They were trying to understand, he knew. He’d shocked the hell out of them with his lies about her father’s intentions, but it couldn’t be helped. At the first opportunity he would explain... what? His brows drew together into a frown. God’s teeth, but what would he explain? He wasn’t even certain he understood it himself. That he’d been driven to the lie? That he couldn’t bear to hurt her? That something about the beautiful, contentious, troublesome wench sitting so stiffly before him brought out a fierce protectiveness in him... something apart from the lust she aroused in him?
Christ, but he found himself wondering if, in truth, she’d been championing his son last eve rather than herself. He thought it might have been both, for behind her bluster, Iain feared she masked a lifetime of her father’s scorn. A lifetime of trying to please the unpleasable. He sensed in her the same hunger, the same hopes and the same fears that he’d once harbored himself for Mairi’s favor.
All for naught.
He could scarce bear to be the one to deal the lass another blow.
She roused in him so many inexplicable emotions, such irrational yearnings. Like the one he felt now to undo the plait in her hair and comb through the soft strands with his fingers until they were silk in his callused hands. He wanted to see the play of sunlight upon her hair—somehow knew it would be splendid. In the noonday light, her brown color turned the shade of fire-lit henna.
And, God, her scent... sunshine and verdure... the freshness of mountain mist on a day when the heather was in high bloom. Like a wolf scenting his mate, it was all he could do not to bury his face into the crook of her neck and breathe the essence of her into his lungs.
Christ, but he needed to think of other things—needed to get her away from him, somehow. His eyes lifted, scanning the cavalcade for his son once more. He needed to speak with Malcom, needed to hold his son, and yet here he sat, playing nursemaid to a fork-tongued wench instead. He frowned at the thought of her riding with someone else, anyone else, and cursed himself for being an unreasonable arse.
Why should he care whether she affected another man the way she affected him? She wasn’t his woman, after all—nor did he desire her to be.
Bedamned, he could be wounded by a wit so cutting as hers!
But he didn’t wholly trust his men not to tell her the truth.
Nay, he resolved, until he could speak to them privately, and until he had the opportunity to think of what he would say to them—to her—she would continue to ride with him. Malcom would be well enough riding with Lagan for the time being. It was enough, for now, to know he was safe.
They continued on in silence, and when the lass seemed to waver a little before him, Iain drew her back against him once more, smiling over her indomitable will.
Stubborn wench.
This time she didn’t resist him. She went slack against him and blew a spent breath. Iain smiled, for he knew that somehow she’d managed to fall asleep sitting straight in the saddle. She hadn’t slept well the night before, and he was surprised she’d lasted so long. He allowed her to nap well into the afternoon, all the while trying not to think about how good it felt to hold the woman in his arms, how right it felt to protect her.
It had been so long.
So bloody long.
“Wake up, lass!”
Page awoke to an insistent whisper.
“Mary!”
A strange woman’s name, but whispered in her ear... and she recalled groggily that she’d given the name instead of her own. Her eyes flew open and she peered up into eyes that were the color of the Scots’ uisge beatha, their renowned water of life. Her father had favored it well. They were the color of sunlit amber, and they were staring down at her intently.
Frowning.
“Mary?” he said, his brow lifting a little, and it seemed somehow a question.
Page sat at once, shaking off her slumber, and snapped a curt “I’m fine.” She shrugged free of his unwelcome support, and edged forward until he released her. She noticed, then, that they were the last to remain mounted. It was dusk and the rest of the band was already busy making camp for the night. Jesu! It seemed she’d only just closed her eyes. Certainly she’d not meant to sleep. “Where are we?” she asked, turning to look at him, a little disoriented.
He was still scowling at her, watching her keenly. “‘Tis where we’ll stop for the night,” he said only, with narrowed eyes. “Does it suit you... Mary?”
Page thought it seemed he took offense to the name she’d given him, though, for the life of her, she couldn’t comprehend why. She thought about the name a moment, and in her drowsy state couldn’t account for his reaction. “‘Tis a perfectly suitable name,” she assured him. One, even, that she might have liked for herself. Her brows knit as she contemplated the source of his displeasure.
“Aye,” he agreed, though he was still frowning, and he said nothing more as he dismounted and seized her from the saddle, without even bothering to ask her whether she needed his assistance.
She would have liked to send him flying to perdition.
But she was too exhausted to fight at the moment, and so she merely sat upon a rotting log to watch the lot of them settle in for the evening. It wasn’t long before the one called Lagan sauntered toward them, young Malcom tripping at his heels. With a rush and a squeal, the boy flung himself upon his father’s back.
Page cringed in anticipation of the MacKinnon’s reaction.
Bellowing in surprise, the MacKinnon swung an arm about to catch his son by the waist and drag him around before him. He knelt and hugged the boy fiercely, laughing uproariously as he then ruffled his fine hair.
Page sat, gaping in wonder at the sight of the two of them together.
The boy who would speak naught for so long stood chattering with his father in their incomprehensible tongue, and although Page understood next to nothing of their discourse, she understood the essence of it all. Some part of her sighed with relief that his father did not rebuff him. The greater part of her quailed under an onslaught of emotions: envy, sorrow, a yearning so deep, it made her heart feel like a vast, echoing cavern— and then shame that she would begrudge the boy his father’s affection.
Nay, but she was elated for Malcom. She wouldn’t wish her misery upon any child, not even her enemy’s, and still, inexplicably, it pained her to see the affection between them.
Watching them, it was more than evident that the MacKinnon valued his son. One need only spy the two together to know it was true. The MacKinnon’s smile was stunning in its brilliance, and his golden eyes flashed with joy as he listened to his son gibber on—pleading, it seemed.
What might it feel like to be the recipient of such undivided attention? Such undeniable affection?
Page sighed with longing, her heart swelling with tenderness for a father who would love his child so openly.
The MacKinnon peered up at Lagan, offered a clip directive, and Lagan nodded, placing a hand to the MacKinnon’s shoulder in assurance. Whatever he said must have pleased Malcom immensely, for the boy threw his arms about his father’s neck once again and squealed with glee.
The MacKinnon’s gaze met her own over the boy’s shoulder, and Page’s heart tumbled within her breast.
She averted her gaze at once, uncomfortable with the emotions in peril of being revealed there.
Even once Lagan and Malcom left them, Page didn’t dare acknowledge the man who stood before her, watching her still.
And yet, neither could she keep her curiosity quelled. “What is it you said to please him so?” she asked, sounding uninterested, though her very question belied the fact.
He didn’t bother to answer until she lifted her face to his. “Malcom?”
Page nodded, mesmerized by the golden hue of his eyes. In the dusky light, burnished by the waning sun, they seemed almost translucent, angelic even. He was beautiful, in truth—a man she could only have dreamt of loving, for no man who looked as he did could ever want her in return.
It was a good thing she loathed him so … there was little danger in losing her heart to the darksome brute.
“He asked to go hunting.”
“And you let him?” Page surmised, somewhat surprised.
“Dinna let his sweet face fool you. My son is a capable hunter.” Page couldn’t help but hear the note of concern along with the pride in his voice. “Malcom’s wi’ his clansmen now, lass. No harm will come to him. My cousin Lagan will see to it.”
Her brows lifted. “Lagan? Lagan is your cousin?”
“Aye.”
Page averted her gaze once more. “I never would have guessed. The two of you seem so little alike.”
“Really?” he answered, narrowing his eyes at her. “Curious, that... I never would have taken ye for a Mary, either, but ‘tis Mary you are—is that no’ right?”
Page furrowed her brow. Did he not believe her?
Or was he simply making the point that she should not judge?
“Often things are no’ what they seem,” he disclosed.
Page’s heartbeat quickened. “And what is it you are trying to say, sir?”
“Merely that you dinna recall me to a Mary. The name doesna suit you.”
She released the breath she’d not realized she’d held. “Really,” she said, sounding bored, although she wanted more than anything to ask him what name he thought better suited her. Butt she didn’t dare. The last she wished was for him to discover her shame—nor did she care to return to elaborate upon the differences between him and his cousin.
What could she possibly say?
Certainly she wasn’t about to admit that he seemed the more kindly of the two. He was her gaoler, after all. How could she think him kind?
“I suggest you address the matter with my father if you do not care for the name. ’Twas his choice, after all,” she lied.
“Was it?” he said, and returned to tending his mount, without bothering to await her reply. Though it was as crude a dismissal as Page had ever received, she was silently grateful for the reprieve. At the instant, there was a breach in her armor much too wide to close, and she needed time to mend it.
Anger, she knew, was her refuge, and yet... though she tried... she couldn’t even summon a shred of ire for a man who showed such devotion to his son.
chapter 8
He’d managed to lure the others away, to hunt in some other remote part of these woods.
And Malcom... As expected, the boy had wandered away from them... straight into his waiting hands.
At long last, everything was going as planned. A plan that was far too long coming to fruition. A plan he’d thought to have fully realized six years earlier, when he’d driven Iain’s young wife mad with fear of her new husband and had fueled her with so much hatred for him that she’d preferred death to bearing his touch ever again.
It was only too bad she hadn’t committed the deed before giving birth to Iain’s brat.
And yet, it gave him some measure of satisfaction to know that his father’s clan thought lain her murderer, for lain had been the last to see her alive. He smiled at that, knowing his half brother would strangle with guilt over the memory until the day he died— well, mayhap that day would come sooner than expected.
Aye, mistakes had been made.
When King David had sought his aid in gaining custody of Iain’s son, in response to his own request for David’s favor, it had seemed the perfect opportunity to rid himself of Malcom. He’d only too soon realized that it accomplished naught. David’s intent had been merely to install the boy as a ward of the English court, far away, and safe even from him. Were anything to happen to Iain, Malcom would then be brought back to take his place as David’s poppet.
Nay, better that the boy was dead.
Aye, for it might be only a matter of time before Malcom gave him away, at any rate. The wee brat had awakened from his drugged slumber in the middle of the night, and he’d had to croon him to sleep. Och, but it had been a sour note he’d sung.
No more mistakes now, for he’d waited far too long.
Keeping sight of Malcom, he withdrew an arrow from his quiver and notched it within his bow. And then he waited for just the right moment...
He wanted Malcom’s wee body to fall into the brush, so he wouldn’t have to touch him afterward. He wanted this kill to be a clean one, with no blood on his hands to give him away. Nor did he intend for the body to be found until he was far enough from the scene so as to be free from suspicion.
“Malcom! There ye are, lad!” Ranald bellowed, coming into view.
The bowman cursed silently, and gently eased the bowstring back into place.
“I was following a rabbit!” Malcom declared. “Look, Ranald, look! I think he’s in there!” He pointed to the bush that separated the bowman from his prey.
Ranald scattered the bush, peering within, over and about, and then he froze, meeting the bowman’s gaze through the leafage. “There’s naught in the bush, lad,” he said stiffly. “Go on wi’ ye now.”
Malcom’s face fell. “I want to make my da proud!” he said. “I wanna catch him a rabbit!”
“Aye, well, ye willna make him proud by wanderin’ aboot all alone and getting yourself lost,” Ranald scolded. “Go, now, and find the others—quickly, lest I tell your da ye were a wee rotten scoundrel and strayed away. He willna let ye come again, I think.”
“Dinna tell!” Malcom pleaded, thrusting out his lower lip.
“Go, then,” Ranald instructed.
Malcom turned at once and fled.
Ranald turned again to face the bowman hidden within the bush. “I canna let ye do this,” he said once Malcom was gone.
“Ye canna stop me.”
“I should never have helped ye to begin wi’,” Ranald hissed into the bush. He shook his head. “However did I allow ye to talk me into it?”
“You’re my verra best friend,” the bowman said simply, quietly.
Ranald’s face turned florid with anger. “No’ if ye plan to murder an innocent laddie, I am no’! I’ll have no part in this treachery! Ye said ye dinna wish to hurt him! Ye said ye only wished to have him gone! I helped ye do that, but I’ll no’ be helpin’ anymore!” he swore. “I’m going to tell Iain! He should have known long ago. ‘Tis his right to know the truth—all of it!”
“Nay!” the bowman snarled. “Ye willna tell him that he is my brother, Ranald! I swore I wouldna, and you willna either! I trusted you. You are the only one who knows, aside from Glenna, and I canna let you tell that tale.”
“He deserves to know the truth—and I will tell him, if you willna!” And with that, Ranald turned to go.
“Nay, you willna,” the bowman said with certainty, and lifted the loaded bow.
Ranald stopped and slowly turned. “You willna use it,” he predicted. “You wouldna—”
Without hesitation, the arrow flew, striking true to its aim, straight into Ranald’s heart.
Ranald clutched at the shaft as he fell backward. “Bluidy bastard!” he swore.
When Ranald did not rise, the bowman made his way to where he lay, clutching the arrow still. The trickle of blood from Ranald’s lips against the deathlike pallor of his face held the bowman captivated for an instant.
“Ye were... my friend,” Ranald choked out, his eyes liquid with tears.
“No longer,” the bowman said softly, without remorse, and stamped the arrow deeper with the heel of his boot. He drove it down until it passed into the soft ground. The death rattle came as a strangled gurgle from Ranald’s throat. Satisfied, the bowman bent to snap the remainder of the shaft in two, taking with him the feathered fletching. It was his habit to use the downy white feathers of an owl for his shaft- end, and he would not have his mark recognized by those who would know.
“You shouldn’t have betrayed me, Ranald,” he said to the lifeless body. “I would have rewarded ye well. And damn ye, too.” For now he would have to wait for a new chance to present itself. It would raise too m
uch suspicion were both Ranald and the boy to turn up missing now, particularly since the three of them had together wandered away from the rest of the hunting party. It wouldn’t look so good if only he returned. Malcom was likely back safe in their fold already.
Damn Ranald, the meddling bastard.
It wasn’t long before Page rediscovered her ire.
The hunting party returned with quarry in hand, and while they were charitable enough to share a generous portion of their catch with their “hostage,” afterward they immediately found a sturdy tree and leashed her to it—like some mongrel they didn’t wish to have stray away. Page just sat there, watching them spread their breacans to sleep upon, all the while seething with anger.
How could they expect her to sleep like this each night? All night! Surely they wouldn’t yet again?
And the MacKinnon... he hadn’t bothered even to acknowledge her since plucking her from his mount. He’d been preoccupied since the hunting party had returned. Lagan had spoken to him briefly, and ever since he’d been in a fit of fury over something—something the boy had done perchance, for he went to Malcom at once and spoke to him sternly, sitting the boy down before him while they supped, and eyeing him reprovingly. Malcom, for his part, appeared suitably repentant. He sat before his father, sulking, until even his papa took pity and patted his head. The boy threw himself into his father’s arms then, and squeezed fervently, his little arms scarce able to reach about the MacKinnon’s broad chest..
Page found herself staring, unable to keep herself from it.
Jesu, but he was a fine specimen—his shoulders broad and well muscled, his body well formed. He appeared to be a man unafraid of strenuous labor, and his body evidenced that fact. She imagined him toiling alongside his kinsmen, with the sweltering sun upon his back. As first she’d thought, his skin was swarthy. His dark hair was striking, and the white hair at his temples was nothing less than startling in contrast to the color of his skin and his youthful features. She wondered again how old he was.
The MacKinnon's Bride Page 7
