The MacKinnon's Bride

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  While the MacKinnon hadn’t spared her more than a glance in the hours they’d been traveling, the old man Angus and the one they called Broc kept her, without fail, within their sights.

  Angus, for his part, seemed disinclined to forgive her for her surly temper of the previous eve. The old man frowned at her every time he chanced to peer her way. Well, she didn’t care. She didn’t need the old fool to like her. Forsooth! But she’d lived a lifetime without his favor. Why should she care that some old goose she’d only just met, and wouldn’t know long—her enemy at that—disapproved of her? She certainly did not!

  Broc, on the other hand... She couldn’t quite figure him out. Hours ago, she could have sworn he’d spied her tearing her shift and casting the fragment upon the ground, and yet he’d said nothing at all. He’d kept his silence, casting her dubious glances now and again, but naught more.

  Mayhap he’d not spied her, she wondered, nibbling the inside of her lip.

  Well, she’d soon enough nave her answer, because it was time to tear another. She didn’t wish the scraps planted too far apart—nor too close, lest she run out of shift to rend. Though judging by the position of the sun, she thought they might be stopping soon for the night. Running v out of material didn’t seem to be her greatest concern—locating the scraps in the dark would be. And yet there was no help for it.

  Each time she dropped a scrap, Page tried her best to note the surrounding landscape. She only hoped she would be able to recognize the way come nightfall. In her favor, the moon would be almost full again tonight. Its light should help to guide her—if she found a way to escape, she reminded herself. She wasn’t free as yet.

  Mayhap she could talk the MacKinnon into leaving her unfettered.

  Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, Page gathered her bliaut into her fist, raising her skirt. She glanced about, as nonchalantly as possible, to be certain no one was watching. No one was, and she quickly ripped another fragment from her shift, then released her skirts, letting the hem fall once more. Clutching the scrap within her fist, she tried to gather the nerve once more to drop it.

  She made the mistake of peering about then, for she met the MacKinnon’s gaze, and her heart leapt into her throat.

  He was watching her over his shoulder...

  Had he spied her?

  Jesu! But nay... she didn’t think so, for his face was a mask without expression. He held her gaze imprisoned for an eternity, holding her as surely as though in physical bonds, but his expression remained unreadable.

  Page’s heart began to pound as she gripped the cloth within her fist.

  Drop it, she told herself. He wouldn’t see it, for his gaze was riveted upon her face. With the flurry of movement about them, the rise and fall of so many hooves, there was no way he would spy it.

  She couldn’t do it. His gaze held her riveted and paralyzed, while her heart beat like thunder in her ears.

  And then he suddenly released her, glancing away, back toward his son. Page felt the withdrawal acutely, and to her shock, found she didn’t want him to go back to ignoring her.

  She stared at his back, feeling bereft in a way she didn’t quite comprehend.

  He’d ridden the entire day with his son, the two of them talking, laughing, sharing in a way that made Page ache deep down. God’s truth, she didn’t wish to feel this... this... envy. It was deep and black and ugly, but she could scarce help herself. Seeing the MacKinnon smooth the back of his son’s hair with his open palm, the gesture such a loving one, filled her heart with grief like she’d never known. It left her with an emptiness she’d only suspected was there before now.

  The undiscovered void.

  All her life she’d filled it with indifference and resentment, and in the space of a day these people, the MacKinnon and his son, had revealed it.

  Watching the way that he squeezed the boy’s shoulder, the way that he leaned forward to almost embrace him, as though he didn’t wish to embarrass the child, or himself before his men, but couldn’t quite help himself, made her eyes sting with tears.

  She’d never known the feel of a hand upon her shoulder, or the tender brush of a palm upon her face...

  Her eyes closed and she remembered against her will... the gentle way he’d held her face... the whisper-soft way he’d spoken to her... It made her quiver still... made her yearn for that moment once more.

  How piteous, she thought, that she would be reduced to such a shameful longing.

  Like some Jezebel who cared not a whit who her lover was, nor even whether she knew his name, only that he was there when the lights were doused, she craved her enemy’s touch.

  Even knowing it was contemptible.

  Even knowing he had betrayed her father.

  Even knowing her father wanted her back.

  Long after he’d turned away, Page clutched the cloth within her hand, unaware that she did so.

  She was startled from her thoughts by an unfamiliar voice, and turned to find that Broc had somehow maneuvered his way alongside her. He sat his mount beside her, staring as though awaiting a response.

  To what? What had he said? Jesu! And where had he come from so quickly? She’d not heard, nor spied his approach. Her heart hammered guiltily as she recalled the cloth in her hand. She tried to conceal the evidence within the folds of her skirt.

  Broc glanced about, and then turned narrowed eyes upon her. The spite in his expression gave lie to the sweetness of his youthful face. “I said... ’twill take more than a siren’s voice and a pretty song to woo the rest o’ us, wench.”

  For an instant Page didn’t understand what it was that he was speaking of, and then it occurred to her that he must be referring to the lullai bye she’d sung to Malcom the night before. She stiffened in the saddle, offended by the conclusions he’d drawn. “I was trying to woo no one!” she assured him. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

  “Guid, then,” he said, leering at her, “because ‘tis no one ye wooed.”

  Page resisted the urge to throw the scrap she held into his face. God only knew, she wanted to throw something at him, but the cloth wouldn’t hurt him, she knew—would likely make him laugh with glee, and then she would be left to explain its existence.

  “I dinna ken why the laird doesna simply leave ye,” he said nastily, “nor why he seems compelled to save ye from your bastard da—but I’ve no such compunction. ‘Tis your fault poor Ranald is strapped t’ the back o’ Lagan’s mount. Your fault, and no other, d’ ye hear me, wench?”

  For an instant Page was too stunned by his accusation to do any more than stare up at the fair-haired giant. Sweet Mary, but these Scots were each one taller than the other! And their tempers, one more surly than the next!

  How dare he place the blame for Ranald’s death at her feet!

  Refusing to cow to his charge, Page narrowed her eyes at him. “How dare you accuse me, sir! I have absolutely no idea what poor Ranald wandered into, but whatever it was, was of his own doing—not mine! I assure you!”

  He scratched idly behind his head.

  “So ye say.”

  He couldn’t possibly think her responsible. Could he? Her breath snagged at the sudden hope that spiraled to life within her. Unless... If her father had come after her... “My father?” she asked, and couldn’t conceal the note of hope in her voice.

  “Nay,” the behemoth answered, with unmistakable disgust, and then surprised her by adding, “No such luck, wench. But he willna be rid o’ ye so easily—I swear by the stone!”

  “So easily?” Page blinked in confusion. “But... I don’t understand...” Her brows collided. “What is it you are trying to tell me?”

  He glowered at her. “Never mind, wench,” he said, snaking his head, as though he thought she was too obtuse to understand, and didn’t care to waste more words. He leaned closer to speak in a whisper. “I didna come to speak o’ your whoreson da,” he revealed, reaching back and scratching at his scalp. “But to tell ye to drop the b
luidy piece o’ cloth, already.”

  Momentarily shocked, Page crushed the cloth fragment within her fist and instinctively buried her hand deeper within her skirts.

  His lips twisted with unconcealed contempt and his gaze shifted to the hand she’d shielded. “Drop the bluidy cloth,” he charged her.

  Page stiffened in the saddle, her gaze flying about in alarm.

  “Och, wench, I’ll no’ be exposin’ ye,” he assured her.

  Her gaze snapped back to his face. “You... you’ll not?”

  He shook his head, eyes gleaming. “I want ye gone, e’en more than you wish to go,” he swore. “But if ye willna drop the accursed thing, wi’ our luck, ye’ll wander in circles and end up right back in our bluidy camp.”

  Page frowned, growing more and more confused. “But... I... I don’t understand.” She shook her head. “What of your laird?” She cast a nervous glance at the MacKinnon’s back. “I... I thought he...”

  “Wanted ye?” The behemoth snorted and then turned to glance at his chieftain. “A mon says many things in a moment of... weakness.”

  His gaze returned to Page, and her face heated as she remembered the moment she and the MacKinnon had shared the night before.

  His moment of weakness.

  What is it I have to fear? she recalled asking him.

  That I might want ye, he’d whispered.

  Jesu! Had everyone else overheard, as well? If Page had cared one whit what these people thought of her, then she would have been riddled with shame. But she didn’t care, she told herself. And she was not.

  He scratched at his forehead. “I tell ye true... the MacKinnon doesna want ye any more than the rest o’ us do,” he told her.

  Page said nothing in response, merely glared at him. Somehow, his words wounded, though she told herself she didn’t care. After all, wanting a woman in a moment of physical weakness was certainly not the same as wanting for a lifetime. She knew that.

  “‘Tis God’s own truth I’d be doin’ Iain a favor,” he persisted. “He simply doesna wish to have your death upon his conscience, is all. And he doesna have to if you’ll but drop the bloody cloth.”

  Deny it all she wished, but the truth pained her. Her confusion intensified with the ache in her heart. Something niggled at her... something... He didn’t wish to have her death upon his conscience? And yet why should he have her death upon his conscience unless he meant to kill her? And he didn’t want her... but he’d taken her, nevertheless?

  Something was not right.

  He’d said he’d taken her out of revenge... an eye for an eye, she reminded herself. And then, too, he had said he’d wanted her. Last night. Or that he might want her—Lord, but she was growing confused!

  “But...” Page averted her gaze, unwilling to show him her pain, or the upheaval of her thoughts. “He said—”

  “Never mind what he said. Drop the cloth,” he commanded her quietly. “Drop it now, and then keep them droppin’ till ye’re sittin’ bare arsed upon poor Ranald’s mount. I’ll shield ye... and then I’ll help ye to escape when the time comes. Do it!” he hounded her.

  Page stared a long moment at the MacKinnon’s back.

  He was preoccupied with his son, never the least aware of her presence. He didn’t want her—couldn’t possibly—and why should he?

  She peered at the rest of the men, watching them a moment longer. Not a one of them seemed to be the least concerned with the discussion she and Broc were having together.

  For truth, it seemed she was unwanted.

  Jesu, but it seemed to be her destiny.

  The ache in her heart intensified. Why? Her brows drew together. Why should she care one whit what these people felt for her? She couldn’t possibly have thought they’d want her, after all? That they would take her as one of their own into their fold? She couldn’t have possibly hoped?

  How disgustingly foolish she was, for she suspected that some silent aching part of her had longed for just those things.

  “Drop it,” Broc demanded again, and Page moved her hand out from her skirts. She held her fist clenched at her side, concealed between them.

  He eyed her closed hand expectantly, and she was uncertain whether to drop the fragment or nay. It could be a trap, she realized. In truth, he might well be trying to coax the evidence from her hand...

  And then again, nay, for all he would need do was utter a single word to his laird, and then her ploy would be finished... and he’d not done so.

  “Unless ye dinna wish to go,” he taunted her. Page met his mocking blue gaze. “Are ye so smitten wi’ the MacKinnon already, English? D’ ye want him to want you?” He lifted a pale brow in challenge. “Is that it?”

  Glaring at him, Page opened her hand, releasing the piece of cloth. It fluttered down between cantering hooves.

  He merely smiled. “There now,” he said. “That wasna so difficult, was it?”

  “Scot!” She spat the word as though it were a blasphemy, but he seemed impervious to her anger. “Jesu! But I can scarce wait to be free of the lot of you!”

  “Guid,” the giant said, grinning. “Because the feeling is mutual.”

  “Bloody behemoth!” she hissed at him. “Do you oft make it a practice to tyrannize those weaker than you?”

  His grin suddenly turned into a frown, and he seemed genuinely insulted by her question. Good! Let him be!

  “I’d rather be a bluidy behemoth,” he grumbled, “than an impertinent little dwarf.”

  Page straightened her spine, utterly insulted. “I am not a dwarf, you despotic oaf!” She stared at him, wondering if he was blind. “I am tall for a woman, I’ll have you know—or mayhap Scots women all are bloody behemoths, too?” He didn’t react enough to Page’s liking and she added spitefully, “Or mayhap you wouldn’t know? Perchance all women run in fear of you!”

  Scarlet color crept up Broc’s fair neck and into his pretty face, and Page was wholly shocked to find that her words had unerringly hit the mark. With a face like the one he possessed, she’d never have guessed. His blue eyes were clear and bright, and his features well defined. He had not the stark, masculine beauty of the MacKinnon’s face, but he was comely nonetheless. Guilt stung her, though she told herself he deserved every word.

  “Do you not have a woman, Broc?” she asked, trying to soothe his bruised feelings, though she knew not why she should.

  The giant straightened his spine, his disposition surly as he revealed, “I have a dog. What need have I for a woman?”

  He turned away, his face bright red, and Page nipped at her lip to keep from grinning at his innocent question—his even more callow reply. Sweet Mary, but even she knew what a man needed with a woman! She’d certainly spied enough lovers in the shadows of Balfour.

  “She’s a verra smart dog,” he added defensively, though he didn’t bother to look at her. “The smartest dog I’ve ever known!”

  Page didn’t reply.

  “Loyal, too,” he added, and she nearly burst into hysterical laughter at his plaintive tone.

  Good Lord! She continued to stare, and had to resist the urge to breach the barrier between them, to put her hand upon his arm and soothe his injured pride.

  He scratched rather earnestly at his groin area, and then the back of his ear, and Page grimaced, wondering if he’d gotten fleas from sleeping with his dog.

  “What are ye looking at!” he snapped, when he turned and found her staring.

  She cringed at the harsh tone of his voice and averted her gaze, determined not to banter words with the surly giant any longer. Damnation, though she’d never admit it to him, she’d certainly run in fear of him too!

  Shielded by his towering form, she continued to tear snippets from her shift and then drop them at intervals, and though she cursed Broc’s arrogant presence beside her, he didn’t break his word.

  He didn’t give her away.

  chapter 15

  Of all Page wasn’t certain which was worse to bear: the presence o
f the irksome giant beside her... the gruesome foot waving at her from under the blanket on the horse before her... or the sight of the MacKinnon riding at their lead.

  Like some heathen idol he sat his mount, tall and magnificent in the saddle, his dark, wavy hair blowing softly at his back. In the afternoon sunlight, the streaks of silver at his temples seemed almost a pagan ornament, for the metallic gleam of his braid was almost startling against his youthful features. The sinewy strength evident in the wide set of his shoulders and solid breadth of his back only served to emphasize the fact that he might have killed her any time he’d wished, with no more than a swat of his hand—that same hand that caressed his son so tenderly now.

  In truth, he’d not even spoken to her harshly. He’d been naught but gentle, and it mightily confused her.

  In fact, he might have done anything he’d wished to her, and no one could have stopped him. Scarce a handful of men present were even as big as the MacKinnon, and only two were taller—the man at her side being one of them. She cast him an irritated glance. And yet she knew Broc would no more prevail against his laird than he would consider rising up against him in the first place.

  None of them would.

  Her gaze swept the lot of them. It was evident that each and every man wholly embraced the MacKinnon as their leader. Jesu, but it was almost comical the way they allowed him the lead of their party. Like dogs, they followed wherever he went—and if one man chanced to pass him by, Page was struck with wonder that that man would unconsciously look to his laird, and then slow his gait to allow Iain to pass once more.

  The MacKinnon, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to this ritual. He forged onward, his attention fixed only upon his son, who sat before him in the saddle.

  There was an undeniable air of authority about him, one he wore with unaffected ease, and an air of total acceptance from his men.

  And yet, he obviously did not oppress them, else the giant beside her would never be aiding her as he was. ’Twas evident by the way that he looked at his laird that he did so only because he meant to do him a favor. He seemed to think he was protecting the MacKinnon—and did so rather vehemently, Page thought.