It was certainly the least she could do in return.
Upon entering the small croft, Iain found the room dark with descending shadows, no candles lit at all.
Glenna sat hunched over a table, weeping disconsolately into her hands. It wrenched at his gut to see the woman who had raised him feeling so aggrieved. She was still a bonny lass, though time and toil had carved their marks upon her face, and he never once looked upon her without wondering if his own mother’s face had been so fair.
“Glenna,” he called out softly.
Startled, she lifted her tear-streaked face at once, and then quickly swiped the telltale wetness from her cheeks. “What is it, Iain, love?” she asked. “What’s happened?”
It was so like her to put aside her own cares for those of the kinsmen she loved. It had never mattered to Glenna whether she herself was sick, or tired, or simply downcast, if she was needed by any of her kin, she was always there. He’d not quite spoken true when he’d told Page that here all fended for themselves, for Glenna looked diligently after them all. Malcom particularly. Ever eager, she performed her duties with nary a complaint.
The night Malcom had been born, she’d been sick with her lungs, yet she’d stayed all the night long with Mairi, brushing the hair from Mairi’s face, dampening her lips when she’d thirsted. Och, but she’d always found room in her heart for a little boy who’d craved his mother’s skirts as desperately as a leper for human touch—so hungry for notice and human compassion that he would cherish the passing smile from a stranger’s lips. His own need for her affection had been great. Malcom’s too. And she had loved them both as she had her own.
Christ, but he’d envied Lagan.
Iain would have given all just to know his mother’s voice, while Lagan had never treated his own with a modicum of respect—not even as a child had he allowed her to succor him. He had shunned her motherly touch, as though ashamed of the woman whose hands had mopped his brow and whose breasts had suckled him as a babe.
“In truth,” he told his aunt, as he came into the room, closing the door behind him, “I came to see to you.”
“Naught is wrong,” she answered much too quickly, shaking her head, stubbornly denying him the truth.
“So I see,” Iain replied.
She suddenly burst once more into tears, concealing her face within her hands. “Oh, Iain!”
Iain went to her at once. Kneeling beside her, he placed an arm about her sturdy shoulders. “Glenna,” he whispered. “Naught could be so bad as all that! Tell me what’s happened. I shall help to make it right.”
“Nay!” she wailed unhappily. “Ye canna!” She turned and thrust herself into his arms. “’Tis done! Och, but naught will bring back the years!”
Confusion clouded his thoughts, robbed him of response. He couldn’t begin to comprehend what it was she was speaking of, for she was speaking in riddles. “What is it that canna be undone?” he persisted. For the first time in his life, it seemed his wise aunt was making about as much sense as a tenet-spouting prelate. He patted her back, consoling her. “Tell me, Glenna,” he urged her. “Let me help you. What is it?”
“Lagan!” she cried, weeping all the more earnestly against his shoulder, soaking his breacan. “He was here and we fought!”
“O’er what?” Iain asked. “Whatever it is, it canna possibly be so terrible that we canna mend it together. Is that no’ what you always told me, Glenna?”
He felt her nod against his shoulder.
“What has he done?”
“Naught,” she cried softly, rising to her feet and wiping her face with her sleeve. “Naught as yet,” she clarified. “But I dunno what he’s going to do. He’s so angry, Iain... and he loathes ye!” she disclosed.
Iain’s brows lifted in stunned surprise. He rocked backward upon his heels. “Me?”
Her expression was filled with sorrow. “Aye, Iain, but he does!”
“I dinna understand.”
“Oh, Iain,” she whispered brokenly. “Iain, my love...” She shook her head and placed a hand upon his shoulder. Her next words left him dumb. “Lagan isna your cousin, ye see... he isna me son.”
“Nay?” he asked, reeling from the weight of her words. “Surely you jest?”
She shook her head. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks.
His mind grasped her words, and his heart believed her, for he knew well enough that she would never speak but in truth. “But who then? Who is he?”
She reached out to touch his jaw, cradle his chin. “Your brother,” she whispered.
The blow of her words to his mind was not near as staggering as that to his heart. “Impossible!” he exclaimed at once, his face screwing with disbelief.
“Nay, but ‘tis true,” she countered, her brows lifting. “Och, but, Iain, dinna ye see?”
This moment he saw nothing. Nothing was clear.
Nor could he think to speak.
“’Twas no’ your birth that took your dear mother’s life,” she told him, “but Lagan’s, instead, love.” She nodded sadly, her eyes pooling once more with tears. “Lagan is my sister’s son,” she avowed, her hand trembling upon his face. “God forgive me, Iain, but I swear it on my soul! He is your brother, in truth.”
chapter 31
The gathering darkness obscured his vision, but Lagan scarce slowed his pace, even when the silhouette of a small child darted out before them.
“Lagan!” Malcom cried. “I couldna find him! I couldna! I looked but I couldna!”
“Hush, Malcom!” Lagan commanded him, reining in much too recklessly before the frantic child.
It was obvious to Page that he was afeared, and she suddenly didn’t feel any more at ease than he sounded. Her heart leapt as the horse snorted and kicked in protest, nearly striking Malcom’s little shoulder, and she held her breath until the animal came to a full halt—held her tongue as well, for she didn’t wholly trust Lagan. She would have risked anything for Malcom’s sake, but she was beginning to sense that something was very wrong.
Lagan dismounted quickly, and Page’s sense of unease only intensified as she watched him immediately lift his crossbow from its carrier. But she scarce had time to consider his actions, for he made them clear enough at once.
“I dinna believe in wastin’ time,” he said, and aimed the weapon at Malcom. “Get yourself on the horse, Malcom,” he commanded the child.
The answering look upon Malcom’s face twisted Page’s heart. In the dusky twilight, his face seemed to turn ashen before her eyes. His innocent green eyes widened in grown-up comprehension and then slanted sadly like those of an old man. “Lagan!” he cried woefully. His little-boy eyes welled with tears.
Page started to dismount at once, to go to him, but Lagan turned to her and commanded, “Stay!”
She froze when he turned the weapon upon her—a momentary lapse, for God’s truth, she was no fearless warrior! It took her an instant to recover herself, and then she was heartily grateful the weapon was no longer trained upon Malcom.
Bolstering her courage, she straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “What is it you hope to gain from this?” she asked him contemptuously. “What could possibly be worth harming your own cousin? Jesu, he’s naught but a child!”
“Cousin?” he asked her, his words fraught with bitterness. “Nay, he is my nephew! But I wasna given a choice o’er what he should call me. Well, I dinna want him now! He can go to the devil, where I’m gain’ to send his da, as well!”
“I... I do not understand,” Page said.
“I dinna have the time to explain it to ye!” He turned the weapon upon Malcom once more, dismissing her. “Get yourself on the horse, brat.”
With the canopy of darkness descended almost fully now, Malcom stood deeper within shadow, unmoving. Though she could no longer see his face clearly, she felt her heart wrench for the grief she knew he must be feeling. She knew he must be terrified. Knew he must feel confused.
She knew, too, that she must d
ivert Lagan’s attention from him, for he was like to be no more capable of responding to Lagan’s dictates than she had been all those times her father had shattered her own illusions of him. She remembered only the numbness—a cold, gray numbness that had filtered into every corner of her soul, washing the colors from her life—a numbness she’d carried within her very heart—until Iain MacKinnon had taught her to feel again.
And here was his son.
She’d be damned to hell before she allowed Lagan to destroy his childish dreams and trust, his innocence and his zeal for life.
Anger filled her, a deep cleansing anger.
“What can you possibly hope to gain from this?” she asked Lagan once more, knowing instinctively that she could not prevail against him without understanding the battle he waged—she knew his reasons, and now she would know his intent. “Surely everyone will learn what you’ve done... should any harm come to Malcom by your hand?”
“No’ by my hand!” he assured her, snorting disdainfully. “By yours!”
“Nay,” Page countered, “for I’ll not raise a finger against him! You will never force me to! Place your arrow where you please, but I’ll not lift my hand against this child—nor any other! Bloody your own hands!”
“I dinna think so!” Chortling nastily, he turned to Malcom. “Get on the horse, Malcom,” he persisted.
Malcom moved forward uncertainly this time, and Page’s gaze scanned the shadowed horizon in panic, trying to discern his intentions. He wanted Malcom upon the horse. Why? Nothing was immediately discernible. The hillside sloped upward sharply so that she could not see what lay beyond the summit—
Her breath caught, and her heart jolted, for suddenly she understood.
His gaze followed hers. “Canny lass,” he commended her. “’Tis a pity ye didna realize sooner... or ye ne’er would have chosen this route for escape.”
Her mind raced for a way to stall him. Anything to give them precious time. “And what of Malcom? Why would I bring him?”
“To appease your da, o’ course,” he said sweetly, and then turned and shouted at Malcom. “I said to get on the horse, and do it now!”
“Nay, Malcom!” Page asserted. “Do not come any nearer!”
She sensed, more than saw, Malcom’s compliance.
Though Lagan had the crossbow trained once more upon her, Page slid down from the horse, daring to defy him. God’s truth, but her father had always said she was unmindful, but she was glad for it this moment, because she knew instinctively that meekness would find the two of them lying at the bottom of a cliff come morn.
Page could scarce see his features, but for the eyes, and they were openly malicious. Night descended more deeply in the long moments that they stared at one another. Her heart pounded so fiercely that she feared the intensity of its beating.
“Get yourself back upon that horse!” Lagan snarled at her.
Though she knew he could not see her, she stood her place and lifted her chin. “Nay!” she refused, swallowing convulsively. “I’ll not!”
He turned the weapon upon Malcom and faced her as he demanded, “Get back on that horse!”
Page took a deep breath. Her heart hammered fiercely, but she said again, “Nay! If you would murder us, then you’ll do it your bloody self! I’ll not aid you in the endeavor!” She turned to Malcom, and cursed the darkness that she could no longer see his face, nor even the obscure silhouette of his body, for he stood too far from her. And Lagan stood between them.
“Malcom?” she called out.
His response was a barely discernible murmur. He was afeared, she knew. But he was a brave child. She knew that, too, for he’d endured her father’s tirades without the first tear or single fearful whimper. Despite her father’s endless interrogations—the likes of which had brought wretched tears to her eyes as a child—he’d held his tongue. He’d remained his father’s son, through and through. Not broken and beaten as she’d first thought, for his silence had not been in weakness, but in strength.
“Malcom,” she asked, her heart sounding like thunder in her ears, “do you trust me?”
“A-Aye,” came his soft, quavering response.
“Lie down upon the ground!” she directed him. “Lie down upon the ground, and do not get up! Do you understand?”
“Aye,” he answered, and Page struggled to see him through the darkness.
She prayed to God that he did as she bade him.
Lagan turned to her. “I dinna see what ye hope to gain wi’ that!” he told her. “Och! Twill be a simple matter to toss him o’er once I’m finished wi’ you!”
“Aye?” Page taunted him. Boldness had gained her much in her life. She sensed this was one time she needed the advantage it would give her. Even knowing where it would lead her, she turned her back toward the ledge. She knew it was there, knew he knew it was there. She only hoped it wasn’t obvious to him that she was aware of it, hoped he would think it his own bright notion to walk her to the cliff. Praying with all her might that she was doing the right thing—at least for Malcom’s sake—she took a step backward, hoping he would subconsciously take the hint. If he followed, then it would place much-needed distance between him and Malcom. And that, ultimately, was her first goal—to see Malcom safely away.
Sweet merciful Jesu, but she wasn’t certain whether to cry out in fear or sigh in relief when he responded by taking a step toward her. She crossed herself, and began to pray aloud. “Holy Mary, Mother of Christ,” she whispered beneath her breath. “Pray for us sinners...” She took an other step backward, and did cry out when he responded with another step forward. “Now and at the hour of our death,” she intoned.
Her heart pounded against her ribs.
He merely chuckled, and continued to urge her backward toward the cliff. “’Tis just like a Sassenach,” he scorned her. “Turn to God when ye canna fight your battles like a man!”
Despite her predicament, Page’s brows knit in outrage. “Aye, well, I am a woman!” she reminded him caustically, and wondered if she would ever learn to curb her tongue. God’s truth, but what did it matter what she was, man or woman, when she was going to be a dead one soon enough!
Well, she vowed, at least she would die knowing Malcom was safe, because if she went over that cliff, she fully intended to take Lagan down with her—villain that he was!
She continued to retreat while he followed, until she neared the edge of the cliff and could scarce move back any farther without tumbling downward. She pretended surprise at the place of her arrival, but God’s truth, her gasp of fear was not at all feigned!
Though she could barely discern Lagan’s features now, his smile was evident by the moon’s reflection. She stilled at the cliff edge, her heart tripping painfully as he continued forward, stalking her... closer until his features were once again discernible and he was within arm’s reach, and then she screamed at the top of her lungs, “Run, Malcom! Run!”
Lagan turned at once to stop him. He lifted his bow, and Page hurled herself against him. Cursing fiercely, he shoved her backward, and attempted once more to aim for the distant fleeing shadow. Page tried once more to stop him, but she stumbled and lost her footing. She reached out to grasp something of substance and found only Lagan’s hair, seizing a handful as she toppled backward. With a yelp of pain and a cry of surprise, Lagan dropped the bow and pitched after her.
For an instant and an eternity they tottered together upon the bluff’s edge.
Page gasped, her grip tightening desperately upon his hair. He struggled to free himself, but he was all that was solid and real, and then there was nothingness behind her as she fell backward.
“And so the dream...”
“Was no dream a’tall, Iain,” Glenna revealed. “What ye describe to me is exactly the way it was the night your ma died.”
“Awww God...” It was Iain’s turn to bury his face within his hands. His jaw tautened against the new tide of emotions. The voice in his dreams. The eyes. They had all be
en memories... not fanciful wisps of his imagination. His mother’s beautiful lilt.
And the dream... the scared little boy awakened within his darkened bedchamber by a suffering mother’s screams. While he’d lain within his bed clutching the bedsheets, afeared to move, and yet wanting to run to her as much as he wanted to hide beneath the sheets, it was Lagan she had been bearing into the world... Lagan and not himself.
How could it be? How was it possible that everyone could keep such a secret—so brilliantly that he had never once perceived it?
And yet he somehow knew it for truth, for with Glenna’s shocking revelation, the memory seemed to grow in clarity.
He clenched his jaw. “Bluidy damn you all!”
“Iain...”
“Why did no one e’er tell me?” he asked her, without lifting his face to look at her. He wasn’t certain he could—not without betraying his incredible fury.
“It was your da’s wish that ye not be told,” Glenna revealed. “He didna wish for you to know.”
“Evidently. Who else knew of this, Glenna?”
“’Twas for your own guid, Iain!”
He lifted his gaze to her face. “Who else knew of this, Glenna!”
“The MacLeans, o’course.”
He sat abruptly, slamming a fist atop the table. “Nay! I mean to say... amongst my own kinsmen... who else knew of this?”
“Angus, o’ course. He was your da’s closet fellow.”
“Who else?” he demanded of her.
“Och, Iain, many! But we didna tell our children because your da forbade us.”
Iain shook his head, disbelieving his ears. “So everyone knows?”
“Nay... only those of us who were of an age... Most do not. Your da never meant to hurt ye, Iain, love...”
“Nay? So tell me... how did Lagan learn?”
Glenna lowered her eyes. “I told him.” She shook her head lamentably. “When he returned so aggrieved after tryin’ ti woo MacLean’s youngest daughter, he wanted to know why auld mon MacLean wouldna listen to reason, why he seemed to condemn him e’en before he listened to a single bluidy word.”
The MacKinnon's Bride Page 27
