The MacKinnon's Bride

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “He howled like a banshee and was verra mean!”

  Iain’s gaze snapped down to his son. “To you?”

  Malcom shook his head, and his little brows drew together into a frown. “Nay... to her. I was gain’ to beat him up!” he revealed with no small measure of pride.

  Iain chuckled and ruffled his son’s hair. “Were ye now?” He didn’t see any reason to point out the unlikely outcome of such a venture. “And what stopped ye, Malcom?”

  His brows lifted and he nodded. “I was verra scared,” he confessed.

  Iain’s grin widened at his son’s innate honesty.

  And then his little brows drew together once more. “Da,” he ventured. “Were ye afeared o’ her da, too?”

  Iain came to his haunches to face his son, sensing his question was not one to be taken lightly. In it he heard all the confusion of childhood—the irresolutions carried into manhood. It was an echo of his own childhood—the self-doubt never voiced for fear that his da would disparage him for it. He placed his hand to his son’s shoulder and confessed, “Verra much, Malcom.” Certainly not in the sense his son was speaking of, but he had been terrified unto death for Malcom’s sake. In truth, he’d been too damned furious, too afeared for Malcom’s safety to consider his own. Nor, he was ashamed to concede, did he consider the safety of his men. Nonetheless, Malcom was too young to understand the difference between the two, and Iain sensed his son needed to know his fear was only natural. He placed a hand to his son’s shoulder. “In truth, I was verra scared,” he confided in a whisper.

  Malcom nodded, and returned the embrace, placing his little hand upon Iain’s shoulder. “Dinna worry, da,” he said. “I willna tell, all right?”

  Iain smiled.

  Malcom returned the smile and drew himself up to his full height, straightening his back. His gaze slid to Page and then back to his da, and then he said, patting Iain’s shoulder, “She’s a right bonny lass, Da. Dinna ye think so?”

  Iain choked on a chuckle. He managed a sober nod. “Aye, son, I do.”

  Malcom nodded, as well. “And she sings verra pretty, too.”

  Iain’s gaze was drawn to where she sat upon a small stone. “That she does,” he agreed. “That she does.” He stood, staring pensively.

  “So d’ ye think we can keep her?” Malcom ventured.

  Iain found himself grinning down at his son, and soon to be coconspirator. “D’ ye wish to keep her, Malcom?”

  “Aye, da!” Malcom answered at once. “Sometimes...” he imparted, “dinna tell anybody, now... I wish for a mammy to sing me to sleep.”

  Iain’s heart squeezed a little at his son’s admission. There was no need to stretch the truth this time as he confessed, “I used to wish for the same, Malcom, when I was your age.”

  “Did ye truly, da?”

  “Aye.” More often than he could ever count, he had wished for that very thing. Mayhap, even, ’twas why he heard the echo in his mind of a voice that could never have existed. His mother’s voice. A haunting lilt that tugged at his heart and plagued his very soul.

  “Guid, then. Let us both woo her together. You work on her heart,” he charged his son.

  “And what part o’ her will you work to woo?” Malcom asked innocently. “Her brain, da? Will ye work to woo her brain?”

  Again Iain’s gaze was drawn to her. She sat, hugging a knee to her breast. The other leg stretched out, long, lean, and luscious, from beneath the tattered hem of her skirt. The very sight of it caused his blood to simmer and stir. God, but he could almost feel the soft, supple flesh of her calf slide beneath the touch of his hand. He watched an instant longer, shuddering, and then relented, turning back to his son. “Aye,” he said, his throat thick with a longing he could not suppress. “That, too.” He winked at his son conspiratorially.

  “Iain!” shouted Angus.

  Iain’s attention was drawn to the group of men who had gathered about Ranald’s body.

  Angus was holding the harness in his hands. He held it up for Iain to see. “I think ye’d better take a look at this,” he urged.

  Iain nodded, and turned back to his son. He ruffled a hand through Malcom’s hair. “Go on wi’ ye now, son, and woo her guid, ye hear?”

  Malcom beamed. “Aye, da!” he said, winking back in an exaggerated version of his father’s wink. “I will!” And then he turned and raced away.

  Iain watched Malcom scurry to where Page sat, knowing his son would succeed with her in ways he could never. No one could resist that dirty, plump little face. Certainly Iain couldn’t. Sure enough, she peered up from her melancholy thoughts to spy him, and even as Iain watched, Malcom managed to coax a smile from her lush lips.

  Satisfied that his son’s endeavors were going well enough, he went to see what it was that seemed to have Angus in a stir. All eyes remained upon him as he approached. The hairs at his nape stood at end. “What is it?”

  “Take a look for yourself,” Angus directed.

  Iain did, accepting the harness into his hands. At first glance, he saw nothing awry. He turned the harness, searching, and then his eyes fell upon the cleanly sliced cinch. He stiffened, knowing instinctively what it meant. He lifted the leather strap at once, inspecting it closer, ran a finger across the cut edge, and his body tensed.

  “Someone cut it.”

  “Aye,” agreed Angus. “Someone did.”

  “But who?” Iain’s gaze searched the lot of them.

  Angus shrugged. Broc stared at the mutilated harness, his brows drawn together into a frown. Kerwyn, Dougal, and Kermichil shook their heads and shrugged.

  Lagan held out his hand, asking without words to see the damage. Iain handed the harness to him, and he inspected it thoroughly. “Without doubt, ’twas cut,” he yielded after a moment’s deliberation. “But I saw no one among us do such a thing,” he avowed, casting a meaningful glance in Page’s direction. “Only the Sassenach wench was near the mounts alone,” he proclaimed.

  “’Tis the truth,” Dougal attested. “Only she was near the horses alone when she made her escape.”

  “Nay,” Broc argued. “She dinna do it. I watched her every moment, and she dinna do it!”

  Iain was too damned furious to consider Broc’s sudden change of heart toward Page. And if the truth be known, too damned relieved. He had no doubts over Page’s innocence, but he was glad she had a champion aside from himself, one who’d been present, while he had not been.

  Page was certainly no genteel princess, but she would never have stooped to this, even to gain her freedom, he was certain. One look into her eyes while she’d defended her bastard da, or even his own son, told him as much. If she could defend a man who deserved to be drawn and quartered for his sins against her, there was no way she would harm another human being. Aye, and if she could defend a child she scarce knew, against a man such as he was reputed to be, he knew her heart was pure.

  But somebody had cut the cinch.

  The question was...

  Who?

  And was it intended for Ranald... or someone else?

  Never had such unease and mistrust run rampant through his clan. It seemed in the short time since Malcom’s abduction, the glue that held them bound was beginning to weaken. Mayhap David of Scotland would have his way, after all. He intended that the Highlands would fall behind him, and those who would not should fall by the wayside.

  Iain refused to comply. Be damned if he was going to stand about and watch while David handed all of Scotland to his Sassenach minions. And be damned if he was going to allow the English bastards to lay the yoke upon his people. He wasn’t about to hand over his son’s birthright to be trampled upon by English rule. The Highlands were their lands, no matter that they were bitter and cold in the winters, or too rugged and wild in the summers. It was their land, and by God, if Iain had any say over the matter, it would be their land until the last MacKinnon chieftain knelt before Heaven’s throne.

  “Aye?” Lagan challenged Broc. “Ye watched
her every moment? So, then, tell us... is that why she was able to swim away from us and steal our goddamned horses?”

  “One horse,” Broc argued with a frown for Dougal, and one for Lagan.

  Iain met Broc’s gaze, his own eyes narrowed in question. Broc’s gaze skidded away, his face reddening under so much scrutiny.

  “Answer to it, Broc,” Iain directed. “Did you, or did you not, watch her as you claim?”

  “Aye, laird,” Broc confessed. “I did. I watched her every moment as I said.”

  “Then he must be scheming wi’ her!” Lagan declared furiously. “Why would he watch her and let her go unless he was?”

  Iain had a suspicion as to why, but he wanted to hear it from Broc’s own lips. His gaze upon Broc was unrelenting, and the youth seemed to sense it, for he didn’t dare to meet Iain’s eyes. “Broc? What say you to that?”

  “I didna think ye really wanted her, laird,” he confessed, peering up from the ground at long last.

  “Neither did she seem to wish to stay. And I dinna like her for the way she seemed to mock us.” His mouth twisted into an embarrassed grimace. “I didna believe she should come wi’ us, and I thought ye just didna hae the heart to send her away.”

  “So ye thought to do me a service and help her on her way?”

  Broc nodded.

  “D’ ye no’ think I could make such a decision on my own, lad?” Iain asked him.

  “Aye,” Broc answered.

  “Christ and bedamned, what ails the lot o’ ye?” Iain asked them angrily. “You bring to mind a company of old maids, bickering like ye do amongst yourselves!”

  “Somethin’s been amiss since we came into this Sassenach land, Iain,” Angus proposed. “First poor Ranald, now this.”

  “And I wager ‘tis all her doin’!” Dougal asserted, casting a menacing glance in Page’s direction.

  Iain shook his head. “Something’s been amiss since the verra beginning,” he countered. “Ye dinna remember the reason we came into this Sassenach land to begin wi’. It wasna reivin’ or wenchin’ that brought us here. Someone took my bluidy son, remember?” His hands went to his hips. “Nay.” He cast a glance in Page’s direction, and then returned it to the small group of men standing before him.

  Not all of his men were aware of the situation: some were idling away the time, waiting for the cavalcade to begin once again. Iain’s gaze scanned the area, watching the small groups at their discourse and respite. “I dinna think she had anythin’ to do wi’ Ranald’s death,” he asserted.

  “And ye dinna think ’twas her da?” Kermichil asked, his lips pursing in deliberation.

  “Nay. We’ve no’ been followed,” Iain answered with certainty. “I thought so at first, but nay. I’ve no notion who got to Ranald, but ’twas no’ her da, and she dinna do it,” he assured them. “Someone did. But Ranald, ye recall, was slain by an arrow through the breast. Even were she skilled with the bow, she’s had no access to such a weapon, and she was watched besides—by me!” he interjected, lest there be any doubt. “Nay, ’twas someone else.”

  Both Broc and Angus nodded agreement.

  “What d’ye think, then, Iain?” asked Lagan. “If ‘twas no’ her da...”

  “Then it must be brigands!” Kerwyn interposed.

  “Or one o’ us,” Broc suggested, though he seemed loath to put forth such a notion. His gaze scanned the men present, waiting, it seemed, for them to point the finger at him once more.

  “Aye, Broc,” Iain agreed, nodding, his expression grave. “Or one o’ us...” Iain, too, scrutinized them, taking in their sober expressions, their rigid stances. All of them had been closely knit too long to suspect a single one of them. Some, he’d seen their naked arses spanked by their mammies as laddies; a few others had been there to see his own walloped by his da. Their lives and their legacies were intermingled and belonged to the clan MacKinnon, their heritage handed down by the mighty sons of MacAlpin. It pained his heart to think of any one of them as guilty.

  And yet one of them was.

  “I say ‘tis Broc!” Dougal exploded, turning and shoving the titan youth with all his might.

  Broc barely budged over the effort, and Iain nearly laughed out loud despite the gravity of their situation.

  “You whoreson Sassenach abettor!” Dougal snarled.

  To his credit, though, Broc’s eyes reflected his fury, he didn’t bother to return Dougal’s callow shove. He stood, frowning down at his peer. Broc and Dougal had long shared a friendly rivalry, one that seemed now to have become heartfelt.

  “Enough, Dougal!” Iain reproved, his tone unyielding, lest they mistake his reasoning for lack of intent. “Fighting amidst ourselves gains us naught,” he told them.

  Dougal, red faced over the lack of impact he’d had upon Broc’s massive form, and Iain’s rebuke, nodded his agreement as he stared, brooding now, at the ground before him.

  “My charge to all o’ ye is this,” Iain told them, his eyes narrowing and alighting upon each and every one separately. “Watch your backs, all o’ ye. Guard each other well. Dougal and Broc,” he directed, “put your differences aside for now.” He cast them each a foreboding glance and said, “It seems there is a traitor amongst us.”

  Each and every man nodded, looking as glum as Iain had ever seen them. There was no denying the truth.

  The evidence was indisputable.

  “A message o’ warning to whoever that mon might be,” Iain concluded. “When I discover who ye are... and I will unmask the bluidy whoreson... I’ll hold your heart in my hands and watch ye greet your maker as the heartless bastard ye are.”

  Every man present shook his head, denying responsibility.

  “I didna do it,” Dougal muttered, shaking his head adamantly.

  “Nor I,” muttered another.

  “Or me,” came the echo.

  “Weel,” Iain answered, “ye can bluidy damned well pass it on, anyhoo.”

  “The whoreson knows who he is,” Angus agreed somberly. “And I’d wager he dinna have in mind for that tumble down the mount to be poor Ranald’s either.”

  “That he does,” Iain granted. “And nay... that tumble down the hillside was meant to put more than scrapes on a bluidy corpse. Mayhap ’twas meant for her...” He cast a nod in Page’s direction. “And mayhap ‘twas meant for my son.” His jaw went taut. His hands clenched at his sides. “Either way... may God forgive his cauld heart, because I mean to carve it from his verra body with my own hands and feed it to the raving wolves! Tell him that for me, will ye now,” Iain charged them, and left them to mull over his counsel.

  chapter 23

  The MacKinnon was in a foul mood.

  Page didn’t need to hear the whispered warnings to know she should endeavor to stay out of his way. She’d learned her lessons well in her father’s home. She wasn’t precisely certain what it was that had turned his mood so foul, but she knew it had something to do with the discourse he’d shared with his men earlier in the day. She’d known by the way he’d stood talking with them, and then by the way he’d pivoted and left them. The scowl upon his face had been daunting enough to make her cower where she’d sat upon her little stone.

  Without a word he’d saddled her mount with his own harness and trappings, and then had decreed she would ride with Malcom. And then without a word he’d ridden beside them, making only an occasional swoop over his cavalcade, speaking sharply to those he stopped to address.

  Only Malcom seemed unaffected by his mood, and Page thought it either very foolish, or very telling. She was beginning to believe the latter, as she’d never heard Iain speak a single unkind word to his son, but she was beyond the point of feeling envious over that fact. On the contrary, she was glad for Malcom. He was a bright child, with a wit almost as sharp as his father’s. And no child deserved ill treatment—not from anyone.

  She and Malcom whiled away the hours talking about everything. He told her of his home, Chreagach Mhor—that the stone walls of his father
’s donjon had been built long before the first MacKinnon had set foot upon God’s earth. He told her all about his da, about things she wasn’t certain Iain would wish her to know—that his da sometimes had nightmares, and that he called out his mother’s name.

  Mairi.

  Of all names to choose, it was the first false name she’d given him, she realized. He’d fallen silent. She wondered if he found her lacking compared to his wife.

  Likely so.

  He plainly loved her still.

  The fact bothered Page more than it should have. God’s truth, she didn’t understand it, but somehow, knowing that Iain could never have harmed his wife, she’d rather have thought he might than to think he yet loved her, and dreamt of her so oft. She didn’t understand it, didn’t even try to, for it seemed a ludicrous notion, and she rather thought that if he were capable of such a horror as murdering a wife, she couldn’t even like him. Tangled emotions. Even more tangled thoughts.

  The only one thing that she did know was that, like it or nay, she would have to make the best of this situation God had cast her within. Her father wasn’t coming after her. She could stop peering over her shoulder now, and dropping scraps of cloth for him to follow. She could stop hoping, and start living as best she could.

  But God have mercy upon her soul, she refused to stop loathing him. Somehow, with the knowledge that he had so easily and so completely repudiated her—to strangers!—she found that every last shred of kindly emotion she’d once harbored for him fled. And in truth, it had never been easy to love him, she acknowledged. She had loved him only because she’d felt she must. Because he was the only kin she’d ever known. Well, no more! The knowledge had freed her of whatever obligatory love she’d once had for him.

  For better or for worse, these were to be her people now.

  Sitting there alone upon that stone, she’d felt so far removed from everything and everyone she’d ever known.

  And then Malcom had come to speak with her, and he’d brightened her heart with his smiles and his words. This dirty little Scots boy, with the green eyes, golden hair, and a face that was an almost perfect replica of his father’s.