Euphoria washed over her.
Sweet Jesu, she was going to make it, after all!
That, regrettably, was her last coherent thought, before she turned and collided with a tree.
At least Page thought it was a tree.
The impact knocked her flat upon her back and left her reeling. She lay there, stupefied, staring up at a Goliath of a man.
Jesu, but he was tall!
Within the instant, she was surrounded by the rest of them. Their faces a blur in her benumbed state, they seemed to be leering down at her, disembodied teeth shining in the moonlight.
“Och, mon, ye’ve gone and made her daft!” she understood one to say.
“Eh, she’ll come aboot,” assured another.
Scots.
Bloody damned Scots.
She could tell by their brogue, but that was her last thought before darkness swallowed her.
Chapter 2
The scent of grain surrounded her... golden fields abloom... Page was running through them... running... running...
For a befuddled instant, she thought she’d died and entered the hallowed gates of Heaven.
Had they killed her already?
Nay... she didn’t think so.
A groan sounded in her ears and she thought it might be her own. Her body felt... squashed... broken, detached somehow.
At least she was able to feel!
Run, she commanded herself—run!
Her body jerked into full cognizance only to find that she was being jostled between them inside a meal sack—a meal sack, for the love of Christ! Tiny leftover grains stuck to her face.
She wondered hysterically if they were going to kill her now, stuffed as she was, like some pesky cat to be drowned in the river!
At least the sack wasn’t filled with stones, she reasoned.
But it seemed they were moving away from the bank... into the woods… She sensed the darkness close about them and struggled in vain, screaming until her throat turned raw. God curse them! Her abductors seemed impervious to her struggles.
Hysterical laughter bubbled from the depths of her.
Her father’s prophecy was about to come true. Jesu! He’d always said she’d be her own ruin someday. That someday was now.
She should never have come out at night to wade alone. She should have brought Cora with her—now she was going to die for her recklessness.
What an empty-headed fool she was!
“Release me!” she shrieked, tearing at the sack with renewed determination. “Release me at once!”
Heart pounding, Page twisted and fought like a savage, kicking and bucking against their hold upon the sack. “Release me this instant, bloody rotten heathens—let me go!”
They broke into fits of laughter—but didn’t bother to comply!
Well! She wasn’t about to make this painless for them! Twisting and turning, she vowed that when they finally released her, she was going to pluck out their eyes!
If only she had her dagger!
But it lay somewhere along the bank along with—Mother of God!
Her struggles ceased at once with the realization that she was half naked to boot! Pure hysteria welled within her. She couldn’t have made it easier for them to ravage and murder her had she sent them bloody invitations!
And no one would miss her.
Her stomach wrenched.
Aye, she’d be fortunate enough if her father even noticed she was gone after a sennight. He was more attentive to his Scots guest than he’d ever considered being to her. Well, she thought despairingly, mayhap he would take note sooner, if only because she seemed to have the most unfortunate gift for getting herself into his ill graces—just as she had a genius for getting herself into trouble! She was ill fated, to be sure! He was bound to miss the mayhem.
Fueled with a fresh wave of desperation, Page began her struggles again, only to be jabbed with a knee for her efforts.
Damn their bloody heathen hides!
She didn’t care if they bruised her body until every inch of it was blue, she wasn’t going to simply lie quietly while they raped and murdered her!
The sound of new voices stopped her struggles abruptly.
Suddenly, without warning, the sack was overturned and she was tossed unceremoniously upon the ground.
Page shrieked in outrage.
Reeling, she surged to her feet, only to sway dizzily backward and fall back upon her rump to stare, dumbfounded, at the barest pair of limbs she’d ever laid eyes upon.
Strong male legs.
Bloody rotten luck.
Another giant.
Her gaze flew upward and locked with eyes that gleamed with amusement at her expense, eyes that were filled with arrogance and cool disdain. Sweet Jesu, but she’d seen that look too oft to mistake it! Like everyone else, he’d peered down his nose at her and found her wanting.
Well! She didn’t care what the dirty Scot thought of her! Particularly as he was likely to be planning ahead to her demise now that he’d changed his mind about the ravaging.
She didn’t look much like an earl’s daughter—more like a drowned wretch, Iain thought—save for the eyes. Nestled within them he spied all the haughtiness of her breeding.
Impudent little wench.
Like some mad, cornered hare, she looked ready to pounce upon him. And yet, for the briefest instant, when she’d first peered up at him, a flash of pain had shadowed those soulful dark eyes. A trick of the moonlight, no doubt, for as quickly as it had appeared, the look vanished, replaced by that fierce glare of open defiance she now wore.
That and little else, he couldn’t help but note.
A shudder coursed through him, for he hadn’t missed her bold appraisal of his legs. Had she been the least bit nearer and chanced to peer up his tunic, she might have earned herself an eyeful. Despite her bedraggled appearance, he found himself fully aroused by the sight of her. Christ, that body—even cloaked in mist and shadows, her graceful curves were more than discernible. Even through the silken shadows, her perfect breasts rose to tempt him, dark nipples plainly visible, teased by the cold night air.
His brows drew together as he considered her state of undress. Garbed in little more than her sodden shift, she seemed completely oblivious, in her anger, to the sight she presented to his men.
Shaking his head over her foolishness, he made an effort to dispel the images that accosted him: long luscious legs wrapped about his waist... full, ripe breasts arched in passion, beckoning to his lips... He knew the taste of them would be like manna from heaven.
Bones o’ the bloody saints, he was just a bloody man!
What sort of father allowed his only daughter to roam free at will? At night, no less?
“She was just where they said she would be,” his cousin disclosed.
“So she was.” Iain’s voice was husky with lust he couldn’t quite eschew.
He didn’t want her, he told himself, shaking himself out of his reverie. No good would come of wanting such an impertinent wench.
He crossed his arms and glowered down at her. “D’ ye make it a habit to bathe yourself afore God and man alike?” He wasn’t certain why he’d asked the question; he knew she must. ’Twas how they’d managed to find her, after all, and yet he found himself oddly vexed over the notion.
She lifted her chin, denying him an answer, her dark eyes flaring with undisguised anger, and Iain tried not to chuckle at her mettle. Here she was, no more than a slip of a lass, challenging him before his men, when even his enemies dared not face him so directly.
Fools, all, for he intended to discover the name of the Judas who’d dared to hand his son over to the bloody English for barter. He planned to rip out the serpent’s tongue and stuff it up his bloody arse!
The grim reminder of his business with FitzSimon’s daughter turned his glimmer of good humor once more to rage. His jaw turned taut, and he asked her pointedly, “Have you no tongue, wench?”
Like the legendary phoeni
x rising up from its ashes, she stood to face him, her hands clenching at her sides.
“Have you no breeding?” she returned scathingly. “Scot!” She hurled the epithet at him with an imperious lift of her brows, and despite his anger, it was all Iain could do not to laugh outright at the unexpected insolence. “What concern is it of yours where I should bathe?”
Iain was incredulous at her brazenness, her foolhardiness. Were he any other man... Christ! Could she truly not know her folly? His gaze raked her from her wet, plaited head, down her long graceful limbs, wholly exposed by her wet gown, and on to her bare toes before returning to her face, carefully avoiding those delightfully tempting breasts, as he added, “You’ve an insolent tongue, wench. Need I remind—”
“Aye, well you shall have no tongue at all when my father hears of this!” she returned boldly.
Although she had to overcome the urge to take a wary step backward, Page held her ground and drew herself up to her full height. For an instant he seemed bemused by her reply, and then he arched a brow.
Challenging her?
“Truly?” he asked, and his smile turned cold.
Page shuddered at the bold way he appraised her once more. No man had ever dared look at her so—with such undisguised lust. It sent a jolt of alarm racing through her. And to her dismay, the tiniest thrill
Another quiver shook her.
Mayhap she’d lost her wits when she’d collided with his monolith of a friend?
She cast a glance at the others and found them all staring, mouths agape. Page hoped their idiocy wasn’t contagious. They were half-wits! Every last one of them!
“Catching glowworms perchance?” she asked.
A ridiculous sight, the lot of them; their brows drew together in unison and they cast surprised glances at each other, then snapped their mouths shut.
“Bones o’ the bluidy saints, wench! ‘Tis no wonder your da lets you aboot in the middle o’ the night,” the leader said. “He’s like to be hopin’ ye’ll lose your way home in the dark.”
Page’s heart wrenched at the barb. It stung like the rude crack of a palm across her face. She swallowed her pride and blinked away angry tears, determined not to betray her emotions to these heartless barbarians. He couldn’t possibly know how near to the mark he’d struck, or how much the truth hurt.
Nor would he care, she was certain.
Her eyes burned. “My father shall have you all beheaded for this insult to me!” she swore, and couldn’t help but note that his gaze roamed her body once more—this time more slowly and with a turn of his lips that both infuriated and appalled her.
Confused her.
Another frisson raced down her spine.
Forsooth, but the man had a mouth more exquisite than any man had a right to own! She blinked.
What the devil was wrong with her? How could she stand here contemplating lips, when her very life might well be at stake? Her honor at the very least!
Why, then, didn’t she feel more afeared?
By all accounts she should be. Everything about the man bespoke danger—everything from his barbarously unclad legs to his fierce expression proclaimed him a savage Scot. If she’d thought his brutish friend tall, this one was immense, towering above them all.
And yet... something about him seemed harmless … vaguely familiar, too.
Page narrowed her gaze, studying the shadowed contours of his face. She couldn’t know him. Could she?
It was dark. Mayhap her mind was deceiving her. Then again, mayhap she was completely addle-pated from the injury to her head. Certainly she was mad to even wonder whether those lips were so beautiful in the bold light of day.
“Who are you?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her breasts, feeling wholly exposed to him suddenly, despite the shift she wore and the veil of darkness surrounding them.
He said naught, merely stood, staring, with that infuriating turn of his lips, and Page asserted, “Have you no tongue, Scot?”
For the space of an instant he seemed taken aback by the question, stunned even, and then he surprised her with the rich timbre of his laughter.
His men didn’t seem quite so amused. And bless the saints, Page didn’t know why he should be either. Her father would have slapped her face by now. Never would she have been so brazen with him!
“‘Tis the MacKinnon you’re speaking to,” growled one of his lickspittles. “Ye’ll be watchin’ your tongue, wench, lest you lose it!”
“MacKinnon!”
Startled, Page took a step backward—less in response to his warning than her shock. Her fear was at once forgotten in her indignation.
’Twas not simply any savage Scot who stood before her, but the savage Scot!
It was his child her father had granted safe harbor to as a favor to David of Scotland. The boy was to become a ward of the English court. Page had spent enough time with the youngster to know he’d been ill used. How dare this beast deal with his son so cruelly that his own king should be forced to intervene to safeguard him! Poor wretched child! ’Twas no wonder the cur seemed so familiar! Father and son shared the same look—albeit one morphed by age.
This face was hard and ruthless, despite the laughter that softened those exquisite lips. And ruthless was precisely what he was! Rumor had it, even, that he’d murdered his poor young wife after she’d borne him a son. “Blackguard!” she spat. “How dare you show your face here!”
He arched a brow at her. “I came for my son, wench. Did you think I would not?”
Came for his son, indeed!
Page was so infuriated that she thought she would box his ears. She couldn’t care less about the consequences, so angry was she.
“Aye, well, you’ll be leaving without him!” she returned. “My father will never release him to you!” Whatever else he might be, her father was no imbecile. Mayhap he held no tenderness for the boy, but he would never dare risk Henry’s wrath by returning the wretched child to his vile father. “Jesu, have you not done enough to harm him already?”
The MacKinnon stiffened at her accusation.
Good! Let him feel guilt! If he had a heart within that overgrown chest! “Aye, disabuse yourself of the notion he’ll be returning to Scotia with you, for your son is to be protected by King Henry himself!” she persisted, when his eyes betrayed alarm. “Tomorrow he will be out of your hands and safe from you evermore!”
The muscles in his jaw clenched, and he seemed momentarily unable to speak.
Page hoped he was feeling regret. Jesu, but the poor boy had come to them beaten and mute, fearful of even meeting her gaze. No matter that she’d tried to draw him out, he kept his silence still. “What have you done to that poor child that he fears even to speak? You should be deeply ashamed of yourself, sir!”
He found his tongue suddenly, and Page winced at the thunder in his tone.
“What d’ ye mean Malcom willna speak?” He advanced upon her, his look darkening, his arms falling away to his sides, fists clenching.
Page stumbled backward at his murderous expression, the obvious threat in his stance. “Y-you sh-should know,” she stammered. She took another prudent step backward.
He continued to advance upon her, demanding, “What have you done to my son?”
Page gasped and took another leap backward, her hand flying to her breast. “Me? You! What have you done to him!” What gall that he should cast the blame for his son’s affliction at her own feet! “He came to us just so!”
“What in God’s bloody name have you done to my son!” he persisted.
The MacKinnon towered over her, glaring down fiercely, and Page thought she might never catch another breath. Her heart vaulted into her throat, strangling her.
He was too close!
She winced, noting his distressed expression, and was no longer quite certain the tales told of him were all true—leastways not those accusing him of misusing his son, for he seemed ready to rent her to shreds at the very notion that his son might be harmed.<
br />
The rest of the tales were quite easy to believe, for the man standing before her appeared more than capable of ripping the heart from any man—or a woman—with little effort.
God’s truth, now she was afeared!
Her heart thrashed madly against her ribs until she thought the strain would kill her.
He spat a mouthful of indecipherable oaths, and commanded his men, “Take her! Bind her to the stoutest tree you can find! I mean to be certain she remains come morning light!”
They seized her by the arms.
“Nay! My father will flay you alive, MacKinnon!”
She shrieked in outrage when he dared to turn his back upon her and walk away, leaving her at the mercy of his men.
“Brute! Oaf! He’ll gouge out your eyes!”
He stopped abruptly and turned to assess her once more, this time without the slightest pretense at civility.
“He values you, then?”
Did he challenge her? Page thought her heart would burst with misery at his question. For a moment she couldn’t speak to answer. “Of course he values me!” She felt the burn of tears in her eyes, but refused to shed them. Tears were for the feeble, and she was anything but. Aye, her father had taught her well. She lifted her chin, daring him to refute her. “I am his daughter, am I not?”
He didn’t respond.
Sweet Jesu! Did he know? Could he possibly know? Was he laughing at her behind those turbulent blue eyes?
Rotten knave! She knew he must be.
“Good,” he said, and continued to scrutinize her with narrowed eyes. “You say King Henry comes on the morrow to take my son? Where does he plan to take him?”
Page straightened to her full height, her lips curving with a smugness she ‘didn’t quite feel. “Aye, he comes, blackguard! And when he does, he’ll—”
“What?”
Her heart twisted. What, indeed, would he do? Naught, she determined, for she knew Henry not at all and she doubted he would trouble himself for her benefit if her father did not value her. And her father did not. She swallowed the knot that rose in her throat and tried to wrench free of her captors. To no avail.
The MacKinnon's Bride Page 2
