ve done... should any harm come to Malcom by your hand?”

  “No’ by my hand!” he assured her, snorting disdainfully. “By yours!”

  “Nay,” Page countered, “for I’ll not raise a finger against him! You will never force me to! Place your arrow where you please, but I’ll not lift my hand against this child—nor any other! Bloody your own hands!”

  “I dinna think so!” Chortling nastily, he turned to Malcom. “Get on the horse, Malcom,” he persisted.

  Malcom moved forward uncertainly this time, and Page’s gaze scanned the shadowed horizon in panic, trying to discern his intentions. He wanted Malcom upon the horse. Why? Nothing was immediately discernible. The hillside sloped upward sharply so that she could not see what lay beyond the summit—

  Her breath caught, and her heart jolted, for suddenly she understood.

  His gaze followed hers. “Canny lass,” he commended her. “’Tis a pity ye didna realize sooner... or ye ne’er would have chosen this route for escape.”

  Her mind raced for a way to stall him. Anything to give them precious time. “And what of Malcom? Why would I bring him?”

  “To appease your da, o’ course,” he said sweetly, and then turned and shouted at Malcom. “I said to get on the horse, and do it now!”

  “Nay, Malcom!” Page asserted. “Do not come any nearer!”

  She sensed, more than saw, Malcom’s compliance.

  Though Lagan had the crossbow trained once more upon her, Page slid down from the horse, daring to defy him. God’s truth, but her father had always said she was unmindful, but she was glad for it this moment, because she knew instinctively that meekness would find the two of them lying at the bottom of a cliff come morn.

  Page could scarce see his features, but for the eyes, and they were openly malicious. Night descended more deeply in the long moments that they stared at one another. Her heart pounded so fiercely that she feared the intensity of its beating.

  “Get yourself back upon that horse!” Lagan snarled at her.

  Though she knew he could not see her, she stood her place and lifted her chin. “Nay!” she refused, swallowing convulsively. “I’ll not!”

  He turned the weapon upon Malcom and faced her as he demanded, “Get back on that horse!”

  Page took a deep breath. Her heart hammered fiercely, but she said again, “Nay! If you would murder us, then you’ll do it your bloody self! I’ll not aid you in the endeavor!” She turned to Malcom, and cursed the darkness that she could no longer see his face, nor even the obscure silhouette of his body, for he stood too far from her. And Lagan stood between them.

  “Malcom?” she called out.

  His response was a barely discernible murmur. He was afeared, she knew. But he was a brave child. She knew that, too, for he’d endured her father’s tirades without the first tear or single fearful whimper. Despite her father’s endless interrogations—the likes of which had brought wretched tears to her eyes as a child—he’d held his tongue. He’d remained his father’s son, through and through. Not broken and beaten as she’d first thought, for his silence had not been in weakness, but in strength.

  “Malcom,” she asked, her heart sounding like thunder in her ears, “do you trust me?”

  “A-Aye,” came his soft, quavering response.

  “Lie down upon the ground!” she directed him. “Lie down upon the ground, and do not get up! Do you understand?”

  “Aye,” he answered, and Page struggled to see him through the darkness.

  She prayed to God that he did as she bade him.

  Lagan turned to her. “I dinna see what ye hope to gain wi’ that!” he told her. “Och! Twill be a simple matter to toss him o’er once I’m finished wi’ you!”

  “Aye?” Page taunted him. Boldness had gained her much in her life. She sensed this was one time she needed the advantage it would give her. Even knowing where it would lead her, she turned her back toward the ledge. She knew it was there, knew he knew it was there. She only hoped it wasn’t obvious to him that she was aware of it, hoped he would think it his own bright notion to walk her to the cliff. Praying with all her might that she was doing the right thing—at least for Malcom’s sake—she took a step backward, hoping he would subconsciously take the hint. If he followed, then it would place much-needed distance between him and Malcom. And that, ultimately, was her first goal—to see Malcom safely away.

  Sweet merciful Jesu, but she wasn’t certain whether to cry out in fear or sigh in relief when he responded by taking a step toward her. She crossed herself, and began to pray aloud. “Holy Mary, Mother of Christ,” she whispered beneath her breath. “Pray for us sinners...” She took another step backward, and did cry out when he responded with another step forward. “Now and at the hour of our death,” she intoned.

  Her heart pounded against her ribs.

  He merely chuckled, and continued to urge her backward toward the cliff. “’Tis just like a Sassenach,” he scorned her. “Turn to God when ye canna fight your battles like a man!”

  Despite her predicament, Page’s brows knit in outrage. “Aye, well, I am a woman!” she reminded him caustically, and wondered if she would ever learn to curb her tongue. God’s truth, but what did it matter what she was, man or woman, when she was going to be a dead one soon enough!

  Well, she vowed, at least she would die knowing Malcom was safe, because if she went over that cliff, she fully intended to take Lagan down with her—villain that he was!

  She continued to retreat while he followed, until she neared the edge of the cliff and could scarce move back any farther without tumbling downward. She pretended surprise at the place of her arrival, but God’s truth, her gasp of fear was not at all feigned!

  Though she could barely discern Lagan’s features now, his smile was evident by the moon’s reflection. She stilled at the cliff edge, her heart tripping painfully as he continued forward, stalking her... closer until his features were once again discernible and he was within arm’s reach, and then she screamed at the top of her lungs, “Run, Malcom! Run!”

  Lagan turned at once to stop him. He lifted his bow, and Page hurled herself against him. Cursing fiercely, he shoved her backward, and attempted once more to aim for the distant fleeing shadow. Page tried once more to stop him, but she stumbled and lost her footing. She reached out to grasp something of substance and found only Lagan’s hair, seizing a handful as she toppled backward. With a yelp of pain and a cry of surprise, Lagan dropped the bow and pitched after her.

  For an instant and an eternity they tottered together upon the bluff’s edge.

  Page gasped, her grip tightening desperately upon his hair. He struggled to free himself, but he was all that was solid and real, and then there was nothingness behind her as she fell backward.

  “And so the dream...”

  “Was no dream a’tall, Iain,” Glenna revealed. “What ye describe to me is exactly the way it was the night your ma died.”

  “Awww God...” It was Iain’s turn to bury his face within his hands. His jaw tautened against the new tide of emotions. T
he voice in his dreams. The eyes. They had all been memories... not fanciful wisps of his imagination. His mother’s beautiful lilt.

  And the dream... the scared little boy awakened within his darkened bedchamber by a suffering mother’s screams. While he’d lain within his bed clutching the bedsheets, afeared to move, and yet wanting to run to her as much as he wanted to hide beneath the sheets, it was Lagan she had been bearing into the world... Lagan and not himself.

  How could it be? How was it possible that everyone could keep such a secret—so brilliantly that he had never once perceived it?

  And yet he somehow knew it for truth, for with Glenna’s shocking revelation, the memory seemed to grow in clarity.

  He clenched his jaw. “Bluidy damn you all!”

  “Iain...”

  “Why did no one e’er tell me?” he asked her, without lifting his face to look at her. He wasn’t certain he could—not without betraying his incredible fury.

  “It was your da’s wish that ye not be told,” Glenna revealed. “He didna wish for you to know.”

  “Evidently. Who else knew of this, Glenna?”

  “’Twas for your own guid, Iain!”

  He lifted his gaze to her face. “Who else knew of this, Glenna!”

  “The MacLeans, o’course.”

  He sat abruptly, slamming a fist atop the table. “Nay! I mean to say... amongst my own kinsmen... who else knew of this?”

  “Angus, o’ course. He was your da’s closet fellow.”

  “Who else?” he demanded of her.

  “Och, Iain, many! But we didna tell our children because your da forbade us.”

  Iain shook his head, disbelieving his ears. “So everyone knows?”

  “Nay... only those of us who were of an age... Most do not. Your da never meant to hurt ye, Iain, love...”

  “Nay? So tell me... how did Lagan learn?”

  Glenna lowered her eyes. “I told him.” She shook her head lamentably. “When he returned so aggrieved after tryin’ to woo MacLean’s youngest daughter, he wanted to know why auld mon MacLean wouldna listen to reason, why he seemed to condemn him e’en before he listened to a single bluidy word.”

  “And why would that be?” Iain asked her, his tone controlled, his body restrained, lest he destroy all that he saw within sight in his temper. This very moment, he felt near as violent in his anger as he had the day when he’d returned to find Malcom gone.

  “Because... Iain... it had been his brother your mother loved... his brother your father killed. It was an accident, o’course. The two had long been friends... but they fought... and there was too much rage between them to stop it.” Her voice softened. “And ye dinna realize, Iain, lad, but Lagan is the verra image o’ your minnie... while ye are the likeness o’ your da.”

  Iain closed his eyes and tried to hear his father’s reason. He imagined the anger his brother... Christ... his brother... must feel.

  “Lagan never had a chance with MacLean’s daughter, Iain. I thought he should know why. It was surprising enough that auld MacLean had been willin’ to entrust his eldest daughter into your hands. God only knows... I wish I hadna told him.”

  “Why did he do it for me, I wonder?”

  “MacLean?” Glenna shook her head. “I dunno, but I wish he had not. Were the choice between you and Lagan, I wish it had been Lagan,” she told him honestly, “and ye know I dinna mean to wish ye ill. ‘Tis merely that for ye and for Mairi there was ne’er any love. While Lagan loved Mairi’s sister, of a certain—and he’s envied ye all his life, besides. He never wanted me, Iain,” she lamented. “It was you and your da he always envied.”

  Iain shook his head, benumbed. “I cannot believe ye didna tell me, Glenna.”

  “It was your da’s wish... to protect ye, love.”

  “Nay, Glenna,” Iain countered with conviction, his tone clipped with pain and fury. For the first time in his life, he understood so much. “It was my da’s wish to hide from the truth,” he disputed her. “He didna wish to face the fact that his wife was in love wi’ another man. Just as it was his wish to raise a perfect son—a son without weaknesses—a legacy for himself. Bastard. ‘Tis no wonder Lagan resents me so! Who could blame him?”

  There was an instant of silence between them. Glenna hung her head, unable to respond.

  “And why should ye choose now... this instant to unburden yourself to me, Glenna?”

  Her chin lifted. Her eyes welled again with tears. “Och! ‘Tis Lagan,” she began. “I dinna—”

  The door burst open.

  “Iain!” Broc bellowed. “I think ye’d better come!”

  Iain’s nerves were near to snapping. He doubted there was one more incident he could deal with this day. “What now, Broc?” he asked without turning, his fist clenching upon the table before him.

  “’Tis David!” Broc revealed.

  Iain stiffened. “David?”

  “Aye... he rides wi’ FitzSimon to reclaim FitzSimon’s daughter.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  To his credit, David, King of Scotia—so he claimed—sat his mount in thoughtful silence, listening. Iain was aware of him, his easy demeanor, though his own thoughts were racing with the possible reasons for Page’s disappearance. He’d summoned her at once upon her father’s arrival, only to learn she’d vanished.

  She couldn’t possibly have known of her father’s approach, and it didn’t make much sense to Iain that she would wander away so late. Nor had it been so long since he’d left her. She couldn’t have gone far.

  Her da, however, had long since dismounted and paced before him now like a maddened beast.

  “I cannot believe you would lose her!” FitzSimon shouted at him, and it was all Iain could do not to murder the man where he stood.

  “I entrust my daughter to your hands!” he spat. “And this is how you care for her?”

  Iain restrained his temper, telling himself that there would be plenty of time to kill him once he resolved the situation at hand. He couldn’t keep his tongue stilled, however, as FitzSimon was a lying bastard. “Entrust? Is that what ye call it when ye Sassenachs cast your own kin away?”

  FitzSimon had the decency to stutter at the question. “I—I was angry,” he reasoned. “I did not realize what I was saying—what I was doing!”

  “Bluidy lyin’ bastard! Ye seemed to know just fine,” Angus interjected.

  Iain cast Angus a quelling glance, and then returned his attention to FitzSimon. “You sounded to me like a mon who knew his mind well enough,” Iain proposed. “I gave you plenty o’ opportunity to change your mind and ye didna. Ye wouldna.”

  “I was angry,” FitzSimon reasoned once more.

  “And do ye think I’m no’ angry?” Iain returned. “Just because I’m standin’ here listenin’ to you doesna mean to say I dinna take pleasure in the thought o’ carvin’ the heart from your feckless body!”

  FitzSimon stared warily.

  “A mon is no’ a mon, but a beast, if he canna use his reason,” Iain said.

  FitzSimon said nothing, and Iain decided he hadn’t spoken clearly enough.

  “You are worse than any beast I know, for e’en a beast doesna sacrifice his young!”

  “I did not know she was my daughter!” FitzSimon admitted, shocking Iain with the disclosure. Of all the things he might have spoken, it was the one thing to which Iain could not respond. His own revelations were too freshly revealed.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Dougal came running from the tower, breathless. “I canna find Malcom, either,” he said, between pants. “I looked everywhere, and I canna! Nor Lagan either!”

  Murmurs filled the air. Iain’s heart began to pound all the more fiercely. “Neither Malcom, Lagan, nor Page?” The hairs of his nape stood upon end.

  “Nary a one!”

  Iain tried not to give in to panic. Panic would gain him naught, he knew. “Did no one see them go?”

  It seemed a thousand murmurs responded, none of
them yes.

  And then he heard his son’s shouts, distant, but unmistakable, and his heart jolted. He tore through the crowd at once, shoving his way through to follow the sound. “Malcom!” he called out.

  “Da!” his son cried, running through the night toward them, his voice full of fear. “Da!”

  Iain began to run.

  “Da!” Malcom wailed.

  Iain reached him and swept him up into his arms, embracing him desperately. “What, Malcom?”

  “Lagan!” Malcom sobbed. “Page!” And then he began to cry hysterically, uncontrollably.

  Iain’s heart tripped. He shook his son in a moment of desperation. “Malcom, tell me!”

  “Lagan was g-gain’ t-to k-kill me, da,” he cried, choking on his sobs. “P-Page p-pushed him.” He sobbed, clutching Iain’s neck, and Iain felt his legs go weak beneath him. His mind raced.

  “Pushed him? Where?”

  He gripped his son beneath the arms, pulling him away, his arms trembling.

  Malcom held on all the tighter. “I didna want to leave her, Da, but she told me to run!”

  “Where is she now?” Iain choked out, and his heartbeat stilled for the answer.

  “O’er the bluff side!” Malcom cried. “She went o’er the bluff, Da!”

  Praying to God he wasn’t too late, he thrust Malcom away and into waiting arms.

  Christ in Heaven above! he thought. Do not let it be too late!

  Page had fallen, her body scraping over rock and brush, onto a ledge in the cliffside where the rock jutted outward. Somehow, though the impact had driven the air from her lungs, she’d managed to hold on to the small platform.

  Groping blindly with her feet for a better hold than the tentative one she had, she found a place in the craggy cliffside where she could snuggle her toes. And then she held on for her life!

  It seemed an eternity passed before she heard the first voices above.

  She didn’t wait to be called upon; she shouted at the top of her lungs. And still it was another eternity before they followed her voice to where she hung so precariously along the cliffside.