She turned abruptly, feeling like a peagoose, and walked away, wishing to God she’d never woken up this morn at all. Jesu, but she didn’t think she’d ever be able to face him again—father or son!
The MacKinnon came after her, and then his footsteps halted abruptly. “Page!” he barked, his voice like a clap of thunder.
Page froze, blinking at the sharpness of his voice.
And then she realized what it was he’d said, and her knees went weak beneath her.
Mother of Christ!
He knew.
Her mind raced, trying to discern how he could possibly, and then she realized belatedly that Malcom had used her name yet again. Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed the world away. Lord help her, but she’d never felt more like crawling into a hole and remaining there the whole of her life. Now, in truth, she couldn’t bear to face him.
What would she say?
How could she explain?
Her heart raced painfully.
Iain could scarce believe it, though the proof was there before him. She’d frozen in her step when he’d called her by name, and she stood there still, looking like a beautiful carving of stone in her utter stillness.
He’d heard Malcom speak the word last eve, but had assumed his son had misnamed the verse a page. He’d thought nothing more of it. Until Malcom had spoken it again.
Iain had been momentarily distracted over his son’s artwork, but no more.
He had to know the truth.
And sweet Christ, but he did. He could tell by the way she stood, so stiffly, refusing to face him. She knew precisely what it was he wished to know, and she gave him his answer with her silence.
As he watched her tilt her head back and peer into the sky, as though in supplication, Iain shook with a rage so potent, it was manifest. He could taste it bitterly. He could feel it—from the fury that burned him, to the heart that squeezed him. He could smell it, and the stench was putrid. If FitzSimon, the bastard, stood before him this instant, Iain thought he might tear out his bloody heart and shove it down his throat—provided he had a heart at all! God damn the ill-begotten whoreson!
What sort of man went so far as not to name his own daughter? Page was no name at all, but a mere role to be played!
How could a man—how could anybody— have so little concern over a human being? His own flesh and blood?
His jaw clenched so tightly that he thought he could taste his own blood.
He muttered an oath beneath his breath, and swore that if ever again he faced the man who called himself her father, he would strangle the fool with his bare hands.
Uncertain what else to do, Iain merely stared at her back—she’d been unable to turn and face him as yet—and he saw that she quaked, as well.
God’s teeth, nothing he had done to her, nothing he had said, had caused such a reaction in her, and he swore another bitter oath as he turned abruptly, unable to face her as yet, unable to force her to face him.
Turning, he nearly plowed into Lagan in his blind rage.
“’Tis Ranald,” Lagan announced. “Iain... he hasna returned.”
Iain muttered an oath. “Gather a search party,” he commanded Lagan. “Damn, but I’m gain’ to strangle the wandering whoreson when we find him!”
chapter 13
They combed the woodlands more furiously now, hacking away at the flowering vines and foliage in their paths.
Lagan and Ranald had been companions since childhood, and Iain could tell his cousin was growing more distressed with every inch of ground they covered in search of his friend.
Iain hadn’t been overly concerned the night before, only because he’d thought Ranald needed time to calm himself—that perhaps his disappearance had been a gesture of defiance. He was well aware the men had been displeased with his decision to bring Page along with them.
Och, but if he thought he despised the name she gave him before, he loathed this one all the more. Nay, but ’twas no name at all!
As the party continued to search, Iain considered others that might better suit her—and decided that every last one of them suited her better than Page. The very thought of her father’s insult made his ire rise tenfold. He hacked at a thick vine with the flat of his sword, cutting it in twain with the blunt force of his blow.
Christ and bedamned! Where was Ranald?
Angry as he may have been, Iain knew Ranald would never have deserted them. His brow furrowed. Most assuredly not without his mount.
His thoughts skittered back to Page, and he shook his head in disgust. Damn, but how could any man allow—nay, demand!—that his own flesh and blood be borne away by the enemy? Iain clenched his teeth at the unpalatable thought. Try as he might, he couldn’t comprehend the workings of FitzSimon’s mind. Even had Mairi been unfaithful and borne him another man’s bairn, Iain knew he would have loved that child as if it were his own. It was never the bairn’s fault, was it? He couldn’t comprehend such blatant lack of regard in a father who shared the same blood with his daughter.
Surely ’twas an abomination before God’s eyes? Though ‘God might reap his own justice, Iain found he wished to show the whoreson a more earthly sort of hell—and he damned well would if he ever set eyes upon the man again.
“Begin searching the brush!” he commanded. A sense of unease lifted the hairs of his nape. Until now, they’d been scouring the ground for some evidence of struggle—some clue to Ranald’s disappearance—tracks through the soft earth of the forest, leaves disturbed. There was nothing.
“He canna have gone far withoot his mount,” he reminded his men, thinking aloud, and still his brooding thoughts returned to Page.
Maggie was a good sounding Scots name.
Anger surged through him once more.
At his wits’ end with the search, he cursed and hacked off the crown of a bush, then bellowed for Dougal. “Take Broc and Kerwyn,” Iain directed the lad. “Search to the right; circle about. Lagan,” he commanded, turning to address his dour-faced cousin. “Take Kerr and Kermichil and sweep to the left.”
Lagan nodded and did as he was directed without question. Iain took the remaining two men with him. The greater number of his forces, he’d assigned to remain with Page and Malcom. The last thing he intended was to lose his son again to FitzSimon.
As far as Iain was aware, they’d not been followed, but he didn’t intend to take unnecessary risks where Malcom was concerned—for all he knew, FitzSimon had pursued them, but at a discreet distance, with the intent of luring them away upon this fruitless search, so that he might in the meantime reclaim Malcom.
While Iain was certain the bastard was unwilling to stir himself for his daughter’s sake, Malcom was another matter entirely. Doubtless FitzSimon would be facing Henry’s wrath over losing his ward. In truth, ’twas why Iain had forsaken the old road, opting for the shorter, more arduous route across the border and into the Highlands—just in case the fool thought to follow. Aye, for there was a reason Scotia had resisted outlanders so well and so long; the land was their ally.
Nor did he wish for Page to have access to the old road to facilitate her escape. Though why he should care whether she fled them, he didn’t know. He only knew that he could scarce stomach the thought of her facing her father and the despicable truth—that he didn’t want her.
The look he’d spied upon her face when, with Malcom in tow, he’d returned from dealing with her father haunted him still.
It was Broc who discovered the body, not long after their divergence. The lad’s hue and cry seemed more a woman’s squawk in its unrestrained hysteria.
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 o
ver 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 mansized 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 14
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 Balfour, 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.
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